As the evening approached the atmosphere was saturate with anticipation. Dew point was nearing. Soon the air would be precipitate with laughter and merriment. All weather would be good weather and even the rain-reviled forecasters themselves would be temporarily forgiven their meteorological sins. In the kitchen things were hotting up again. Squat and trussed in its baking-tray sat a plump, pink-fleshed capon. Turkey was out of our league at that time. But the capon itself was enough of a rarity to turn our minds away from the do-gooding, middle-classed, gobble-gobble-did-a lots on Snob’s Hill. That’s Clay Hill Road Vange, for those of you with an interest or a degree in ordinance-survey and cartography. A joint of beef as big as a battering ram was already lodged and sizzling in the oven; strange to think of the overdraft now incurred for even the slightest nibble of a salt-beef sandwich! Home economics and farm subsidies are still a closed shop to me, I’m afraid. In the living room, bottles of beer, spirits, port-wine and cordials were lined up along the clean-clothed and festive sideboard. Below, on the floor, was my domain. Lemonade, cream soda, Tizer and many another effervescent, bubbles up the nose, burp-inducing vintage awaited the frothing palate of the budding connoisseur. Loose sweets, fruit and nuts, nestled in glass and china bowls. Sugared-almonds - like clutches of new-laid eggs - were almost too much for this particular tree-climbing nest-robber. But all was to be left alone until after midnight and the traditional boot up the backside was the last thing I needed as an additional gift. Letters to the North Pole had specifically avoided mention of such unwanted presentations. To occupy ourselves before churchgoing we sat down in front of the television. That haunted fish-tank had already begun to take over the role of entertainment. Between my grandparents and myself, seemed to lie the transformational hinterland separating self-creativity and other more passive, vicarious forms of existence. Some parents, some aunts and uncles, some cousins even, could still play a musical instrument, sing a song or recite a poem from memory. Sadly, the indoor arts were gradually being lost and the fun of the great outdoors - which I so richly enjoyed - was soon to follow suit. Once our parents biggest problem was getting us in, whereas now they find it difficult to prise their offspring away from the magnetic influence of the flickering screen. How can they convince them that there is a world beyond the pixels, and that virtual reality is no substitute for the experience of the real thing? For all its claims towards modern technology the fuzzy 14” black and white set in the corner of our living-room had something of the air of a dishevelled, antiquated aunt about it, when seen in comparison with the otherwise bright and bountiful surroundings. The post-war sociological shift towards greater and greater prosperity for the working classes seemed inexorable. Who would have believed then - with the ration-book coming to a welcome end and the National Health Service already the envy of the world - that the Nineties and the Thirties would find themselves with so much in common? Crash! Bang! Wallop!
“Let us pray.” ....... The time for midnight mass was nigh.Church was never one of my favourite places. Not only did it represent hours of unrelieved boredom, but the apostolic order in its infinite wisdom had decided that we were to be bored in Latin! But on Christmas Eve even religion in a foreign tongue was tolerable. The ear-scrubbing, boot-polishing, tiestraightening preliminaries were as tedious as ever, but this was the holy night, the spirit was undaunted. Our church at that time - known as the Church of the Sacred Heart - was at the top of an unmade road leading on to Vange ‘High Street.’ The large brick-built church of St Basil’s had yet to be constructed - more of that later. The Church of the Sacred Heart was no bigger than the prefabs we had left behind in London, and if my memory serves me well, made mostly of the same materials. I think it had asbestos side panelling - though on reflection they may have been pebble-dashed. It definitely had the luxury of a wooden roof though, with a cross to match. Inside at that time of year and especially at that time of night the atmosphere was decidedly ecstatic. In such a confined space, the ringing of bells, the shaking of incense burners, and the waxy fumes emanating from Advent-candles, combined to focus one’s deepest spiritual attention. Before the mass proper there was carol singing, some in Latin and some in English. Drunks were not unusual and in fact greatly augmented the otherwise patchy congregations. Alcohol, swaying, and songs it appears, go together. Unfortunately, so do snores, belches and other unmentionable outlets for excess gases. Priests were used to this yearly outbreak of scurrilous profanity and took it in their reverential stride. Personally I was always torn between the seriousness of the occasion and the ensuing bathos that the involuntary bodily functions seemed to provide. Outright ribald laughter was out of the question of course, but the tittering escape of suppressed mirth was unavoidable. This too - in deference to the momentous events being symbolized - was excused. It seemed to me that the licence afforded at Christmas was something that should be granted to the rest of the year - although I never mentioned it as such. One doesn’t want to push one’s luck too far, does one? What with the voices, the crib, the gold, frankincense and myrrh of it all, if Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar had come sailing through the nave on their ships of the desert, I for one would not have been taken aback.
On returning home through the moon-silvered and starlit Christmas streets, that sense of difference so much associated with that one night of the year was almost tangible. Windows for once, as well as receiving light were returning it in a multicoloured brilliance. Strings of illuminated bulbs looped from the eaves of the houses of the better off like nocturnal rainbows. Fairy lights winked from trees in coy corners and the glass-chinking, bell-ringing, riotous welcome to the joys of the Nativity rang out from shack and villa alike. Back indoors, the metaphorical ribbon of our tacit understanding was invisibly cut and the proceedings formally opened. Having fasted in preparation for Holy communion I was more than ready for my first sampling of the seasonal delights. Sausage-rolls and pickled onions were scoffed at an irreverent speed, closely followed by a cheek-bulging mountain of mince pies. The first gulp of Tizer - the juvenile equivalent to a slug of whisky - found its mark. Eyes watered, breath exploded, and a shower of froth and soggy crumbs plastered the surrounding revellers. Bed was suggested and not wishing to offend the Spirit of Christmas Future, I complied obediently with the request. Father, staunch Protestant that he must have been in the eyes of Rome – although, not in his own I hasten to add - hadn’t been to church. His major role in the festivities was yet to be performed. Having never caught him in the act - so to speak - I couldn’t tell you whether or not he dressed appropriately for that theatrical event. Suffice it to say that the sherry was drunk, mince pies were eaten and stockings filled. No further evidence would be needed on my part to validate the existence of that jolly old man of the north. Before one could delve into the expected treasures, the unwelcome dream-ways of a few hours sleep had to be negotiated. From my bedroom