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CHRISTMAS IN WARTIME
By
Joyce Gibson

On reflection the phrase ‘Christmas in Wartime’ recalls scenes of deprivation, innovation, frustration and confrontation. I’ll explain.

We were deprived. There’s no doubt about that. Still reeling from the effects of the 30s depression, we were ill-shod, ill-clad, ill-furnished and undernourished and at no time was this more evident than at Christmas. But Christmas is Christmas and tradition had to be adhered to, my hide-bound father was adamant about that.

The lead up to Christmas was exciting, probably much more exciting than it is for today’s children, who have and do so much. The ‘co-op’ party sticks vividly in my mind as something very special. It happened every year for the children and grandchildren of members who received the ‘divi’. Every penny counted and my grandmother was a staunch supporter. Mind you, you might have got a few pence back but looking back I feel there was a certain amount of quality lacking. In those days however I had no such thoughts and looked forward to the jam buns and games, such as ‘musical chairs’ and ‘pass the parcel’ all year long. I think there may even have been a small gift, but I don’t remember anything notable. I think small was the operative word. Nevertheless it was a brave effort to give us children as normal a life as possible.

Talking of presents, everyone had of course to receive something on the day, we children several things. Luckily my mother was nothing if not innovative — the complete antithesis to her husband. Preparations began weeks before Christmas, as they do nowadays l suppose, but instead of a big spending spree, it was a case of ‘make do and mend.’ One year my mother collected as many newspapers she could lay her hands on, tore them into tiny pieces and put them to soak in a large bucket of flour and water paste. The pulpy mixture was plastered on to the cardboard model of a fort and painted with iron grey house paint. After John had fallen asleep, I often crept downstairs ‘to help’. My mother, Lou, must have been at it long after I had returned to bed as I in my turn, received a truly hideous doll, not one of her best efforts I may add. I don’t want to seem ungrateful and I quite understand the difficulties but this nurse-puppet was ugly! Her devilish looks came from the fact that her plaster-of-Paris head topped the torso of a baby doll whose china one had long ago been smashed. Lou’s attempt to paint a face on to plaster had sadly gone awry, the gaudy paint running spectacularly on the damp surface. However I didn’t have to gaze on her strange features for very long, as after breakfast she accidentally fell to the floor, the head shattering into a thousand pieces! Poor Lou!

My own efforts at present making were no less diligent. All adult male relatives and friends received a decorated tin container filled with wooden spills for lighting pipes and cigarettes. I spent hours dipping old tin cans into tubs of water on top of which floated a skin of oil paint in a fine selection of colours. The results resembled today’s modem art. Females received purses made of scraps of leather punched and thonged, representing hours of agonising toil. Craft classes organised by my wealthy aunt and her friend have made an indelible impression on me. I have never since graced one with my presence and doubt I ever will. The same aunt was prone to gather supplies on the black market. My brother stored many a packet of sugar cubes, her habitual Christmas present, in an old jam jar. He couldn’t bring himself to eat them, there would be none left!

My mother usually managed to gather together an assortment of Christmas fare. Not for us any black market goods, immoral and too expensive. We did however sometimes receive American food parcels. Our Christmas cake was made from American dried eggs and fruit and covered with soya flour, serving as a mock almond paste and white icing made with guess what, dried milk powder. It tasted absolutely revolting but looked nice. I remember one particular gem made by my innovative mother in the form of a house. lt was square and set on a large green painted board. All around it in the garden were little eskimos sliding on a pond-like mirror, trees and father Christmases. I don’t know how she did it. It was a true work of art.

We usually had a turkey too — a real one. My patriotic but irascible father, Jack, although too old to be conscripted, had volunteered to join the Royal Marines. In charge of supplies at Scapa Flow in the Orkneys, he was usually given Christmas leave and returned home complete with a dozen eggs and a turkey. However the arrival of this comparative stranger often caused a few problems. He had very set ideas and Lou, not naturally domesticated, was obliged to unearth all the mothballed vegetable dishes and fancy cutlery not normally in use. She would invariably sit down at the festive table thoroughly exhausted and rather demoralised. You can imagine the scene one December 25th when after all this effort he asked, ‘Where on earth did all these goodies come from?’ ‘Oh a food parcel arrived yesterday from Cuba from Auntie Grace’ ‘And have you written to thank her? No amount of reasoning would placate him. His distant, aristocratic and respected sister had not been thanked, we had foolishly admitted it and all hell was let loose. The bombs and shells which frequently dropped around our house seemed preferable to the domestic upset which ensued that Christmas.

With the wisdom of a ten year old, the following year I attempted to avoid such incidents. I resolved to make some Christmas crackers to divert attention. I laboriously typed mottoes and conundrums, found in a cheap book from Woolworth’s, and had great fun collecting small gifts to put inside them. There were unfortunately no bangs. My ingenuity and chemical knowledge didn’t stretch that far.

After our often tempestuous lunch-cum-dinner, usually quite late in the afternoon, we would repair to the dimly lit and scarcely heated sitting room Army blankets doubling up as both blackout and insulation, covered the windows, decorated by patch-work roses to take off the stark grey blankety look, and the door was hung with a large red velvet curtain to keep out the draughts. Cards from special people, usually those displaying coats of arms which pleased my father’s ego, were arranged on the mantelpiece. Most of the others spread around the room, were home-made, often from black and white advertising illustrations cut from the Radio Times and tinted with watercolour from the paint box. What must have been one of the first plastic Christmas trees, and a very bad one too, stood in the corner, given to my Mother by a colleague at work ‘to cheer up the children you know.’

I must have been a very precocious child as I remember on a couple of occasions insisting that the Christmas spirit should be invoked with a carol singing session. A neighbouring lone mother and her three children were invited in to sing with us. The embarrassment on the faces of all the adults present and the excruciating sound we made, have long stuck in my memory.

In spite of the frequent trials and tribulations, I think of Christmas in those days so long ago with great affection. We had fun making do, luckily we survived and I have never again delayed writing my thank you letters.

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