A Christmas Cruel

WARNING: This is a long-ish short story. Give it a miss if you are short of time.  With apologies to the ghost of Charles Dickens.

(Written in 1980. This revision previously published in 2014)


The approach of Christmas does two things to me: it makes me want to shut myself away and await the “All Clear” and also reminds me of my Auntie Alice. She was the kind of person many would call “The salt of the earth.” If any member of the family was in any kind of difficulty, she'd be there with a smile and a helping hand; if a shoulder was needed to cry on, they could have one of hers. She was also a born diplomat and whenever hackles were raised it was her hand that would soothe the savage beast.

Life in the East End of London in the 1930s was not easy, and was particularly hard for mothers struggling to feed and clothe a family on the meagre pittance brought home by their husbands - the honest ones, that is, and there were many of them, even in an area with a reputation for housing some of London's worst.

My mother always managed to have food on the table, even if it was sometimes only a slice of bread smeared with dripping from the Sunday roast. We nearly always had beef on Sunday because it was cheap. Only the wealthy could afford the luxury of chicken, except at Christmas, when a nice plump bird would become affordable if you were lucky enough to get one being sold off at half price when the meat market was about to close late on Christmas Eve. Christmas always meant a full house at our home, where the three main rules were: “Children should be seen and not heard", “Mother knows best” and “Don't argue!” Any question or request was regarded as arguing. 

But I digress, and must bring Auntie Alice back into the story. We were all - about 12 of us - packed one Christmas around a table which would comfortably have seated half that number, with Auntie Alice sitting on my immediate right. Mother and Grandma had at last taken their seats after placing laden plates in front of everybody … but not quite … in the confusion surrounding that overloaded table one small person had been overlooked. Not daring to complain I quietly nudged Auntie Alice and pointed to the empty place-mat in font of me and the dear lady in her usual diplomatic fashion, instead of drawing attention to my mother's error, turned to me and asked, in a loud stage whisper, “Do you want me to pass the salt?” Mother glanced across, noticed her omission and quickly produced my plate. The story was repeated ad nauseam on subsequent family occasions to demonstrate how well I had been brought up: it was to become the legend of a little boy who asked for the salt, rather than cause a fuss.

Mother could never tolerate anything less than perfection. She worked hard for her family and any perceived shortcoming was taken as a serious personal criticism. The arrival of the gravy or custard at the table was often a dramatic event as Mother approached with a jug in one hand, a spoon in the other and a worried expression on her face, muttering “Oh dear, it's got lumps in it; that's never happened before.” Others present just sat in silence until one fateful Christmas Day they could hide their amusement no longer when she asked Uncle Hubert, her much loved elder brother, “Do you want some gravy?“ and he jokingly replied, “Just two lumps please, Sis.“ Others around the table muttered in chorus, “Lumps? That's never happened before!” Sadly, the joke was lost on Mother who retired, deeply offended, to bed with a headache.

Family Christmases were something to be remembered, if only for the wrong reasons. I'll pretend it is not going to happen this year, knowing that dear Auntie Alice, the salt of the earth, will not be there to comfort me. 

                             Copyright 1980, 2016, Arthur Loosley