MY CHILDHOOD CHRISTMASES IN A WORKING CLASS HOME, 1957-1962...

 Stark childhood winter nights…

The starched linen sheets always seemed so cold and a hot water bottle rarely made any difference to my bed. Those cold and dark winter nights with no upstairs heating at all were regular occurrences and the steam from my breath was evident when my bedside lamp was still on. Occasionally though, mum would place a pair of flannelette sheets upon my single bed and then, only then, would the suffering be eased somewhat. 

MUM IN LATER YEARS, STILL IN THE SHARD END HOUSE...

Once in bed the rattling would begin, a sound carried on the wind whenever a vehicle passed across the River Cole via a wooden Bailey Bridge, built and used during World War II. The rattling tortured my tired soul and the unpleasant mindset was often added to by the strange stench which the river sometimes exuded. It was a bit like smelling stale plasticine, if that could be imagined and I hated it. 

Often, usually at the weekends, the roaring would begin, carried on the wind from Elmdon Airport this time, caused by the revving of aircraft engines before take-off. 

Those nights towards Christmas were eerie and the sounds I heard certainly seemed loud, even though they emanated some distance from my council house in Shard End, Birmingham.

Thus my isolation as an only child and the abject fear of my father made for an uncomfortable night-time experience as Christmas Eve approached. The nights were stark and cold but the dismay felt created a nervous unease within my child’s mind.

TYPICAL CHILDHOOD WINTER...

I was frightened to misbehave at home anyway but additional pressure to ‘be good’ was added by my father, whose coercion caused mild terror, for the threat of being shouted at, or smacked, or receiving no visit from Santa was immense.

Clearly I believed that Santa Claus was making his way towards my house during the night of 24th December and I didn’t question the tradition, or even try to assess the practicalities of the lie.

The cupboard on the landing and mum’s wardrobe, mid-December…

The cupboard on the upstairs landing of my boyhood home was built into the wall but there was no light inside and curiously, my cat Ricky was held there for a short while after we had moved house from Ward End when I was seven years old, to prevent him from heading back to the old house and hopefully get used to the environs and smells of the new one. The two doors were held firmly shut by a small metal toy canoe slotted between the two rectangular pull-handles. It was, of course, minus its paddling ‘Red Indian’, as the fellow was known to me then.

SIMILAR TO THE ONE I HAD AS A KID.
ABOUT 12CM LONG...

However, inside that cupboard there was a fake Christmas tree, which needed its wired branches levered into position, along with an old, battered blue suitcase from which our meagre Christmas trimmings were dragged every year by mum and my father. Sadly though, once January 2nd had arrived, mum simply wanted the house back to normal which meant it would be plain and manageable again and she was rapid in her taking down of the small tree, the paper lanterns and the colourful streamers, so that she could give the ‘living room’ (the lounge) a damned fine clean…

Mum’s original mahogany wardrobe had hidden depths it appeared to me as a boy. It seemed dark and foreboding, huge, heavy and hulking, with a small key left in the keyhole for opening it up.

I knew with certainty however that some of my Christmas presents would be stashed inside there somewhere. When my father was at work on Saturday mornings in December and mum had walked to the local Co-op store, I would race upstairs to rifle inside the wardrobe and there, beneath a miscellany of clothing on the floor of the wardrobe, well hidden, lay a few of my presents.

My hands fumbled inside, quickly, quietly and quaking, usually finding a book, perhaps the Dennis The Menace annual, or the Roy Of The Rovers annual, or Charles Buchan’s Football Annual.

It was the same each year until my early teens and of course I would check that the gifts were still there at every opportunity. Never though, would I peek inside, just touch and hold them, before replacing them beneath the material, shoes and clothing at the bottom of the wardrobe. 

And still I showed surprise when the wrapped books were opened on Christmas morning…

Other gifts, from relatives as well as my parents had been shoved into the loft on the landing, climbing into which my father was always unhappy about, especially when there was a problem with the TV aerial…

RICKY & ME...

The awaited arrival of Santa Claus…

It was as if my lungs were being plucked like acoustic guitar strings when even the slightest sounds invaded my darkened, chilled room. It was as if my heart was being beaten like a slow drum of war as each muffled or indistinct undertone infected my solitary winter gloom.

It was as if my mind was being tormented like an abandoned child’s, for every excruciatingly drawn-out moment frustrated my placid, fearful isolation.

It was as if my soul was being mesmerised like an hypnotised patient’s, for each second lingered deceptively and timelessly in my timid, shrinking desperation.

ME BEING HELD UP BY COUSIN DAVE.
MY PARENTS ARE FAR RIGHT...

I was terrified to move or make a sound, in case my father admonished me in his usual tone of loud anger, which frightened me so much. 

I could not get to sleep because Santa was due. 

Even when I realised that my parents had deposited my gifts at the bottom of my bed during the night, the fear still returned each year…

Only once was I aware of gifts being deposited in my room and I suppose I must really have known all along that Santa was simply one imaginary part of the magical Christmas period. It was a time when family members and friends always seemed less serious, often happier and certainly in my house, more likeable. 

That night I had been unable to get to sleep and I think it must have been nearly midnight when for the second or third time, my father looked in at me to see whether I was asleep. I recall lying still, not daring to move…

He was clearly satisfied on the third occasion, for I remember the sound of his paint-splattered step-ladder opening tight onto its ropes outside my bedroom door. I heard his feet on the rungs and then the scrape of the loft cover being removed.

I could hardly breathe…

I heard my father muttering irritably and the sounds of paper wrapped items being scooped from the loft. I remained painfully static as the seemingly interminable moments passed by, until the loft cover dropped gently into place, the step-ladder was carried downstairs and then, some minutes later, a large pillow-case filled with gifts was laid at the end of my bed.

I could not sleep for the excitement I felt and then I had to lie motionless, listening to dad cleaning his teeth and finally slipping into my parents’ bedroom.

I was desperate to see what lay on the floor but was terrified to be discovered and so I had to grit my teeth and tarry awhile. I could see the light from my parents’ bedside lamp making a yellow strip shine beneath my bedroom door and my eyes were glued to it until it disappeared.

Then, like a predatory cat stalking a bird, I slipped from the warmth of my bedcovers, crept down the length of my bed and laid my shaking hands upon the straining pillow-case, full of parcels…

Joy, yet frustration poured from me but I picked up nothing. 

Somehow I tore myself away from the delightful find and with some slight satisfaction I lay warm in bed, despite still shaking, awaiting sleep to take me…  

In the morning, much earlier than my usual rising time, maybe 6am or so, I dragged the ‘sack’ into my parents’ bedroom with genuine trepidation, in case my father shouted at me. He didn’t, to my surprise, despite clearly being displeased at the early hour…

And the opening of presents began…

Santa though, for another year, was rather forgotten about…