Little Bird

The English Christmas spirit continues to infiltrate every nook and cranny of our home at 51 Crescent Road on this December day in 1972; Papa comes home with his own pile of recently-purchased Christmas cards and insists that I am to write out greetings to his work colleagues. When I am unable to do this, he explodes into an irrational rage (see post Carry On Christmas Cards). I am only a child, yet Papa does not understand that he is meant to help me write out my cards, not the other way around as he is expecting me to do. I am beginning to hate Christmas cards, and I am also beginning to hate Christmas. At that moment, I decide that when I am grown up I will never, ever send a Christmas card to anyone. I will simply tell them to their face, Merry Christmas.

Mama hears Papa’s onslaught and swiftly comes into the room to rescue me. She moves me away telling Papa that those are all the cards he has to give out, and that he had better make the most of them. If necessary, tomorrow he can write out any further cards himself! She knows full well he is incapable of doing this and Papa falls correspondingly silent. Mama takes me into the lounge where Sis is now seated on the sofa watching television. It’s already eight o'clock and way past bed time for English children, but England does not exist at 51 Crescent Road. This is Spanish territory, and English rules do not apply. Sis and I go to bed when Mama and Papa themselves are ready to go to bed and not a moment before, even if this means midnight. On this one occasion, not being English comes with wonderful benefits.  As well as an early Christmas gift, Mama also produces a box of chocolates called Milk Tray, and I am in food heaven. The day’s distressful events surrounding those rotten Christmas cards are momentarily forgotten as I join Sis on the sofa and pick out my favourite chocolates from the assortment spread out before me. I particularly like the ones with a nut or toffee centre, so make sure to devour those before anyone else gets to them.   

But sometimes I accidentally take a chocolate with a centre I intensely dislike, like a coffee or strawberry cream, and when I do that I discreetly stick the chocolate back together with saliva and put it right back in the box. With a bit of luck, no-one will even notice that it and I have already had a close encounter, I tell myself. Wishful thinking. Just like our school Headmaster, Mr Quinnel who claims to have eyes in the back of his head (see post Hello Shame), a Mama is all-knowing and all-seeing. She spots me expertly gluing back together a strawberry cream whirl with the usual dose of saliva, and as I am about to return this unwanted jewel back to its rightful home amongst its other unappreciated counterparts, she jumps up from her end of the sofa and snatches the chocolate from my hand. Stop that right now! Do you have any idea how disgusting this behaviour is? How would you like to pop a coffee whirl into your mouth, only to realise that it has already been bitten into and glued back together with saliva? Mama is of course right. Only later do we comprehend that chocolate boxes in England come with explanatory labels detailing the different centres within, thereby eliminating the need for saliva glue.The intelligence of these English never ceases to amaze.

I am still in chocolate heaven, but not for long. Papa had not had his last say with us on this painful day. Now he scolds Sis and I for speaking in English with one another as we huddle together on the sofa, eating chocolates and arguing with one another in a mixture of Spanish and English all jumbled up. Papa tells us in a very forceful tone, en esta casa se habla español, y solo español! In this house we speak Spanish and only Spanish! How can he not understand that Sis and I have now been in England for just over three years, and that sometimes we cannot simply find the words in Spanish? I defiantly attempt to argue with him in English, but it serves no purpose. Papa directs his sternest gaze at me, and in doing so, reiterates a truth so terrible that it sends tremors through my little body; Spanish blood flows in your veins, and whether you like it or not everyone that looks at you notices straight away that you are not English. You are not, and never will be English! Papa has just reinforced what I felt walking home from school earlier in the day, clutching my solitary Christmas Card and suffocated by the sad realization that I am not and never will be one of them (see post Hello Shame).This is all too much for me, and I run upstairs to the bedroom throwing myself onto the empty bed that I share with Sis. 

