Читать книгу The Willow Pond - Mervyn Linford - Страница 12
ОглавлениеIf we were really lucky the first snows of winter came before Christmas, or even more rarely during the holidays themselves. But in truth they hardly ever came at all. The prevailing misery of North-Atlantic depressions and warm fronts were the unwanted and dispiriting prophecies of gloom precipitating from the despised mouths of meteorologists. Rain and wind, wind and rain. Rain and more rain. Wind and more wind. That was the continuous sorry track of our southwesterly existence. Respite came in the form of fitful ridges of anticyclonic hope, tantalizingly promising, but never delivering one speck of frost from the blue-moon rarity of their starlit nights. In that evergreen, ever remembered, time of year, grass occasionally grew, trees budded-up for spring and winter-greens sprouted from the gardens like the mocking tongues of self-righteous Martians. But Christmas was coming and the clangorous honking from the fat-yarded, feathery smallholdings proved that the geese were portentously aware of the fact. My major solitary pursuit of the season was window gazing. Whether the windows in question were the tree-lit and tinselled ones of the domestic hearth or the eye for the main-chance glittering transparencies of commercial insincerity, it didn’t matter much. Whenever freed from the shackles of familial restraint and allowed to venture out into the darkness on my own, I could be seen wandering the sublunary December streets like the lost and fallen image of Bethlehem’s most celebrated astronomical occurrence. Even now, thinking of such simple things as coal-eyed, carrot-nosed snowmen, puffs of cotton-wool, stuck and askew, against plate-glass windows, or star-spangled revolving mobiles, brings the whole ethereal event sharply back into focus. Then, there was wonder indeed. Walking those magical streets I inhabited a dimension only to be returned to fleetingly in those moments of heightened awareness that age and a surfeit of alcohol allow. Without the aid of any known stimulant to man, other than the innate hallucinogens of spontaneity and relative innocence, the gateways of perception were open. Angels were indeed possible, conceptions could have been immaculate, and even the enforced dogma and doctrine of my hair-shirt upbringing seemed for once founded on some unshakable truth.
The time for wishes had arrived. Kitchens themselves partook of the season and became just as otherworldly. The spice-laden mixtures were stirred. Eyes closed and supplications made. If the letter to Father Christmas failed, this would surely do the trick. Puddings the size of cannonballs were swaddled in muslin and immersed in great bubbling copper cauldrons. Ovens were racked from top to bottom with mince pies and sausage rolls. Smells were exotic and intoxicating, cinnamon and sherry, brandy and cloves. Smells that any self-respecting Bisto Kid would follow unflinchingly to the ends of the universe. Drunk on the yuletide elixirs I watched as the icing was poured, patted and scrolled onto the cake. I sang as the red-lettered words of greeting were inscribed and the sprigs of artificial holly thumbed into place. My mother took on a new countenance. Gone was the neurotic ear slapping she-devil of old. Here was the apotheosis of womanhood. Man was relegated to the blubbering ranks of the newborn or to a bumbling, white-bearded, stuck up the chimney sort of avuncularity. This was the time of the Goddess and for this brief period at least - not forgetting that other season of celebration, namely my birthday - I worshipped at the adored feet.
