Julia- a short story by Vic Davey

The first Christmas I remember was in 1951.  I would have been 4 and a half.  My father was away in Malaya (I learned later) with the Royal Navy and my two youngest siblings had yet to be born.  So it was just  my mother, my older sister and me who went to stay at my grandparent’s house that year.    I don’t recall a Christmas tree, but I do remember a festive atmosphere, so I think the living room was dressed with holly and laurel and mistletoe - this latter I recall because much fuss was made when visitors called and a great deal of laughter ensued from under it.

My grandparent’s house was a two bedroom, mid terrace house built just after the First World War, following Lloyd George’s ‘homes fit for heroes’ pledge.   The one living room must have been quite large because there was by way of heating a large, black range,  in front of which was a sofa and an armchair at either side.  Behind the sofa was an  oak dining table and then against the wall an upright piano.   These, of course,  I put a name to from a later memory.

Rationing would have still been in place, so there were no bowls full of oranges or bananas or nuts.  No chocolate, imagine!  The sweet fare would have been entirely  homemade, shortbread made with reduced sugar, similarly sponge cakes and scones, the cake and the pudding sporting less dried fruit than the recipe dictated.   I don’t know what meat we ate that Christmas Day but it was probably a large chicken, I can’t recall turkey being mentioned in my early years, and chickens were much prized then before their battery existence.  What I do recall is my grandfathers’s garden,  the considerable length of which was laid out with row upon row of potatoes, carrots, cabbage, turnips  and parsnips.  I can still remember the smell of the cabbage being cut from the soil and the caterpillars being shaken off.  So while it interested me little then what we had for dinner, I’m sure it would have been plentiful.

My only interest was Santa Clause who, I’d been told, was bringing me a big, beautiful doll who could walk and talk.    My sister and I watched as Santa Clause’s slice  of Christmas cake and a small glass of grandma’s sherry was put out on the table.  Then we  hung our stockings on the mantel shelf of the old range and dressed warmly in winceyette pyjamas and hugging hot water bottles,  I was carried up the stairs , followed more reluctantly by my sister to the bed we were sharing with  my mother.  My excited thoughts were full of a sledge with Rudolph and his red nose flying through the skies en route to me. I knew that my mother and grandmother were both going to Midnight Mass so Granda, never overly  devout,  would be downstairs if we needed anything - but we must remember, Santa is watching and won’t be best pleased with children who don’t go to sleep.  

What I remember of Christmas Morning is going into the living room, pleasantly warm from a fire banked up to stay alight all night, and seeing immediately a huge (to me) doll’s pram and inside a beautiful doll with blonde hair and very blue eyes.   I loved her immediately and called her Annabel.

Young as I was, there was one small detail about Annabel that didn’t escape me.  She obediently said Mama when turned over, and her legs moved dutifully when made to walk.   However, on examining her closely I discovered a small, perfectly round hole in the sole of her right foot.   It was some 3 or 4 years later before I was given an answer to this riddle.   There were few new dolls to be had so soon after the war.  Annabel was a broken toy given by a cousin, and my grandfather had drilled a hole in her foot to capture the workings inside and repair them.  The explanation was given to me in such a way as to make me value Annabel even more and she was an important part of my life till I was 9 or ten.