Chapter Five

Susan

Lots has been happening. People are always in and out of our house, our aunties and uncles, my cousins and everyone, but they’re here a lot more now that Christmas is coming. My aunties sit round the dining table with Mum, smoking and drinking tea. They all have the same sort of hair, quite wavy, though me and Mum are the only ones with our colour, and they all wear big wide skirts, or trousers with loops under the feet, with spotted blouses and thick jumpers. They gossip a lot, about prices in the shops, knitting patterns, people they know, or us children. They laugh a lot, and say saucy things, and the air gets thick with smoke, so you can hardly see, and biscuit crumbs fall onto the tablecloth with stray speckles of ash and the bits of silver paper from fag packets. Sometimes they shout out rude things to the men in the next room and shriek with laughter when they get a reply. I don’t take much notice though, because I’m too busy playing with my cousins, or some of my friends from the street, who’re allowed into my bedroom to get out of the cold. Gary’s friends come in too, so sometimes we all play together, mums and dads, doctors and nurses or shopkeepers, or schools.

My uncles are a rowdy bunch, and don’t seem to listen much when Dad tries to explain about books and political things. They’d rather talk about football or where they work. Because we’re the only ones with a telly, they all came to watch the match between Wales and England a few weeks ago. Dad supported Wales, because he’s Welsh, so they all jeered and called him a Taffy, but Dad didn’t mind. He didn’t mind either when England won, because he likes England, and anyway he’s a good loser and just laughs when my uncles get on at him.

We’ve put up all our Christmas trimmings now and decorated our tree. It’s not a real one because they have spikes which drop off on the carpet, and it’s too much fuss to keep vacuuming them up. Instead, we’ve got a lovely big silver tinselly one with loads of ornaments and crackers all over it, bags of chocolate pennies and a fairy on top. Piles of presents are building up all around it, wrapped in coloured paper with holly and sleighs and reindeer on. Some are for us to open, others are for us to give. I’m learning to play ‘Away in a Manger’ on the piano so that Dad and Gary can sing it to everyone on Christmas Day. Carol singers are knocking on our door every night, so we’re collecting ha’pennies to give them. Best of all though, we’ve been to see Father Christmas twice now. The first was in Jones’s, the big posh shop up Kingswood that sells great big underpants for men that Gary and I always go to have a look at so we can have a good laugh. Dad took us there while Mum went downtown with Gran and Aunty Phil. (Aunty Phil is Mum’s older sister with a sweet shop in Longwell Green, so she’s our favourite aunty.)

Father Christmas in Jones’s gave Gary some fuzzy felts and me a French-knitting set. Then we saw him in Lewis’s down town with Mum and Dad together. That time he gave us a balloon each on a stick, Gary a clockwork train and me a box of paints. After that we went to A.G. Meek where Dad treated Mum to a black handbag, gloves and shoes, then all the way home in the car we sang the advert from the telly:

The matching’s unique,

at A.G. Meek.

Oh yes, we had a cup of tea and a cake in British Home Stores before we left, where Gary’s balloon got squashed between two fat women and popped. He was so angry he called them bloody buggers. Mum made him say sorry three times, and said he had to go straight to bed when we got home, but after, when we were drinking our tea, none of us could stop laughing, especially Gary, until he said it again, and got a smack.

Now it’s only two days, five hours and twenty-three minutes to go to Christmas. We’re lucky to be having a Christmas though, because last week, when Gary and I sent our notes up the chimney, you’ll never guess what happened. The chimney caught fire. Dad had to charge round the phone box to call the fire brigade, while Mum threw a bucket of water in the grate. We ran outside and flames were still leaping out of the chimney. Dad came back, then the fire engine turned up and all the neighbours were standing in their gardens watching. Mum laughed so much when the firemen left that Dad wrestled her into an armlock and told her she was mad. We were all laughing by then, and when Dad went to get some more coal from the shed and the bottom fell out of the bucket, spilling coal all over the kitchen floor, tears were pouring down Mum’s cheeks she was laughing so hard.

They’re a bit strange really, because I never know what they’re going to laugh at, and half the time it’s at things that aren’t even funny. It makes me a bit cross sometimes, because it nearly always seems to work out that when I’ve done something really funny, they suddenly start shouting at me, or each other, and everything turns all horrible. Then, just when I think I’m in dead trouble over something and I’m getting all scared, they start laughing their heads off. Like the time with the rabbit, which definitely didn’t start out very funny, because it was in a stew that Mum had made for our tea. I really, really didn’t want to eat it, but we’re almost never allowed to leave the table until our plates are wiped clean. It was all right for Gary, he’d eat anything, but I was afraid if I ate this stew I’d be sick.

In the end I said, ‘Please can I go and eat mine in the kitchen?’

Mummy looked at me in one of her funny ways. ‘Go on then,’ she answered, sounding as though she knew I was up to no good.

Once I was out there I wasn’t really sure what to do. I couldn’t open the back door and throw it out, because then it would be all over the garden. I couldn’t put it down the sink either, because Mummy would be bound to hear the water running and come to find out why. Besides, I didn’t have anything to stand on to reach the taps, and even if I did, what would I do if it didn’t all rinse away? Then I spotted my satchel, hanging on the back door. We’d already broken up for the Christmas holidays, so I could put it in there and have a bit of time to work out how to get rid of it.

Quickly I took out the books, hid them in a drawer, and I’d no sooner finished sliding the stew into the satchel than the dining-room door opened and Mummy came out.

‘Have you eaten it all?’ she asked, putting the dirty dishes on the draining board.

‘Yes,’ I answered, showing her the empty plate.

She gave me another of her funny looks, but didn’t say any more, just squirted some Fairy into the bowl to start washing up. I grabbed the tea towel, certain that God would keep my secret if I did something good.

Everything was going well. All the dishes were put away and I was playing inky-pinky-plonky with Dad on the carpet, while Mum did some ironing out in the kitchen. Gary had vanished somewhere, but then, there he was, coming in the door with . . . my satchel over his shoulder.

‘Put that back. Put it back now,’ I shouted.

