by Rosie James
Eve was the last to get into bed – she was still brushing her hair. ‘I like Christmas,’ she said, ‘not that we ever have parties. But there’s always been special food.’ She put down her brush and stretched, yawning. ‘It’s all right for us here, on the farm,’ she said, ‘but do you think there’ll be anything enticing at home for the festive season? With all the rationing, I mean?’
‘You’ll be surprised,’ Alice said, ‘I bet everyone manages to find one or two extras for the big day.’
And she was right. The war had made people resourceful – some were rearing their own chickens and even the occasional pig. And many had somehow managed to put things by over the weeks, stocking their cupboards as much as they could. Not only that, as in every war in every country throughout the world, there was a thriving Black Market which most people were more than happy to take advantage of. By some means or other, people generally had a good Christmas in 1941, and many churches were full of thankful worshippers.
‘I’m glad we bought those Christmas presents last time we were home,’ Alice said. ‘For the Foulkes family, I mean. Because there isn’t exactly a great selection at the shop in the village, is there – though I was surprised to see one or two little extras up there.’ It had been very hard for the girls to know what to buy for the farmer and Roger, and in the end they were to receive whisky and cigars – and even more medication for Walter’s arthritis. But Mabel’s presents were hankies in a very pretty, silk hankie case, a pink, button-through cardigan, and a pair of furry carpet slippers with blue pompoms on the front.
Alice leaned over to try and fish her book out of her case – was she going to have a chance to read ever again, she asked herself? Or, more importantly, to write? Even though she was tired, there’d be nothing lovelier than to fall asleep thinking of Jane in Rochester’s manly arms…
Before she had even turned the second page, Eve said, yawning, ‘Did you always like Christmas, Alice? You know – in that big house where there was a cook? I bet you had parties and gorgeous food.’
Alice put down her book and closed her eyes. ‘Oh yes…I always loved Christmas,’ she said. ‘With my parents in Hotwells, and later, when we lived in Clifton…I shall take all those memories with me for the rest of my life…’
Bristol 1930, Christmas Eve
‘Now then, have we forgotten anything?’
In the kitchen, Ada and Alice watched as Helena Carmichael stood back and took note of everything on the table, and Cook said – ‘I’m just waiting for the last of the mince pies to come out of the oven, and then that’s the lot.’ She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand for a second. The Christmas cooking always took a long time, and the kitchen was hot. But Betty Evans loved every minute of her life in the Clifton house.
And the table was laden. There were several small cooked hams, pickled eggs in jars, dozens of sausage rolls, fresh bread rolls, Christmas puddings, iced sponges, chocolate fingers, tangerines and apples and oranges. And lollipops and milk toffees. Ada was almost speechless with gratitude.
‘Mrs. Carmichael,’ she said, her eyes misting, ‘I can’t begin to thank you enough for all this…my neighbours – my old neighbours – will be…will be overwhelmed by your generosity.’ Ada shook her head quickly. ‘You are so kind, and they will be grateful. I am grateful,’ she added.
Helena shook her head quickly. ‘Oh, it is so much nicer to give than to receive, don’t you think?’ she said. ‘After you had told me about your neighbours in Hotwells and everything you have tried to do for them, I felt I wanted to be part of that…and Christmas is a wonderful time to think of each other, isn’t it?’
‘Well, they won’t believe it…believe all this,’ Ada said slowly.
‘And you’ve managed to buy some little gifts for the children as well, Ada?’ Helena said.
‘Yes – Alice and I went down to Woolworths and bought lots of things…and we finished wrapping them this morning,’ Ada said happily.
‘Well, now then, as soon as those mince pies have cooled enough for Cook to pack them up, I’ll send for the car to take you and everything down to Hotwells,’ Helena said. She paused briefly. ‘I would love to come down with you, you know, and wish them a happy Christmas…but if I do, your neighbours might not like it…they might think of it as charity. It’s better that you and Alice take it alone.’
‘You are kind, Madam,’ Ada repeated. ‘And no one will be left in any doubt about who has provided all this.’
Much later, as she lay beside her mother in bed, Alice whispered, ‘Does Father Christmas know that we don’t live in Hotwells now, Mama? Does he know we’re at this address?’
‘Of course he does!’ Ada assured her. ‘Because I added it to the note you put up the chimney the other day.’
‘Oh, that was clever, Mama!’ Alice said. ‘Fancy you thinking of that!’
Ada smiled, squeezing her daughter’s hand, and wondering when Alice would stop believing in Father Christmas. At ten years old, she was so sensible and capable, yet so innocent and unworldly, still thinking that that kind old gentleman would be leaving presents for everyone in the night. Perhaps, Ada thought, Alice might subconsciously be mixing him up with her darling papa – who had always been so kind and generous…bringing them gifts when he came ashore.
This was Ada’s first Christmas without her husband, without Stanley Watts there with them, and although the reflection made her sad, Ada felt nothing but gratitude at how life had turned out for her and her daughter. They were living with the most wonderful family you could wish to meet, and Ada was having no difficulty with the job of coping with the children.
