大象传媒

This story was submitted to the People鈥檚 War site by a volunteer from Radio Northampton Action Desk on behalf of Doreen M. Holmes and has been added to the site with her permission. Doreen M. Holmes fully understands the site鈥檚 terms and conditions.

It was 1942, the American Airforce had arrived and taken over a number of airfields nearby the small Market Town of Rothwell in Northamptonshire where I lived with my mother and father, two brothers and a sister. I didn鈥檛 know it at the time, but have learned since that one of these at Grafton Underwood situated very near to us was where the wartime spies flew from to be dropped into enemy territory - all very hush-hush in those days, naturally. Their stay here is remembered by a memorial window depicting American planes in the local church.

Many of these airmen used to walk or cycle into Rothwell and come to the forces canteen situated above the local co-operative store where my mother, along with a number of local ladies used to take turns to man this a couple of evenings a week. She arrived home late on Christmas Eve and quietly lifted my sister from her bed in the little box room and laid her gently into the one which she and my father shared because Grace鈥檚 was to be given over to a young airman whom mum had found sad and lonely, missing his family who were so far away on this special night.

Bedrooms in these days were cold places - no central heating - so one quickly hurried down to the living room away from the icy windows and the floors which froze your feet as you stepped out of bed, to where mum or dad had already got a blazing fire burning brightly.

So on Christmas morning we hurried downstairs - it is interesting to remember that the family pecking order was somewhat altered on this day; I being the youngest went down first, the rest following in order of age - Richard, Grace then Ronald. My sister and I had some dolls which had been given to us some years earlier, which were in need of a make-over (we didn鈥檛 use that word in those days - it had not been heard of) as new ones were not available because of the war, so Father Christmas had been asked to do this for us. Thanks to an Aunty in Canada (and some brave sailors no doubt), silk material and dollies鈥� wigs had made it safely across the sea, and mum, busy lady though she was, had spent many hours sewing and there were our newly adorned dolls - Grace鈥檚 in blue, mine in pink, complete with silk dresses, bonnets and underwear.

Many years later, the same dolls were given to the children in Strawberry Field鈥檚 children鈥檚 home in Liverpool. Yes the very one that the Beatles made famous by their song 鈥淪trawberry Fields For Ever鈥�. Apparently when they were young, they used to climb over the wall and play with the children there. This home is shortly to be closed as I write, because the modern ethos is for children to be fostered into loving homes.

Back to Christmas morning. Like all little girls, I picked up my dolly to cuddle her. O no! the disappointment and tears. Father Christmas had fixed her, but back to front. These were dolls with shoulders and heads fixed tightly onto the body - no doubt worth a lot of money in antique fairs these days, and I often wonder where they ended up - and her head faced one way, her arms and feet the other.

Now, our visitor whose name was George Williams; I remember it because coincidentally, my father鈥檚 Christian names were George William, smilingly told me not to worry as he would fix it, and he did! How was I to know he was the Father Christmas who had done it wrong in the first place?! Those days of childhood innocence have, it seems, gone for ever. What a pity children grow up so quickly!

I鈥檝e often wondered what happened to this young man. I hope he made it through the war. He鈥檒l be an old man now if he did. He stayed with us for Christmas lunch and then had to return to his duty at the airfield. Perhaps, who knows, he or his family may read this story one day and remember that Christmas Day in Rothwell.

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