He ignored me and carried on stomping about the room, chanting, ‘I’m on my way to school, I’m on my way to school.’ It’s his favourite game, because he’s not old enough to go yet, and usually I like chalking on my blackboard and giving him nought out of ten for sums, or telling him to go and stand in the corner or giving him a gold star if he pays me with sweets, or money we get from Grampy, Dad’s dad.

‘I said put it back,’ I raged.

‘He’s all right, let him play,’ Daddy told me.

‘I don’t want him to.’ If Mummy found out what was in there I wouldn’t just get a smack, I probably wouldn’t be allowed out for a whole year, except for school and ballet and piano. She might even report me to the police.

Then the worst happened. ‘Ugh! Yuk!’ Gary cried, pulling a hand out of the satchel.

‘What’s that?’ Daddy said.

‘Nothing,’ I shouted. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘What’s going on?’ Mummy demanded, carrying in a pile of ironing and putting it on the arm of a chair. ‘What’s on earth’s that?’ she said, seeing Gary’s mushy hand. ‘What have you done?’

‘Nothing,’ Gary told her, defensively. ‘I haven’t done nothing.’

‘Anything,’ she corrected, and lifted his hand to smell it.

With a bumping heart I watched her turn to me. I was sliding in behind the curtains, even though I knew they wouldn’t save me. I’d have run if I could, but she was between me and the door. I even thought of throwing myself out the window, but she’d catch me first, so all I could do was stare up at her, knowing I was really for it now.

She started to say something about me being a naughty girl and too crafty for my own good, but then her voice went all strange, and she hid her face with her hand.

I looked at Dad. He had a hand over his mouth too. I didn’t understand what was happening, until I realised they were trying not to laugh.

‘It’s not funny,’ Gary shouted angrily.

I started to laugh too, really loud. Gary rushed at me, and shoved his stewy hand in my face. ‘I said it’s not funny,’ he seethed.

‘Ugh! Get him off! Get him off!’ I wailed.

Mummy whisked him up in her arms. ‘Come on, let’s clean you up,’ she laughed, giving him a big kiss on the cheek. ‘And you, madam,’ she said to me, sounding cross now, ‘can clean out that satchel yourself, because I’m not doing it.’

Dad came up to the bathroom to help me and after we put it in the airing cupboard to dry we did some practice swimming on the tall stool Dad had made. I’m getting quite good at crawl now.

Tonight, which is three nights before Christmas, there’s a special edition of Top of the Pops. The telly’s already on, warming up, and Mum’s putting slices of bread on the end of forks so we can toast them in front of the fire. The big lights are off, with just the tree lights on (Dad had to mend them again earlier because they kept going out – he even swore when they went wrong, which isn’t like him at all. Mum told him off, then I got told off too for laughing). Last week, ‘I Feel Fine’ by the Beatles was number one. We’re hoping it will be this week too, because it’s one of our favourites. I’ve put it on my Christmas list, so I’m hoping I might get it.

‘Oh no,’ we all groan as the picture starts flipping up and up. Dad bangs the top of the telly and the picture settles down again.

‘Here,’ Mummy says, passing me a fork.

I go to sit on the floor between Dad’s legs and the fireplace and hold out my piece of bread towards the fire. He leans down and slips off my glasses.

I can see! Without that stupid patch over my eye I can see without having to stick my chin in my chest.

‘What are you doing?’ Mummy demands.

‘Just this once,’ Dad says. ‘It’s a struggle for her with that patch on all the time.’

‘It’s forcing her bad eye to see right,’ Mummy reminds him. ‘Put them back on again.’

‘No!’ I cry.

‘I said, put them on.’

‘Leave her,’ Dad says. ‘She’s all right.’

Mum looks like she’s going to argue some more, but all she does is give me a bit of a look to show she’s not pleased, then turns back to the telly. ‘You haven’t forgotten Gary’s got his operation in January, have you?’ she says, holding Gary and his toasting fork back from the fire to stop him falling in.

‘Of course not.’

‘What’s an operation?’ Gary asks, turning to look at her.

She gives him a big kiss. ‘Something to make your eye better,’ she tells him.

‘My eye’s all right,’ he says, wiping the kiss off his cheek.

The bread suddenly drops off his fork into the flames. He lunges forward to get it and Mum grabs him back, just in time. ‘You silly thing. We don’t want roast you for dinner tomorrow, thank you.’

‘It was Susan,’ he says. ‘She knocked it off.’

‘I did not!’

‘Yes you did.’

‘I did not.’

‘She did.’

‘Did you?’ Mum’s looking at me.

‘I never touched it. You’re always picking on me.’

‘We’ll have less of that attitude, thank you. I’m just asking if you hit his bread off.’

‘No, I didn’t. Did I Dad?’

‘If she did, it was an accident,’ he answers.

I want to cry now, because I didn’t touch his stupid bread. It fell off all on its own. Everyone always blames me.

When my toast is done Dad butters it and I climb up onto his lap to watch the programme. It’s really good tonight, with lots of songs from through the year that we know, so we sing along with some like, ‘You’re My World’ by Cilla Black, and ‘Have I the Right’ by the Honeycombs. The Beatles turn out to be number one again this week with their song, ‘I Feel Fine’, so we all cheer and Gary and Dad get up to dance. I look at Mum and hope she’s not still cross with me. She doesn’t seem to be, because instead of sending us to bed so she can watch Wagon Train which is on next, she turns the telly off and puts on the record player. She even puts on my favourite record first, ‘Do Wah Diddy Diddy’ by Manfred Mann, and holds my hands as we dance together. Gran bought me the record for my birthday when I was eight, back in August, so it’s mine. Next Dad puts on ‘Twist and Shout’. Mum’s a really good twister, but tonight she does a bop with Dad. I want to learn to dance like that. Ballet’s rubbish. It’s for poofs.

After that Dad takes us up to bed and reads us Peter Rabbit, sitting out on the landing so we can both hear. Mum puts the ironing away then comes to tuck us in and turn out the lights. I wait for her and Dad to go back downstairs. It’s bitter cold, but not like it was a couple of weeks ago when the washing froze on the line. We’ve put the paraffin heater in the hall now, so it helps to take the chill off the bedrooms, and it gives off a lovely inky smell that makes it all cosy and nice.

I tiptoe out to the landing and get as far as the top of the stairs when Gary’s door opens.

‘What are you doing?’ he whispers.

