A place to develop writing skills

My brother and I used to hunt for our presents; it was one of the rituals before Christmas and our birthday. At the age of four, there were many places we were not allowed to go in the house, and I can see now that it would have been easy for our parents to hide our presents there, but they did not; at least, not all of them. It was always possible to find at least one present each and to go through the ritual of first gazing on it, then touching it, then lifting and shaking it, desperately trying to guess what was hidden under the green and red skin of this wonderful beast.

Our fourth Christmas, however, my brother went too far. He had seen the presents being hidden behind the door in the front room and when Mother and Father were elsewhere in the house, he dragged me in there, behind the sofa to see what we might find. His present was about the size of a violin case, though rectangular in shape, and try as he might, he could not guess what it might be. But my present was huge; a box nearly as tall as I was, and impossible to lift. I was almost paralysed with delight at the sheer enormity of the gift but my brother was jealous. When you are four, winning and losing are measured in so many ways, and the size and number of presents received are one of those metrics.

At first he tried to get me to rip the paper, to expose what lay underneath, but I would not, could not despoil such a delightful sight. When I would not move, he called me a coward, and a baby, scared of Mother and Father and he pushed me to emphasise his dominance. I pushed back and we fought with the familiarity of twins, each knowing just how to hurt the other, but holding back just enough to stop from real damage. But then he declared that if I would not open the present he would, and he reached out his hand towards the blood red ribbon that encircled it. What could I do? I could not let him ruin my present, or Christmas. I slapped his hand, hard, and then his face, and we fought in earnest; me to protect that which was mine, and him to survive.

Jessica came for Christmas - her parents had emigrated to Australia to be with her younger sister and she started work on New Years Day, so could not afford to travel out to see them. I wanted so much for her to be happy, and had spent many hours and more money than I could afford decorating the house, cooking food, buying presents.

She arrived at the railway station and I met her with red roses in my hand; we hugged and kissed and she told me more stories of her work and I listened and countered with little tales; who had married, which children had been born, who had died and been buried under the ashes in the churchyard. We walked from the station to the house, carrying her bag in one hand, her arm through my other, and I was happy; happier than I had been in a very long time. She filled my life with her experiences and I told her this over and over; how much she meant to me, how much I loved her, how scared I was that she would get bored of me and this little village and my old house and would leave me.

I tried too hard. I know I did. Instead of being fun and entertaining, I was boisterous and cloying. I would not leave her alone yet when she came to speak with me while I was oiling the lock on the door I lashed out in anger, hurting her in the way that only a lover can. I am not proud of myself for that. I saw my father’s face in the mirror that day.

I knew that Jessica would never talk to me again after that.

The Star represents hope, peace and continuity - fluid thought - intuition.

When I was seven, I took part in my school’s nativity play. There were far more children that there were significant parts, but I escaped the indignity of being a sheep. Instead I was to play the Star of Bethleham, suspended over the stable, guiding the three kings to the birthplace of the baby Jesus.

My lines were few, my costume tinfoil; my mother carefully gluing strips of it to an old white shirt that belonged to my father, checking with him which one it was permissible to use.

The opening night I stood on the chair on the table that was the heavens and I folded my arms until it was my turn to shine. I could see my mother in the audience and the empty seat next to her. My father was a very busy man.

The play continued and each set of parents applauded as my school friends stepped forwards to say their lines. Then, just as the three kings spoke to Herod of a star in the east, I saw my father appear at the back of the hall. He was obviously unwell, swaying off balance and shouting though I could not tell what he was saying. My mother left her seat and ran to him and he obviously must have fell against her because as she approached him she fell over and he was reaching out to her.

The spotlight shone in my face and I could not see through the tears that the sudden bright light brought.

I said my lines and stretched my arms out wide and stayed at Billy Smith’s house that evening.

We used to sing carols together, before my father left us. He and mother would sing, with their arms around each other, and I would try to keep up; try to be part of their circle.

My father would start. He had his favourites, which we would join in with as quickly as possible.

*"Come they told me"*

That was my cue. "Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum" I would sing, beating in time on the floor, or with a wooden spoon on a biscuit tin.

*"A new born king to see"*

And again, I would hammer away, with more enthusiasm than rhythm. And we would go through that song, twice, three times in the evening. My father loved that carol, and I loved the ending.

I played my drum for Him
Pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him
Pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum
Then He smiled at me
Pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum

One Christmas; I think I was five, I didn't have to use a biscuit tin. My father had bought me a drum for a present. It was green and red, the colours of Christmas, and it had two drumsticks like a proper drum should. Like the drums the soldiers used to wear. When I swung it around my neck and marched up and down the hall, practicing what I imagined at the time were impressive drum rolls, my father laughed and applauded, inciting me to play longer and louder. My mother had a headache, I remember. She did not enjoy the drum, but my father spoke to her in the lounge while I was in the hall, and she went upstairs to bed for a while, and I continued my marching.

My father smiled at me; me and my drum.