A relentless cascade of tears gush from within me. First Papa scolds me for not writing his cards in English, then for speaking in English. Then he tells me that the English will never accept me as one of them, that I will never fit in. How can he say such terrible things? Does Papa not understand how much his words hurt? Papa is changing, and I do not like it. This is an almost cruel side to him that I have never seen before. Perhaps he was already like this in Spain, but I never noticed because I was surrounded by a sea of family; Mama, Mama's Mama; Grandma Filomena, Mama's Papa's Mama; Great Grandma Celia, plus a multitude of aunts, uncles and cousins. Here in England, it's just Mama, Papa, Sis and myself. At that moment I am blissfully unaware that the kind and wonderful Papa that I knew, the one that brought me the doll at the Feria  in Andalusia with the last of his coins (see post Meet The Family), the same one that I insisted upon marrying when I grow up has gone forever. In his place is a person whom I do not recognize. 

My thoughts quickly flit to Sis, and I realize how blessed she is within the confines of her innocent four-year-old existence. The wave of sadness does not wash over her as it does me, as I contemplate the life I had before this one (see post Watching The English Part III). She does not have within her the mountains, the beach, nor the warm Atlantic waters of Tenerife as I do. I want to return to my beautiful Island with the majestic Teide volcano silently watching over me just as it did on the day I was born. But I slowly comprehend that this life has vanished forever. Worn down by the multiple distresses of the day and eyes brimming over with tears, I kneel on the floor besides the bed, and with clasped hands pour out my heavy heart: Sweet Jesus, turn me into a little bird so that I can fly away from here. Take me to a place where Papa does not frighten me, and where I am not ashamed to say that my name is Maria del Carmen. My tears are soon spent, and exhausted by the torrent of emotions I lay down on the bed fully clothed. After a short while I have fallen into a deep sleep. Mama does not awake me to undress for bed that evening, she understands that prolonging a distressful day serves no useful purpose and simply covers me with blankets. 

That night Great Grandma Celia pays me a visit. Long departed for The Other Side (see post Share The Moon), she returns to me in my dreams and tells me to dry my tears, spread my wings and learn to fly. My wish will eventually be granted, but it will not be tomorrow nor the day after. Neither will it be in a manner which I would have ever imagined. Deeply immersed in this nocturnal reunion, I sit upright in bed and take refuge in Great Grandma Celia's warm arms. Her familiar aroma takes me back to those childhood moments spent in her care as Mama and Mama's Mama toiled in the fields to put food on the table, and suddenly I feel more homesick than ever. I miss my island and I miss everyone there, I tell her, I miss my aunts, I miss my uncles, I miss my cousins and I especially miss Mama's Mama, Grandma Filomena. Great Grandma Celia gently strokes my hair as I speak, I miss them also my child, she tells me.  A full moon shines majestically outside the window, and from it emanates a shaft of moonlight that penetrates the bedroom illuminating everything within; Great Grandma Celia's long silvery hair falls around her shoulders like a shining halo. So this is what angels look like, I think to myself. This same moon is also shimmering far away, over my island above Grandma Filomena and everybody else that I have left behind; together we can gaze up and contemplate the same heavenly body suspended high in the sky above all of us. Sharing The Moon in this way feels warm and reassuring, and suddenly I realise that we are not so far away from one another after all.

                                             

  

Next post: Sunday 12.02.2018: Goodbye Share The Moon



Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.

Carry On Christmas Cards

Arriving home from school I turn the key in the front door, and suddenly the air is filled with the wonderful scent of a Mama at home. The aroma of coffee and food all waft together to create a warm and cosy feel which already greets me in the corridor. Today is one of those marvelous days when Mama is not working at Warley Hospital, so she is home on this sad afternoon when I return from school. Mama immediately notes the dejected look on my face, and after telling her what happened in class today I show her the solitary Christmas card from my teacher (see post Hello Shame). Mama envelopes in her warm and welcoming arms, gently strokes my dark way hair and tells me that they are just silly bits of card which don’t really mean very much, real feelings are spoken out aloud face-to-face. I know that Mama is trying to make me feel better, but it really does not work and sensing my lingering sadness she tells me that she has just the thing for me and disappears from the kitchen only to return a few seconds later with something in her hand: a Christmas gift. It's not yet Christmas, Mama tells me, but in lieu of my sadness I can open this single gift ahead of time, in fact straight away. And I proceed to wipe away my tears and do just that, turning the package over to read the label on the underside; it’s from Nanny Robbie.

