Christmas Day by Judy Mitchell

Opposite the old church and at the top of High Street, was the park, its land generously purchased and developed by a local benefactor whose name it had borne for more than twenty years. It was a place livelier in summer when nurses with their large prams pushed well bundled babies under its leafy canopies and where families strolled along its serpentine paths, their feet unintentionally falling into step with the distant sound of a brass band playing on the solid, iron bandstand. Later, before returning to their villas on the main routes out of the town, these families would pause to admire the tinkling waters of the fountains and acknowledge those they knew with a tip of their gleaming hats or the slightest smile and incline of their pretty heads.

When the first frosts crisped the paths, the park gates were locked to keep out those they thought might seek shelter in its pavilions and so, until spring, only two gardeners were allowed entry. Only they saw the beauty of the snowdrops on the banks of the rill or the Christmas Lenten Rose’s first flowers, with its white blooms flushed with soft pink or with dusky, maroon flowers circling rich yellow stamens, all nodding coyly in borders rimed with ice. The job of the gardeners was to keep out vagrants and to turn over the rich, loamy soil and prune the selection of exotic shrubs and trees shipped at great expense from the furthest corners of the Empire.  

Every year, two days before Christmas, with their breath steaming in the early morning stillness, the gardeners clipped the holly and bay trees and the carefully cultivated spirals of ivy. As the winter light slipped away and with their barrows full, they delivered the green foliage to the home of the park’s creator to be transformed into wreaths and garlands and boughs to adorn the large front door and the stairs rising from the grand entrance hall. The second barrowful was taken to a very different place in the town; the Workhouse next to the inky, black canal which ran directly towards the smoky city where the benefactor’s chimneys gushed and rushed their foul outpourings of dye and bleach into the sooty, grey sky.

Then it was Christmas Day. In the wide hallway of the town’s largest house, a tall fir tree was lit by candles and decorated with sweeties wrapped in twists of fancy coloured paper. Soft-shoed servants stood silently waiting for guests to arrive before taking them to sit on rich crimson seats by a blazing fire. For each adult there was ruby wine in a sparkling glass through which the glow of the fire became golden beams of light as if angels danced on the warming and spiced nectar.

Children stood tall by their parents, eyes alight with festive brightness, marvelling at the magic in the very word Christmas. All was kindness and benevolence, smiles and warmth from young and old, the rich and the not-so-rich. Their voices hummed with pleasure, joyful in the warm cocoon that was this home.

At the appointed hour, the double doors opened and before them was a table groaning under the weight of a gold-rimmed dinner service, sparkling glasses and silver cutlery set out with precision. The candles in wall sconces made magical shadow pictures on the ceiling and on the table, silver candelabras lit the jewels on the slender necks of the ladies. Then came loud murmurs of approval at the arrival of the largest turkey they had ever seen. An hour later, a staggering servant struggled in with a gigantic steamed pudding, dark and rich and smelling of oranges, figs and fruit from the warmest climes.

Cheeks became rosy with the warmth of the fires and the mellow after-glow of excellent wines and food as they gathered together to listen to those family members who each year were called upon to sing the most tasteful of arias and ballads for the guests. What a joyous celebration!

Across town, in a tall, dark, jagged-edged building with a chimney and large yard, a long queue of inmates stood at midday with hunched shoulders, waiting to enter the dining hall.  Festoons of gaudy, coloured paper were suspended in swags from the damp, limewashed walls. The garlands of evergreens that had been collected from the park only two days earlier, were tied with brown string and interspersed with paper banners with seasonal mottoes. The Master and Matron looked on as the queue shuffled forward in clogs that rung out sharply on the hard stone floor.

When the Workhouse Guardians arrived with their ladies in furs and wraps, they each nodded with smug, self-satisfaction at the orderliness of the tables and the cleanliness of most of the diners. As always, there were one or two who fell under the gaze of one of the sternest do-gooders, who noticed their necks and fingernails seemed to have escaped the extra soap made available, at great expense, to support the Workhouse aims of cleanliness, order and discipline. 

For each man and woman, there was pork, parsnips and sprouts with large helpings of mashed potatoes. The sound of sunken lips smacking together marked the start of the meal and empty gums slapped and chafed against the slices of tough pork and slightly undercooked potatoes. If the pudding had been cooked for less time there may have been some moisture left in the dried fruit that was sprinkled sparingly throughout the round bomb-like dessert but all agreed it had been a veritable feast. There were oranges and apples to follow and each man got one ounce of tobacco with a pipe. By mid-afternoon the fug of smoke in the day rooms was worse than any London fog that had ever swathed the capital in its grey blanket-like embrace.

For the old ladies, there was an allowance of snuff. When dithering hands failed to lift the tawny dust to nostrils, the powdered mixture settled on the chairs and for days after, had the effect of inducing loud, wet sneezing episodes which echoed across the dining hall.

To bring the day to an end, the Master introduced members of the local church choir. They urged the inmates to join them in the singing of carols and along the stark, whitewashed passageways and up the stairs, the stuttering words of ‘I saw three ships’ and later ‘Hark the Herald Angels,’ lifted into the cold air. Just for a short while, some forgot their poverty and the sad and lonely forgot their misery. Some even believed, as they went to their beds, that there really was peace on earth and that God and sinners had been reconciled.