No Christmas Here?

The Scots have never had a great love for Christmas thanks to the Reformation in the 16^th century. John Knox, chief Calvinist and general misery guts, saw Mary, Queen of Scots dancing and enjoying herself at court and immediately decided that celebration was bad for you.  Instead it was decided that the New Year would be the Scottish celebration, a time for feasting that had no apparent religious ramifications, thus calming the Calvinists and enabling  general merry making.

It does still tend to be the case that Christmas is less celebrated here, with the 25^th still being a working day for most. However, having said that since the last Unpleasantness when so many of our boys were overseas for the festive season, I think we are increasingly taking note of Christmas Day.

This can be seen in the pages of our newspapers, full of advertisements for gifts and our shop windows dressed for the season. We send cards and make lists, Father Christmas is in the department stores and there are carol services and pantomimes.

Only this week I attended an unusual service of lessons and carols at the good varsity in Glasgow where Professor Sir Boozy Hawkes, who is an expert on forgotten carols was conducting his Honours students and demonstrated most concisely why these carols were forgotten. Dreary wasn’t in it, but it seemed they were popular among those who like their entertainment to be somewhat downbeat.

If I were a gambling sort of lady, which of course I am not, I would bet you a pound to a penny they are socialists! Indeed as I said to my neighbour Mrs Lottie Macaulay, there was a noticeable preponderance of duffle coats and crew neck shirts. Laxity of dress – laxity of mind, I always say.

A Special Treat

As a special treat I took my ward, Gayle, daughter of our nephew Sebastian, to see Father Christmas at Lewis’s in Argyll Street accompanied by her nurse Hairy Mary from Inveraray. Unfortunately her Highland complexion attracted the attention of one of Santa’s little helpers. Fortunately Hairy Mary was able to rebuff his attentions and I have heard that he is back at work in the grotto with the aid of a medical support. We also took Grace with us. Grace is the West Indian lady who helps Mrs T with the heavy work in the house when needed. She is a most welcome addition to our household after the treacherous Hilda, but she plays her cards very close to her chest and we really know little about her.

To the North Pole and Ladies’ Underwear

The visit to Father Christmas involved a magic sleigh ride to the North Pole. We all climbed aboard a magic sleigh, I say magic because there appeared to be no reindeer, but a moth eaten-donkey with antlers strapped to its head. The lights were dimmed and the sleigh began to move up and down and from side to side. It did not go straight ahead or it would have crashed through the makeshift wall and into ladies’ underwear. This would have been unfortunate as it had a corset promotion and was pretty busy.

To my surprise Father Christmas was somewhat a cut above all the usual seasonal Santa’s and smelt of aftershave rather than Johnny Walker. Gayle was given a doll and I was asked if I had been followed. It turned out (and not a word to Bessie please) that Father Christmas was none other than the Handsome Stranger who handed me a package labelled “Do not open until Christmas.” It is rare for moi to receive a gift from the Handsome Stranger, I do hope it is something exotic from his far flung travels.

A Colour Co-ordinated Christmas Card List

Jasper truly believes that he is involved in the hurly burly of Christmas to the point of utter exhaustion. I am not exactly sure how he convinces himself about this as his contribution seems to be limited to shouting “Muriel have we sent a Christmas card to so and so” every time the post arrives. I, naturally, know exactly to whom we have sent cards thanks to my efficient filing system and my “three years without a reciprocal card and you are out” policy thus separating the wheat from the chaff. I use this in combination with my coloured dots system. Each updated annual list of “cards sent” and “received” is annotated with 3 dots. Red for “cheap card”, blue for “bottom of the box” and black for “signed by his secretary and posted as office mail”.  I also deduct points off for biro use (disgraceful) and stamps that are not stuck on straight with an equal border top and right side (sloppy).

Equally I award points for personalised cards, use of fountain pen and enclosed handwritten letter on deckle edged paper, preferably blue to show one is prepared to adopt a certain gayness at this time of year. A duplicated typed letter goes straight into my wastepaper basket marked “condemned” for the duration of the festive season. My list is then is reviewed in January.

Of course I try to unnerve Jasper by shouting back, “ I don’t know, have we?” This is followed up at lunch by a suggestion that “we agreed didn’t we after last year that you would be responsible for cards this year.” Jasper cannot remember what time of day it is! Therefore, convinced he must have suggested this and fully aware of his limitations, he then suggests that if he treats me to a little present would I take on the responsibility. I say “yes”, in the full knowledge that all were posted a week and a half ago.