Presently, realizing that Alice was deeply asleep, Ada got up quietly and searched for the presents to fill the stocking which Alice had hung at the end of the bed. Starting with a tangerine and some nuts in the toe, Ada began to add several little gifts she’d managed to buy at Woolworths without Alice seeing. Exercise books and a set of HB pencils (which had been on Alice’s list), some puzzles, a new box of paints, a finger puppet, and a glass ball with Father Christmas inside, and which, when it was shaken, produced hundreds of snowflakes to drift about. There were prettily packaged sweets and chocolates, and also two new books – Kenneth Graham’s Wind in the Willows and Jane Austen’s Emma. They were going to enjoy starting that one, Ada thought, as she tied the top of the stocking and put it back in place at the end of the bed.
But the special gift, which did not go into the stocking, and which would be opened later at a quieter moment, was a fine gold chain, its small pendant shaped like an anchor. She would tell Alice that it would help her to always hold on, and stay grounded – like an anchor must do – to face reality squarely, but never relinquish her hopes and ambitions. ‘The anchor will remind you of Papa, and how brave he had been at sea,’ she would tell her daughter.
And after she had received it, Alice would wear it for ever.
Now Christmas morning was here! And it had been arranged that all the stockings should be opened in the nursery, with everyone there, the whole family, including Cook – who was to be showered with gifts from her appreciative employers. Even fourteen-year-old Sam, who was not always expected to join in things with his younger siblings, would be there for the great ceremony.
And now, as Ada and Alice trod swiftly along the hall – still in their dressing gowns, and with Alice clutching her unopened stocking – they could already hear the chattering and excitement, the girls’ voices above all the rest.
Presently, with the fire already crackling in the grate, they all sat around, the children on the floor, scattering paper all over the place and holding up each present from Father Christmas for everyone to admire.
The professor, beaming around him, was the only one fully dressed because, even though it was Christmas Day, he needed to go to the Infirmary for an hour where one of the patients he had recently operated on was a bit poorly. ‘But don’t worry,’ he assured them, ‘I shall be back in time to carve the goose!’
Sam, despite being almost the same height as his father, sat down cross-legged on the floor next to Alice and helped her unwrap her presents. All the children were giving each other gifts, and presently, Sam held out the one he had bought for Alice. And when she undid the paper, her eyes were round with delight.
‘Sam…a pen – a fountain pen…a real pen!’ she exclaimed.
‘Well, your writing is so wonderful and grown-up,’ he said, ‘I thought it was time you didn’t have to keep dipping a nib into the ink pot. You’ll only need to fill this occasionally – and I shall expect regular correspondence from you!’
This was one of the best presents she’d ever been given, Alice thought, still examining the smooth, shiny, blue and gold casing of the pen. But she wouldn’t be putting it into the box of treasures with all the things her papa had brought home for her because she’d be using it all the time! It was going to be a very over-worked pen! Her own present for Sam seemed so little in comparison – a leather-type compendium with writing paper and envelopes – but he made a great fuss of it.
‘See? Great minds think alike!’ he said. ‘I’ve given you something to write with, and you’ve given me something to write on!’
Feeling almost dizzy with happiness, Alice leaned into Sam and whispered something in his ear for a few moments. And he looked down at her and smiled. Keeping his voice as low as hers, he said, ‘What a fantastic thought, Alice. And of course you can do it! I can already see copies of it in my parents’ library – with your name in gold on the red binding!’
For the Carmichaels, lunch on Christmas Day was always later than usual – about 2.30 – so that everyone had time to get ready after the excitement of the morning, and present themselves in the dining room dressed in their party best. It also gave Cook time to complete what she had to do in the kitchen – most of the preparation having been done well in advance, with Ada at her side, helping her.
This was the first Christmas that Alice had spent at the Clifton house, because last year they had still been in Hotwells, with her papa home on leave. And when Alice ran down the back stairs and went into the dining room and saw the massive table – big enough for thirty people to sit down at – the crockery and cutlery and glassware all twinkling in the flames from the candelabra in the centre, and with elegant, silver-bowed crackers at every place setting – she thought she had entered the world of fiction. This wasn’t real…it was another, fantasy, world…and she instinctively thought of their old neighbours, who would never, ever, see anything like it.
And for a moment – for just a moment – it struck Alice as unfair. Why did some people live like this, when others had so little – sometimes going to bed hungry? Would there ever come a time when poor people didn’t need to hide when the landlord came for the rent, or who might even have more than just one set of clothes, or one pair of shoes – or have no shoes? Where six or seven children had to share the same bed? Alice had seen plenty of that side of life, and whatever the future held for her, she would never forget any of it.
