Christmas Past

by Glenice Crossland

  ‘He would,’ retorted Mary. ‘By what I’ve heard he can swear like a trooper himself.’

  ‘Oh, come on, love, there are worse things in life than a bit of bad language.’

  ‘Maybe, but my kids are not going to use it. There’s enough cursing going on in the family with your father.’

  ‘All right, all right, I’ll have a word with him,’ Jack said. But they both knew it would be a waste of time, and it wasn’t until Jack had gone on night shift and Mary was alone in the privacy of their bed that she began to chuckle to herself, as she imagined her slip of a daughter standing up to three burly men. For someone not yet five Jacqueline was certainly a character, and Mary couldn’t help thinking that she and Jack were going to have then work cut out if they were to keep their daughter under control. Oh well, they could only do then best, and she was damned if she was going to upset Grandad Holmes, who idolised his grandchildren, just for the sake of a few swear words.

  Grandma Holmes pegged the last bit into the canvas and twisted the wooden cog on the frame, turning the half-finished rug on to the next row. The room was cosy with the glow from the fire and the flicker of gas light.

  ‘Can we start the diamond in the middle now, Grandma?’ Una asked as she worked at the other end of the frame.

  ‘Not quite, love. Another three rows and then we can.’ Mrs Holmes looked round at her grandchildren, all so beautiful yet so different. Una, tall for her age and blossoming already into a little beauty, was the lively one, forever contorting her body into the splits, doing handstands, or showing off the steps from her dancing lessons. She was the one who always came first in the school sports, landed the lead in the Christmas play, and was invited to every birthday party because she was such fun to have around.

  Then there was Jacqueline, so much like her father in looks that each time the child gazed at her with her large brown eyes her grandmother was reminded of the years when her own children were small. Jacqueline was a character and no mistake, and seemed happier in the company of animals than humans. She could occupy herself for hours on end with a drawing book and a tin of paints. The magic paint books she had enjoyed colouring in with water when she was Alan’s age were now considered babyish, and she preferred drawing her own pictures and colouring them in herself.

  ‘What are you painting, love?’

  ‘I’m painting Jenny.’

  ‘Who’s Jenny?’

  ‘Jenny Hen,’ Jacqueline answered with a sigh, as though it should have been perfectly obvious to anyone who Jenny was.

  ‘Can I have a look?’

  Jacqueline showed her the picture.

  ‘Why, that’s very good.’ Her grandmother was surprised. It really did look like a hen, with vivid shades of brown and red.

  Una turned to look at the picture. ‘Hey, that’s good, Jacqui. If you were at school you’d get ten out of ten for that.’

  Jacqueline flushed and her little face became animated as she smiled with pleasure. ‘Caroline likes it too,’ she said.

  Grandma Holmes’s stomach seemed to turn a somersault. She had heard about the imaginary friend Jacqueline talked to sometimes, and didn’t quite know how to handle the situation. Mary had thought it best to ignore it, but Mrs Holmes knew she worried about the little girl’s claims that her friend Caroline, who had pigtails and a white apron, was a real person.

  Una giggled and her grandmother nudged her. ‘Who’d like a drink of lemonade?’ she asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Me, me.’ Alan, who never missed an opportunity to eat or drink, crawled out from under the table, which tonight was supposed to be a submarine, though he didn’t actually know what a submarine was; he had heard Uncle Harry talking about them and he liked new words.

  Underneath Grandma’s table was Alan’s favourite place. Sometimes it was a castle, or a bus, or an air-raid shelter; all the things the little boy thought mysterious. Besides, it was dark and warm, enclosed by the red plush cloth with the tassels almost reaching the floor, and particularly comfy tonight, on the huge pile of rug bits which had been cut from old coats: red, and black, and various shades of green. Alan had emptied them into his submarine from the old wicker basket, knowing Grandma Holmes never cared how much he untidied the kitchen, so long as he was content at his play.

  Mrs Holmes lifted her grandson on to her knee. ‘Una, will you get the biscuits?’ she said, and drew the little boy’s fair head into her ample bosom, rocking him vigorously. How like his Uncle Harry he was in looks, she sighed, hoping he wouldn’t turn out to be as headstrong as her second son. Frowning, she wondered what Harry was up to now, staying out till early this morning. She prayed he wasn’t still carrying on with the Banwell woman, but the rumours were circulating again. She would ask Jack to make some enquiries before Ada’s husband began causing more trouble.

