Forget-me-nots: Uncle Alf ’s Christmas Party
The preparations for our wartime Christmas party began with the weekly hoarding of food coupons in anticipation of the big event. In 1942, for example, an adult entitlement was: sugar 8oz, fats 8oz (half of which had to be margarine), 1lb jam or marmalade per month, and approximately 30 eggs a year (supplemented with dried eggs). Thus the ingredients for our Christmas party were only gathered by going on short rations during the lead-up to the big event.
Traditionally the party was held at my Uncle Alf’s snug little council house. In attendance would be me and my baby sister, our parents, two uncles, two aunts, two cousins, Grandma and “Pop” my grandfather. It was quite a number to fit into the combination lounge/dining room.
On arrival at the little house after a frosty and sometimes snow-crunching walk, we would be welcomed by Uncle Alf, our host. My sister would be unwrapped from her cocoon of clothing, and I would receive a bear hug, followed immediately by a piping hot mince pie. Our parents would have a special treat — a glass each of Stone’s Green Ginger Wine.
I vividly recall, on one particular occasion, that I begged for a taste of the wine — and then proceeded to gulp it down too quickly. The fiery liquid caused me to gasp and splutter, and make a beeline for the cold-water tap. After that experience I stayed with either Tizer or Vimto.
The house was well warmed with an open fire, banked with carefully hoarded coal. (Real coal lumps, backed with “nutty slack”!) Vivid-coloured streamers criss-crossed the room, from corner to corner of the ceiling. Each streamer was festooned with glittering tinsel, which reflected the firelight’s cheerful glow.
One corner of the room held a wireless (which ran on carbide filled glass batteries) and its top was covered with Christmas cards. The opposite corner held the Christmas tree, laden with exquisitely fragile glass ornaments and surrounded by gifts. These were generally simple, but very much appreciated. We children might receive an apple, an orange, a book, and perhaps a jigsaw or small board game. On one occasion I opened a parcel and revealed a homemade siren suit. I was thrilled because it had long trouser legs, and considered that, at eight years of age, they made me appear to be really grown up.
The air was filled with the heady aroma from the tree coupled with the delicious odour of roasting chicken from my aunt’s kitchen. A highly polished table held pride of place in the room, and we all eagerly helped to lay the places in preparation for the long-awaited treat.
Once seated, the first thing we did was to pull our Christmas crackers and don our paper hats. Then followed the reading of the immortal riddles: “When is a door not a door?” and “What goes up when rain comes down?” My aunt would then enter with the chicken: succulent, glistening with its own juice, oozing with sage and onion stuffing, and surrounded by a posse of Uncle Alf’s home-grown, golden brown roast potatoes.
Uncle Alf’s carving was a performance for which he could have sold tickets. Firstly though, he would tease us children by pretending that the bird was not ready to carve.
“Are you sure it’s cooked right through?” he would ask my aunt, in mock suspicion. Aunt would reply (playing the game): “Well, if you think it needs a little more cooking…”
Pop would agree with Uncle Alf, Gran would argue that it was ready to eat, and we youngsters, our mouths watering, would implore Uncle to carve. He would then brandish a huge carving knife and set to carving the bird. The slices were as meticulously equal as possible.
After we had voraciously consumed the chicken, the potatoes and vegetables, and mopped up the giblet gravy, a little more teasing was in order from Uncle Alf.
“Well, I don’t know about anyone else, but I’m so full I couldn’t eat another mouthful! I certainly don’t think we need any pudding, do we?”
This would be the cue for the youngsters to chorus “Oh, yes we do!”, and for the adults to respond “Oh, no we don’t!” in time-honoured pantomime tradition.
We all inhaled the rich, fruity odour of the homemade Christmas pudding, and watched intently as Uncle Alf poured a little brandy onto it. Indian Brandy, that is, which still flared as satisfyingly as the real thing!
We also had brandy sauce, made with the same ersatz brandy. We savoured each delicious mouthful and chewed carefully: small silver threepenny pieces tended to be hard on juvenile teeth!
After the meal we all helped to clear away the debris. Then, at the touch of a button, the table was transformed into a
settee: a most practical idea. We children were all ready to play party games, but we had to curb our impatience. It was time for the King’s Christmas message. I don’t recall the content of those speeches, but I do recall standing to attention at their conclusion.
Then, at last, it was time for the party games! Naturally we played all the familiar favourites such as postman’s knock and musical chairs. But our bestloved game was poor pussy, with Uncle Alf playing the leading role.
We all sat down, and he would kneel on a cushion, in front of each of us, in turn. He mewed and wailed, and the person he knelt by had to stroke him and murmur “poor pussy” without either smiling or laughing. That sounds simple enough, except that he would pull the most outrageous faces, and if that did not elicit a smile he would honk, bark or grunt, totally unlike any feline imaginable. Inevitably, a mouth would twitch and a giggle would escape, thus earning a forfeit.
The forfeits were great fun; one in particular was simple but most effective. The “forfeiter” was blindfolded whilst two adults formed a “chair” with their folded arms. They would then lift the victim, until his or her head touched the ceiling — and order them to jump. What the victims did not realise was that the “ceiling” was a book held a foot above the head. We youngsters held on fearfully before we finally plucked up courage to jump. On removal of the blindfold, our relief was matched only by our embarrassment on discovering that our brave leap had only been from the height of a couple of feet!
At one particular party, Uncle Alf noticed that I had a few threepenny pieces (the octagonal type) and challenged me to try to stand each one on its edge — promising me a penny for each one that I succeeded with. This, I thought, was easy money, and took the bet even to the point of borrowing some threepenny bits from the adults. Triumphantly I set 12 of the coins on their edges.
“There!” I crowed, “That’s a shilling you owe me!”
Uncle Alf shook his head in mock admiration. “Well, you’ve done it. Here you are.”
He gave me the shilling and pocketed all the threepenny bits.
“I said I’d give you a penny for every threepenny bit, didn’t I? Not a bad deal, that!”
Thank goodness it was only a joke. I was devastated!
On another occasion, Pop had managed to obtain some stoneless Tunisian dates for us. We were all enjoying them until he asked us how we thought the stones were removed from them. Most of us thought. By machines? Pop shook his head. “No, they are all packed by hand, in the desert. I saw them when I was in the army during the last war. The native lasses stamp on them, just like the French stamp on their grapes to make wine!”
I listened in horror! All those calloused feet, stomping the dates! For a long time afterwards I was “off” dates, until I realised I’d had my leg pulled!
The conclusion of the party was the singing of Christmas carols aroud the old-fashioned piano, complete with its candle-holders. One of my aunts would play “Jingle Bells”, “Away in a Manger”, “The First Noel” and all the traditional carols. Uncle Alf would lower his voice dramatically and attempt to emulate Paul Robeson’s deep baritone, sharply contrasted by the piping voices of the youngsters.
I can still see it all: the gas mantle lit room, the gleaming piano and the glowing faces of adults and children. I can hear echoes of the carols, Uncle Alf’s outrageous rendering of “poor pussy”, and recall the combined odours of the Christmas tree and the food. Such memories! Such Christmases! Will we ever see the likes of them again?