Christmas past

I grew up living with my mum, my grandparents, and my great-gran. Because my great-gran had eight surviving children it was at our home, Albert House, that the family gathered at Christmas time.

Some of the family on the front steps.

I'd wake up on Christmas morning to find my stocking filled. I always opened it on my own - probably because I was awake before anyone else - and then later I'd take my presents downstairs and show my mum and grandparents. Later on in the morning Auntie Gay would call in. She lived nearby and having no children of her own treated me as special. I'd go through the present ritual again, showing her all my treasures. Nothing like as many as my grandchildren get today of course, but enough to delight me.

Christmas dinner was traditional. My mum worked with someone who had contacts and a few days before Christmas she'd bring home a turkey, which always needed a few extra feathers pulled out. And those white stringy things. Then it was over to my gran who did all the cooking. 

We ate sitting around the table in the room we called the kitchen. I don't know why as the actual kitchen where cooking and washing and everything else went on was next door - and known as the scullery. I suppose rightly speaking the room should have been called the living room because that's what we did there. 

My great-gran had her own room complete with bed, at the front of the house. The kitchen was at the back and contained the only heating source, an open fire. (My great-gran must have had an electric fire in her room because she 'received' visitors there.) In later years a back boiler was put behind the fire and provided warm water. Before that we relied on an ascot heater in the kitchen. But I'm veering off Christmas.

If we had visitors the table was pulled out and I sat on the bench against the side wall. This was my favourite spot as the old gentleman who lived next door had his fireplace on the other side so the wall was always warm.

Crackers, hat, not forgetting Christmas pudding made by my gran in her copper boiler. I always had a stir and made a wish and she included coins in the pudding. She was renowned for her puddings and made them for lots of people in the family so making-pudding-day, earlier in the autumn, was a big event, and like wash day you'd have to hope it would be warm as the back door would be open all day.

But Christmas evening was traditional party time. In those days pubs were open on Christmas Day so all the grown-ups would go to the Park Inn, the family favourite local, while the oldest cousin would be left in charge of those too young to go. When I was very little I was put to bed and then got up later when everyone came home - although to be honest, I'd probably have preferred to stay asleep.

The women came home first and started preparing the food. Boiling the potatoes, laying the table, cutting the meat, getting everything ready. Then the men came home and sat down and ate. Then eventually the women got to eat as well - after the men had had their pudding of course. 

One oft recounted tale: my mother accidentally used vinegar instead of sherry in the trifle. Her cousin, Jimmy, didn't notice and ate it all.

Another year she made carrot whisky. Only Uncle Bun would even try this - and he liked it. 

Then after everyone was satisfied, the table was cleared and the singing began. Thinking about it now, I can't for the life of me work out how everyone got in the kitchen - which I'm sure, were I to visit it now  was much smaller than even I remember it - or what they sat on. But they did.

There were some lovely singers in the family. Sue was a trained singer who sang with a choir and in amateur operatic societies, Uncles Woodie and Bun both had lovely voices and my gran did too. She was a ... what is the deep woman's singing voice called? Contralto?

Then at some point my mum would notice me yawning and it would be time for bed. And the ritual began. Kissing everyone took some time. And for a shy little girl it was a bit of a nightmare, but I survived.

As I grew older I stayed up even later, until the party would eventually wind down, and people would start going home. Uncle Bun, who was a very merry drunk, never wanted to go home. Auntie Eva would manage to get one of his arms in his coat sleeve then while she attempted to get the other one in, he would slip out of the first one. Round and round they'd go, Uncle Bun singing and laughing merrily all the while.

The party tradition stopped when my great-gran died. And I look back fondly on the old days. That's the good thing about memories: I might not have enjoyed the parties very much - it would probably be fairer to say I endured them - but the idea of them, of the family getting together, eating, singing, enjoying themselves, is a very attractive one.

It seems particularly attractive this year when in its place we have ... lockdown. Supposed to begin on Boxing Day the rapid rise in cases saw it brought forward to midnight last night.

I keep myself going by thinking about what it must have been like in the war years, when not only were your son or daughter possibly not with you, you didn't even know if you'd ever see alive again. 

And with that cheery thought, I'll say, 'Hey ho,' and put some extra chocolates on my shopping order. (Yes, I finally got a slot by keeping the page open all day and refreshing it every ten minutes.)