Wishing and hoping...

Press, 28 December 1985, Page 8

Wishing and hoping...

Helen Brown

It’s supposed to-be a great time for kids. My own childhood experience of the festive season was dominated by three little words. Go to sleep. On Christmas Eve, when I was desperate for Santa to arrive, they packed me off to bed. They said time would go faster that way. I lay in a sticky heap of anticipation for hours, years, imagining reindeer silhouettes dancing across the wallpaper. Was that tinkling sound really my father putting out the milk bottles? Or was it something mysterious and miraculous?

There was a rustling sound coming from the livingroom, but my parents always rustled like that on Christmas Eve.

As I tossed and twisted, the sheets seemed to sprout more crumbs by the second. When at last my eyelids sprang apart, I sat bolt upright in bed. Breathless with excitement, I ran to my parents’ room. “For heaven’s sake! It’s two in the morning.” I staggered back to bed

like a defeated soldier. An hour later, I tried my sister. Then my brother. They were all curled up like larvae in their beds. Croaky-voiced and extremely unfestive. One of the disadvantages of being baby of the family is that people seem to like you best when you’re asleep. Around 6.30, Fd be able to Crise my sister out, then my rather and parents. Ten minutes later, when the presents were all opened and admired, I’d collapse exhausted on the sofa.

New Year’s Eve was another matter. Although nobody was rash enough to tell me to stay awake, I got the message. Staying awake till midnight on New Year’s Eve was every bit as hard as going to sleep on Christmas Eve.

My parents usually invited their friends around — women with red lipstick, hideous laughs and what appeared to be an unwholesome appetite for gin. Men with white shirts and an addiction to Brylcreem. Ipassed the peanuts and

emptied the ashtrays, but I knew they were waiting for me to go to bed. I went to my sister’s room and willed myself to stay awake through Dexter Dutton on her radio. I didn’t get past the first paint advertisement I’d be out to it by 8.30. My first “adult” New Year’s Eve was equally fulfilling. I was painfully in love with a dark-haired student who had asked me out He said he’d pick me up

at 7.30. By BJO, I had memorised every curve of the dusty telephone. At 9.45 by the kitchen clock, I fought back a single tear. He rang next day to apologise and offer to escort me to a beach party that night I tried to reel affectionate when he and two of his mates lined up in the moonlit shore and ceremonially contributed to the sea. But somehow the magic had worn thin. The best New Year’s Eve happened almost by accident five years ago. It was the first real party my Ets had had for years, house seemed to fill spontaneously with people. A neighbour brought an old fiddle with only three strings. A musician friend propped it under his chin and set the air alive with folk music.

In a matter of seconds, the furniture was pushed back and the dancing began — simply because it couldn’t be helped. My father expanded into the role of host His face was glowing and his eyes were ablaze. I think it was the last time I saw him

ecstatically happy. When the clock struck twelve, everyone joined hands and sang Auld Lang Syne. For once, it seemed . an entirely natural thing to do.

I woke next morning with . a throbbing head and a suspicion I had been kissed by one of the neighbour’s extremely shy sons. This year win be like most of the others. We’ll sit in front of television. He’ll clip his toe nails. I’ll look in ‘ the fridge and see if it needs ■ cleaning. Around 10.30, I’ll listen to the footsteps of dark, handsome strangers walking ‘ past our front gate. He’ll put the cat out I’ll ' take “The Bone People” to bed. As I drift to sleep, I may or may not hear the sound of ships’ sirens in the * harbour. It wffl be 1986 and I’ll ; hardly know it But at least there won’t be anything to feel guilty about in the morning. *

We regret that Helen Brown •» will no longer be writing a weekly column for The « Press.’ Z