大象传媒

This story is by Nancy Blaikie, and has been added to the site with their permission. The author fully understands the site's terms and conditions. The story was collected by Joyce Gibson, transcribed by Elizabeth Lamont and added to the site by Bruce Logan.
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There is only one wartime Christmas memory which has remained etched clearly in my mind. As a child it was the familiarity of Christmas which was important. It was always in our house, the same people were always there, dinner was always over before the King鈥檚 speech and no presents were exchanged until then. What we looked forward to most was waking up on Christmas morning to our stockings hanging from the mantelpiece bulging with promise.

One Christmas, I think it was 1942, my Father had convinced me that it was pointless to hang up a stocking. It had been a bad year. My father鈥檚 business had received a direct hit on Easter Monday and I think business had been pretty grim. For the first time in my life I did not hang up a stocking on Christmas Eve. I woke up on Christmas morning, the usual anticipation was missing, I turned over and in the dim early morning light I could see something hanging from the mantelpiece: it was one of my school socks dangling lumpily and held in place by several books. In that instant my Father had restored to me the magic of Christmas.

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