The Willow Pond. Mervyn Linford
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of it. Cynicism is something I’ve developed since and I’m not sure that I’m any better off because of it. Above the clock tower the prismatic sparkle of an auspicious star hung from the hook of a recumbent moon. Into those hopefully polar skies I cast my believing gaze. Many’s the time in that borderland between sleep and wakefulness that I fancied I saw the desired configuration. The powers of the unfettered mind are indeed miraculous. Out of the rarified atmosphere of that heart-pounding starscape, sleigh and reindeers would materialize. St Nick himself could be clearly seen. Beard streaming and diffuse in the firmament like the tail of a glittering comet. Both hearts and chimneys it seems were large enough to accept that symbol of universal benevolence. Would, that it were always thus. If only, if only, if only.......
Morning - as is the quotidian way of things - arrived as usual. Although, usual in this case would be something of an understatement. In the light of today’s wealth of high-tech gadgetry our treasures may have seemed somewhat tawdry. But treasures they were and the mere act of remembering them fills me with excitement. The hours of fun and frustration gleaned from such simple things as those small metal Chinese puzzles would be an enigma to the screen-glued, button pushing conquerors of space amongst us. How would the whizz at the word-processor see the attempts of trying to un-jumble the letters of the alphabet just to get them in order in their tatty plastic frame? Little toy animals and people made up of pop-together segments. Black jacks and fruit-salads. Five-stones. Nuts and tangerines. All these and more poured from the bulging stocking while the main present still sat firmly beneath the tree orbited by a solar-system of baubles and beribboned packages.
Before long the world was all soda pop and liquorice. “Don’t eat too much, yer won’t be able to eat yer dinner,” advised mother. Her lack of understanding concerning the insatiable appetites of children still amazes me. Okay carrots and greens and the likes might be difficult to eat wholesale, but chicken and stuffing and roast potatoes? I ask you! Let alone sweets and jellies and cakes! I spent most of my childhood trying to educate her about these matters, but her programming was almost robotic. “Didn’t I just tell yer not to eat anyfink else?” she continued, somewhat predictably. My appetite wasn’t affected. As dinnertime approached - we didn’t have lunch on council estates in those days, by the way - if anything my hunger had increased. Setting the table, all thoughts of humble origins were forgotten. To my mind the spread wouldn’t have been out of place in Buckingham Palace, Balmoral or Sandringham, or wherever the figureheads of state were going to pull their crackers and celebrate the occasion. Hand-made, home-crafted, artificial centrepieces sprouted their spiralling red candles. Holly-trimmed, paper serviettes from Woolworths had the look of the finest Irish-linen. Crackers, fresh from the gaudy stock of market-traders completed the illusion of nobility. For once in the year at least the Jones’ had been surpassed, and I knew it. Pride bubbled from my pigeon-breasted, angel-throated strut through the carol-singing, all-praising kingdom of my princely heritage. Mother’s head - held high in accordance with the customs of haute cuisine - stooped down to our level and with a voice like a gong reverberating through the serving-hatch, announced that luncheon was served. None of the gastronomic rules commonly adhered to in polite society were observed. Separate bowls for vegetables, gravy boats and the puzzling outside to inside cutlery arrangements were readily dispensed with in favour of the trough. A good nosh was what was wanted and the colloquialism received full and unequivocal justice. My only major complaint about the grand repast in general was the subterfuge resorted to by my parents on the thorny issue of the respective merits of legs or breasts. They were insistent that legs were by far the best part of the bird, and as a consequence of this - peerless benefactors that they were - the children were given them as a special treat. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t now. I suspect that the scam is universal and that many of my readers carry out the same deceitful practices on their own suspicious offspring. “Heaven forbid!” I hear you say. “Heaven forbid!” Always, it seemed, when dribblingly engrossed with the most finger-licking, bone-stiffened morsel, mother would say, “Let’s all pull our crackers.” I warn you, repartee of the sort you might have in mind, was not, I emphasize, not allowable! If the matriarch wanted you to pull crackers, then crackers you pulled! And, I add, with as much good grace as you could muster. Greasy digits not withstanding, bangs were banged, sparks were sparked, and contents and mottoes scattered across the table, and beyond. “What’s green and hairy and goes up and down?” “Don’t know, tell me,” “A gooseberry in a lift!” Laughter......"What’s red and round and rides a white horse?” I haven’t got a clue, what is red and round and rides a white horse?” “The Lone-Tomato,” more laughter....... Such innocence! Suchsimple pleasures! We all put on our paper crowns and bishop’s mitres - the spirit of Saturnalia descended again and the unread, unknowing Lords of Misrule somehow mysteriously knew it to be so. Christmas pudding - never a favourite of mine - was not what you would have called a flaming affair in our household. Tradition dictated that it came in great steaming wedges, covered in lumpy custard. I was allowed jelly and canned-fruit as an alternative and was more than thankful for its wobbling merciful weight. Christmas pudding, carrots and cooked onions, all had the same retching affect on me in those days. If forced to try them - for my own good, I might add - my sympathies went out to the fat-livered, gagging geese of the Dordogne.
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