happy christmas, 2014
Once was Christmas
by James Sanderson
Children have no real sense of time, except in the month of December when the days seem to be twice as long as any other. School becomes slightly more bearable as lessons are pushed to one side for the Nativity play rehearsals or to make paper chain decorations for the classroom. For most children it is the best month of the year. For most - but not all.
Christmas hasn’t been the same since my Dad died. Like there’s a big hole in my life. Mum has been ill for a while as well so we don’t have a good holiday. Sometimes she hugs me and says I should smile more.
Granddad told me that my Dad collapsed at work. A heart attack, he said. All I remember about the funeral is the car ride to the cemetery. That was four years ago when I was seven. During that summer and the ones that followed, my Granddad often took me with him when he went to the local pub. He’d buy me the Beano comic and sit me in the small garden with a lemonade and a bag of crisps while he talked with his mates. He always wore the same old suit and flat cap no matter what the weather. I liked it best when his friend, Old Wally, the rag and bone man, stopped by with his horse and cart. I’d feed the horse lumps of sugar and pat its head. Once it did an enormous wee that went on forever. I’d never seen anything like that.
The walk from the buildings to school in cold weather is thought nothing of. The children have their own company and conversations. Boys bowl along in raucous fashion while girls, in close contact, link arms together. When in school the noise from the playground seems as loud as ever, but as the bell rings the warmth of the classroom beckons them inside. Lights are on all day casting a yellow light into the gloom and the combination, both diffusing and gentle, brings a different kind of atmosphere felt only at this time of year.
Decorations are put together by the pupils and hung from the walls in every class, but the paper chains often break mid-lesson, floating down onto the heads of the giggling children. Everyone stops what they are doing and watches while the ends are gathered, replaced and then restuck by the teacher standing on someone’s chair. Mesmerised eyes find it hard to turn away even when the job is done. This is more interesting than Arithmetic.
Last year my Granddad got sick and died. I felt sad when I went with my Mum to the hospital. I’ve got all his First World War medals and an oak leaf that has the word, ‘Ypres’ on it. Mum says he was gassed there, that’s why his lungs were bad. Now it’s winter I wear his old boots. They’re a bit big, but my feet stay dry. I hate this cold weather; I never seem to be warm enough. My jumpers have got some holes in them, but as mum’s tired most of the time she has trouble getting round to sewing them up. She’s always saying sorry. I think she goes back to bed when I go to school because she’s often still in her dressing gown when I come home. The doctor comes round a lot.
End of term heralds the start of the holiday and school is happily forgotten as the countdown to Christmas begins in earnest. Goodbyes are said to some classmates who won’t be seen again until the following year. Satellites can now traverse the heavens, cars can travel on a motorway for the first time and for a man called Elvis Presley, the army beckoned, but for the children who live in the buildings, life will carry on as usual. In or out of school, every day is spent together. It’s been that way since they can remember, since they were babes in the pram.
I saw Old Wally lumping stuff into his cart, so I gave him a hand. He said his plates were killing him and did I want to help out some more? You’re big and strong for your age, Tommy, he said. Cor blimey, I thought, money in my pocket for Christmas. Anyway, one day turned into a week and he paid me good and proper. I gave it all to my Mum. She cried and that made me cry, too.
No real notice is taken of all the hard work done by the mums as they prepare the home for the festivities. Help is always given with the decorations though, as this is fun. A tightly packed box, full to bursting and secured by string, is brought out in the same manner as it went away after last Christmas. The Father Christmas that is pinned to the front room door may be years old, but the pleasure taken in seeing it again is just as great as ever. Paper decorations in many colours are unfolded and added to the new ones that have been bought, while tinsel is hung from every available space. Blowing up the balloons is hard work, but the excitement rises as some go pop, making you jump. A small tree is placed in a corner. Shiny balls are hung from it, complete with ribbons of silver, red, gold and blue. Chocolate soldiers, reindeers and other Christmas decorations share the overloaded branches and instructions are given for them not to be eaten before the big day.
On Christmas Eve my Mum went with a neighbour to the shops. I wanted to go with her but she wouldn’t let me. Still, it was nice to see her looking so well. I went down to Wally’s and helped him groom Sherbet. There were more bits of straw on Wally’s shiny bald head and clothes than in the stable. I told him that he looked like a scarecrow and he called me a cheeky young sod. After Christmas he says I can help him until I go back to school and then on Saturdays, if he needs me.
Christmas Eve day is the longest day of the year. Ask any excited child. And Christmas Eve night is the shortest night. Ask any sleep-disturbed parent. Last minute preparations keep mothers busy. Fathers go to work, for this is a time when most people worked at least a half-day. But the night belongs to the child. Sent to bed too early and unable to sleep, the child is restless, but eventually falls into a light sleep, dreaming vividly. Exhortations not to open any presents until daybreak are acknowledged, but ultimately ignored. The excitement cannot be contained. The best morning of the year. Followed by the best day.
Mum put a pillowcase at the end of my bed - in case Father Christmas might call, she said. I laughed as she closed the door, the light from the front room coming in through the fanlight. My bedroom is so cold that I spread my Dad’s big coat over the top of my eiderdown. It’s just like he was here protecting me, keeping me safe for another night. I always tell him about my day and he always tells me to look after mum. 'Course I will, I say. Goodnight, Daddy. Happy Christmas.
