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Christmas Past by Rosemary Morris
My earliest memory of Christmas, in the year the 2nd World War ended, is of my mother taking me to Hamley’s the famous toy shop in Regent Street, London, when I was five years old. Doll’s houses, doll’s house furniture, prams and beautiful dolls with eyes that opened and closed enchanted me. I fell in love with one with dainty underwear, a sugar-candy-pink organdie dress and bonnet. I begged mother to buy it for me. She refused and told me not to cry. On Christmas day I unwrapped my present from my parents. Speechless with delight I cuddled the doll, I named Rosebud. Years later, my mother told me she took me to the toy shop because she thought a child should choose a doll which she liked best.
The run up to Christmas did not begin as early as it has in recent years. About a fortnight prior to Santa Claus bringing my stocking with a tangerine in the toe, some chocolate coins, a children’s annual and a few small toys, shopkeepers decorated their windows, we knew Christmas was near; and on the last day of term at my convent school, where a nun took the role of Mother Christmas instead of a male Father Christmas, my friends and I were in the festive spirit.
At home I enjoyed making multi-coloured paper chains from strips of multi-paper. They were hung across the ceiling in the lounge, their ends meeting at the large paper bell in the centre. In the room decorated with holly and Christmas cards were on the mantlepiece, my friends came to my party on the twenty-third. We played hunt the thimble, musical chairs and blind man’s bluff, followed by a sumptuous tea. Food was rationed but to provide the treat Mother had saved, for example. When parents came to collect the children, I said goodbye and gave each one a small present bought at Hamley’s.
On Christmas Eve Father brought a Christmas tree home. Nothing can completely recover what was, in my eyes, the magic of decorating it with tinsel, fragile baubles that would glitter in the light shed by tiny candles in holders and a dainty fairy doll on the top.
Tucked up in bed before I slept, I wondered what my presents from my parents, grandparents, other relatives and my mother’s best friend, who I called Aunty May, contained. As soon as I could write, I dreaded the task of writing thank you letters with pen and ink. I resented having to thank Aunty May for the children’s book Alice in Wonderland. Although I was a young book worm, I disliked the story and instead of being grateful stamped on Alice Through The Looking Glass which she gave me on the next year.
Yet Christmas was not merely about fun and presents. At Sunday school we studied the Nativity, helped to arrange the creche in the church, with figures of baby Jesus, Mary and Joseph and the shepherds. I loved the atmosphere and the ‘playing of the merry organ and sweet singing in the choir.’ At home we enjoyed a traditional lunch and, at teatime, my mother’s homemade fruit cake covered with marzipan under a layer of snow-white icing sugar.
On Boxing Day, we ate delicious leftovers, and in the evening family and friends gathered at our house to enjoy each other’s company.
Grammar schoolgirls fourteen-year-old Indira Nathwani and Daisy Royston have been best friends since they were four years old. Indira lives in Southeast England with her wealthy Hindu family, an older brother, pious grandfather, parents, and aunt and uncle. In their temple room her grandfather teaches her to worship and serve God with love and devotion. Daisy lives with her mother, a single parent who works hard to provide for her. Since her devout Christian grandmother’s death, Daisy rarely attends church. Sometimes she and Indira agree to disagree about their cultures and religions, but it never affects their friendship. However, Indira, who is not allowed to go out alone, is envious of her best friend’s freedom. Daisy’s only known relative is her mother, who she loves and appreciates, but she struggles not to envy Indira for having a large, perfect family. Daisy stays at the Nathwani’s house to celebrate Diwali and the Hindu new year on the next day. To reciprocate, Daisy’s mother invites Indira to stay for three nights at her house to celebrate Christmas. The Nathwani family’s refusal leads to tragedy, which Indira is blamed for, then a shocking revelation causes distress. Indira is distraught and Daisy realises Indira’s family is not perfect.
“A fascinating view of two vastly different cultures shown through these two teenage girls.”
Maggi Andersen.
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