Our parents had always made a big thing of Christmas in the past. Possibly as a reaction
to England's post war austerity, we kids had
been used to receiving literally swags of toys from 'Father Christmas'. But this year
looked as if it would be a pretty bleak time. Here it was Christmas Eve and our Mom's
purse had been stolen just days
before with all of her hard earned holiday money in it. This was the money which was
supposed to have funded our already meagre Christmas celebration.
The atmosphere
at Girraween, the house at the top of Terries Hill, behind the township of
Belgrave, was drear. Although the silver tinsle Christmas tree
was up, bright and sparkling in the
Australian sunshine, there were still very few parcels under it and that didn't bode well for the
following Christmas morning.
It had been a difficult year since the family had immigrated to Australia. Looking back now
after raising my own two sons, I marvel at the sheer foolhardy courage of my parents, bringing
themselves and six small children halfway across the world to an unknown country with barely
enough for a weeks grocery in their pockets. Months spent in the migrant hostal in
Nunawading had been resolve sapping and our Mom had begun to talk constantly about her
disappointment with this new life. She wanted to go back to the familier things. The English
corner shops; the double decker buses; her family and friends. To the English way of life. That
way of life that had seemed so dull and resticted before now grew golden in her memory. A
wonderful thing that she had foolishly thrown away...for what? To be called a 'Bloody Pom'? To be
accused of taking jobs away from good Aussies? To live in broken down old houses out in the
wilderness of Belgrave and The Patch? To scrimp and struggle just to make ends meet and to be
so very, very lonely? How she must have yearned for that beautiful Council home she had left
behind in Britain and the family Christmas Celebrations that would now be taking place back home.
Our parents had departed early that Christmas Eve morning in the old, black Ford and we kids were left to find
our own lunches and entertain ourselves. Not that this was unusual. We had grown used to taking care of
ourselves since our Mom now had no choice but to work. Being the eldest, at 13 years of age, I seemed to be the
one left in charge with my sister, Lorraine, as second in command. To be honest the responsibilities
of command had never sat comfortably on my shoulders. I am ashamed to admit it now, but I
often yearned back then to have been an only child. That was not the hand fate had dealt me and I grow
more and more grateful of it with every passing year. After lunch that day Lorraine and I decided
to take the six of us down to the swimming pool where most of Belgrave's kids congregated during
the hot Australian summer. On the way back we reached the top of Terries Hill and took a moment
to catch our breath after the steep climb. The rugged, harsh Australian bush lay spread out below us,
wavering in the intense heat. A pair of Crimson Rosella parrets flashed by. Somewhere down below
a Kookaburra chortled raucously and the shrill rise and fall of cicadas filled the air.
Raymond, the baby, curled up in his pushchair, slept soundly despite the flies that buzzed about his
chubby little face. The two older boys, Trevor and Desmond, scrapped about abit. The heat
kept their more homicidal tendancies in check. Jeanette looked as if she was about to
crumble under the weight of the heat. Her boney little legs, all knobles and angles, still in her
bathing costume.
Lorraine's flushed face matched her bright hair. Her natural firey nature meant she
always found the spirit to carry on, no matter what. Always a cool head in an emergency.
We herded the younger
kids down Girraween's steep garden path to the delapidated house we now called home. It had been
a rented house for some years, with a small, musty flat underneath where an old lady lived with
her grand-daughter. The garden was depressingly neglected but it's sheer wildness was a
delight to us kids. We never knew when a yabby hole would open up and swollow us.
As happened to our poor Dad once, causing
much merriment amoung us kids. He did look odd though, suddenly up to his chest in the garden.
At night someone
in a house on the hill above would play organ dirges and the posseums would stare down at us with
luminous eyes, breathing heavily like evil old men.
When we got inside the heat in the old house was oppresive. Lorraine and I went about opening
up windows to let in the scraps
of breeze that limply lifted the gum leaves outside. The sky was becoming dark with clouds...
a change was coming at last. A sharp pang of fright passed through me when I realised that we
had neglected to lock the back door before leaving earlier. I looked around quickly as if our Mom
might suddenly jump out of hiding. Only Lorraine noticed. We looked at each other with wide eyes.
The television flashed bright in the growing gloom. 'The Happy Hammond Show' had thankfully
captured the attention of the warring brothers. After a change of nappy, Raymond was playing
happily in his cot.
Lorraine and I tidied the house alittle, anticipating the arrival of our parents. While
Jeanette played with her dolls by the Christmas tree, quietly telling them of all the things
she was expecting for Christmas.