‘I’m going to listen. You can come if you want to, but you have to be quiet.’

We go slowly, carefully down one stair at a time, standing dead still and not daring to breathe every time a floorboard creaks. They’ve turned the record player on again. It’s ‘Put Your Head on My Shoulder’ by Pat someone, I forget now. We get halfway down and peer over the banister. The kitchen and living-room doors are open and we can see them, dancing. Ugh, and kissing! I clap a hand over Gary’s eyes and shove him back up to bed.

‘I want to come in and sleep with you,’ he says when we get to his door.

‘All right, but you’re not allowed to put your cold feet on me.’

We slide in under the covers and I start telling him one of the stories I made up. If I could stop him following me, I’d go back to look over the banister again to make sure they don’t end up having a row. I don’t think they will though, because they haven’t for ages now, not a real one, which means God has answered my prayers. He’s even stopped Mum working in the sack factory, so she’s here every night when we come home from school, and Dad’s tea is on the table when he gets in from work. I don’t think she’s got another family any more. She’s just got us.

The next day Dad finishes work early and takes Gary up to Grampy’s and Aunty Beat’s to deliver their presents. The car’s broken down so they have to walk in all the rain. Mum and I get a lift up to Gran’s with one of the neighbours who’s going that way. My cousins, Geoffrey and Deborah, live next door to Gran, so after helping Mum with some of Gran’s housework, I go round to play hide-and-seek with them. While I’m lying under the bed in their big sister’s bedroom I spot a bottle with a little cork in the top that’s easy to pull out. I take a sip, just to see what it’s like and wonder if I might shrink, or grow big, like Alice. It’s really nice, so I have a bit more, and when Geoff and Deb find me they have some too. We start to get all giggly and silly, and we do rude things like pulling up our jumpers, or showing our bums. We’re laughing so much that none of us sees Mummy standing in the door, but even when we do, we still can’t stop laughing. She’s really mad, I can tell by her face, but it just makes us laugh even more.

‘Come here,’ she says to me in her strictest voice.

I’m really for it now, I know I am, but I’m still giggling at the others as I go towards her. She grabs my arm, spins me round and whacks me so hard across the legs that I scream. She does it again and again.

‘You naughty, naughty girl!’ she shouts. ‘You’re disgusting, do you hear me? Disgusting. I’m telling your father as soon as we get home. Pulling your knickers down in front of boys. And what’s that smell?’ She looks around, her eyes all wild like a witch’s. ‘Is that booze I can smell? Bloody hell, have you been drinking?’ She spots the empty bottle. ‘Deborah, bring that here,’ she barks. ‘Ivy,’ she shouts to Deborah’s mum.

I’m starting to feel really scared now, and a bit sick. My head’s spinning round and round and my legs are stinging like bees from where they got smacked. Mum’s still holding me by the arm, as she grabs the bottle off Deborah and sniffs it. ‘You stupid girl,’ she rages, and starts smacking me again. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Just you wait till I tell your father. Sneaking around in Wendy’s bedroom, stealing her booze, pulling your knickers down . . .’

‘No, stop! Stop!’ I shout, trying to get away. ‘I won’t ever do it again. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re damned right you’ll never do it again. Now get down those stairs.’

Aunty Ivy’s upstairs now, and Geoffrey’s getting a smack. Not as hard as the one I got though. My mum always gives the hardest smacks and . . . ‘I’m going to be sick,’ I wail.

Mummy yanks me across the landing, but it’s too late, it’s already coming up. It goes all over the carpet and down my front. She picks me up and sticks my head over the toilet.

‘I’m going to put you in a home, my girl, if you don’t learn to behave,’ she says.

She always says that, but it still frightens me in case one day she means it.

After I’ve washed my face and helped her clean the sick off the carpet, I have to go back round Gran’s and stay shut up in her bedroom with no dinner, just a cup of water and a piece of bread, until I can learn how to behave like a decent girl. There won’t be any Christmas presents for me either, because Father Christmas doesn’t come to disgusting little girls like me.

I wait for about ten and a half hours then I call out to say I’m sorry, but no-one answers. I can hear them talking though, so I know they’re still there. I creep out to the landing and listen.

‘Let her come down now, Ed,’ I hear Gran say. ‘It’s cold up there.’

‘She’s got to learn, Mam, and going soft on her the way Eddie does isn’t going to teach her.’

No-one ever argues with Mum, not even Gran, so I take myself back into Gran’s bedroom and close the door. I want my dad, but I’m afraid he’s going to be angry with me too when Mum tells him I showed my bum to Geoffrey. I’m a terrible girl and I hate myself. I’m worried about Gary too, because if Father Christmas doesn’t come to our house, he won’t get any presents either, and that’s not fair. He hasn’t done anything wrong.

Gran’s bed is so high I have to climb up on a stool to get on it. It’s a lovely bed, with big brass railings, huge squidgy pillows and a bouncy mattress. I have a jump up and down for a while, then I sit down to play I-spy with a pretend friend, but she keeps cheating so I stop being her friend. I count the daisies on the wallpaper up to two hundred and five, then I lose my place. I watch the rain running down the window and decide to go and draw pictures in the condescension. As I slide down to the stool it tips over, and I fall with a great big bang, hitting my head on the chest of drawers next to the bed.

Next thing the door opens and Mummy comes in. ‘What’s going on in here?’ she demands.

‘It wasn’t my fault,’ I tell her. ‘The stool fell over and I banged my head.’ I start to cry because it really hurt and I want her to make it better, not tell me off.

She comes to kneel down next to me and pulls my hand away to look at my head. She smells of Cadum soap and cigarettes. I feel tired and want to curl up in her lap and go to sleep.

‘You’ll live,’ she tells me.

I look up at her. ‘Can I come down now?’ I ask.

‘No. You’re staying here until you can learn to behave yourself.’

‘But I am behaving myself.’

‘Answering me back isn’t behaving yourself.’

‘I’m just saying, I’m being good now, and I promise to be good for ever.’

‘What did I just say about answering back? Now, you’ll stay here and I’ll let your father deal with you when we get home.’