Nanny Robbie is Mrs Robinson and our elderly next-door neighbour-but-one, who lives two doors down on the left. She told Sis and I when we met her on the very first day at our new home in 51 Crescent Road, that we could call her Nanny as we had left our own Nanny far away in Tenerife when we moved to England (see post Toast And Television). Sis and I are very grateful to Nanny Robbie for her kindness, we both feel very alone here in England and can do with all the love and affection we can get. Mama tells me that Nanny Robbie came by today to deliver her gifts for Sis and I, and that this one is marked for me. Mama also tells me that I am already nine-years-old, and that we both know that Father Christmas and The Three Wise Men are wonderful stories, but that the Christmas gifts are really from people that love you very much and want to remember you on this special day. We must just not share this critical piece of knowledge with Sis who is only four and playing with her dolls in the next room. She is still captivated by this story, so we must tell her that Santa, just like The Three Kings, is a very busy man and needs all the assistance he can get to deliver his incalculable number of gifts to all the children of the World and all at the same time. This is an exhausting job, and kind neighbours like Nanny Robbie giving a helping hand by helping to deliver some of the gifts, is extremely appreciated.

I am not really listening to Mama’s prepared explanation for Sis, because I have already ripped open my gift: It’s a cook book! The Children’s Learn To Cook Book. I keenly scan the pages and am in paradise. It’s full of photographs of wonderful cakes along with a thing called a recipe telling you how to bake them. This recipe gives you precise instructions on the quantities of ingredients you must use, how to mix them, and the oven temperatures you must use. No wonder I have been unable to turn out a decent cake in spite of my multiple attempts during my many afternoons at home alone after school (see post Home Alone)! All along I had just been randomly mixing together flour, sugar, milk, eggs, putting the gooey mixture into the oven at whatever temperature happened to take my fancy at that particular moment, and ending up with no cake, rather an equally gooey, but just hotter mess. With The Children’s Learn To Cook Book in my hand, things will now be different, I smugly tell myself. Suddenly I have forgotten about not receiving a single Christmas card from my class mates. The singular kindness of an elderly neighbour has helped to lift the lingering sadness of rejection earlier in the day.

But the ubiquitous Christmas Cards tradition permeating every nook and cranny of England on this Christmas month will not go away, because this infectious ritual also contaminates Papa in a most unpleasant way. He later comes home with his own pile of recently-purchased Christmas cards and excitedly informs Mama that he will send them out to a carefully memorised list of work colleagues. Papa wants to impress his co-workers with his intricate knowledge of all customs English, but there is a teeny problem standing in the way: He has never been to school, and neither for that matter has Mama, therefore making him unable to write out these greetings in English, nor in any other language for that matter. Papa says no-one must know this shameful truth, so I am to write out the greetings for him, and there and then I am handed a pile of cards with a pen for the execution of this task. An excited Papa sits next to me, besides himself at the thought of the wonderful cards he will soon be able to hand out on the ward to his work colleagues when he appears for his morning shift tomorrow, and each with their own personalised greeting.   

But I have never carried out this task before and end up in the most terrible mess. Papa has no written list of recipients, and I have never heard of most of these strange English names; Roger Penrose, Philip Whittaker, Sheila McCarthy, Lesley Cloony, so I misspell most of them and end up having to throw away those cards and start again. When I do finally get the names right, I misspell the greeting. Soon there is a mountain of cards piling up on the desk, and all full of either spelling mistakes or incorrect names. This pile easily outweighs another one besides it containing correctly written cards. This is too much for Papa who explodes in a fit of fury: Now looks what’s happened! all the cards have been used up and I still don’t have enough to hand out tomorrow. I can’t even go to the shop to buy some more because it’s past closing time! Can you do nothing right? What do you learn at this English school, if you cannot do something as simple as write out a greeting on a Christmas card! How can you be so useless? And I fall silent with shame as I listen to the tirade emanating from Papa. A Papa is meant to look after you and help you write out your cards, not the other way around as he is expecting me to do. I am beginning to hate Christmas cards, and I am also beginning to hate Christmas. At that moment, I decide that when I am grown up I will never, ever send a Christmas card to anyone. I will simply tell them to their face, Merry Christmas. And if I do not get the opportunity to do so, when we finally meet I will wish them A Happy New Year.

To be continued........

Next post January 28.1.2018: Little Bird





Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.