  Una poured the drinks and got out the biscuit barrel. The clock chimed ten, which meant the family would be home from the pictures soon to collect the children. It wasn’t often the men took out their wives, and she wished they would do so more frequently, giving her the opportunity to enjoy her grandchildren. It reminded her so much of the old days.

  She cuddled Alan closer and his eyelids began to droop. It was way past his bedtime. She decided to put him to bed. No point in trailing him out in the cold night air; besides, it was Sunday tomorrow and his grandad would enjoy some time with the little lad.

  She closed her eyes, thinking back through the years, the good and the not so good, and knew she had no cause to grumble. All her family had survived the war and were in work. Oh, but time was passing so swiftly and she wanted to see her grandchildren grow up.

  She didn’t doubt that she was good for a number of years yet, but as for her husband, she didn’t dare to think. His retching cough was worsening rapidly, particularly in the mornings; it was as if his dust-worn lungs would be coughed up altogether one of these days. She couldn’t bear to contemplate life without her dear, gentle, cursing old man, but she feared it was coming to that, and soon.

  Then there was Harry. She wouldn’t rest in her grave until her son was settled, though what type of girl would want him with his wild reputation she dreaded to think. She wondered about Margaret, her youngest, who until recently had never caused her the slightest concern. Now she too had taken to staying out until all hours of the night. And she’d become secretive, never letting on where she was off to, or with whom. Oh well, they were young and must learn from their own mistakes. She had brought them up to the best of her ability; no mother could be expected to do more.

  She slipped off little Alan’s socks. ‘Go upstairs, Una love,’ she said. ‘Fetch one of Grandad’s shirts out of the top drawer.’

  ‘Is our Alan going to sleep here, then?’ asked Jacqueline.

  ‘He may as well, seeing as he’s fast asleep.’

  ‘Can I sleep here too?’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’

  ‘Caroline likes sleeping in Auntie Margaret’s bed.’

  Una giggled as she helped her grandmother dress her sleeping cousin in the far too large white shirt. ‘It’s going to be a bit crowded, Jacqui, with you, Alan, Auntie Margaret and your friend all in one bed.’

  Mrs Holmes wondered how long the friendship between Jacqueline and the make-believe Caroline would last. The child really seemed to be able to communicate with Caroline, offering her sweets, talking to her, even asking her opinions on the drawings she did. It really gave her the shivers sometimes.

  ‘Can I have a shirt, too?’ Jacqueline said. ‘I like Grandad’s shirts, they tuck right in under my feet.’ She began to get undressed, then beamed as she said, ‘Caroline likes Grandad’s shirts too.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Mary was rapidly losing patience with her daughter, who had been in one of her sulks all morning. Mary didn’t believe in bribery in any shape or form but as a last resort she said, ‘Well, I can’t see Father Christmas coming to our house this year, what with our Alan refusing to eat his dinner a
nd our Jacqueline refusing to speak to anyone.’

  ‘I want Father Christmas to come,’ Alan whined. ‘I want him to bring me a puffer twain.’

  ‘Ah, but Father Christmas knows when you don’t eat your dinner,’ said Mary.

  ‘I don’t like turnip, it’s howible.’

  ‘Well, I don’t care if he doesn’t come,’ said Jacqueline. ‘I want to go to Grandma Roberts’s today. We always go on Sundays.’

  ‘Not this Sunday. I’ve told you, Grandma Roberts is having visitors. Besides, the weather isn’t fit.’

  ‘Grandad Roberts would fetch us in the car if I asked him,’ Jacqueline mumbled sullenly.

  Jack had been trying to read the News Of The World for the last half-hour and decided to put a stop to the bickering once and for all.

  ‘No doubt Grandad Roberts would, seeing as he thinks the sun shines out of your backside, but we’re not going so that’s the end of it.’

  ‘Nobody will take Pepper a walk along the lane, or brush him.’ Jacqueline began to cry.

