Christmas 1966

Still smarting from Geoff Bray’s mockery, I called for a pass from Paul Parker when playing football in the playground at break time. Only I didn’t pronounce his name as I’d always pronounced it. ‘Pawl! Pawl!’ I shouted, the southern way. It went unnoticed as I took the pass from Paul and got on with the game.

‘That’s good. Who is it?’ asked Mister Brown, looking over my shoulder in the Art class.

‘The Virgin Mary,’ I said, adding more powder paint to my palette. I don’t suppose many Upbury kids painted the Madonna, never mind an eleven year old in an Art exam. But that was me. Influenced by religion perhaps, but not religiously motivated. My choice just happened to be compatible with a wish to be grown up and sensible.

I was quietly proud when the exam results came out. I came top in Art and did well in most subjects. Knowing just enough about semibreves and minims scraped an average mark in Music and the avoidance of total disgrace in Science and French helped me to the respectable position of eighth in the class. With the top places being dominated by girls, I was pleased to be 1A1’s highest placed boy.

Dad rarely took an interest in how his boys were doing at school, yet he was always keen to see our reports. Good ones were set aside with little comment. Bad ones sparked holy hell, but I had nothing to fear this time and there was no need to make myself scarce when he came home from work.

Christmas was different now I was a big kid, though I was pleased to be off school for the holiday. Gone were the days of cadging a sheet of Mam’s best Basildon Bond to write a note for Father Christmas and send it up the chimney. Mam had let me in on the big secret the previous year, yet as wonderful as it had been to stay up late and help wrap presents, the satisfaction was fleeting and counted for little on Christmas morning when I awoke to the loss of a magic gone forever. I was still hopeful of a few presents though, notably a Hotspur annual and a real leather football that I’d been hinting at for ages.

‘You’ll just have to wait and see,’ said Mam, whenever I raised the subject. Not the answer I wanted to hear, but it kept me on my toes and as motivated as my brothers as we followed Dad’s orders on the countdown to Christmas Day. Between us we did everything we could to help Mam; we ran errands to the shops and washed up, we hoovered and tidied, and we cleaned the sticky marks off the woodwork and doors; scrubbing them until they were shining like a shilling up a sweep’s bum, as Dad was oft to say.

Inevitably, with so much tension and devious goodwill around, something had to go wrong, and it always seemed to happen as Dad arrived home from work. A flare up with one of my brothers ended abruptly when Dad appeared in the front room doorway.

‘Come here you bugger!’

And lo, hours of saintly behaviour were wiped out in an instant as seasons greetings were extended to the lughole.

Cleaning the ashes from the grate the following morning was a good way of getting back in good books. As was chucking the ashes in the dustbin and filling the scuttle at the coal bunker. So was building up a new fire and lighting it, using a large sheet of newspaper to help draw the fire up the chimney. Sometimes the paper caught alight and got sucked up the chimney. When that happened, a quick dash to the window was rewarded with a glimpse of a flaming newspaper disintegrating over a neighbour’s garden. Once the fire had taken and the fireguard was back in position, I sat back and shivered till dinnertime, by which time the ice on the window would be gone. Soon after, it would melt on the outside of the window as well.

Brothers Dave and Mike quizzed me about Father Christmas. I knew from their smirking faces they were only looking for some big brotherly confirmation, but I wasn’t at liberty to say. As it happened they got what they wanted on Christmas Eve when Mam cut them in on the deal and recruited them for elf duty. As soon as the little ones were tucked up for the night and Dad had cleared off to the social club, Mam and her three helpers tiptoed round the house and retrieved bags and packages from all kinds of hiding places and carried them to the front room. We weren’t allowed to see what was in the bags Mam set aside, but that didn’t stop me trying to spot something round and ball-shaped.

By the time we’d finished wrapping and sellotaping, and then cleaned up a mess of paper, packaging and stray nutshells, it was getting late. Needing us out of the way to complete the job, Mam sent us up the wooden hill with our hot water bottles.

Christmas came and Christmas went and with it went my hopes of getting a real football. I got my Hotspur annual though and I savoured the rare occasion that I was able to write my name in the ‘this book belongs to’ window on the opening page.

Dad was playing in a football match on Boxing Day morning. Two weeks had passed since Mam first mentioned Dad’s need to borrow my football socks, and two weeks of cautious pestering paid off when the big day came and Dad allowed me, Dave and Mike tag along.

On the touchline of a Civil Service Club pitch on the top road, I looked on with my brothers as the game kicked off. Dad playing football was a wonderful surprise. We didn’t even know he liked football. Other than threatening to clobber us if we didn’t keep quiet while Mam jotted down the football results to check her pools coupon on Saturdays, he’d never shown the slightest interest in football. But there he was out on the pitch in a pair of borrowed boots with his trousers tucked into my red and white football socks.

‘Come on Dad!’

It disappointed me that Dad wasn’t playing in full kit, but on a chilly morning, few did and he wasn’t alone in wearing a jumper. Shirts wouldn’t have been a bad idea though, just to give us a clue who was supposed to be kicking which way.

‘Come on Dad!’

Dad’s team were a goal down in no time… and two goals down soon after.

‘Come on Dad.’

Holding a defensive midfield position, Dad was slow getting to the ball. The game seemed to be passing him by.

'Come on Dad.'

Thank goodness for Ben, a drinking pal of Dad’s who sometimes called round to our house. Ben was a good ten years older than Dad, but he looked the part in his black tracksuit and when he put in a tackle and went on an impressive dribble, we finally had something to cheer. But for all Ben’s ability, Dad’s team were constantly under pressure and they soon conceded another goal. In a one sided first half it seemed the other team were younger, fitter and keener. Dad hadn’t got into his stride but he’d surely come good in the second half.

Come on Dad.

Another goal at the wrong end didn’t matter. We’d lost interest in the score; we just wanted Dad to do something; a tackle, a pass, anything.

Please Dad.

For the entire second half we stood and shivered in the hope that Dad would give us something to cheer, but it didn’t happen. As soon as the game ended, Dad was quick to point us in the direction of home and then dash off to the social club, where a barrel of beer was waiting for the participants of the football match.

Oh Dad.