a1her's Christmas
By KATE O'BRIEN
BREAKFAST on Christmas morning was a very fine feast in the house when I was a child—and very interesting too. But it had to be worked for; the build-up was so ritualistic and exacting as almost to kill the climax.
My father was a mercurial man, but in my recollection his spirits were usually high and energetic in the week preceding Christ- mas and on the feast itself. That meant that from the addressing of his first Christmas card—an event which usually coincided with his bringing home all the Christmas numbers—but all; a few would not by any means have suited him—the Push was on for everyone.
Father was a demon about Christmas cards, most formal and fussy about their appearance, the manner in which they were inscribed and addressed, and the day and hour of their dispatch. Before him one had never heard of the 'Post Early' fuss, and I fear he may have been one of the inven- tors of the hideous slogan. Certainly he promoted it. But we, his children, most of us just released from school for the holi- days, were in no mood for pen and ink or for his amateur time-tabling, so there was much din and argument about the sending- off of loving and hilarious wishes. (There was close and critical examination, too, of every card that came to the house. 'I'd have thought that my, old friend, W— H—, would have chosen a more suitable type of card....)
Through a crescendo of fuss and mystery- shopping—and the mystery now is where we children came by all the money that we seemed to be able to spend in that week —we reached Christmas Eve, a day on which we seemed to be under field orders, on the very brink of battle.
During that morning there was no getting out of the holly and the ivy, a communal chore which was fun enough but went on rather long, and sometimes led to differ- ences of aesthetic opinion. Also, during the earlier part of the day everyone was ex- pected to have reported at the Jesuit Church or elsewhere, for Confession. The after- noon was given up to town life—a wild career in and out of shops, in pursuit of the forgotten or the unfindable present, in pur- suit of folly, off the leash, up and down the transformed old gaslit streets. In the evening those of us who were still expect- ing, or pretending to expect Santa Claus were bribed and cheated to bed as early as possible, while the rest went into the last great labour of the day, decorating the dining room and smuggling down and arranging the packed-up presents in their proper places. Great fun, which often grew wildly exciting and out of hand—but had all to be concluded, teeth brushed, prayers said and lights out, before midnight.
1 suppose we slept soundly. But as long as I live I shall wince in memory from our Christmas reveille. We had to be at Mass in St. John's Cathedral, not half a mile from our house, at eight a.m., and to ensure this our lively 'Post Early' father had us all wide awake (and raging with temper) at six. His method of waking you when he was feeling gay was an assault. On each bedroom door in the house he played with his bare knuckles the longest, most accurate and fortissimo tattoo that it was possible to imagine, let alone listen to. The mere conception of the knuckles performing their feat was enough to make one writhe —and you heard the assault advancing from the very first door, and after you yourself had had it. There was nothing to do but wait for it.
Well, we got to Mass in time—driven there and back, so you'd say we were not all that martyred. But there was a good deal of singing at Mass, and every year there was the same tired little sermon from poor weary Father So-and-so, and when we came out of church there were all father's seasonal exchange of courtesies.
Oh—we got home barely alive, unable to articulate 'Merry Christmas.' The dining room was a glory, with fire and flowers and fruit, and the great baron of spiced beef, and the great cake on the side- board. And lovely parcels piled by every plate.
But all you wanted if you were me, or my sister, was silence and strong tea, and rashers and kidneys and toast. Just break- fast you wanted—not Christmas at all, you thought.
After Li minute of these blessed common- places you were all right. . . Oh! oh, how ever did you know I wanted a mani- cure set? . . . Oh, yes, thanks, Father, I'd Jove some spiced beef ! Look, Gerry, have a crystallised fruit. . . !'
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