The Isle of Wight is a small island in the English Chanel just a 20 minute ferry ride from Portsmouth on England’s south coast. Here, my Grandmother and Grandfather ran a small mixed farm who’s farthest field ended in a small beachy cove lapped by the sea.
Two days before Christmas my parents and I would arrive full of anticipation. While my parents had tea with Granny, Grandpa would take me by the hand to go and visit my much loved animal friends. String was tied round the bottom of my trousers to stop the barn mice running up the inside of my trouser legs. Here Grandpa and I were in heaven.
Due to wartime food rationing we had little food. We were better off than most as we had fish from the sea and wild rabbit shot while my Grandpa was on watch for air raids. The rest of the country was allowed one fresh egg, 4 ounces of margarine and four strips of bacon, 2 ounces each of butter and tea and 8 ounces of sugar per person each week. Meat was scarce as the Germans would bomb the boats bringing in the meat from other countries. By the end of the war the nation was close to bankruptcy and one step from starvation. We only produced one third of our meat requirements. A meagre supper was provided even though Granny had saved almost all her rations for it and my mother had mailed her ration stamps ahead of our arrival.
Christmas Eve was a day of hustle and bustle. All the good china, glasses and seldom used pots and pans were washed. Granny made mince pies, sausage rolls, crusty bread and got out the tins of shortbread, pickles, chutney and preserves she had been saving for the feast.
It was a special time for me as I was played with both indoors and outdoors. Allowed to ride the gentle cart horses in the paddock and to stay up late until eight o’clock. I thought this was a special treat for Christmas but it was really to make sure I slept until at least 6 o’clock. When I came in I saw the big copper tub in front of the fireplace and my new flannel nightgown warming by the fire. With a frown I uttered one word “No”. Granny would fix me with her little raisin eyes and say “You have to be clean for baby Jesus’ birthday.” As Granny’s word was law I hopped into the tub and soaped up. Into my new nightgown and onto my mother’s knee to be read the description of Christmas at Bob Cratchett’s house from Dicken’s a Christmas Carol. I never did hear the closing line “God bless us everyone”. Carried to my feather bed in the attic I slept the sleep of little children, cradled in my feather bed with Peter the cat at my feet trying to look very small for Granny’s eagle eye.
Meanwhile downstairs everyone moved into action. The parlour door was opened and Grandpa and my father put the tree in its pot in the corner and put tiny little candleholders on each branch and popped in the little candles. A pail of sand and a pail of water were placed nearby. Tiny gold chains made of Goldflake cigarette package liners were garlanded round the tree next to strings of holly berries. Blobs of cotton wool were put on the branches and old tree ornaments were lovingly positioned. Holly branches decorated the picture rails and bunches of shiny leafed mistletoe with pearl-like berries were hung in each doorway. The crèche was set up on the hearth and bowls of gold painted pine cones were set around. All was finished and my parents quietly mounted the stairs clutching a lumpy, bumpy stocking to hang on the bedpost of their dreaming daughter.
At about five o’clock Peter trundled up the bed to give my face a sleepy lick indicating his breakfast was due. I woke up with the thought “did he come, did he come?” Yes. there is was. Peter’s breakfast could wait. The stocking contents were shaken onto the bed and lots of tiny little white tissue wrapped parcels tumbled onto the bed, tied with cochineal-red dyed thin string. An apple and a piece of coal were in the toe to wish me food and heat for the coming year. Little parcels were carefully unwrapped and ensuing squeaks woke my mother who came in and jumped into my little bed. A few minutes later my Dad appeared carrying two mugs of tea and Peter’s breakfast on a tray. We all piled onto the bed and the opening continued. A new pencil and eraser, hand-knitted socks, tiny little wooden animals carved by Jo the shepherd, jewel-like boiled sweets sent by my aunt in America, a shiny new shilling and a really grown-up lace handkerchief. Best of all was a cat broach with jewels for eyes.
We all got dressed, pulling our warm underwear out from beneath the feather beds where they had been all night. Down the stairs at a run I went to be enveloped by Granny’s arms followed by the delicious munching of home-cured bacon sandwiches. All the indoor animals staring longingly as we took bites. Grandpa came in with foggy breath and pulled on my boots for me, wrapped me up in a warm coat made from an old car rug and off we went to the barn. Shiny apples and lumps of sugar for the horses who noses whiffled and harrumphed in anticipation. Acorns for Chloe the pig. Cowlick for Oscar the bull and his harem of wives. Sweet hay for the sheep and goats. Off to the chicken house with dried corn for the girls and Chanticleer the cockerel. Mixed grain for the ducks and carrots for the rabbits including Bun who also got some greens. At each domicile my grandfather would thank the animals in a soft voice as they nickered, grunted, baa’d , mooed and whinnied their greetings. Back to the farmhouse.