After the door’s closed behind her I stick out my tongue and say, ‘I hate you.’ Then I climb back up on the bed and cry, because she’s turning my dad against me, so I’m going to leave home and she’ll never see me again. She’ll be sorry then. I’m going to take Mandy and Teddy, some clean knicks and vests, a scarf and some gloves. I’ll have to creep down in the middle of the night to make some jam sandwiches. I can put it all in a Fine Fare bag inside my satchel, and carry it over my shoulder. If I go on Christmas Eve I might bump into Father Christmas, who I don’t believe in really. But if I do bump into him, he might give me a ride in his sleigh and take me back to the North Pole to live. I’ll have all the toys in the world then, and I won’t get smacked all the time, or have my hair pulled by horrible boys in school. The elves and the goblins will play with me, and there’ll probably be other children there too, whose parents don’t love them either. I wonder if I should take Gary, because he’d really like it. He’d miss Mum though and she loves him. It’s only me she doesn’t love.

When it’s time to go she shouts upstairs for me to come down now. She’s waiting in the hall with my coat and scarf. I put them on myself and go in to kiss Gran cheerio. When Mummy’s not looking Gran pushes a penny into my hand.

‘Be a good girl now,’ she whispers. ‘See you on Christmas Day.’

I don’t tell her I won’t be there, because she might tell Mum.

It’s still raining outside. Mum’s got us both plastic rain hats, which tie under the chin, and plastic macs to put over our coats. She makes me hold her hand as we walk to the bus stop and tells me off for splashing in the puddles. I wasn’t, but if I cheek her back I’ll only get a smack, out here in the road.

We wait for the bus in the knitting-shop doorway. I want to go in the sweet shop next door to spend my penny, but I know it won’t be allowed. I think about the marshmallow shrimps, white chocolate mice, and fruit salad chews. I’m so hungry my tummy can’t stop rumbling.

‘Is that you?’ Mum says, after a really loud rumble.

‘Yes,’ I say.

She looks down at me. ‘That was a stroppy voice, if ever I heard one. You’re not sulking, are you?’

‘No.’

‘No, it doesn’t sound like it.’

I turn my face into the wall, so my back’s to her.

‘Come on,’ she says, pulling me against her. ‘It’s nothing to cry about. We’ll put it behind us now and forget it happened.’

I lean into her.

‘Just make sure you don’t do anything like it again,’ she warns.

‘Are you going to tell Dad?’

‘We’ll see. If you’re a good girl tonight, maybe not.’

I turn my face up to look at her.

She looks down at me and shakes her head.

‘Do you like Gary better than me?’ I ask.

She opens her eyes wide and laughs. ‘What kind of question’s that? Of course not. I like you both the same.’ She pulls me inside her coat to keep me warmer. ‘Come on bus,’ she mutters. ‘It’s freezing standing here.’

‘Tell me stories about when you were little,’ I say.

‘What, now?’

I nod. I always like hearing stories of when she was growing up in the war and her mum and dad used to snore all the way through the air raids, while Uncle Maurice, who was a fire warden, used to rush home to grab the little ones and take them out to the shelter. Or how they used to sell flowers from Grandad’s allotment so they could buy meat for the stew. Or how they’d heat water in a kettle over the fire to have a bath on Friday nights. It was a big old tin bath that they used to keep outside, next to the toilet, and carry in on Fridays. They all used to get undressed in front of each other, and people even used to visit when they were in the bath. There are lots of funny stories about bath night, that always make me and Gary laugh.

‘I know, tell me about when you used to steal apples,’ I say. ‘No. Tell me about how you and Auntie Jean hitch-hiked to the RAF camp to see Uncle Gordon one night and ended up sleeping in a field.’

‘You’ve got too good a memory,’ she tells me.

‘What about when you all used to sleep three and four in a bed? How many brothers and sisters do you have?’

‘You know the answer to that.’

‘Twelve,’ I say. ‘And you make thirteen. No, Uncle Tom makes thirteen, because he’s the youngest. And only Uncle Tom and Uncle Gord are your real brothers. The others are from Gran’s first husband, so that makes them your half-brothers and sisters.’

‘That’s right. And then there’s Aunty Kathleen and Uncle Maurice, who are my half-brother and half-sister, because they’ve got the same dad as me, but a different mum.’

‘And Aunty Kathleen lives in London, and Uncle Maurice is in the RAF in New Zealand. Will we ever see him?’

‘I hope so. He said in his last letter he was coming home soon. Gran’s sending him a telegram tomorrow to wish him happy Christmas from us all, and to give him the number of the phone box at the bottom of Holly Hill so he can ring us next Friday at six, so you might be able to say hello if he calls. Ah, at last, here’s the bus.’

We hold hands and run through the rain to the bus stop, getting there a long time before the bus. Uncle Bob’s not driving, but Mum knows the conductor so we get away with paying only one fare. I keep hold of the yellow ticket in case the inspector gets on, and go to sit in the front seat, upstairs, while Mum has a cigarette and chats with someone she knows a few rows back. She knows everyone.

It’s pitch dark by the time we get home. Tree lights are twinkling in all the windows along the lane and in our street. You can’t see ours, because our kitchen’s at the front, but Dad’s put some lights round the pane of glass in the front door, which look lovely. Him and Gary are already home, so the fire’s lit and it’s all warm inside, with even more presents under the tree from Grampy and Aunty Beat. Gary and I are getting really excited now, because there’s only one more day to go and it’ll be Christmas. Tomorrow Dad’s going to pluck the goose that’s hanging in the shed, and Mum will try to get it in the oven. She thinks it might be too big.

All the next day we’re really busy, taking last-minute presents to everyone, or going up Fine Fare to buy the vegetables, or tidying up and vacuuming to make sure it’s nice for Father Christmas (who Gary still believes in). At four o’clock Dad and Gary go round the barbers to get their hair cut, while Mum’s hairdresser comes to give her a wash and set. After she’s put the rollers in, she puts a carrier bag over them, then sticks the hairdryer inside and tells Mum to hold it. It’s my turn next for a trim, Mum already washed it last night. It’s so long now I can nearly sit on it.

Aunty Doreen and Uncle Alf come, Dad’s sister and her husband, then his other sister, Aunty Nance and Uncle Stan. They drink some sherry and put even more presents under the tree. None of them smoke, which is a relief for Mum, because she doesn’t want to give them any and then run out over Christmas when the shops are closed. Uncle Bob and Aunty Flo are bringing Julie and Karen down tomorrow, and Gran will be here too, if Dad can get the car going to pick her up. It started earlier, so he’s got his fingers crossed for the morning.

