It was Chrismas Eve, almost my bedtime, all was ready for Christmas Day. Our most favourite Aunt, Mum's sister Annie and Uncle George had arrived to spend Christmas with us, as they did every year. Uncle George had brought an enormous chicken all ready for the oven. He had been fattening it up for months and now it sat in the pantry alongside a leg of pork. Already I could smell the wonderful, rich aroma of roasting pork and chicken.
The men had gone to the Castle Inn, Dad's local,run by Arthur Day and his wife, for a Christmas pint; Mum, Aunt Annie, my brothers and sister and I had hung up the coloured paper chains we had been making for the past three days and the Christmas tree stood, resplendent with it's shiny baubles, tinsel and chocolate snowmen.
As the youngest member of the family I was the only one now who hung up a Christmas stocking, [ well, actually, one of Dad's socks ], and now it was time.
"Can I have my sock to hang up Mum", I asked. There was a pause.
"Oh, er, well! er! We thought you would feel too old now Eileen,to hang up a stocking. Don't you think you are a bit big now?"
The words hit me like a terrible blow. Too big? too old? I was always being told-- no, you can't do that, you are too young.-- now, suddenly, when it really matters, I am too old! And to spring it on me on Christmas Eve. Bitterly disappointed I could not speak. The whole room had gone quiet, everyone was looking at me. I stood for some moments taking in the, to me, shattering words, then turned and trudged despondently up to bed, the magic of Christmas suddenly dimmed.
As I lay curled up in my bed I consoled myself with the thought that there would be other presents for me to open but still, the Christmas stocking had always come first, always. I was still awake when a knock came on my door and my brother Laurence poked his head around. "Never mind, Eileen", he said. "Maybe Santa will change his mind, you never know", and with that, I did what I thought would be impossible, I fell asleep.
The next thing I knew it was very early Christmas morning. As I opened my eyes in the dim light I saw a dark shape on the pillow, beside my head. I put up a hand and touched it. Was it? could it be? I leapt out of bed and switched on the light and wonder of wonders, there was my Christmas stocking, bulging with little mysteries.
Back in bed, warm and cosy, happy and excited, I delved into it's contents and it did not disappoint. A hairslide, a comb and a tiny mirror, a bag of boiled sweets, some colouring pencils, a lace edged hankie, an apple, a tangerine and, wrapped in tissue paper and tucked into the toe, a sixpenny piece, burnished and polished until it shone like a star There was one more special present. Beatrice, my older married sister, had happened to be at our house the previous evening and witnessed the no stocking drama. While the rest of the family rallied round to see what they could get together she dashed home to Frogmire Road, finished off a pixie bonnet she had been knitting for me and brought it back, so that it, too, could go in my stocking. She made three journeys, on foot, between our two houses, on a cold and snowy Christmas Eve. It was ten o'clock that night before she was back in her own home.
I shall never forget my last Christmas stocking and all the love that went into it, all for a little sister who wasn't quite ready to grow up.
