“We were all encouraged to send notes up the chimney for Santa, I was told to put what I really wanted on the note. One year, when I was nine or ten, I asked Santa for a bicycle. Tony, Georgina and June all had bicycles and Patricia was still too young for one at the age of four. As we came downstairs that Christmas morning, I peeked out the kitchen door and saw two large, bicycle-shaped presents all wrapped up in Christmas paper. One was bigger than the other. My heart leapt in excitement. I knew Tony had asked for a new bike, so the bigger one must be for him while the smaller one was for me. I thought of all the things I would do on my bike: cycling round to Claire’s house, whizzing downhill with the wind in my hair. At last I was being given what I had asked for, the first time this had happened.! Mum must care about me after all.
After breakfast, we went into the best room. I was so excited. We emptied our stockings first, then Mum started bringing in the bigger presents. First of all she brought in the larger bicycle-shaped present and gave it to Tony. He leapt for joy and couldn’t get the wrapping paper off fast enough. I was so happy for him, not only because I loved my brother, but also because I was anticipating my own joy in the following few minutes. Then it happened.
Mum spoke to my little sister: ‘Watch the doorway, Patricia We have a very special present for you.’
My little sister stood up and watched as Dad brought in the second bicycle-shaped present. My heart lurched as he placed it next to her. It was a bike, a too-big-for-her bike. My bike.
I felt heavy, devastated, heart-broken. I looked at Mum and realised she was watching me with a strange smile on her face, enjoying my disappointment. I looked away again quickly, trying to pretend I hadn’t seen, but that look stayed in my mind.
She had won again.
She really didn’t love me.
Nana B, Dad’s mum, reached out and gave me a quick hug, perhaps sensing my disappointment even though I tried not to let it show. My nans were lovely people but neither of them dared stand up to Mum, and that meant that they didn’t dare be too openly affectionate to me in front of her.
There was another Christmas when Mum lifted my hopes only to dash them again. I had asked for a life-size baby doll that I’d seen for sale in town. I only had one doll, Suzie, but I loved her and spent a lot of time bathing, dressing and pretending to feed her. Then I fell in love with the life-size doll, a boy doll, as soon as I saw it.
One of my jobs around the house was to make Mum’s bed, and the week before Christmas, as I moved her bedside table to tuck in the sheet, I spotted a box. A baby-doll-sized box. Of course I knew I shouldn’t look. But I did. I was only a little girl doing grown-up chores, and I couldn’t resist. As I lifted the lid, I could see the glowing china face and painted hair. Post-war, dolls had painted-on hair, not hair you could touch and comb like today’s dolls. He was beautiful. I wanted to lift him out of the box and hold him in my arms. I wanted to make his eyes open to see if they were blue. I wanted them to be blue. Not that that would have mattered – they could have been any colour and I’d have loved him.
I was beside myself with excitement as Christmas approached. None of the others liked dolls. My sisters were far too old and Patricia was a tomboy, more interested in outdoor games. The doll had to be for me. It couldn’t be for anyone else.
Christmas morning finally came and we were all summoned to the ‘best room’. Mum brought in a large parcel for my brother first and he opened it to find a metal racing car painted in bright colours. He was thrilled with it and I was happy for him. Then in came my dad, carrying the box. Although it was wrapped in Christmas wrapping, I knew it held the china doll. I half-stood up, ready for him to hand it to me, and then I heard Mum’s words and I froze.
‘This is your main present,’ she said to my little sister. ‘Come and see what we’ve bought you. You’ll love it.’
She glanced over at me, looking for my reaction, her eyes narrowed, as the box was placed on the floor in front of the child who didn’t like dolls. The child who hadn’t asked for a doll.
My little sister opened the parcel and said a polite thank you. I held my breath. Perhaps they had another baby doll. Perhaps they would bring mine in next. Perhaps … perhaps I’d got it wrong again. Perhaps I wasn’t to get one. Perhaps I was right the first time. After all the other presents had been handed out, and my sister had tossed the baby doll aside, my dad came in holding another package.
‘This is for you, Carol,’ he said. ‘I made it specially.’
I didn’t dare look at Mum in case she spoiled the moment. I ran over to him and took the parcel in my arms.
‘How dare you have a present for her! ’ Mum screamed. ‘How dare you do this in secret, without my permission? I never said you could, did I?’
For the first time in my life, I ignored Mum’s angry words. I took the gift Dad was handing me and unwrapped it to find a beautiful, hand-made pink cot. A doll’s cot. A cot for Suzie. I’d asked for a cradle the Christmas before and hadn’t got it. Dad must have remembered and decided to make me one out in his shed. I thought he’d been spending a lot of time out there, and on a couple of occasions when I’d gone out to visit him I’d been disappointed that he didn’t let me in. This must be why! He’d been making me a cot. I loved it. I loved him. I stood up and thanked him, with tears in my eyes.