Gary and I don’t mind going to bed early tonight, to make sure we’re asleep before Father Christmas comes, so about six o’clock we pour some milk in a glass and put out a saucer of chocolate biscuits for him and the reindeer, then we hang our stockings over the fireplace and get a piggyback from Dad up the stairs. Mum’s too busy icing the Christmas cake to come and tuck us in, so Dad does it for her and tells us no nonsense, or Father Christmas won’t come.

It’s very hard getting to sleep. Gary keeps calling out to ask if I’m asleep yet. He goes quiet for a while, so I call out to him. ‘Are you still awake?’

‘No,’ he answers.

‘Are you asleep?’

‘Yes.’

‘Me too.’

In the middle of the night, when I’m fast asleep, I wake up for a minute. I can hear someone in my room, so I open my eyes just a little bit, and I see a big man in red at the end of my bed. I go back to sleep then and don’t wake up until half past five when Gary comes in.

‘He’s been,’ he whispers, all excited. ‘He’s been.’

I sit up, all excited too.

‘Look,’ Gary says, pointing to the end of my bed.

In the dim light I can see something lying there. It’s my stocking, all full up and bulging.

‘I’ve got one too,’ he says. ‘Shall I get it?’

‘Yes.’

He runs back to his own room, making so much noise I don’t know why he bothers whispering when he comes back. ‘Can I get in with you?’ he says. ‘It’s cold out here.’

I make room for him and together we open our stockings. We’ve got apples and oranges, nuts, a selection box, sticks of liquorice, a yo-yo, a key ring and two Christmas crackers each. We pull one. Gary wins, and out tumbles a noughts and crosses game with a yellow paper hat and a joke we can’t read because it’s in Chinese. We pull again, Gary wins again, but he lets me have the little spinning top and the green paper hat.

‘Shall we go and show Mum?’ he says.

‘They’re still asleep.’

‘I know, but I want to.’

‘Then you go first.’

‘What if she tells me off?’

‘She won’t. She never tells you off.’

‘Yes she does.’

‘No she doesn’t. You’re her favourite.’

‘You are.’

‘Shut up and go first.’

‘No, you.’

‘You’re such a baby.’

‘You are!’ He gives me a thump.

I thump him back. ‘If I go first, I’m going round Dad’s side,’ I tell him.

‘All right.’

We put on our hats and pick up our stockings. At Mum and Dad’s bedroom door we stop and listen.

‘They’re still asleep,’ I whisper, starting to shiver.

‘What shall we do?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘I know, we can go downstairs and see if he’s left anything there.’

I’m not sure about that. I don’t think it’s allowed until Mum and Dad are up too. ‘Go and pull the chain,’ I say. ‘It might wake them up.’

‘I can’t reach it.’

We jump as Dad’s voice says, ‘Is that elves I can hear out there?’

Gary and I look at each other and grin.

‘Yes, it’s elves,’ Gary answers.

‘Are you good elves, or bad elves?’

‘We’re Christmas elves,’ he says, which I think is a really good answer. ‘Can we come in?’

‘Do you know the password?’

‘Umm?’ Gary looks at me.

We whisper to each other, trying to guess what it is.

‘Merry Christmas,’ I say.

‘Very good. Come on in.’

We burst in through the door to find Mum and Dad sitting up in bed in their pyjamas. ‘Father Christmas has been!’ Gary shouts. ‘He’s been. Look what we’ve got!’

He leaps onto the bed with his stocking and lands on Mum. Dad swings me up and plonks me next to him. We show them all our things, and pull the other crackers so they’ve got hats too. Dad wears his downstairs to light the fire. Gary and I wait at the top of the stairs.

‘Has he been?’ Gary shouts.

‘Yes,’ Dad shouts back.

Gary and I jump up and down and run back to Mum.

‘He’s been,’ Gary tells her. ‘Can we go down now?’

‘All right, all right,’ she laughs. ‘Bring me my dressing gown, and you can go and put yours on too, the both of you.’

We rush off to do as we’re told, still dragging our stockings and hanging onto our hats. Mum goes downstairs first. We follow her until we reach the dining-room door.

‘Go on then,’ she says, standing back for us to pass her.

We push open the door and have to blink, because we can hardly believe our eyes. ‘Cor! Look at all that,’ Gary cries, running over to a Beatles drum set and starting to thump. ‘It’s real drums. And look, a horse on springs. Can I get on?’

Dad scoops him up and settles him in the saddle. ‘Gee up!’ he shouts, bouncing up and down. He spots a cowboy suit laid out on Mum’s chair and has to put it on straight away. There’s a hat too, and a gun in a holster. He goes back to his drums and starts to sing ‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.’

On my side of the room there’s a real table and chairs, made of wood, that’s big enough for Gary and me to sit at. Next to it is a twin doll’s pram with real sheets and blankets and lacy pillows. I’ve got a Tressie doll, whose hair grows, some coloured chalks for my blackboard, a hula hoop, a pair of jumping jacks that are like roller skates, but they have springs instead of wheels; lots of different books and games, a lovely white Bible, a doctor’s set and a tea set to use on my new table.

I throw my arms round Mum, then Dad, give them a big kiss and go back to my table and sit on one of the chairs. It’s the best present I’ve ever had. ‘Can I eat my breakfast here?’ I ask.

‘Oh, I think so,’ Mum answers. ‘What do you want? Cornflakes and toast?’

‘Yep.’

‘Yes please,’ she corrects. ‘Gary? The same for you?’

‘Yes please. Can I sit at your table?’ he asks me.

‘Yes, but mind you don’t make a mess.’

‘Can we open our presents under the tree now?’ he asks Dad.

‘Go on then.’

There are so many it takes ages to unwrap them all and there’s so much paper Dad can hardly pick it up before there’s more. Mum’s watching from the door, and keeping an eye on the toast. I have a silver bracelet with my name on, some record tokens, a compendium of games, a dressing-table set, some false nails, a pair of red and green stripey gloves with the fingers in, some pink flannelette pyjamas with flowers on, and lots and lots of other things. Gary has a bow and arrow, a fire engine with a driver and ladders, a pair of football boots and a football, a monster mask, a set of dominoes, and a transistor radio from Grampy and Aunty Beat that’s a bit broken, but Dad says he can probably get it going.

