In the small but
thriving English county of Downshire people go about the tasks of their
everyday existence in ways that range from the mundane to the extraordinary as
their forebears had done for centuries before, in the varied and diverse
landscape, from the Ancient forests of Dancingdean and Pepperstock, the craggy
ridges and manmade lakes of the Pepperstock Hills National Park, the rolling
hills of the Downshire Downs, to the beautiful Finchbottom Vale and the short
but beautiful coastline to the east.
But our story is set
in and around Turnoak-Under-Hawthorne, a large rambling village, originally
settled in the 12th century on the sparsely wooded slopes on the Northern
fringe of the Finchbottom Vale about 5 miles from Purplemere, and it was
everything you would expect from a Downshire Village.
It was three days before Christmas and as snow fell lightly around him
Jason Hunt found himself standing outside a row of terraced cottages, one of
which was his old childhood home.
Sadly, his parents had
gone now, his dad when he was only twenty-one and his Mum the previous
Christmas after 15 years as a widow, but they live on in his memory, especially
at Christmas.
Jason knew that for
some, Christmas was a nightmare time of year, but for him it was always a
joyful time, and he only had the very best memories of it and an abundance of
them.
One in particular that
always made him smile was his dad always stating after he’d finished decorating
the living room, the odour of emulsion still noticeable in the air.
“There will be no
drawing pins in this ceiling come Christmas”.
Of course, come
December the ceiling was covered with garlands, bells, stars, foil drops with
baubles at the end, balloons, snow men, angels, and Santa’s.
Pictures were removed
and replaced with something more festive, like huge stars or fresh holly and
lines were strung along the walls for the cards to hang on.
In one corner, on a
table, stood a two-foot-tall Santa Claus with his cotton wool beard and red
crepe paper suit all the more exciting as the children knew he was stuffed full
of sweets.
In another corner
stood the tree, a tree of epic proportions so tall that the top 14 inches has
to cut off in order to get the fairy on.
Every branch was full
to breaking point with countless baubles, parcels, bells, crackers, and tinsels
of every colour and beneath it the ever-growing pile of presents.
With the decorations
being his dad’s field of expertise, it was left to his mum to come into her own
with everything else.
She would remove the
curtains and nets and either replace them with clean or wash and return the
originals.
Everything would get
the spring clean treatment the sideboard would be adorned with the best linen
runner and all the tables would have their own festive doily.
The fruit bowl was
filled to overflowing with bananas, Satsuma’s, or tangerines and another one of
Brazil nuts, almonds, hazel nuts, and walnuts.
There was even a
Chamber pot decorated with sprigs of holly on the sideboard full of Christmas
fare.
Smaller bowls would
appear over the Christmas period containing peanuts, dates, sugared almonds, or
chocolate Brazil’s.
Come the day itself
presents were placed by the chair that the recipients were sitting in, when
they were younger obviously their presents mysteriously arrived at the foot of
the bed in a pillowcase left for the purpose but as they got older, they joined
the adults for present opening.
His Mum’s gifts were
always piled so high she always had to sit on the sofa in order to fit all her
presents on the seat next to her.
She always still had
half of them left to open long after the rest of the family had finished.
This was the time for
the younger family members to examine their gifts more closely while his dad
would sit smiling sagely in his armchair puffing on his pipe.
It was that memory
which brought a smile to his lips as he got back into his car and drove towards
home to make Christmas memories for his children.
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