But before I could fetch Suzie to show her the new bed, Mum, who was outraged, lifted this beautiful cot, the cot my Dad had spent evening after evening making. “She lifted it high in the air without a thought for anyone, without even looking at it properly, and she threw it against the wall. It shattered into lots of pink splintery pieces. What was left in her hand, she hurled at me.
‘Did you really think I would let you have a present that had been made in deceit? Did you really expect me to let you have a present that you hadn’t asked for or deserved?’ Her voice was full of hate. ‘It’s shoddy, and made of painted tomato boxes. It’s shabby and cheap. And although you don’t deserve anything better, you won’t have it, I’ll make sure of that!’
I stood rooted to the spot, looking at her, then looking at Dad, and feeling numb. Did she really just do that? Was I seeing things? Did what I thought just happened, happen? Yes, it did, she had.
I must have done something very bad to deserve this mother. What had I ever done to her? Why did she hate me so much?
I would have loved that cot. The cot that my dad had worked on for weeks. The cot he made to make things better for me. But now there was no cot. Now there were broken bits of pink painted wood all over the best room floor.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The room was silent. All you could hear were my tiny shivery sobs. “
There is a great deal said today about poverty and homeless children and rightly so. But we must also be aware that there are many children whose Christmas’s are not as they should be. Children in families where they are not loved or wanted. Sounds horrid? Yes but sadly true. Don’t be fooled by adults showing generosity to others, festive spirit abounding and lavish decorations and lights. Most of these people are genuine and kind but always remember, some are not.
In previous blogs I have written about how much Christmas means to me how giving is so important. I have spoken of how, as a child,watching my siblings open their gifts always brought me joy, even though I was not receiving the same kindness. As an adult I can maybe ‘excuse’ this but when I think back to the child who was me, I can’t. But those times, taught me so much. As I grew up I made sure that I gave whatever I could give to others, Christmas especially. I made it the happiest of times for my daughters, Lisa and Marie and my family and friends. I always had my girls write a note to Santa but unlike my ‘mother’, I tried to buy everything they wanted. I see now how unimportant that was. How buying them all the things on their list was less than right. Over the years, the piles of Christmas gifts under my tree was obscene. So many parcels, each done up with pretty ribbons, glittery string and festive labels. Far far too many. Over the past 6 years, the tree has only had family gifts, for those ‘here on the farm’, but still far too many. Maybe I was trying to make sure no one I loved felt like the child above.This year, as always, I have sent the presents to those I cannot get down to see and have made a solid effort to restrict my giving, to a few meaningful, personal presents for those I love, those here with me. I have sent donations where I can, given my grandchildren’s gifts to the Salvation Army and the gifts around the tree will be fewer but full of the real spirit of Christmas. I will as always, something learned as a child, enjoy watching the faces of those I love as they open each thoughtful gift on the big day. There won’t be squeals of delight as there were when my children were small but I know everything will be enjoyed and appreciated and that will do my heart good. Giving is always better than receiving.
I have finally realised that ‘things’ are not important. What I really want for Christmas can’t be bought and wrapped up to sit under the tree. If I could, I would make every single child feel special at times such as this, make them feel loved and happy. But I can’t. But I can give what I can, share what I have and make sure those I can love, feel loved and safe. This year, the ‘silly season’ as I call it, I will make sure it will be a good one. I will enjoy being with those who love me, sharing memories of Christmas’s past, enjoying Christmas present and looking forward to those to come. Missing people and sharing memories of them as we sit by the fire, the dogs at our feet, the cats on the hearth and the ponies in the field. Talking of the good bits of my childhood, I can no longer share these memories with the only other person who was present when they were made, my beloved brother Tony, but will share them with David and Marie who both knew and loved him. We will talk of my daughter’s childhood Christmas’s as Marie always does, memories of her and her sister Lisa, happy times. Lisa and my grandchildren will be missed but sadly, as David would say, ‘we are where we are’. Feeling loved and grateful for yet another festive season to enjoy.
Christmas is about giving and that is the part I enjoy most of all. I learned to sit and watch, enjoy others opening gifts and that taught me how important giving is. So today as a woman, I love to do that. I wish could be in the home with any child feeling as the little girl I was, written in the beginning of this blog, (an expert from my 1st book, my life-story,) and give them love, safety and happiness. Safe being paramount. But I can’t. I have spent my life making sure I showed and told those I love, that I love them. I have made sure my children had Christmas that were happy, full of fun and laughter. I still do that today for those who are ‘here on the farm’. I wish all of my family a wonderful time, a Happy Christmas and hope that sometimes memories of my children’s Christmas, come into their minds and make them smile.
Thankyou for reading x
carolannwright 