This is turning into the best Christmas we’ve ever had . . .

Eddress

They have too much these kids. Spoiled rotten they are, when there’s so many children starving in the world. It’s not decent to see them with so much they don’t even know what to play with first, but it don’t half do your heart good to see their faces lighting up the way they do. We never had anything like it when we was kids. There was too many of us in our house to start with, and we was as poor as church mice. I’ll always remember our mam keeping the wrapping paper from one year to the next so she could iron it out and use it again. She thought we were a bit daft, I reckon, because she used to nick toys off one of us to wrap up and give to another, and hope we never noticed. She got a bit mixed up one year and gave our Tom one of our Phyllis’s cast-off blouses. Funniest part was, he liked it and wouldn’t stop wearing it. After that we all thought he was going to turn out queer when he grew up, but he didn’t.

Watching my two now I can’t help thinking how lucky we are to have each other, and this house, and food on our table. I know we’re a bit broke, and we have to scrimp at the end of the week to get us through to Fridays, and we don’t always have everything we’d like, but thanks to the Co-op, and Green Shield stamps and the coupons from me fags, we have our little treats, and manage to get by a lot better than some. I mean, who else do you know’s roasting a goose for Christmas? Eddie managed to stuff the great thing in the oven last night (it’s out there cooking now, on a low light) – we never had anything like it when we was young, neither of us. Eddie’s mam never liked to talk about it, but I know, when they was down in Wales, they had to go to the soup kitchens sometimes, or they’d have nothing to eat. I’m not saying we didn’t, mind, because God knows, we had our share of handouts and the like, especially when the war was on. Bit of tripe or pork chitlings was about the best we got then. Chicken was a rare treat, but even if we managed to get one, scrawny bugger hardly had enough meat on it to go round three of us, never mind thirteen.

‘All right, Mum, we’ve finished our breakfast, so you’ve got to open yours now,’ Gary declares.

They look so funny sitting there at Susan’s little table and chairs. Shame the camera doesn’t work in the house, it would be nice to have a picture. Susan’s busy clearing the dishes off her table and wiping it down. She’s as proud as Punch of it, and twice as pleased because when she saw it in the club book we told her it was too dear so she couldn’t have it.

I think funny thoughts sometimes, when I look at her. I wonder who she is inside, and what she’s really thinking. She’s such a mix of me and Eddie, it’s hard to say who she’s like most. I think she’s got the bad bits of me and the good bits of him. She’s got a strong will, I know that, and a stubborn streak the like of which isn’t going to do her any good if we don’t tame it. Our mam and Eddie are always going on at me that I’m too hard on her, but it’s the only way she’s ever going to learn. I want her to make something of herself, to have a good education and find herself a good job.

Of course I want her to get married too, but times are changing, women are becoming more independent these days, and if you ask me, it’s no bad thing. Gary’ll be all right, men always are. It’s harder for a girl, no matter what she wants to be. In our Susan’s case, I don’t think it’s going to be a ballerina, which is a shame, because that would have been nice. She’s not exactly shining at the piano either, but we’re going to keep it up. Ballet she can leave after Christmas. The elocution lessons didn’t come to anything – the teacher gave up because there weren’t enough people to make it worthwhile. Still, if we can get her into Red Maids School, over on the Downs, when she’s eleven, she’ll have all the elocution and piano she’ll ever need, not to mention deportment, Latin, Greek and God knows what else. Next thing you know she’ll be up at university, mixing with debutantes and the like, and flying off round the world. Won’t want to know her common old mum and dad then. (She’ll get the back of my hand if she ever gets too big for her boots with us, I’m telling you that now, I don’t care how posh and successful she is.)

‘I’m coming, I’m coming,’ I call back, as they all start singing ‘Why are we waiting’.

The fire’s roaring up the chimney when I go into the room, the guard’s around it but Gary’s sitting too close. I make him move away, then go to sit in my chair where all my presents are lined up along the arms. We’re all still in our dressing gowns, no-one’s opened the curtains yet, and there are some Christmas carols on the telly. We’re so lucky to have a telly. Not many round here do.

First I open a blue and yellow check headscarf from our mam (the one I gave her last year). Then there’s a box of Dairy Milk from our Gord and his family; a fancy packet of shortbread biscuits from our Tom and his family; a tin of lily of the valley talcum powder from Eddie’s sister Nance, some lavender bath salts from his other sister, Doreen; a nice pair of leather gloves from our Phil who’s got more money than the rest of us, and a little clipboard to rest my bingo card on from Betty and her family next door. She’ll laugh when she opens hers, because I’ve bought her the same thing.

‘Open mine now,’ Gary insists, pushing it at me. ‘It’s a surprise.’

It is too, because I’ve got no idea what he’s been spending his little bit of pocket money on.

His eyes don’t leave my fingers as I tear open the wrapping that he must have done himself, because the sticky tape’s all twisted and not where it should be. It’s a bar of Cadum soap. ‘Oh look!’ I cry, holding it up so they can all see. ‘It’s exactly what I want. Thank you my love,’ and for once he doesn’t pull a face as I give him a smackeroo on the cheek.

‘Mine now,’ Susan says. ‘I wrapped it myself, and I made the bow.’

‘You’ve done it beautiful,’ I tell her. And she has.

‘Oooh, some Parma violet scent,’ I declare, holding it up so I can smell it. Can’t stand the stuff, but for some reason she seems to think I like it. ‘I’ll put some on now,’ I say, and dab a drop on my neck. Lucky I haven’t had a wash yet, it’ll come off then. ‘Thank you my love,’ I say, and give her a great big smackeroo too.

‘I wrapped this one too,’ she informs me as she passes me another. ‘It’s from Dad.’

I’ve got no idea what this is going to be either; he wouldn’t tell me what he was getting, and the shape and size of it isn’t giving anything away. ‘Do you know what it is?’ I ask Susan.

‘No. It’s in a box and Dad wouldn’t let me have a look in case I couldn’t keep a secret – which I can,’ she added, giving him a nudge.