  ‘Ah, so it’s Pepper you’re worried about, not Grandma and Grandad,’ Mary said. ‘Well, you know Cyril looks after Pepper perfectly well, so you needn’t concern yourself about that.’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, can’t we have a bit of peace on a Sunday afternoon?’ Jack, who rarely lost his temper, had heard enough on the subject. ‘One more word out of you, young lady, and I shall personally write a letter to Father Christmas cancelling his visit this year.’

  Alan began to wail, and Jack folded the newspaper and went out, slamming the door behind him. What with the kids playing up, and the uneasiness filling his mind about his brother, he couldn’t concentrate on the paper even in the peace and solitude of the lavatory.

  It was Friday morning when the rumours reached him. He had been drinking cold tea from the bottle and eating his snap of bread and jam, and the new boy, one of the Murphy lads, had been eager to join in the conversation. ‘Our Theresa says Mr Banwell is going to beat your Harry up,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, and how does your Theresa know that?’

  ‘She was talking to ’is mate who’s come ’ome.’

  The conversation had ended abruptly at that point when a rat had scurried close to young Tony, who had shrieked in horror, ‘It’s after me sandwiches!’

  ‘I told you, lad, never leave the lid off your snap tin or the rats will beat you to it.’

  Young Tony moved in closer to Jack. ‘I don’t think I’m going to like working dahn’t pit. Me mother said I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Well, now yer know your mother was right. You’ll find she usually is.’

  ‘She wanted me to go to’t pipe works,’ Tony said.

  ‘Why didn’t yer?’

  ‘It weren’t as much money, and me mother needs more money.’

  ‘Money isn’t everything, lad.’

  ‘It is when you ’aven’t got any.’

  ‘Aye, I suppose you’re right there.’

  But Jack’s mind had been on the business of his brother and that low-living Ada Banwell. He would see Harry after work and warn him off, though he doubted he would listen.

  Jack wondered how it was that with half the lasses in Millington running after his brother he had needed to become involved with a woman like that. She didn’t even look attractive with her peroxide-blonde hair and half her flesh hanging out of low-cut dresses. Not that the woman’s appearance mattered one way or the other; she was married and that was that.

  Harry hadn’t liked it when Jack had sought him out in the queue at the wages office and asked for an explanation as to what was going on.

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’ he asked. ‘I don’t come interfering with you and Mary, do I?’

  ‘I’m trying to prevent you getting a hammering, that’s all.’

  ‘I can look after myself, man. I’m not a bairn.’

  ‘Then perhaps you should stop behaing like one, taking things that don’t belong to you, like another man’s wife for instance. Don’t forget what Banwell did last time.’

  ‘Oh, leave it out, man. I’ll sort myself out, don’t you worry.’

  ‘And don’t forget how our old man reacted either.’

  ‘All right, I’ll sort it.’

  ‘Well, I only hope you do before our old man hears about what’s going on. He’s too old to be coping with upsets like that.’ But Jack found he was talking to the back of his brother’s head as he stormed out of the pit yard, intent as usual on carrying on in his own carefree way.

  If Jack had but known, Harry was far from carefree. He had landed himself in a situation from which there seemed to be no escape, and it was all because of a bet amongst the lads one New Year’s Eve. It was Lanky Harvey who had started it by remarking on how Ada Banwell was only hot for foreigners.

  ‘She won’t even entertain the idea of going with any of the local lads. Even the bloke she married comes from Southampton or some such place.’

  Harry had laughed. ‘A Southampton man isn’t a foreigner, Lanky.’

  ‘I know that – I’m on about the rest of ’em. I reckon she’s been through the lot of ’em over at the Polish camp, before she even started on the Americans.’

  ‘Maybe it’s all them nylon stockings she’s after,’ said one of the others.

  ‘More like what they’ve got in their trousers,’ Lanky said.

  The others had laughed, but Harry’s curiosity had got the better of him. ‘I’ll bet you ten bob I can take her home tonight.’

  ‘Mek it half a crown and you’re on.’

  Harry had won his half-crown, and Ada Banwell, just like a queen bee, had drawn him into her hive.

