FURTHERMORE
By Gerry Moran
Christmas was truly Christmas back then, precious and pure, like the children we were. I am maybe seven and the Christmas lights are twinkling, shimmering in the December dark; the shops on High Street, glittering, glowing, even the butchers with their pinky, red glow I find entrancing: turkeys, plump and pimply hanging in rows, chops, hams and steaks, all juicy red, promises of plates of plenty to come.
I see Liptons, the L&N and Elliots all bright and bursting at the seams with exotic Christmas fare: Turkish delight, fancy biscuits, figs. But our shop, the Mecca for us children is Griffin’s in Rose Inn Street, its windows crammed with toys; we were captivated by trains and tracks, Meccano sets, cowboy suits and guns,. And there are tea-sets, dolls, dolls’ houses and girly toys that go unnoticed by us boys mesmerised by some metallic robot that beeped and blinked and actually walked.
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Now I am twelve. It’s Christmas morning, the stars still out, the sky jet black and there’s a frost in the 5am air. Gently my father rouses me from sleep. “You’re serving,” he whispers and soon the kettle is singing and sweet, warm tea fills my belly. Out into the pitch-black darkness I slip, no street lights on, way too early. I rendezvous with Bobby, my best friend; we link each other down the street, fall in with Tommy Gaffney and Paul Short. Soon we’re skidding down Moore’s Hill, treacherous with ice, towards the Black Abbey, glowing like a lantern in the dark.
Christmas morning in the Black Abbey, six o’clock Mass and we four are serving, looking angelic almost, our surplices snow-white, freshly starched, our faces pale and wan with sleep. A stillness permeates the church. All is calm, all is bright as after Mass the infant Jesus is reverently placed in the crib, hushed with mystery and love. The miracle of Christmas. The presence of Christ, palpable almost in this ancient, hallowed place of worship. For me there will never be a more sacred Christmas memory. My soul as crystal clear as the frost, my young heart pure and pumping; my mind a glorious communion of Christmas joy and awe.
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Christmas will always hold for me the memory of my mother making the Christmas cake.
I see her now, standing in the soft light of the scullery, sleeves rolled, surrounded by cake tins, greaseproof paper, a battalion of bowls and an assortment of titbits that smelled strange and wonderfully different. I see that absorbed look on her face as she mixes butter, coarse brown sugar and chunks of candied-peel together, churning them into a crunchy mix that made my mouth water. I can smell the thick, dark treacle; can see the almonds, soaking, waiting to be peeled and chopped and the bottle of whiskey, standing silently to attention, soon to add its feisty taste to this festive concoction.
And later the family ritual of scraping the bowl as we’d attack the leftovers with soupspoons and the wooden spoon. And always it tasted better off the wooden spoon; perhaps it was the taste of timber mingling with the lingering licks of that creamy, treacly cake-mix. The cake itself, I often thought never quite tasted as exotic when cooked. Finally, the icing of the cake and that wonderful lumpy brown, almond undercoat that I would eat all night if I were let.
Then the pure white sweetness of the REAL icing and the tiny bottle of raspberry essence dominating the entire kitchen with its potent smell. And to finish it all off, the icing ON the icing. The writing on the top of the cake as my mother, with a cone of grease-proof paper, carefully and meticulously wrote ‘Happy Christmas And A Happy New Year”’ in startling pink across the snow-white cake-top. Even in this modern age of microwaves, and what-have-you, nothing can compare to the warmth and magic of a family kitchen at Christmas time – the sights, the sounds, the smells, the scraping of bowls, the licking of lips, the picking at tidbits.
And there, in the middle of it all, the woman of the house, mixing, measuring and making ready for the Big Day, the rich, mouth-watering Christmas Cake.