The End
by James Sanderson
Children have no real sense of time, except in the month of December when the days seem to be twice as long as any other. School becomes slightly more bearable as lessons are pushed to one side for the Nativity play rehearsals or to make paper chain decorations for the classroom. For most children it is the best month of the year. For most - but not all.
Christmas hasn’t been the same since my Dad died. Like there’s a big hole in my life. Mum has been ill for a while as well so we don’t have a good holiday. Sometimes she hugs me and says I should smile more.
Granddad told me that my Dad collapsed at work. A heart attack, he said. All I remember about the funeral is the car ride to the cemetery. That was four years ago when I was seven. During that summer and the ones that followed, my Granddad often took me with him when he went to the local pub. He’d buy me the Beano comic and sit me in the small garden with a lemonade and a bag of crisps while he talked with his mates. He always wore the same old suit and flat cap no matter what the weather. I liked it best when his friend, Old Wally, the rag and bone man, stopped by with his horse and cart. I’d feed the horse lumps of sugar and pat its head. Once it did an enormous wee that went on forever. I’d never seen anything like that.
The walk from the buildings to school in cold weather is thought nothing of. The children have their own company and conversations. Boys bowl along in raucous fashion while girls, in close contact, link arms together. When in school the noise from the playground seems as loud as ever, but as the bell rings the warmth of the classroom beckons them inside. Lights are on all day casting a yellow light into the gloom and the combination, both diffusing and gentle, brings a different kind of atmosphere felt only at this time of year.
Decorations are put together by the pupils and hung from the walls in every class, but the paper chains often break mid-lesson, floating down onto the heads of the giggling children. Everyone stops what they are doing and watches while the ends are gathered, replaced and then restuck by the teacher standing on someone’s chair. Mesmerised eyes find it hard to turn away even when the job is done. This is more interesting than Arithmetic.
Last year my Granddad got sick and died. I felt sad when I went with my Mum to the hospital. I’ve got all his First World War medals and an oak leaf that has the word, ‘Ypres’ on it. Mum says he was gassed there, that’s why his lungs were bad. Now it’s winter I wear his old boots. They’re a bit big, but my feet stay dry. I hate this cold weather; I never seem to be warm enough. My jumpers have got some holes in them, but as mum’s tired most of the time she has trouble getting round to sewing them up. She’s always saying sorry. I think she goes back to bed when I go to school because she’s often still in her dressing gown when I come home. The doctor comes round a lot.
End of term heralds the start of the holiday and school is happily forgotten as the countdown to Christmas begins in earnest. Goodbyes are said to some classmates who won’t be seen again until the following year. Satellites can now traverse the heavens, cars can travel on a motorway for the first time and for a man called Elvis Presley, the army beckoned, but for the children who live in the buildings, life will carry on as usual. In or out of school, every day is spent together. It’s been that way since they can remember, since they were babes in the pram.
I saw Old Wally lumping stuff into his cart, so I gave him a hand. He said his plates were killing him and did I want to help out some more? You’re big and strong for your age, Tommy, he said. Cor blimey, I thought, money in my pocket for Christmas. Anyway, one day turned into a week and he paid me good and proper. I gave it all to my Mum. She cried and that made me cry, too.
No real notice is taken of all the hard work done by the mums as they prepare the home for the festivities. Help is always given with the decorations though, as this is fun. A tightly packed box, full to bursting and secured by string, is brought out in the same manner as it went away after last Christmas. The Father Christmas that is pinned to the front room door may be years old, but the pleasure taken in seeing it again is just as great as ever. Paper decorations in many colours are unfolded and added to the new ones that have been bought, while tinsel is hung from every available space. Blowing up the balloons is hard work, but the excitement rises as some go pop, making you jump. A small tree is placed in a corner. Shiny balls are hung from it, complete with ribbons of silver, red, gold and blue. Chocolate soldiers, reindeers and other Christmas decorations share the overloaded branches and instructions are given for them not to be eaten before the big day.
On Christmas Eve my Mum went with a neighbour to the shops. I wanted to go with her but she wouldn’t let me. Still, it was nice to see her looking so well. I went down to Wally’s and helped him groom Sherbet. There were more bits of straw on Wally’s shiny bald head and clothes than in the stable. I told him that he looked like a scarecrow and he called me a cheeky young sod. After Christmas he says I can help him until I go back to school and then on Saturdays, if he needs me.
Christmas Eve day is the longest day of the year. Ask any excited child. And Christmas Eve night is the shortest night. Ask any sleep-disturbed parent. Last minute preparations keep mothers busy. Fathers go to work, for this is a time when most people worked at least a half-day. But the night belongs to the child. Sent to bed too early and unable to sleep, the child is restless, but eventually falls into a light sleep, dreaming vividly. Exhortations not to open any presents until daybreak are acknowledged, but ultimately ignored. The excitement cannot be contained. The best morning of the year. Followed by the best day.
Mum put a pillowcase at the end of my bed - in case Father Christmas might call, she said. I laughed as she closed the door, the light from the front room coming in through the fanlight. My bedroom is so cold that I spread my Dad’s big coat over the top of my eiderdown. It’s just like he was here protecting me, keeping me safe for another night. I always tell him about my day and he always tells me to look after mum. 'Course I will, I say. Goodnight, Daddy. Happy Christmas.
The End