~ and memories from a long time ago
I can remember I had started school. My mum, sister and I lived with our Nana and Pop in Herne Bay. Dad was away at the war. Pop would sit in front of the valve radio and a little man inside the radio told us about the weather, the latest news – always including progress on the war.
Hissing and crackling the BBC was rebroadcast on our local radio and we listened in our ‘sitting room’ – I can still hear Churchill’s oratory. My Pop would grunt and tell ‘This is BBC London’ what Churchill should do.
Today was a happy day. At last my Dad was to come home from the war. Nana was skipping and chirping about the house. My Mum was doing mother stuff – “Don’t you get your clean shirt . . .” – Pop had an all-day grin.
Today was a Happy Day.
“It’s here!”
An army lorry had pulled up at the bottom of the drive. Soldiers, now mates-for-life shouted farewells. Today was a happy day and Nana and my Mum were crying.
A strange man, a man I vaguely remembered from along time ago jumped off the lorry, caught his kit bag thrown over the side and walked up the drive. Hugs, chatter, more hugs –
Pop – “What are you doing outside you silly buggers? Cup of tea Jim?”
My Dad was christened Lewin Richard Hart, pronounced Jim. Don’t ask, it’s a family thing.
Memories of our first family Christmas Eve all together. Dad had that artistic flourish. A Christmas tree, decorations, lights, and of course checking Pop’s ‘chimbley’ for Santa to clamber down.
We now had the most vivid images of Santa and his sleigh.
Good childen got presents. On a recent visit to a ‘department store Santa’ I reassured the Old Guy with the beard I had been the ‘Goodest boy in the street.’ It is important to stress these things. Grown-ups can get it so wrong.
Christmas decorations done. It was past bed time. Nup, not going to bed. Gonna stay up all night . . . until
My Dad must have had very good hearing. “Listen”, Santa’s sleigh had landed on a nearby roof, “and children who are not in bed . . .”
Zoom! Clean teeth, pyjamas, squeeze eyes shut.
And eventually sleep.
Next morning – our poor parents. And grandparents. No doubt they were up late enjoying a Christmas Eve chat. Maybe even a tot o’ whatever – although I don’t remember alcohol being a part of our lives. Hellishly early next morning, before wake-oclock, excited children, out of bed bubbling, chattering, tumble into the room with the open fireplace and there it all was. Sooty footprints, presents! wrapping paper, shrieks, Santa’s drink scoffed.
Dressing gowns, brave smiles, our mother and father witnessing our first ever together family Christmas.
Damn the war.
Damn that I was denied my father for so long, in those important years.
Today, Anzac Day, and as I have been for the past few years, close to tears.
David in Pen and Pics 