大象传媒

At Granny鈥檚 house in Worthing, we are all sitting round the big old polished table, with its ornate carved central leg. Grandpa is serving the Christmas pudding. It's a big one, and we're all laughing and hoping we'll get the silver threepenny bit. It's Grandpa who gets it - how strange! It's wrapped up in greaseproof paper and we watch him unwrap it. Afterwards my mother tells me he cheated, but I really don't mind.

The best part of the day is when we go into the other room, where the piano is. Auntie Dolly plays and we all gather round and sing - maybe a few carols, but mostly old World War One songs and comic ones. `Abdul Abulbul Amir', `Lily of Laguna', `Tipperary' ... Grandpa has a good strong voice and enjoys belting out the songs. So do I! The singing may be terrible for all I know, but the togetherness is wonderful.

Another Christmas, during the bleakest part of World War Two. My father is full-time sergeant of a Home Guard company in West Worthing. They meet in a dusty old hall which I (just once) swept with a huge broom, feeling smugly helpful. My father has organised the Christmas Draw, and the first prize is a turkey! Poultry of every kind is very hard to get hold of, rationing prevents people from buying any extra or high-quality food, and my mother has not yet solved the problem of Christmas dinner.

There are paper-chains round the walls of the dusty hall. We join the group of Home Guards and some of their families on the night of the Draw. There's a nice, cheerful atmosphere as the ticket stubs are put in a big bag and shaken thoroughly. Next - who is going to draw out the numbers? To my horror, I find that I am. I am a bespectacled, plain, tongue-tied, shy `in-between'. I'm sure to make a mess of things. However, I dip my hand into the bag and start drawing the tickets. It's not so bad after all. I'm almost enjoying it.

Now for the last and best prize - the turkey! In goes my hand, out comes a ticket - my father's ticket! What have I done? Time seems to stop. I see doubt and disappointment on some faces, resigned smiles on others. My father is a great one for honourable behaviour and fair play, but he knows as well as I do that my mother will not forgive him if he puts that turkey back in the Draw. A look passes between them, perhaps a word or two. I am too torn between embarrassment and elation to pay much attention. When we leave, the turkey comes too. My father's career is not ruined, my mother is quietly delighted, and our Christmas dinner is delicious.

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