Christmas past and present—Tricia McGill

 

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As another year draws to a close, I have to admit that I will not be sad to see it go. It has not been one of the best for me personally, so I look forward to the new one in the hopes that it will be better. Yesterday as always this time of the year, I was reminiscing about Christmas’s past and thanking my stars that my childhood was one of the best, as I was surrounded by a family who, although not rich by any means, were intent on making Christmastime festive and fun.

One of my earliest and most vivid memories was waking up while it was still dark on Christmas Day, knowing that Santa had already been. Near my bed was a wooden cot for my doll—a replica of a real babe’s cot. I never did learn which one of my older brothers made it. The small covers atop the china doll who lay in it were likely the work of one or two of my sisters, or perhaps my mother. They were all seamstresses. At that time I was probably about four or five. All of us girls slept in the same cold and draughty old room and probably ice had formed on the inside of the window panes of our tenement house in North London.

More memories sprang to life then. I recall receiving a miniature cooker plus all the appropriate pots and pans, and I would spend hours in a corner of the living room preparing make-believe meals. Another of my favourite gifts were the paper doll books that I adored. In fact, I think they were the best gift ever. I guess it was inevitable that I ended up in the fashion industry, but sadly I never did particularly take to preparing meals and spend as little time in the kitchen as I possibly can.

Christmas Day was a rowdy affair in our home. One of my brothers dressed up as Santa Claus and would distribute the presents from around the tree. No mobiles, tablets or mechanised toys in those days, but along with the paper doll books there would be at least one picture book for me and perhaps a box of handkerchiefs. Like all good things of course those halcyon days had to pass as one by one the family began to go their separate ways. I often wonder how our mother coped with going from a large brood of ten to the two or three of us that remained at least until we were wed. Always she kept her emotions to herself. I only saw her shed tears once and that was on the day of our beloved Dad’s funeral. I guess that was what was expected of wives and mothers in those days—carry on as best one can and keep your feelings closely guarded.

Christmas Eve holds special memories also as it was on that evening many years ago that I met my husband to be. We danced the night away—rocking and rolling of course—and if my memory serves me well there was a tram strike that night so it was a long walk home from Tottenham to Highbury (Londoners will know what I mean).

As we move swiftly into 2023, I wish everyone the best of times. May the New Year bring you happiness and above all good health.