Most of us can get sentimental at times, especially at Christmas. I do; it’s the suitcase crammed with photographs, you see. It’s the time I usually get them out, to sift through and reminisce. One of them will start me off; I’ll smile, then shed a tear or two and sigh.‘Are you in a sentimental mood?’ asks Sir William Schwenck Gilbert in the 'Mikado', and then goes on to say, ‘I’ll sigh with you,’ (which is rather nice of him I think).
One such photograph shows four youngsters gathered round an open fireplace with one peering up the chimney; the fire is out, stockings hang from the mantelpiece and the caption reads: ‘Waiting for Father Christmas’. The year is 1934; the place is a home for children in Preston, Lancashire, England (the Shepherd Street Mission Children’s Home)…and I am the boy peering up the chimney. This brings back memories because that was the first time that the meaning of Christmas, Father Christmas and presents began to seep through to my understanding.
A few days after the photograph was taken, all the children in the Home were gathered together in the main room. Let’s imagine we are there…It is evening. Christmas decorations, holly with cheerful red berries, a Christmas tree and candle-light, have all transformed the normally drab, uninteresting room into a warm and happy place to be. In a semi-circle sitting cross-legged on the floor are the children, a steady murmur rising from their midst. At the front sit the two sisters who looked after us, lovely in their crisp white uniforms. On their right, the dark-suited superintendent sits with his rather severe bespectacled wife who keeps an eye on the girl’s wing, and behind them, several members of the committee who run the Home…
(Generally life had its predictability: the boys were separated from the girls except for meals and church-going; the boys big from the small; and on visiting days, some going off with relatives while the rest went nowhere, making the days monotonously and long.)
Today was exciting, even though I’d learned it wasn’t wise to get too excited about things; sometimes it was all for nothing and the expected event didn’t happen. But this time it was different. This time we were all together and for the first time something about the meaning of the word ‘home’ became more real and emotionally satisfying.
We had games, and after that we sang carols, and the hairs on the back of my neck prickled as I heard the boys and girls singing up close. It was wonderful, with a kind of magic in the air because everyone was happy.
Then came the big event: Father Christmas arrived, and after a few friendly words he opened the big sack in front of him and began calling out the names on each present he brought out. A steady stream of boys and girls walked forward, received a gift and returning smiling to their places. The good folk of Preston and the surrounding districts tried to make Christmas as cheerful as they could for all of us children in the Home, despite the Depression, with unemployment or poor wages being widespread throughout most countries of the world. Thankfully, I was blissfully unaware of such things at that time.
Meanwhile, back in the main hall, I was still waiting for my name to be called and the sack was looking decidedly limp, while almost everyone around me was buzzing with excited chatter as they compared gifts with each other. I was still waiting and getting worried. A short time later Father Christmas asked if everyone had received their present. I said nothing, my face burning as I felt too left out and shy to speak up. My friends nudged me and whispered, ‘Speak up, our Den!’, but I didn’t; I was too close to tears. Father Christmas called again, turning as if to put his sack to one side, and from somewhere inside of me I found the gumption to call out in a voice that sounded a long way off, ‘I ‘aven’t got one’. A hush fell, or so it seemed to me. The two sisters knew immediately who it was that had spoken; they’d looked after me since I was two and a half years of age, and one of them whispered something to Father Christmas who looked around and smiling called, ‘Who was that?’
Thus encouraged, I spoke again. ‘Me, I ‘aven’t got a present yet’. A sympathetic murmuring rippled around the room as Father Christmas called out, ‘Come on then, young Dennis. Let’s see what I’ve got here for you.’ Everything was sorted out, of course. I got my present and a special hug from the two sisters along with kisses, in front of all those people too; and it made feel heaps better.
In 1965 I was living in Auckland, New Zealand, and I learned from a friend that the two sisters who knew and cared for me at the Home when I was a boy were living a short distance away, and would like to meet me and my family. My friend gave me their address and phone number, and yes, they were same two sisters: Sisters Mary and Anne Smith. After the hugs and greetings, and cups of tea, they gave me a photo of our time at the Home. It’s a large black and white photo showing a group of boys and girls playing in some sand; Sister Mary Smith along with another adult, sat on two chairs keeping watch over us. I stand out as the boy with a small patch of ring-worm on my scalp, while a short distance away, my sister Jean is playing there too. We had a great reunion with Mary and Anne Smith, who became firm friends of my wife and honorary aunts to our daughters until the sisters died…and of course, now I’m in a sentimental mood all over again.
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| Me, third boy from the left. My sister Jean, centre front girl, sitting on her knees. Sister Mary Smith, centre seated at the back. |
(first published www.denniscrompton.wordpress.com 2013)
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