The begging-bowl of Guy-Fawkes was about to be changed for the more respectable collection plate of the caroller. Eddy and myself, with his older brother Reg for protection, and other too numerous to mention imitations of the Dickensian waif descended, like a flock of discordant cherubs, onto the hapless population. Partakers of pre-Christmas, drug-induced snoozes, were about to be rudely awoken. After a nerve-shattering volley of knocks against the intervening door, a perfunctory chorus of Adeste Fideles rang out from the cracked bell of our tremulous voices. Suspicious bleary eyes peered from the chinks in the curtains, then disappeared again. A nervous shuffling of feet ensued. “Shall I knock agin Merv,” inquired Eddy. “Praps we should try annuva chorus first,” I said, sheepishly. “Alright then afta free,” said Eddy’s brother. “One, two, free!” ........... “Why don’t you effing kidspiss orf,” countered the staggering, light-bathed, apparition in the rifted doorway. “We’re singin’ fer the church mista,” I profaned. “Yer don’t look like choirboys te me,” said the unusually astute low-browed adversary. “It’s the truf,” I muttered. “We’re collectin’ fer the old folks Christmas party, aint we lads.” “That’s right mista,” came the for once unified, and as it happens, somewhat ecumenical response. “Clear orf, ‘fore I set the dog on yers!” was all we got by way of charity from that legless representative of Proto-Christianity. If alms were to be obtained we should have to try elsewhere. As we left the lamp-lit streets of the estate and moved off into the outback our beaming elf-like faces dimmed accordingly. Don’t for one moment think that we were the acme of carol-singers. We weren’t. To have been rigged out in scarves, gloves and tossel-hats, would have offended our sense of sartorial decorum. Well-scuffed, grey-flannel trousers, frayed wooly-jumpers smelling of mothballs, and the navy-blue balaclava were by far the most favoured apparel. If you’re thinking in terms of swinging lanterns swung from the ends of beribboned poles – beware, you may well be romanticizing! Candles we had in plenty, matches by the pilfered box-full. But matches, candles, and damp December winds are not - it would appear - allies! Tenacious little brutes that we were, we persevered. The striking of matches, the flickering into life and guttering out of it again of candles, intermittently illuminated the darkness. During the blacked-out eternities, made almost palpable by this unreliable source of light, could be heard the snuffing pinch of licked and sticky fingers and thumbs as stubborn wicks and hot wax took their toll. Eventually, sheltered from the wind by an enormous privet-hedge, we stood in front of one of those desolate plotland properties. Matches were struck again, candles lit and throats cleared. We decided to be more traditional and sang a verse or two before we knocked. This had the desired effect. The old lady of the house was actually pleased to see us! She asked if we’d like a glass of ginger beer and a mince pie each, which we gratefully accepted. “ And who are you collecting for dears?” she asked, and in that season of ‘peace and goodwill to all men’ - and old ladies, incidentally - I drew on the latent wellspring of my as yet unfathomed humanity. “Fer ourselves,” I gushed. Could it be true? Were all those parables to be believed? She gave us thruppence each and wished us all a very merry Christmas. Doubts had been cast and that age-old struggle between good and evil was to commence anew. To be, or not to be - honest - that is, that was the question. We came as close as a rabble could to taking a vote on the matter; and for the sake of our newborn - as opposed to born-again spirituality - honesty was decided upon. But in actuality - as all liberal, freethinking philosophers will concur - every case had to be treated individually. Moral philosophy - even then - was a treacherous subject. To this day I am still susceptible to its many pitfalls. To my mind the only really black and white issue - existentially speaking - concerns the renewal of my television licence. But that’s another story, as the bishop said to the lady in the detector-van! Whatever, whether requests for alms were based on truth or falsehood, faith or doubt, carol singing was as much a part of the season as tangerines and red-nosed reindeer. That glimmering band of hopeless youth travelled the shadowy byways of December confronting remuneration or rebuke in the same wholehearted manner. Christmas was coming. Yea, verily I say unto to you; Christmas was near upon us!
