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• Casualties
Alice Thomas Ellis
T once heard a person remark with great Ifeeling, 'I hate babies.' He didn't really hate them at all, but I knew what he meant — all the paraphernalia, the damage to property and the bits of half-chewed bis- cuit. I feel much the same way about Christmas. I don't hate it but I don't like the feeling beforehand that I have forgot- ten to buy a present for someone who has momentarily slipped my mind and will undoubtedly be giving me a yacht; and afterwards I don't like standing, drunk, ankle-deep in nut shells, nibbled Charbon- nel et Walker chocs — which our daughter always insists on trying, only to realise afresh that she prefers Galaxy — and the skin and bones of fowl. Capons this year, because I never wish to set eyes on another turkey, although I still find it strange that one so seldom sees a living specimen, and I wouldn't mind that.
The capons were very good and fell off the bone by themselves because we kept having just one more glass before sitting down. They were mostly eaten too, so we weren't condemned to a week of chicken pie. Having been brought up in the war I tend to plan meals round one single left- over sprout, and have always considered wastefulness sinful. Discussing the matter once with a seminarian I was surprised to find that we were in disagreement. He said that nothing edible was ever discarded in the seminary, and I said I found that most commendable. As I spoke, a very bitter expression crossed his face, and he en- quired whether I had ever tried quiche soup. This did shed a new light on the subject and I have slightly revised my • opinions, although I still cannot bring myself to put bread in the dustbin, and give it to the birds if it has gone green, hoping that it will indeed be the birds who benefit and not the rats who live in the nearby market.
When we finally sat down the occasion was marred for me by the sight of one of the dining chairs slumped disconsolately in a corner like an early casualty. I am sometimes accused of making woundingly sexist remarks, but I do maintain that no woman would do to that chair what a man has done — i.e. plant her bottom on the seat, brace her feet against the floor, her back against the chair back and push — result, matchwood.
There were a few other casualties over the festive season. Our fifth son returning from his school skiing trip and sitting in the Tube heard a Christmas present break in his suitcase. Putting in his hand to verify this, he cut his finger. Happily it was probably disinfected by the rum, and any- way it bled so copiously that (I am told) the grooves in the floor of the compartment brimmed over. A fellow traveller — and may God bless him for being one of those people who do not stroll past as others are murdered in full daylight — gave him a dashing, maroon-patterned bandanna to staunch the flow, and as the boy stepped into the house we welcomed him briefly, turned him round and headed for the hospital. After three hours sitting in Casualty I wondered aloud whether stitch- es were really necessary and a Scottish gentleman on my left who was waiting for an injured friend volunteered his opinion. Yes, he said, it was a nasty wound and probably should be stitched, but on the Other hand (we laughed) a scar on the top of the finger could not be said to be hideously disfiguring; it would doubtless heal by itself and he did not think the feeling would be impaired — so we went home.
A few days afterwards this same son, finger indeed healing nicely, went to a Party only to ring later from Casualty. It was not serious, he said. His friend had had a bit of an accident and he would tell us all about it when he got home. It seems that this friend had drunk enough and had lain down on the floor for a rest, whereupon someone dancing had trodden on his throat and he had died. Fortunately our son had recently been dealing with this very even- tuality in biology and knew what to do. He applied mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and heart massage and arranged his friend in the recovery position until the ambulance arrived. The boy is now quite well except for a sore throat and a bruised chest resulting from the massage.
I don't know about the young. I don't know whether to faint at the things they do or rejoice that theyisometimes seem able to cope. On the whole I think I'm glad Christmas is over. I have reached the age Where I like Mondays when everyone goes about his business and we can restore the house to some sort of order, and soon I'm off to the country. Perhaps someone will give me a pheasant. Jeff gave me one but we've eaten it. I wonder why no one has tried to breed them to turkey size.
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