Choose Carefully

As you will expect the buying of presents also falls to me. My choices are always described as “inspirational.” I try to blend practicality with the personal and there is usually a hint of self improvement. This has included Mrs Travers, our daily woman what does but not a lot, in the past. Last year I gave her the choice of a twilight course at the college. She picked sociology and I have made rod for my own back. I rather anticipated something more useful like flower arranging or upholstery or even sugar craft. Mrs Travers has, however, given herself over to Durkheim, Tawney and other ne’er-do-wells in addition to writing essays on deviance and the Nuer tribe.

With her family I can understand the deviance, but as far as I can see there is not one aspect of Nuer culture that comes to grips with arranging 3 irises in a shallow bowl with pin holder. Nor can I imagine they have much use for trellis work in royal icing.

Along with her annual Yardley gift box, this year she is getting a record – Tom Dooley by Lonnie Donegan. Apparently she likes skiffle and the man in Cuthbertson’s said this was ideal for mawkish working class sentimentality. At the same time I bought a copy of Tommy Dorsey’s Tea For Two  cha-cha-cha for myself. Perhaps I might tempt Jasper to a little Latin routine avec moi at Hogmanay. He could be the Rizzio to my Mary, after all every woman needs a little bit of Latin now and then. Excuse moi a moment; I need to dab a little 4711 on my wrists.

Muriel Takes a Turn for the Literary

This year I am feeling rather literary. I know she is not yet able to read but I thought a new book by a Michal Bond A Bear Called Paddington might be nice to read to Gayle. I am rather fond of Paddington Station as it can take one to Royal Windsor which is always uplifting, provided one does not have to linger too long when changing at  Slough. Windsor has a lovely department store. I do love a department store – the thicker the stair carpet the better.

For Hairy Mary I have purchased a copy of Saturday Night and Sunday Morning by Alan Sillitoe which will hopefully give her an awareness of the wiles of men. I could not but help notice how Santa’s Little Helper looked at her with her backcombed hair and eyeliner like Nefertiti. I feel responsible for her. These highland lassies are very vulnerable as I know from my work at The Home for Fallen Women. Quite a few come from north of the Highland line. I have to say it is not something I would read. I can see enough working class grit when I drop Mrs Travers off at the steamie.

For Mrs Macaulay and Mrs Savage, I have copies of H. E. Bates Darling Buds of May which features the Larkin family. This tale of nature, excessive feasting and an income obtained through selling junk I feel might strike accord with Mrs Macaulay and her bungalow building tax avoiding husband. Mr Macaulay also has a fondness for the ladies like Pa Larkin and both are pinchers as I can testify.

Metaphysics for Christmas ?

For the Handsome Stranger I have a copy of Graham Green’s Our Man in Havana. This concerns the fabricated stories of a vacuum cleaner salesman who is recruited as a spy for MI6 . His drawings of a missile installation are actually parts of a vacuum cleaner which he sends to London. Fiction and reality become confused, not that this would ever happen.

I have two of Lawrence  Durrell’s novels for Jasper – Balthazar and Mountolive.  They are set in Alexandria. He already has the first in the series which is Justine.  Apparently they are “a convergence of Eastern and Western metaphysics , based on Einstein’s overturning of the old view of the material universe and Freud’s doing the same for the concept of stable personalities, yielding a new concept of reality.”

Yes that’s what I thought pretentious, but they will keep Jasper occupied and take his mind off unsuitable things such as the races. They do, I must say have very nice covers.

What Else for Jasper?

He is always good to moi, so I must think of what else I can give him. Maybe I should get him a copy of The Darling Buds of May? He might even enjoy A Bear Called Paddington, he might identify with that? He has a childlike quality about him.  Or perhaps a 4 dozen box of Tunnock’s Caramel Wafers? They are only 13 shillings.  Or perhaps……. Oh, wait a minute! I know what he would like. I wonder if I can get to a phone box?

Later

“Jasper, Dahling. I am home. Town was dreadful, so after the bookshop I drove out into the country for your present.  You have to have it now; it will not keep. Or rather I cannot keep her under wraps.

Let me introduce you to Cleopatra, your new cat.

Muriel Wylie

December 1958