According to custom, decorations should not be put up until Christmas Eve. As my parents will tell you this is a custom that’s pretty near impossible to adhere to. I think I first started to pester my mother with regards to this seasonal activity - in those less than liberated days fathers had little to do with the process - sometime around Bonfire-Night. Her way of coping with such insistent demands was to shut me in the spare-room with a toppling stack of those coloured strips of paper gummed at one end. There with a tongue as taut and tacky as a glue-maker’s jockstrap, I licked my way through seemingly endless miles of paper-chains. Most of which were never to come into contact with the ceiling, by the way. But I didn’t care. This was an important task. Christmas depended on me. The time came of course - long before the date traditionally adhered to - when the decorating began in earnest. Little of today’s dazzling array of mass-produced metallic gimmickry was available. Coloured coils of frilly crepe paper were to be unfurled and twisted into spirals. Chinese-lanterns were to be concertinaed into position. Balloons, long and thin, round or pear-shaped, were jaw-achingly puffed into existence, then pinned to the ceiling to display all of their titter-inducing, Phallic similitude. The tree - then as now - was the centrepiece of that extraordinary pagan ritual. On arrival it was immediately potted and set on a small table. This was the pièce de résistance. Like an ancient Druid in his sacred grove I communed with the spirits of Christmas past, and even earlier. It was a shrine to the god Pan. The Holy Babe but a contemporary manifestation of a far older, far deeper, spiritual hunger. The spirit of the wildwood was indoors. The faint atavistic echoes of tree-bound dryads exuded from every resinous needle. I danced goat-footed around that tree. I poured libations of cherryade and Tizer. I placed gift-wrapped, symbolic offerings at the roots of my shamanistic inheritance. Tinsel was cheap and skinny in those days - and still somehow appropriate to the chilling memories of our ghostly antecedents - but even then the flickering shadows of our future opulence fell from the flashing beacons of electric fairy-lights. But as yet the past was still with us as Christmas and Yuletide strove between carols and wassails to authenticate our mysterious origins. As I struggled on tiptoe to equip the tree with its surmounting star, I could feel the accumulated weight of different wisdoms as magi and priest vied for ascendancy.
For those to whom Christmas Eve is just the culmination of a prodigal season of humbug and hypocrisy, it would perhaps be advisable to skip a paragraph or two. For me Christmas Eve was the quintessence of a delirious, emotional, and imaginative unreality. Even the dreaded mass took on a new, and magical, midnight significance. The day started in a dream and ended likewise. There was no place for ambivalence. Belief was to be absolute. The house was aglow with expectancy. The grate was banked higher than usual and out of the glimmering embers flames of gold, amethyst, and methylated blue roared up the air-sucking chimney. Why I never made the connection between ascending flames and descending Father-Christmases I’ll never know. Imaginative truth, I suppose. Decorations spun and swayed and twinkled in the heat. Misted windows trickled with glittering condensation and strings of greetings-cards displayed their compliments in various styles of red and green calligraphy. Holly prickled from the picture-rails; fruited in scarlet for that stirrup-cupped, horn-blowing revelry of a fox-bolted gallop of a day. Mistletoe was pendulous with impending kisses and I was at my long-spitting and lip-wiping best. On that day of delectable days even the once detested chore of helping with the shopping was volunteered for. At that slaughterhouse of a shop - euphemistically known as the butchers - carnage, carnivorous and carnival all came etymologically together in an unspeakable display of fur, feathers and flesh. Hung turkeys with scraggy necks glared their belated disapproval. Peter Rabbit’s less literate and sophisticated cousins were closer that they’d ever been to a relationship with Baby-Bunting. Geese were honk-less, chickens devoid of cluck, and pigs without bodies grinned inanely at the expiring bite of sour apples. All of that meant nothing to the worm-slicing, wing-plucking, environmental scourge that I was. What to others might seem a veritable charnel house was to me no more than some vague unutterable statement of human supremacy. Feeling no need whatsoever to justify the ways of the world, meat tasted far better to me then than it does now. The excuses I make nowadays are rather abstruse, to say the least. Alas, my predatory past remains firmly with me and I lay the blame squarely at the door - or should I say, trap - of my dental configuration. What to blame when the need for dentures arises, is the subject of much devious rumination! Fortunately, unless one is squeamish about vegetables and their rights, the greengrocers shop is far less problematical. Here, in the world of the legume and the tuber, I feel much more at ease. In my youth however - as indicated earlier - it didn’t matter much one way or the other. Butcher or Brussels-sprout merchant - both were unquestionable heroes in my book. To me the greengrocers shop held something of an all-round appearance of Christmas. Where in these northern temperate latitudes could one find such a tropical temple of colour and delight? If a humming bird flew off of the shelves and hovered over a potted-hyacinth, who would be surprised? But at Christmas the already sumptuous exotica was augmented. There, was the geography of the real world, and the geography of an inventive childhood. From exactly what corners - if corners, is not a contradiction in terms - of the actual globe, those fruits came from, I couldn’t have told you. But in the forests of my imagination I knew every shrub, bush and tree. I lived in one of those vivid two-dimensional worlds so excitingly recreated in the paintings of Henri Rousseau. It was a tiger-striped, kaleidoscopically leaved world of chromatic intensity. Bananas were yellow tusks, walnuts, the fossilized brains of pygmies. Tangerines were the crazed orange eyes of long-extinct creatures haunting the frog croaking, bat-winged, under storey of a dripping rainforest. There were succulent figs, tempting apples, and the ‘Spickand Span’ cleavage of round, ripe, juicy melons. I was in the grip of the serpent. It was paradise and I was soon to lose it. Still, as Milton said, what’s lost can be regained, and who was I to argue with Milton?
