A Forgotten Christmas...

A Forgotten Christmas Remembered

A story of one childhood Christmas.

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For me growing up, like every kid, Christmas was such a special, magical time. The two weeks off work were just so delightful. There was the food: the chocolates, the Christmas dinner, the mince pies. It was a Northern, 1980s version of the traditional Christmas. My mother would drag us to church on Christmas Eve, and we’d rush back to get to bed in order for my brother and sister and I could get to sleep so that the big day would finally arrive. We’d been counting down on our Advent calendars all month. And these were the old school calendars, no chocolate, but a festive scene, maybe a reindeer or the Three Wise Men. My brother was a few years younger than my sister and I and still believed in Father Christmas. He wanted to get straight to sleep before the big feller arrived delivering presents to the good boys and girls across the world.

Christmas morning. We woke our parents at the agreed time of eight o’clock. The three of us had been awake since just after six o’clock but were under strict instructions not to disturb my mum and dad earlier than eight. At eight we followed my mum and dad downstairs. The Christmas presents were always put in the front room, and the door closed until we were allowed in. My brother and sister and I rushed to the front room door. We were just about to open it, when my dad spoke.

‘I need a cup of tea first.’ he said.

We stared at him in disbelief. We’d been waiting for this moment for weeks and now my dad wanted a brew. We moaned and complained but my mother nodded.

‘Oh yes, you have to have tea before opening presents.’

And so, we trudged through to the kitchen, where my dad put the kettle on and my mum grabbed the mugs and tea bags. They say a watched kettle never boils, and on that Christmas morning, there were three of us willing the kettle to boil, so we could open our Christmas presents.  Finally, armed with their mugs of tea, my parents lead the way to the front room and the wonderful Christmas gifts.

With my parents perched on the arms of the chairs, sipping their tea and looking on, the three of us found the gift bags bearing our names, and with all the awe and wonder of archaeologists discovering an Egyptian tomb, we set about unwrapping the presents that had been bought for us. I was delighted to find a stereo known as a ghetto blaster. I would be able to listen to all my cassette tapes on my new stereo player. I’d also borrow my dad’s tapes of the Beatles and the Hollies, and the Everly brothers.  I would borrow these tapes, and, with the best will in the world, promise to return them when I was done with them. I never did, of course. It’s a habit that continues to this day. Whenever my parents comes over, my dad says he’s coming over to visit his CD collection and all his books.

My sister was thrilled to discover that she’d been given a pair of roller boots. She would spend almost the entire Christmas period whizzing through the house in the bright red and orange roller skates. My brother screeched in excitement as he unwrapped his gifts. His main present was a toy, the Ghostbusters car, the Ecto-mobile. There was a theme with his gifts that year. As well as a Ghostbuster’s annual and rucksack, there was also the figures of three out of the four Ghostbusters. We had, as always, been spoilt by our parents. The gifts were just perfectly chosen. Again, this is something that continues to this day. Just last Christmas my parents bought me a writing folio, an A5 organiser for me to write my stories. I was almost as happy as I was back in the day when presented with my stereo.

Christmas Day followed the usual festive routine. We would visit both sets of grandparents during the day. We would be plied with mince pies, Christmas cake and chocolates, and given even more gifts. We were also given money in Christmas cards from our aunts and uncles, five and ten pound notes. We felt like millionaires, with all the cash notes. 

In the evening, we crammed in front of the television to watch the Christmas specials of classic shows like Only Fools and Horses. My dad would have a glass of his Christmas whiskey, my mum sipped at the Irish whiskey cream, and we’d guzzle cans of full fat cola. The cola was a festive treat, a real change from the dilute-to-taste orange squash we drank the rest of the year. 

As my dad returned with a top up of whiskey, my mother asked us what we were going to treat ourselves to with our Christmas money. I would be buying myself a few new books to read in the New Year. My sister would be getting the latest pop music compilation tape. My mother turned to my brother.

‘And what about you, what will you buy with your Christmas money?’ she asked.

My brother looked at her, glancing away from the comedy on screen.

‘I’m going to buy the Ghostbuster figure I’m missing.’

‘How do you mean?’ she replied.

‘Well, there are four Ghostbusters, and I got three figures for Christmas. I’m going to buy the last one with my gift money.’

My mother said nothing, a puzzled look on her face, before leaving the room.

She returned moments later and handed my brother a plastic bag. My brother opened the bag and pulled out the last Ghostbuster figure. We all looked at my mother in confusion. How had she, on Christmas Day, managed to get hold of the last figure? The shops were now shut for a couple of days.

‘It’s been at the back of the wardrobe for weeks. We did buy all four figures, but I didn’t know how many Ghostbusters there are. I just grabbed the others and wrapped them up, not realising one was missing.’

By Chris Platt