Uncle Percy – A Christmas Memory
When I was young my Christmases were always made special by a visit from my father’s eldest brother, Percy, who arrived on Christmas Eve and stayed with us into the New Year.
My brother Jack would bundle me into the back of our old grey Austin van and we would go and pick up Uncle Percy from the small hamlet of Gawthrop, just outside the village of Dent. This was an adventure in itself as he lived a good twenty miles away from our farm in Austwick, and I loved the long journey alone with my big brother.
Uncle Percy was a veteran of the First World War. He had been left for dead in the trenches of the Somme, until the Germans had found him and taken him prisoner of war. He was a quiet man who still bore the signs of being shell-shocked, and his legs were pitted where shrapnel had entered them. He never spoke of the war to anyone, but you knew he had been through hell. After the war he had travelled the country, odd-jobbing.
I suspect what he saw over in the Somme made him restless and weary of his fellow man and caused him to question what life was all about. Eventually he came back to the dale where he was born to become the local postman. His one love was his garden, where he’d grow dahlias and chrysanthemums, winning medals at all the local shows.
Christmas started with the arrival of Uncle Percy. He’d bring a jar of pickled onions for the Christmas table, a box of Turkish Delight for my mother and a ten-shilling note that was more money than I’d seen all year, for me. In return I’d give him an ounce of Kendal Twist for his pipe and my parents would give him a warm home and a loving Christmas. He’d sit by the fire and talk to my father, and I’d listen in as tales were told of days gone by and relish the fact that I could stay up long past my bedtime because Uncle Percy was staying. During the day he’d teach me the names of great battleships, flowers and plants, and play games of dominoes or draughts with me. For exercise he’d stretch his legs by walking around the garden and farmyard of our sprawling farmhouse up in the fells, his gait awkward from the pain he suffered in his legs. I didn’t understand any of the things he’d been through then; I was young and naive, and all I knew was that Uncle Percy had come to stay and it wouldn’t be Christmas without him. He was a quiet, gentle soul who I loved dearly.
Sadly, Uncle Percy died a month before I got married. If he was alive today, I think he’d smile when the traditional box of Turkish Delight and jar of pickled onions are bought at Christmas. It’s the little things that count at this special time, and the memories of those we love who have passed on and the love of the ones that are still with us as we celebrate Christmas together.