Now, she shook her head slowly in disbelief at the spectacle before her, conscious of the smell of affluence and plenty that drifted in from the kitchen, way down along the passage. Could there be a more tantalizing scent than a goose roasting slowly in its own fat…
Soon, everyone filed into the dining room, and when all were seated they began to pull the bright red crackers –the children all screaming at the banging as they pulled – and scrabbling for the little presents inside. Then everyone put on the paper hat they found in their cracker and started helping themselves from all the dishes which Cook and Ada were bringing in…mounds and mounds of crisp, brown roast potatoes, peas, beans and tiny carrots. The professor – whose paper hat was a gold crown - began to carve long slices of the dark, succulent meat from the two geese on the huge platter in front of him, passing the plates along until each diner – including by now, Cook and Ada – had their own generous portion. The professor seemed to be in his element, urging everyone to help themselves and to make sure they all had enough of Cook’s amazing stuffing. ‘It will be twelve whole months before we do all this again,’ he reminded them as he drank from his tall glass of red wine, ‘so enjoy it!’
Sam, who was formally dressed like his father, was wearing a fine, green woollen V-neck jumper he’d been given that day, his chestnut hair shining and immaculate, brushed back from his forehead as usual. He was sitting immediately opposite Alice at the table, but as the candelabra was in the way – not to mention the beautiful, artistic arrangement of holly and ivy and Christmas roses which Helena had made – it was difficult for Alice to do more than just smile across at Sam from time to time, and try to imagine what he was thinking. He certainly seemed to be enjoying the meal as much as everyone else, including the small glass of wine which the professor had passed him.
Alice lowered her eyes for a second. Sam seemed so much more grown up than the last time he’d been home, she thought. Much more grown up than her – and the time would soon come when he would lose interest in her. He’d get fed up writing to her, or receiving her letters, whatever he’d said in the nursery earlier. She sighed. He’d be going back to boarding school in two weeks – and it would be ages before his next holiday.
She looked up suddenly, and for a moment their eyes met – and he half-smiled, making a funny little gesture with his mouth as if laughing at some shared, secret joke…and although Alice didn’t know what the joke might be, she automatically returned the look and then they both smiled at each other, properly. And for some reason, Alice’s cheeks flushed. Then –
Sam suddenly leaned forward and picked up a small piece of paper in front of him, and in a temporary lull in the animated conversation which had taken place throughout the meal, he said –
‘The motto in my cracker poses a very hard question. Which I don’t think any of you in this room will be able to answer.’
‘What is it? What is it?’ demanded the twins in unison, always ready for some contest, some game. ‘What is the question?’
Sam studied the paper in his hand, his expression stern. ‘Why – did – the – chicken – cross – the – road?’ he said, each word deliberate.
‘Oh – that’s easy!’ the children chorused. ‘Because it wanted to get to the other side, of course!’
Sam frowned at them, as if he was a disapproving teacher. ‘Wrong, wrong,’ he said. ‘You’ll have to do better than that…’
Now the children were perplexed. They knew they’d given the right answer – everyone knew that old joke! But for the next few minutes they went on to suggest anything silly that came into their minds until they finally gave up.
‘What is it, then?’ David said – rather sulkily. ‘Why did the stupid chicken cross the stupid road?’
Sam looked across at Alice. ‘I bet Alice knows,’ he said.
Alice swallowed, trying not to feel panicky at being picked out. She would have given the same answer as everyone else – but – well…after a few seconds’ thought, she said doubtfully, ‘Because –perhaps because it just…wanted to?’
Sam flourished the motto in his hand triumphantly. ‘Correct! Bravo, Alice!’
Alice accepted the laughter and ripple of cheers that went around the table at her providing the right answer. Well, that was a lucky guess, she thought.
‘Well thought out, Alice!’ the professor exclaimed. ‘The simplest answer to all problems is the one we should always consider first!’
After most of the food on the table had been eaten, the Christmas puddings were brought in, and with great ceremony the professor tipped brandy over them and lit them with his cigarette lighter. And presently the room became quieter, everyone beginning to feel tired and languorous after such a wonderful meal.
But it still wasn’t over.
‘Now the tree, the tree!’ the twins yelled, and the whole gathering processed into the large entrance hall where a massive Christmas tree, bedecked with hundreds of fairy lights and st
ill more tiny presents stood, its height almost reaching the first floor landing.
And Alice stared wonderingly up at that wide, curving staircase – the one she had never trodden up – because hadn’t her mother told her that the back stairs were the only ones for them?
Much later, almost dropping with happy tiredness, Alice began getting ready for bed – Ada was still downstairs, helping Cook to clear everything up – but presently she came into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her. She sat down on the small easy chair in the corner, closing her eyes and leaning her head back.
‘Well, wasn’t that a lovely day, Alice?’ she said, yawning. ‘Did you enjoy it all?’
What a question! Sam was there!
‘Oh – it would have been perfect if only Papa had been here, too,’ Alice said.
Ada couldn’t answer for a moment, then she tutted, pulling a handful of bits and pieces from her apron pocket. ‘Oh, silly me,’ she said, yawning again. ‘I forgot to throw all this rubbish from the crackers in the bin.’
Alice, by now in her pyjamas, went across and held out her hand. ‘Can I look – can I see what they are?’ she said.
‘Yes – and then put them in the wastepaper basket,’ Ada said, getting up to start undressing.
Alice put the handful of bits of paper onto the bed, and started going through it all…crepe paper and silver bows…and all the mottos…her fingers finding the one she was looking for. And there it was…
“Why did the chicken cross the road?”
“To reach the other side.”
