It's December 1972 and the demise of Papa's rabbits (see post Farewell Rabbits), along with the failed attempts at baking and frying (see posts Home Alone and English Breakfast), and the resulting burnt leg are all soon forgotten. This is because something way more excitement is waiting for us all around the corner, and this is called The English Christmas. In a faraway land called America, its thirty-seventh President, Richard Nixon has meanwhile just announced an escalation of hostilities between the United States of America and North Vietnam. Beginning December 18th, over 20,000 tons of bombs will fall on the cities of Hanoi and Haiphong. This and other equally monumental world events do not touch our lives, as the most English of celebrations unfolds before us at 51 Crescent Road.
Mama tells me that the English celebrate their Christmas on the twenty-fifth, the day after we have celebrated ours on the night of the twenty-fourth. On this day they will all eat a big meal with turkey, roast potatoes and lots of boiled vegetables. Everybody must eat the same meal and I cannot understand this; In Spain every family can choose to eat whatever they want. What happens if you want to be different and for example eat beef, chicken or even pork? I ask Mama, but she cannot give me a satisfactory answer. Perhaps if you dare to be different and stand out in this way, the neighbours might not talk to you in the same way that Mrs McCabe is not talking to Papa because he fried the rabbits (see post Farewell Rabbits). I can only conclude that, for the sake of English neighbourly accord, its best that everyone eats the same meal. Some families even go one stage further and eat their meal wearing silly papers crowns on their heads. Mama and I find this even more perplexing. Why do the English feel the need to dress up like children in this way? Is it to make themselves feel better because they must all eat the same meal?
At school, everyone seems to be getting very excited about the coming celebrations and our teacher, Mrs Bagley is getting us into the Christmas spirit by telling us that we will soon be putting up our own Christmas tree in the classroom and decorating the room with streamers. Lastly, we will be making our own Christmas cards to send out Merry Christmas greetings to everyone. I don’t really understand the excitement about Christmas cards, to me it feels like a pointless ritual, why can't everyone just say Merry Christmas out aloud to every person they pass? That way they could save their wrists from exhaustion, as well as doing their pockets a favour. These Christmas cards are not free! I do not however think I will share this thought with anyone, the shops are piled high with boxes of Christmas cards wherever you look, and I am beginning to realise that this ritual, just like The Tea Break (see post Watching The English Parts I And II) is sacred and not to be messed around with.
As well as talking about the Christmas tree that we will put up and decorate, and the Christmas cards that we will be making to send out our exhausting Merry Christmas greetings, my class mates also talk amongst one another about a wonderous man called Father Christmas who delivers the English children their Christmas gifts which are all ripped open on Christmas day. So, on top of having their Christmas meal on a different day to us in Spain, the English children also get their presents on a different day and from a different person. I am used to getting my few Christmas presents on Reyes which falls on January 6th, delivered by The Three Wise Men who travel together on camels from lands afar to deliver their carefully selected gifts to eagerly-awaiting children. In England, an old bearded old man is considered capable of doing the work of three, and he chooses as his mode of transport, not camels but a sledge pulled by reindeers. What a sensible chap I conclude looking out of the school window on this cold and dreary winter’s day, Father Christmas would be hard pressed to find camels to work with him in weather such as this. What puzzles me most however, is the manner in which Father Christmas chooses to deliver his gifts to the also-eagerly-awaiting English children; he slides down the chimney in the dead of night, sack of presents in tow. This is indeed bizarre behaviour, and for an old man like Father Christmas a rather undignified way of entering a home.
The English and their Christmas traditions are perplexing, I think to myself. They wish one another Merry Christmas via written messages on multiple bits of paper when they could just as well say it out aloud whenever they meet, they must all religiously eat the same meal otherwise the neighbours won’t talk to them, and the gifts are delivered by an old man sliding down a chimney in the dead of night. Why don’t they just pension off the old dear and give the job to someone a bit younger who might actually realise that a house has something called a door for gaining entry? This philosophical contemplation is however short-lived, for my attention is soon diverted to an object of even greater fascination. Along with the usual food supplies from the weekly expedition to the nearby Co-op supermarket, Mama brings home some nuts, and along with it something that I have never seen in my short life; a nutcracker. I cannot comprehend why someone would create such an obsolete device when Mother nature has an abundance of its own nutcrackers, simply called stones.
On many a warm Tenerife evening, I distinctly recall gathering together with the other children in our street on the pavement outside our homes, and there we would enthusiastically crush almonds with such stones. Whilst the Mamas made themselves comfortable seated on nearby chairs and stools, simultaneously supervising us and exchanging their village news with one another, we children happily cracked away. Admittedly, the stones did come with certain disadvantages, such as the occasional crushed finger accompanied by lots of wailing. This would then lead onto heated arguments between the respective Mamas as to which child was at fault, almond crusher, or owner of crushed fingers. It may take the Mamas all evening to resolve the dispute, by which time we children will have blissfully resumed our nut crushing. Many a long-standing family feud has begun over a simple nut.
It suddenly dawns on me that the nutcracker in my hand is, after all, a magnificent instrument of world peace; no stones equals no crushed fingers, and this means no heated arguments between the Mamas. This is turn equals harmonious village tranquility. By golly, the foresight and wisdom of these English will never cease to amaze me! I soon however also forget about the nutcracker, because a few days later Mama returns from her work shift at Warley Psychiatric and Geriatric Hospital in a distressed state. She has just had her first encounter with the most unwelcome of hospital visitors; death. Emily, her favourite patient has died.
To be continued...
Next post: Sunday 1st November: Hello Shame
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.
