Celebrations
Helen Byrne
Cathays in Central Cardiff. It’s Christmas Eve and I’m lying in bed. Not my bed, I’m in with my mum, and my dad is sleeping on the sofa. The reason for this? My nan on my dad’s side has come to stay for Christmas, and we’ve had to move about to accommodate her. I can’t sleep. The reason is this, what if Father Christmas finds my dad on the sofa and doesn’t leave me any presents? I’d asked for a new bike and would be so upset if it wasn’t there on Christmas morning. Apparently Father Christmas knew about the change of plans and knocked on the back door to be allowed in. Phew! Clever man.
Christmas was great fun. Well, if you listened to my mum it was. Dad didn’t enjoy it at all, and didn’t we all know about it. We had a ritual every year, Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve at St John’s Church in the centre of Cardiff, home and allowed to open one gift before bed. One year I opened the batteries in error and felt rather annoyed as I snuggled up in my bed. Then it was up early for the short service at eight in the morning at St Michael’s in Cathays, and back home for presents! Then we’d go to my maternal nan’s house not far from us in Cathays. The whole family would meet there before lunch. There would be people in every room, and all my cousins. Nan would be frantically making tea in her tiny metal teapot that magically held enough tea for everyone. The men would be in the front room, the best room, discussing men type things, and the women would be sitting with us children keeping us from bursting with excitement. Relatives and neighbours would be mingling and catching up, and nan would move on to serving the sherry to everyone. She’d always have a sneaky one herself as she poured them out. She’d close the sliding doors behind her as she went to the drinks cabinet in the middle room. We’d still be able to see her through the glass as she necked a sherry down, then refilled her glass. By the end of the morning she’d be mildly wobbly from the extra glasses of sherry she gave herself. My uncle worked in a brewery and there was always a large stack of lager cans in the corner of the middle room. The cans were adorned with photos of scantily clad ladies, and nan would throw a blanket over them to preserve their modesty. This was the 1970s and women were useful for selling lager. Nan would be in her element playing hostess to so many people, and my grandfather stayed in the kitchen washing dishes and putting the kettle on again. He was happier there as he had hearing loss and struggled to hear everyone and was happier behind the scenes. Then it would be time to say goodbye to everyone and head home for lunch. It always amazed me to see Cardiff so quiet. Hardly a car on the road, not a person in sight, the absolute opposite of the bustling city it always was.
Dad would have done all the preparation for lunch as he enjoyed cooking. We’d sit at the table and enjoy a feast, sitting under a ceiling adorned with paper chains and metallic stars, looking out of windows covered in snowflakes made of fake snow from a can. I’d rush my lunch down for fear of missing the Christmas Top Of The Pops. We weren’t a particularly royalist family but would watch the Queen’s speech. Then it was time for the Christmas Day film. In the days when films took ages to go from the cinema to the television, and videos didn’t exist, it was a real event to watch the blockbuster on Christmas afternoon. After that it would be something like Blankety Blank and then Morecambe and Wise. By this time I’d be struggling to stay awake, but there was no way I was going to bed on such a magical day. I wanted the magic to last forever. One year I had a black and white portable as a present. I woke up on Boxing Day with my new television in my room. The absolute luxury of sitting in bed and watching Boxing Day morning television in my room was more than I could have ever dreamed of. I got some breakfast and took it back to bed, making sure I didn’t drop one crumb on the bedding, and feeling like the Queen herself. I then got my Christmas stocking out and began scoffing the contents of that in bed too. I had found my place in life finally.
My family and friends were a sociable group, and there were always parties to attend. Special anniversaries, birthdays, engagements, any occasion that required a buffet and a disco. A room would be hired and we’d all head off for a fun night. Disco was still a big thing and we’d start the night having a bit of a dance. Then the moment would come, the music would go quiet and the DJ would announce ‘the buffet is open’. The awkwardness of not wanting to appear to rush to the front of the queue would mean lots of people looking like they didn’t care but were quietly shuffling towards the table. Once the first brave souls had started a queue it was every man for themselves. We’d stand in a line, pretending we didn’t really care whilst bobbing around looking to see what the hold up was. As people left the table, we’d admire their plates and looks would be exchanged which said ‘how much food have they got on that plate?’ Then it was our turn. Sausage rolls, cheese on sticks, sandwiches, scotch eggs and so much more stretched out before us. The phrase was repeated time and again, ‘Ooo they’ve put on a good spread haven’t they?’, whilst remembering not to pile our plates high for fear of being judged by the remaining queue. Then we’d dance the night away before last orders were called and it was time to go, tired but happy.
I found a photograph of my family on a holiday in Spain in the 1970s. My grandparents, mum, dad and me, and my uncle. We were going out for dinner and we were all dressed in our finery. The thought of going to Spain and packing your suit now seems ludicrous. We went abroad a lot when I was a child, going to Tunisia just after Star Wars had been released and being shown some of the locations they used. It wasn’t a tourist destination at that point, and we got to experience life as the local people were living it. My uncle thought it was a great idea to pose behind the sign for a butcher. It was a cow’s head hanging from a hook. He emerged from behind it looking rather green. We shopped in the local market and mum suddenly became the queen of bartering. She’d walk off from the stall as the owner chased her, laughing and shouting new prices for her to consider. It was so much fun, and we came away with a few cherished items. Dad took me to a small perfume seller that had tiny bottles of oil to buy. I chose an orange oil and loved it so much. To this day I still seek out orange oils to put on my skin, and I’m transported back to that market for a moment.
Holidays in this country would be a trip to Devon or Cornwall with the car packed with everything we may need, and more. There would be a small space in the back for me to slide into and we were off. I’d resist asking ‘how much longer?’ as the journey seemed endless. Then finally we’d arrive and settle into our temporary home for a few weeks. Caravans seemed quite the magical place to me, until it would rain and we’d have to endure the sound of rain on the roof, or the inevitable pad, pad, pad of gulls early in the morning as they attempted to wake us up. I hated leaving to come home, I’d sit in the back of the car feeling melancholy that we were returning home. The trip home always seemed to go much faster and soon we’d be crossing the Severn Bridge, heading back to Wales. As we approached Cardiff the game was always who would be the first one to spot a Cardiff Bus. I’d stare out of the window, hoping it was me. We were back and here was my home again. As we pulled up outside the house neighbours would wave and chat, and I’d take the opportunity to run up to my bedroom and check that my black and white portable television was still there. I’d missed the luxury of watching Swap Shop in bed while we were away. We’d return to our daily lives, waiting for the next opportunity to escape and be free. Would I be able to squeeze my telly into the car next time I wonder?