  The affair had lasted until the night of his brother’s wedding, and ended with the beating. He had resolved to have nothing more to do with the woman, but Ada had other ideas. Harry had proved to be more than just a good bedmate. She had fallen for the young, good-looking miner, and, fed up to the teeth of being married to an ever absent regular marine, she was determined that Harry was for her. Besides, Harry was generous with his money, so Ada made sure the affair flared again by giving him a flash of a shapely white thigh after his resistance had been lowered by a few pints of best bitter at the Rising Sun.

  Now Harry was regretting his involvement, recognising Ada for the empty-headed, loose-living woman she was. He had begun to feel envious of his brother’s wife and two lovely kids, and thought it was time he put an end to an affair which could not possibly have any future.

  It was then that Ada had played her ace card, informing Harry that she was pregnant.

  So far Harry had managed to convince himself it was all a hideous mistake. Maybe she was lying, or her monthlies were late. At any rate, the problem could be shelved for a few weeks thanks to the arrival of her sailor husband, home for Christmas leave, and for that few weeks he intended to forget his troubles and enjoy himself. It was almost Christmas and he had presents to buy.

  He called in at the Miners’ Club, whistling as he stripped off to use the slipper baths. He scrubbed the coal dust from his pores and rubbed soap into his crinkly blond hair. He wanted to look his best; he had his eye on the classy little girl who worked in the Co-op. She was playing hard to get, but that was to be expected. She really was worth pursuing, different altogether from Ada Banwell. Oh, God, if only he had never set eyes on the bloody woman.

  Christmas Eve was here at last. There had been no further talk of cancelling Father Christmas’s visit, and the youngsters were filled with anticipation about what they would find in the morning, excited to the point of giddiness as the party at Grandma Holmes’s grew more and more lively. There had been pork sandwiches and pickles, home-made brawn, jelly and custard and Grandma Holmes’s special dark sticky Christmas cake. After tea the men had gone to the Rising Sun, bringing back drinks for the women, a crate of Nut Brown Ale, and pop and crisps for the little ones. Nobody had asked from where the pork had originated. Only Harry knew, and as he said, ‘Ask no questions, receive no lies
.’

  As the night wore on the house became more and more crammed, with neighbours, friends, cousins, and others who called Mrs Holmes Auntie Lizzie, even though she had no idea to which relatives they belonged. They were all made welcome at Grandma Holmes’s. A game of postman’s knock was in progress, with young girls and boys from the row giggling and blushing as they emerged from the bottom of the stairs.

  The highlight of the evening came with the singing of all the local carols. Una did her best to coax a tune out of the old harmonium despite her limited number of music lessons, the result causing Mary to wish Gladys was here. Nevertheless the hearty voices soon drowned the tuneless accompaniment and filled the house, and indeed the whole row, with seasonal cheer. Alan was asleep in his favourite sanctuary under the table but Jacqueline joined in the singing as she bounced up and down on Uncle Harry’s knee. Then, as the night wore on, she began to worry. ‘What if Father Christmas comes and we’re still here, Uncle Harry?’ She stood up on his knee and looked deep into his eyes.

  ‘Don’t you worry about that, sweetheart,’ he assured the little girl. ‘Father Christmas never comes until the children are asleep. It’s part of his magical abilities to know which one is in bed and which one isn’t.’ He looked at the clock. ‘Hey, I’ve got to be going,’ he said.

  Jacqueline wound her arms tightly round his neck. ‘I don’t want you to go,’ she said.

  ‘No choice, sweetheart, but I’ll tell you what, I’ll be up at your house first thing in the morning to see what Santa’s brought.’

  Jacqueline clung tighter to Harry. ‘Caroline doesn’t want you to go either.’

  Harry laughed, stood up and lifted his niece up towards the ceiling, then pretended to drop her. She usually squealed with delight, but tonight her little face puckered and she looked near to tears.

  ‘Hey, what’s to do little one?’ Harry looked concerned.

  ‘I love you, Uncle Harry,’ Jacqueline whispered.

  ‘And I love you too angel, but I’ve got to go just the same.’ He placed her down on the new rag rug and plonked a kiss on her forehead. ‘A Merry Christmas, everybody,’ he called, and went over to where his mother rocked slowly.’ And a special one to you, Mother.’ He hugged Grandma Holmes tightly.