As the evening approached the atmosphere was saturate with anticipation. Dew point was nearing. Soon the air would be precipitate with laughter and merriment. All weather would be good weather and even the rain-reviled forecasters themselves would be temporarily forgiven their meteorological sins. In the kitchen things were hotting up again. Squat and trussed in its baking-tray sat a plump, pink-fleshed capon. Turkey was out of our league at that time. But the capon itself was enough of a rarity to turn our minds away from the do-gooding, middle-classed, gobble-gobble-did-a lots on Snob’s Hill. That’s Clay Hill Road Vange, for those of you with an interest or a degree in ordinance-survey and cartography. A joint of beef as big as a battering ram was already lodged and sizzling in the oven; strange to think of the overdraft now incurred for even the slightest nibble of a salt-beef sandwich! Home economics and farm subsidies are still a closed shop to me, I’m afraid. In the living room, bottles of beer, spirits, port-wine and cordials were lined up along the clean-clothed and festive sideboard. Below, on the floor, was my domain. Lemonade, cream soda, Tizer and many another effervescent, bubbles up the nose, burp-inducing vintage awaited the frothing palate of the budding connoisseur. Loose sweets, fruit and nuts, nestled in glass and china bowls. Sugared-almonds - like clutches of new-laid eggs - were almost too much for this particular tree-climbing nest-robber. But all was to be left alone until after midnight and the traditional boot up the backside was the last thing I needed as an additional gift. Letters to the North Pole had specifically avoided mention of such unwanted presentations. To occupy ourselves before churchgoing we sat down in front of the television. That haunted fish-tank had already begun to take over the role of entertainment. Between my grandparents and myself, seemed to lie the transformational hinterland separating self-creativity and other more passive, vicarious forms of existence. Some parents, some aunts and uncles, some cousins even, could still play a musical instrument, sing a song or recite a poem from memory. Sadly, the indoor arts were gradually being lost and the fun of the great outdoors - which I so richly enjoyed - was soon to follow suit. Once our parents biggest problem was getting us in, whereas now they find it difficult to prise their offspring away from the magnetic influence of the flickering screen. How can they convince them that there is a world beyond the pixels, and that virtual reality is no substitute for the experience of the real thing? For all its claims towards modern technology the fuzzy 14” black and white set in the corner of our living-room had something of the air of a dishevelled, antiquated aunt about it, when seen in comparison with the otherwise bright and bountiful surroundings. The post-war sociological shift towards greater and greater prosperity for the working classes seemed inexorable. Who would have believed then - with the ration-book coming to a welcome end and the National Health Service already the envy of the world - that the Nineties and the Thirties would find themselves with so much in common? Crash! Bang! Wallop!