The kitchen was quiet, not a soul in sight. Grandpa looked towards the closed parlour door and said “off you go”. Inside were my best-beloved people and under the tree were the presents. The now lit candles twinkled on the tree with Dad standing guard. The Yule log crackled in the hearth and Peter and the dogs stretched out to wallow in its warmth. A brand new hand carved hobby horse with nostrils flaring stared back at me from under the tree. A dolly dressed in a bride’s clothes made by Granny sat next to him. Books and a drawing pad completed the spoils. All riches indeed. Pipe tobacco for Grandpa, a cigar for my father, Evening in Paris perfume for Granny and Coty’s L’Aimant for my mother. Oohs and aahs all round.
The parlour became quiet except for the crackle of the radio and everyone stood up as the sounds of God Save the King heralded the King’s Christmas speech. Granny held her breath and prayed that the King’s terrible stammer would not overcome him.
Granny hustled out to the kitchen to baste the goose. The excess fat was poured into a bowl to save for congested-chest rubs during the winter cold season. Nothing guaranteed one to get better very quickly than smelling like a cooked goose. Pots of emerald green brussels sprouts and orange carrots were set on the stove and trays of potatoes and parsnips were popped into the oven to roast. The Christmas pudding had been simmering on the stove all day as had the goose giblets for the gravy. Willow pattern dishes were set out to receive all these blessings. The huge kitchen table was set for us and all the anticipated guests who would soon arrive. Plates and glasses gleaming on the snowy cloth decked with holly and ivy, red ribbons and homemade Christmas crackers. The guests started to arrive. Elderly widowers who worked on the farm, widows and children who had lost their fathers in the war. Jo the shepherd and his border collie Susie whose nose was shivering with delight shyly slipped silently through the back door. The two land girls and anyone else who needed a haven for Christmas found one in Granny’s kitchen. Grandpa sharpened the carving knife and began to carve the goose, Granny put the bowls of vegetables, jugs of gravy, platters of pickles and tiny little crispy brown chipolata sausages onto the table. Every one helped themselves with abandon and poured glasses of cider made from the apples from the orchard into glass tankards. Grandpa said the blessing and then there was blissful silence as knives scraped across plates. The dogs and Peter were also silent as they muzzled their dishes. The plates were cleared except mine for there were three green globes still sitting on it. Staring at them very hard my grandmother asked if I was expecting to eat Christmas pudding. While she drained and unmolded the Christmas pudding Jo silently walked round the table and ate them for me. I loved Jo. He winked and tapped the side of his nose in conspiracy. A huge bowl of clotted cream appeared on the table, fresh from the dairy. The lights went out and Grandpa poured a dram of precious brandy over the pudding and lit a match. It sprang into blue flames and we all sang the Figgy Pudding song. Now, by tradition, a wrapped sixpence was hidden in the pudding and it would bring fortune to the person who found it in his slice. Strangely, I always won it. Many years later I questioned my mother on this incredible coincidence. She told me that Granny kept the sixpence in her pocket and slipped it into my slice while my mother distracted me.
Mention should be made about the goose. It was kept hidden on a little pond behind Jo’s cottage and when the government inspectors came round to count the live stock, it was never to be seen. It should have gone with the rest of the animals to be slaughtered for food for the troops. It was the only incidence of cheating on the farm, but Granny was convinced that Baby Jesus would approve and forgive her. He (the goose, not baby Jesus) made his only public appearance on Christmas day. Golden brown and stuffed with apples and prunes and other good things. It was a noble sacrifice.
After Christmas lunch the guests gave and received their presents. Granny slipped upstairs for a well deserved rest before coming down to prepare the Christmas tea of sandwiches, fruitcake, shortbread and mince pies. The men and the land girls went off to tend the animals while the detritus of the Christmas meal was cleared and washed up by the women. The visiting children and I played in the yard with the dogs joining in happily.
Every Christmas I relive this story. I see the faces of the beloved people and animals and remember the sights and sounds of those wonderful days. I would not swap it for a modern day celebration. The most precious memory was the abiding love that existed in that old farmhouse surrounded by the horror of war.
