the sleigh landed and I heard the tinkle of sleigh bells as the reindeer tossed their impatient heads. And nothing since has quite matched the joy of hearing his boots clomping across the tiles to the chimney. I didn’t expect to
see
him, or even
want
to see him, but hearing him was the most magical thing. Thinking about it now, I suppose if I’d heard Jesus – as opposed to Father Xmas – arrive on or near my house, I’d have been quite excited too, but it wasn’t Jesus, it was Father Xmas and personal encounters are powerful things, as my sister knew from locking eyes with a policeman in a traffic jam and overly admiring the police for some while after.
The next morning (Xmas morning 1968) – sitting in our parents’ four-poster – I spoke about hearing the sleigh.
‘I heard Father Xmas land on the roof last night,’ I said, mainly to our mother.
‘You don’t look very happy about it,’ she said.
‘I’m just worried it’s the best thing that’ll ever happen to me,’ I said, ‘and now it’s happened.’
‘It won’t be the best thing, I promise,’ she said.
‘But what could be better?’ I asked.
And our biological father came in and plonked a red andwhite box on the bed. And before we could begin unwrapping it, a puppy popped its head out (it was Debbie) and I suppose that should have been better and it was, in a way, but also it wasn’t.
That year, our first Xmas in the village, there was a bit of controversy about who should be Father Xmas at the Xmas Fayre. For the previous two years it had been Mr Longlady, the beekeeping accountant, him having stepped in for Mr Lomax, the Liberal candidate, who’d been incapacitated with an ailment that meant he couldn’t sit on a church hall chair for sufficiently long to enact the role. But now, this year, Mr Lomax was ready to resume the position and had agreed a comeback with the vicar and negotiated a better chair.
My family didn’t feel like attending the village Xmas Fayre and queuing for an orange from the Liberal candidate, partly because he’d seen an excerpt of our mother’s play and partly because we had vivid memories of the glorious grotto at Fenwick’s of Leicester from our time of being town-dwellers. Fenwick’s being marvellous at Xmas. Mainly because of the amazing window displays and evocative Xmas music floating around. Also, the opportunity to try out eau de cologne and see the neatly folded woollen scarves on the way through to Santa. And then it actually being the real thing – as opposed to the Liberal candidate with a sore throat in a beard.
So, after a family conflab, we decided to go to Fenwick’s instead, even though that would mean a thirty-mile round trip, a long wait in the queue and various spontaneous things our mother might suddenly do. What we hadn’t bargained for was that our mother would drive into the street where we used to live and park just across from the arched gates of our old house. But she did. And we saw the Xmas tree in the obvious positionin the glorious bay window, twinkling. And Mrs Vanderbus’s tree in a similarly pretty window twinkling back at it.
She switched off the ignition and, realizing we’d be there a while, I let myself look up to the roof where Father Xmas must have parked his sleigh, just above my room – my ex-room – some years before. And stupidly I tried to relive it. I’d made a rule when it first happened not to relive it too often so as not to wear out the feeling, but, looking up from the car window that evening, I found I had just about worn it out.
‘Do you remember living here?’ our mother asked us, staring ahead and exhaling smoke through her nostrils. I had my first experience of wanting to be sarcastic, but said instead, ‘Yes, do you?’ and she took that to be sarcastic anyway and gave me a look.
‘Do let’s call on Mrs Vanderbus,’ my sister said.
‘And the Millwards,’ I added.
But our mother couldn’t face it. She wasn’t happy enough –
see
him, or even
want
to see him, but hearing him was the most magical thing. Thinking about it now, I suppose if I’d heard Jesus – as opposed to Father Xmas – arrive on or near my house, I’d have been quite excited too, but it wasn’t Jesus, it was Father Xmas and personal encounters are powerful things, as my sister knew from locking eyes with a policeman in a traffic jam and overly admiring the police for some while after.
The next morning (Xmas morning 1968) – sitting in our parents’ four-poster – I spoke about hearing the sleigh.
‘I heard Father Xmas land on the roof last night,’ I said, mainly to our mother.
‘You don’t look very happy about it,’ she said.
‘I’m just worried it’s the best thing that’ll ever happen to me,’ I said, ‘and now it’s happened.’
‘It won’t be the best thing, I promise,’ she said.
‘But what could be better?’ I asked.
And our biological father came in and plonked a red andwhite box on the bed. And before we could begin unwrapping it, a puppy popped its head out (it was Debbie) and I suppose that should have been better and it was, in a way, but also it wasn’t.
That year, our first Xmas in the village, there was a bit of controversy about who should be Father Xmas at the Xmas Fayre. For the previous two years it had been Mr Longlady, the beekeeping accountant, him having stepped in for Mr Lomax, the Liberal candidate, who’d been incapacitated with an ailment that meant he couldn’t sit on a church hall chair for sufficiently long to enact the role. But now, this year, Mr Lomax was ready to resume the position and had agreed a comeback with the vicar and negotiated a better chair.
My family didn’t feel like attending the village Xmas Fayre and queuing for an orange from the Liberal candidate, partly because he’d seen an excerpt of our mother’s play and partly because we had vivid memories of the glorious grotto at Fenwick’s of Leicester from our time of being town-dwellers. Fenwick’s being marvellous at Xmas. Mainly because of the amazing window displays and evocative Xmas music floating around. Also, the opportunity to try out eau de cologne and see the neatly folded woollen scarves on the way through to Santa. And then it actually being the real thing – as opposed to the Liberal candidate with a sore throat in a beard.
So, after a family conflab, we decided to go to Fenwick’s instead, even though that would mean a thirty-mile round trip, a long wait in the queue and various spontaneous things our mother might suddenly do. What we hadn’t bargained for was that our mother would drive into the street where we used to live and park just across from the arched gates of our old house. But she did. And we saw the Xmas tree in the obvious positionin the glorious bay window, twinkling. And Mrs Vanderbus’s tree in a similarly pretty window twinkling back at it.
She switched off the ignition and, realizing we’d be there a while, I let myself look up to the roof where Father Xmas must have parked his sleigh, just above my room – my ex-room – some years before. And stupidly I tried to relive it. I’d made a rule when it first happened not to relive it too often so as not to wear out the feeling, but, looking up from the car window that evening, I found I had just about worn it out.
‘Do you remember living here?’ our mother asked us, staring ahead and exhaling smoke through her nostrils. I had my first experience of wanting to be sarcastic, but said instead, ‘Yes, do you?’ and she took that to be sarcastic anyway and gave me a look.
‘Do let’s call on Mrs Vanderbus,’ my sister said.
‘And the Millwards,’ I added.
But our mother couldn’t face it. She wasn’t happy enough –
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