“Let us pray.” ....... The time for midnight mass was nigh.Church was never one of my favourite places. Not only did it represent hours of unrelieved boredom, but the apostolic order in its infinite wisdom had decided that we were to be bored in Latin! But on Christmas Eve even religion in a foreign tongue was tolerable. The ear-scrubbing, boot-polishing, tiestraightening preliminaries were as tedious as ever, but this was the holy night, the spirit was undaunted. Our church at that time - known as the Church of the Sacred Heart - was at the top of an unmade road leading on to Vange ‘High Street.’ The large brick-built church of St Basil’s had yet to be constructed - more of that later. The Church of the Sacred Heart was no bigger than the prefabs we had left behind in London, and if my memory serves me well, made mostly of the same materials. I think it had asbestos side panelling - though on reflection they may have been pebble-dashed. It definitely had the luxury of a wooden roof though, with a cross to match. Inside at that time of year and especially at that time of night the atmosphere was decidedly ecstatic. In such a confined space, the ringing of bells, the shaking of incense burners, and the waxy fumes emanating from Advent-candles, combined to focus one’s deepest spiritual attention. Before the mass proper there was carol singing, some in Latin and some in English. Drunks were not unusual and in fact greatly augmented the otherwise patchy congregations. Alcohol, swaying, and songs it appears, go together. Unfortunately, so do snores, belches and other unmentionable outlets for excess gases. Priests were used to this yearly outbreak of scurrilous profanity and took it in their reverential stride. Personally I was always torn between the seriousness of the occasion and the ensuing bathos that the involuntary bodily functions seemed to provide. Outright ribald laughter was out of the question of course, but the tittering escape of suppressed mirth was unavoidable. This too - in deference to the momentous events being symbolized - was excused. It seemed to me that the licence afforded at Christmas was something that should be granted to the rest of the year - although I never mentioned it as such. One doesn’t want to push one’s luck too far, does one? What with the voices, the crib, the gold, frankincense and myrrh of it all, if Caspar, Melchior and Balthazar had come sailing through the nave on their ships of the desert, I for one would not have been taken aback.
On returning home through the moon-silvered and starlit Christmas streets, that sense of difference so much associated with that one night of the year was almost tangible. Windows for once, as well as receiving light were returning it in a multicoloured brilliance. Strings of illuminated bulbs looped from the eaves of the houses of the better off like nocturnal rainbows. Fairy lights winked from trees in coy corners and the glass-chinking, bell-ringing, riotous welcome to the joys of the Nativity rang out from shack and villa alike. Back indoors, the metaphorical ribbon of our tacit understanding was invisibly cut and the proceedings formally opened. Having fasted in preparation for Holy communion I was more than ready for my first sampling of the seasonal delights. Sausage-rolls and pickled onions were scoffed at an irreverent speed, closely followed by a cheek-bulging mountain of mince pies. The first gulp of Tizer - the juvenile equivalent to a slug of whisky - found its mark. Eyes watered, breath exploded, and a shower of froth and soggy crumbs plastered the surrounding revellers. Bed was suggested and not wishing to offend the Spirit of Christmas Future, I complied obediently with the request. Father, staunch Protestant that he must have been in the eyes of Rome – although, not in his own I hasten to add - hadn’t been to church. His major role in the festivities was yet to be performed. Having never caught him in the act - so to speak - I couldn’t tell you whether or not he dressed appropriately for that theatrical event. Suffice it to say that the sherry was drunk, mince pies were eaten and stockings filled. No further evidence would be needed on my part to validate the existence of that jolly old man of the north. Before one could delve into the expected treasures, the unwelcome dream-ways of a few hours sleep had to be negotiated. From my bedroom there was a clear view of St Michael’s Church across the fields and copses. It was a typical Norman church, built out of Kentish ragstone. Perched on the top of its hill, floodlit and encircled by tall elms, it was the epitome of all that’s sentimental in the British Christmas-card. In those days sentimentality came easily to me and I felt no need of shame in the face 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.