Finally there was the crunch of gravel on the roadway above.
We all shouted in excitement and rushed to open the door for the two weary figures making
their way down the
garden path. The sky above them was
deepening to gunmetal grey. Despite their weariness, our parents seemed to be in reasonably
good spirits.
I put the kettle on the stove for the mandatory cups of tea, which sometimes seemed to be the only thing
that kept our Mom going. Paper carrier bags of groceries were plonked on the
formica table in the kitchen. Out of one came several large, fresh chickens, tins of fruit,
jars of fruit mince, packets of
nuts and a bottle of cheap sherry. Another had bacon, eggs, fresh bread, bags of flour and a Christmas cake.
We continued with glee to help Mom unpack the rest of this wonderful food while our Dad ran back up
the garden path to the car. He returned a few moments later with more brown paper bags but these
were quickly whisked away to Mom and Dad's bedroom.
That evening, after tea, Mom made up several batches of her special Christmas Mince Pies as the
rain began falling gently outside. A delicous cool breeze swept away the last of the sapping
heat in the house. We watched the 'Liberace Christmas Special' on the tv, the younger kids allowed
to stay up later than usual so that they would be good and sleepy when they went to bed. Dear
Mr Liberace saw to that.
The TV programs finished for the night. The British National Anthem had been played while the Queen
sat proudly astride her royal horse a gentle breeze stirring the ribbons of her royal bonnet.
The four younger kids where now in bed and fast asleep, at last.
The old house had become very quiet and peaceful, when Dad did something very surprising.
He asked Lorraine and I to help him with the parcels in the
bedroom. This was the first time
we had ever been asked to do this. We brought out the
bags and unpacked the toys they held. Four small piles of toys were placed on the floor and things
were taken from one pile and added to another. Fairness was paramount to my parents. This pile might
have had
one toy car more than that one, but that one had a bag of marbles more than this, so that was fair. So
it went on until Mom and Dad were completely satisfied that everyone's pile was
quite even and had been placed into small Christmas Sacks. Dad and Mom tiptoed into the bedrooms and placed a sack
of toys at the foot of each bed and one by the baby's cot.
I remember how excited Lorraine and I were at being allowed to help in all this important work.
But the best was yet to come. Mom brought out a plate of her Christmas Mince Pies and Dad took
down the bottle of sherry and four tiny sherry glasses. He filled the glasses and handed one each
to Lorraine and I saying "Your old enough now". I have never felt so proud and so honoured in all my
life. With just those few, spare words, but said with that bright, characteristic twinkle in
his eyes, our Dad told us how proud he was of us and how much he appreciated what we both did
to help out in those difficult times.
We talked and laughed around that kitchen table until the wee, quiet hours of Christmas morning.
The sweet sherry warming our thoughts and memories. Until Lorraine and I could no longer stay awake
despite wanting the night to go on forever. We reluctantly took ourselves off to sleep. In
the morning two, small Christmas sacks had been placed at the foot of our beds.
the sound of Magpies calling and the delicious smell of bacon cooking woke us up next morning.
The younger kids were already up and had been
for some time. Toys were scattered about the living room as they rushed from one delight to
another, happier than they had been in a long while. They didn't seem to notice that
their presents were so much more meager when compared with other Christmas'.
The day was cool and a little overcast but we were delighted with that. It seemed like
more appropriate Christmas weather to us back then.
After bacon and eggs for breakfast there was the grand present opening of the gifts under the tree.
The handmade stuff we had all put together for each other and Mom and Dad. The small, cheap trinkets
we had scrimped to buy with infrequent pocket money for the two most important people in our lives.
Christmas dinner was a feast of roast chicken, potatoes and vegetables with stuffing and
floods of hot gravy.
There was rich, dark Christmas pudding with thick custard for afters and
then the inevitable collapse in front of the TV to watch
the afternoon Christmas shows and old movies with plates of mince pies to stave off starvation.
I shall never know how it was that Mom and Dad managed to find the money for that Christmas. It
is a secret they never shared with us. In the future lay the terror of our first bush fire
and the joy of owning our first home. That Christmas Day we simply basked in the warmth of
our family's togetherness, oblivious and uncaring of all the trials and triumphs that were
to come in this new world we were discovering and which we would grow to love so much.
Our Christmas' were never again as threadbare as that first one in Australia, but that is
the one I will always remember and the taste of that
late night sherry will warm my Christmas memories until my dying day.
Maureen Thomas
Back To An Aussie Christmas