It’s a small flat white box with nothing written on the outside. I glance up at Eddie, who’s smiling away, and looking as mysterious as . . . whoever he says, I’ve forgotten her name now. I open the top, lift it up, then pull back the tissue. ‘Oh, Eddie,’ I say, hardly able to believe me eyes. ‘Oh, you daft thing. You shouldn’t have spent all that money. Oh, look at it. It’s lovely.’

‘What is it Mum?’ Susan cries. ‘Can I see?’

‘Go careful now,’ I say, leaning down for her to have a look. ‘It’s a gold compact for my powder with my initials engraved on the front, see?’

‘E.L.,’ she reads. ‘Eddress Lewis.’

I look up at Eddie who’s grinning like the Cheshire cat now, and I wonder who’s the most pleased, me or him. ‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I still say you shouldn’t have, but it’s very nice.’

‘Now you Dad!’ Gary shouts. ‘It’s your turn. Open mine first.’

‘What about all the others?’ I remind him. ‘From Aunty Nance, and Aunty Doreen . . .’

‘But they’ll only be socks and hankies,’ Susan pipes up. ‘Can you open them last Dad, and open ours first?’

‘As you like,’ he laughs. ‘Oh my goodness, what’s this?’ he cries as he pulls a massive copy of War and Peace out of its wrapping. ‘How did you know I wanted this? Look, Mum. Look what they bought me. Isn’t that perfect? War and Peace. I’ll be able to read it to you both at bedtime.’

‘Oh no!’ Gary groans.

‘He’s teasing, silly,’ Susan says. ‘We got you something else as well,’ she tells Eddie, which is a surprise to me, because I only got the book for them to give. ‘Well, it was for Mum,’ she explains, ‘but she already had two presents, so we’re giving this other one to you instead. I made it.’

‘And me,’ Gary says. ‘I put the coat . . .’

Susan’s hand goes over his mouth. ‘Don’t give it away, stupid.’

‘All right, that’s enough of that now,’ I tell her.

‘So what can this be?’ Eddie says, peeling back the edges of the wrapping. He takes something out and holds it up. ‘That is . . . It’s smashing,’ he says. ‘Isn’t that smashing, Mum? It’s, it’s . . .’ He’s turning it round in his hand, trying to work it out, and I want to laugh.

‘It’s the best peg bag in the world,’ I declare, deciding to give him some help.

‘And I made it,’ Susan reminds us. ‘I did it in needlework, and I embroidered the word PEGS on the front, only the “E” ended up looking a bit like an “I”, but you can see it’s an “E” really.’

‘And I put the coat hanger in,’ Gary chips in.

‘It’s the best present ever,’ Eddie informs them, scooping them onto his lap for a kiss. ‘I’ll always keep my pegs in it.’

I’m trying not to laugh again. He might drive me mad at times, but there aren’t many who can make me laugh the way he does.

‘Now you’ve got to open the one from Mum,’ Gary reminds him. ‘I know what it is.’

‘Don’t tell him,’ Susan snaps.

Eddie starts feeling it. ‘It’s a tie?’ he guesses.

‘No. It’s too big to be a tie,’ Gary scoffs. ‘Shall I open it for you?’

‘Here you are then.’

Gary tears at the paper, tosses it over his shoulder and hands his father the book. ‘See, I told you, it’s a book,’ he declares.

‘The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists,’ Eddie reads aloud. He couldn’t look more delighted if he tried.

‘Thought you might like it,’ I say. He lent his other copy to someone months ago who never gave it back, the robbing scoundrel – everyone knows how much he loves that book.

‘Oh, I like it all right,’ he says. ‘It’s just what I wanted.’

I wish I’d spent a bit more on him now he’s got me the compact, but I didn’t know he was going to do that, and it’s all his money anyway, so I don’t suppose it makes that much difference. It would have been nice if I had though. Still, he’s got his birthday presents to come tomorrow, that’ll help make up a bit.

‘All right,’ I say, getting up, ‘time to get dressed. Is it light out yet?’

Susan drags back the curtains. ‘Just,’ she answers. ‘And it’s raining. We wanted snow.’

Rain or snow, it’s still Christmas Day and there’s a lot to do. After we’re all washed and dressed and have tidied around a bit, Eddie goes up to fetch our mam who brings down more presents, then gives me a hand with the dinner, while Eddie plays with the kids and their toys. They don’t half make a noise, the three of them in there, and our Susan doesn’t sound a bit ladylike screaming out for someone to bash his stupid head in, but it’s Christmas so I decide to turn a deaf ear for today.

‘So how are you feeling now?’ our mam says, as I turn down the gas under the cabbage.

‘Me?’ I say. ‘I’m all right. Why wouldn’t I be?’

‘I was just wondering, that’s all. No need to bite me head off.’

‘I’m not. I just don’t know why you’re asking. Don’t I look all right?’

‘Course you do. I was just meaning . . . You know . . .’ She nods towards my chest.

‘Well it ain’t grown back, if that’s what you mean,’ I tell her, and picking up a tea towel I open the oven door to check on the roasters. Fancy bringing that up now. I see her every bloody day and she never mentions it, but she has to go and bring it up right in the middle of cooking Christmas dinner.

‘I’ll go and lay the table,’ she says.

‘Use the best cutlery, in the sideboard,’ I tell her, ‘and you can get the best plates out too.’

The kitchen’s all steamed up, so I open the back door to let some of it out, then get on with making the gravy. Eddie likes Bisto, Gary likes Oxo, so I make two, seeing as it’s Christmas. Getting Susan to eat her carrots and greens isn’t going to be easy, but she won’t be leaving the table until she does, Christmas or not. Maybe I just won’t give her as many today.

Eddie carves the goose and we start serving up. There’s some church service going on on the telly now, and the room’s got so warm we open a window to let in some air. There are toys everywhere, you can hardly move. I’ve made sure my compact is put away safe, though, it’s upstairs in my handbag along with my lipstick and a couple of spare packets of fags. Which reminds me . . .

‘How many coupons have you got now, Mam?’ I ask her. ‘I’ve got some left over, so I reckon between us we might have enough to get you a new kettle.’

‘I don’t know. Our Gord and our Tom bring ’em in. You’ll have to count them when you come up.’

