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Mam, what am I getting for Christmas?

To be one of those boys who was forever asking his mam if he could have some money to go to he Hipp was one thing. For a new cry, Mam, what’s Santa Claus bringing me?’ as Christmas drew near, was another. One was quickly and easily dealt with. Only a penny would get him into the pit (the dog-end) at the Hipp, where, if comforts were few, then he was warm and happy until the lights went up and The King was played. Even in the blackout, he could find his way home safely. The other was a different case, though. Should he start with his questioning in November, having heard from one of the big lads in the street that Christmas was not far away, then it was patience-testing for dear old mam. Here, she was powerless to respond until the big day, when presents at the side of his bed or downstairs on the clippy mat, finally and fully answered his question. The bother was that it could be 50 days ahead!
All those boys whom I joined in the reception class at the Infants’ School in 1936 lived in the shadow of the Second World War until National Service came to an end in the 1950s. We had only the briefest taste of war-free Christmases, 1935, 36, 37 and 38, but it was downhill fast in terms of yuletide pleasure from then on. Once Mr. Chamberlain had announced in September 1939, ‘That this country is therefore now at war with Germany,’ we were 14 when the next peacetime Christmas arrived in 1945, and had missed the boat. Now, there was no point shouting up the chimney or writing letters to Santa Claus in Lapland asking for Meccano sets, Hornby clockwork trains, a sledge, or so on, promising to be good boys by working hard at school and at home.
Even by the first 25th of December of the war, most of the lesser, but still significant, delights of Christmas Day, the nuts, sweets, raisins, chocolate, the fruit, the crackers, had disappeared from the shops almost as fast as the Pied Piper had emptied the streets of Hamelin of rats and children! There was no trace whatsoever of the quality of the toy that had thrilled me a year earlier. Then, mindful of the gathering war clouds, was the caterpillar-tracked tank that Santa Claus had left in the living room for me. Press a lever and sparks galore rained from the gun turret. It was clockwork driven, of course, no batteries needed, but to mislay the key could spoil the day!
No records, naturally, will exist to show just how many home-made forts and woollen dolls Santa Claus carried down chimneys across the country in the first war-torn Christmas. Indeed, it might be claimed that the post-war Do-It-Yourself boom had it’s roots there!
As for the forts, mind you, hard as the efforts of the eager, well-meaning woodworkers would be, even my juvenile eye detected work of an awfully amateurish nature. My dad had few woodworking skills, his putting together of the blackout shutters was proof of this, and he made no attempt to take up Christmas toy-making, thank goodness! For those who did, oversized battlements and drawbridges that would allow two London double-deck buses to pass through alongside each other, were often a feature. The criterion seemed to be that green paint, battlements and drawbridges equalled a fort. Fortunately water-filled moats were not included!
On the other hand, the knitting needles and sewing skills of many a mam and grandma produced top-quality, professional-looking dolls. Buttons had sometimes to be substituted for the proprietary glass eyes that were available in toyshops before the war. Patterns in the popular, weekly magazines of the day, the Illustrated and Picture Post, would be a major help to those attempting soft-toy making for the first time.
If forts and dolls were one thing, then preparing a dinner for Christmas Day was another. By 1940, food rationing was in force, permitting every adult per week 4oz of meat (this included bacon), 2oz of butter, 4oz of margarine, 4oz of cooking fat, 2oz of cheese, 2oz of tea, 8oz of sugar, one shell egg and 3 pints of milk. Dried egg and milk supplemented what seemed to have been meagre fare by present-day measures. This was no small problem for the busy housewife and the ‘What am I Getting for Christmas?’ call would hardly calm her nerves. If she had not jobs enough already, there was part of the clippy mat to be finished, the herringbone-patterned curtain for the bedroom needed running up and the back door urgently required a fresh coat of brown paint. But these were extras. There were all the routine jobs to be done to ensure that when Christmas Day dawned, war or not, everything was in place and the house sparklingly clean. And bother, one more special! Jack’s mam might stay overnight and would need somewhere to sleep.
True to expectations, though, she did a first-class job. Some turning-out of drawers unearthed forgotten items that helped her to fill the stockings — marbles, London lights, shining pennies, pencils and a badge that added to the candy mice, the liquorice pipe and apples that a shop assistant friend had supplied from under the counter! It wasn’t the biggest chicken in the world, but it was tasty and there was just enough for all to have a small second helping. Jack’s mam, going on about her rheumatics, was giving everyone the beginnings of a headache and sighs of relief sounded as she headed for her temporary bedroom at nine o’clock!

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