‘I’ll do it,’ Susan offers.

‘And me,’ Gary chimes in. ‘I’m a really fast counter.’

‘All right, all right,’ I say. ‘That’s enough, let’s start our dinner now.’

Eddie says grace, and is the first, when he starts eating, to say, ‘Delicious.’

‘It’s a bit tough,’ I say.

‘Tasty though,’ Mam decides. ‘I’ve never had goose before. Where did you get this’n from?’

‘The farm, up Siston. They was only ten bob dearer than the turkeys, so I thought we’d splash out and give it a try. Not bad I s’pose. Don’t know if I’d get one again.’

‘It made a right mess of the shed,’ Susan tells her. ‘There are feathers everywhere. We’re going to collect them and make a pillow for you, Gran.’

‘That’ll be nice. They’re expensive, goose feathers. It’s what all the rich people do have in their pillows.’

There’s Christmas pudding, Christmas cake, Christ mas log or mince pies for afters, but everyone’s too full to have any straight away, so we clear the table and sit in front of the fire to let it all go down. Susan and Gary play tiddlywinks from her compendium, while Eddie has a leaf through his books and I have a fag. Our mam’s already dozing, but we wake her up when it’s time for the Queen’s speech – she wouldn’t want to miss that.

The Queen talks about all the important things that happened through the year, our new Labour government under Harold Wilson, and the first London elect ions, that Labour won too. She tells us how concerned she is by what’s going on in Rhodesia, and Cyprus and various other parts of the world, and asks God to bless all the poor people who are suffering at this time. Then she mentions the two new additions to her family, her son Edward, and Princess Margaret’s girl, Sarah. I wonder what sort of Christmas they’re having, up there in Buck House, or wherever they are, with all those servants and nothing more to worry about than whether or not they’ll catch the fox on their hunt tomorrow.

‘Notice she didn’t say anything about Brezhnev, or what’s happening in the Soviet Union,’ Eddie comments as the picture fades.

‘What’s that got to do with us or the Commonwealth?’ I say, but before he can answer I add, ‘No, don’t let’s get into your politics now. I’m going to get our mam’s coat to give it a warm by the fire before you take her up our Gord’s.’

‘You still getting the Soviet Weekly?’ our mam asks him.

‘Yes. Do you want to take one with you, when you go?’

‘Not me. I’m a Tory, me. Terrible, what they’ve done to Churchill. I can’t get over that, voting him out, after all he did for this country.’

‘The war ended nearly twenty years ago,’ he reminds her. ‘He was good then, but him and his party haven’t done anything for us common people since. You wait and see, things’ll start improving no end now the Social ists are in.’

‘Well, if they put my pension up, I might not think ’em so bad,’ she says, taking his hand so he can pull her up.

‘Are you picking up Uncle Bob and Karen and Julie on the way back?’ Susan asks.

‘Yes. Now give your gran a kiss before she goes.’

After Eddie’s gone I make a start on the washing-up, leaving the kids to go on playing. Normally I’d make them help, but it’s such a mess out here, they’ll only get in the way, and I wouldn’t mind a quiet five minutes to meself. At least out here I can hear meself think. I’m feeling a bit bad now about snapping at our mam like that earlier, but she’ll know I didn’t mean it. If she brings it up again I’ll say sorry, otherwise it’s probably best left alone. I hope she doesn’t mention it to Eddie, while they’re in the car, but I can’t imagine she would. They’ll talk about Churchill, or the war, knowing those two, or the price of everything now.

When it’s all done and put away I stick the kettle on to make a nice pot of tea, and carry it in next to the fire, where my fags are on the arm of my chair. Glad Eddie’s not around to give me one of his looks, I light up and sit back to enjoy it. I’m only about halfway through when the kids drag me into a game of ludo, which we’re still playing when Bob, Flo and their kids come back with Eddie.

Flo and I go out to the kitchen to make a fresh pot, leaving Eddie and Bob to the games. What a palaver. The place is turning into bedlam. Hide-and-seek, blind man’s buff, musical chairs, you name it, Eddie, Bob and the kids play it, while Flo and I take the tea in, then sit and have a chat and do our knitting. Bob’s as soft as Eddie when it comes to his children, so like me, Flo has to take a firm hand. Hers are still young though. Julie, her eldest, is Gary’s age, and Karen’s only two, so she doesn’t have a strong-willed young madam to deal with yet, though watching the two of them now, as bright as buttons and twice as cute, the time doesn’t seem too far off.

They’re on to hunt the slipper now. The kids are all out in the kitchen, while Eddie and Bob find a place to hide it. They’re like a pair of kids, honest they are. Where shall they put it? Somewhere not too obvious and not too high. Bob has an idea which makes me smile. He’s as sharp as his brother, he is. Let’s see what the kids make of this now.

‘All right, you can come in,’ Eddie shouts out.

They spill in from the kitchen ready to start searching, until they spot the slipper in the middle of the floor in front of them, right next to its mate.

‘Which one is it?’ Bob wants to know.

For a moment they all look a bit bewildered, until they get the joke and start to laugh.

‘That’s cheating,’ they cry. ‘You can’t do that.’

‘Yes I can. Now come on, which one is it?’

The real joke is neither Eddie nor Bob can remember either, but they just make it up and let Karen be the winner. She gets a selection box from under the tree to go with the packet of Opal Fruits she won in pass the parcel.

It’s time now for some home-made mince pies and custard, or cream, or both if you’re Gary. Eddie and Bob have a big helping of Christmas pudding with real Cornish clotted cream, Flo has a slice of cake, and I’m still too full up after dinner, so I just have a cup-a-tea and a fag.

All in all it’s turning out to be a lovely Christmas Day. The kids seem tickled pink with their presents, and God knows they had enough; the goose wasn’t bad, something a bit different, anyway; reckon our mam enjoyed herself while she was here (she never says anything, but you always know from how much she eats); and what better way to end it than with Eddie rolling round on the floor with his brother and the kids. What a pair they are. Never saw a couple of brothers like it. And to think I was scared out me wits when they whisked me into that hospital a few months ago, that I might not be here to see it. What a daft bugger I am. Good job I never said anything to anyone then, I should feel proper soft now if I had.