God Bless Us, Every One

We are departing from tradition on two fronts this Christmas. First, the Harvey Goodwin Avenue book group usually does not discuss a book at its December meeting, which is usually just a celebratory get-together. This year, however, we have made an exception and will be discussing A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens (in case you thought it might be another Christmas Carol written by someone else). This marks no change of routine for me, as I read it every December in any case.

The picture shows the inside cover of my copy. As you can see, I got it for Christmas in 1965, aged nine. I had specifically requested it, as the previous Christmas Eve, the cartoon Mister Magoo’s Christmas Carol had been on television, and I had been much intrigued by it. As I recall, it followed the story reasonably faithfully. When I got the book, I did find it rather an adult portion, as Levon Helm described New York in the late 1950’s. It took me some time to get used to the rather wordy style of Dickens, and it was probably near to Christmas 1966 by the time I finished it.

Since about 1990, I have read the book every December, and I still occasionally find something new in it. The passage that I find myself returning to again and again is when the Ghost of Christmas Present flings Scrooge’s remark back at him that those who would rather die than go to prison or the workhouse had better do it and decrease the surplus population. Two particular quotes are extremely powerful:

‘…forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered What the surplus is, and Where it is.’

‘Oh God! To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.’

When I read this as a child, I simply thought What on earth is he talking about? Since I grew to man’s estate and understood the point, I have felt and continue to feel that the comments remain as relevant as ever.

There are also moments of quiet humour. After Scrooge’s encounter with Marley’s ghost, and his visit from the Ghost of Christmas Past, he awaits the Second of the Three Spirits well prepared mentally:

‘Gentlemen of the free-and-easy sort, who plume themselves on being acquainted with a move or two, and being usually equal to the time-of-day, express the wide range of their capacity for adventure by observing that they are good for anything from pitch-and-toss to manslaughter; between which opposite extremes, no doubt, there lies a tolerably wide and comprehensive range of subjects.’

Anyway, the book is about redemption, and we have devoured stories of redemption since time immemorial. Joseph’s brothers and the prodigal son in the bible come to mind. More recently than Dickens, Steinbeck’s East of Eden, JB Priestley’s Bright Day (indeed much of Priestley’s work), RC Hutchinson’s dated but terrifically powerful sprawling canvas of 1920’s London, Elephant and Castle, all come to mind. Film is full of redemption stories: The Shawshank Redemption, the films of the McDonagh brothers, The Guard, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing Missouri and Calvary. My son Tom tells me that redemption is a common theme in Animé movies and Manga comics.

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Our other departure from tradition will be going away for Christmas. Usually, we spend Christmas in Cambridge, largely due to my attachment to routine. We usually have a posh bird (no jokes about Kristin Scott-Thomas or Helena Bonham-Carter please), a goose or something. Up early in the morning, prepare the veg and make stock from the giblets. Around noon, get the poultry into the oven, then down the Fort St George for a pint, and a chance to wish friends and neighbours the compliments of the season. An hour or so later, back home, get the potatoes roasting and at around two or three in the afternoon sit down to dine.

But not this year.

We are going to have Christmas in Yorkshire. Linda’s sister Margaret is heroically having fourteen of us for Christmas dinner. If all goes according to plan, both sons are coming too. I seem to recall that our job is going to be to do something interesting with the Brussels sprouts, a task on a par with constructing a perpetual motion machine or adjusting the time on the car dashboard when the clocks go back.

I wonder if I can persuade Margaret to let me make my sausage meat stuffing. Though I say it myself as shouldn’t, it is superb. What a pathetic boast- I can make superb sausage meat stuffing. That’ll be a lot of use when the balloon goes up.

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When I was a kid we often spent part of the Christmas and New Year season with the Whitesides. Either we visited them or they visited us. My dad and Tommy Whiteside were best friends since childhood, and were so close that although we were no relation, we always thought of Tommy and Dorothy Whiteside as our Uncle Tommy and Aunt Doll. Their sons, Tony (named after my dad, I think), Dave and Richard were similar ages to my older brothers, and we got on like a house on fire with our adopted cousins. Speaking of which, my older brothers and the Whiteside boys nearly set the house on fire on one occasion, by trying out the principle of real burning candles on the Christmas tree.

The Whitesides were something of an army family. Uncle Tommy was in the Royal Artillery, his son Tony was a truck driver in the army, and my cousin (OK, adopted cousin) Dave’s son served in the army. I liked the story of how a warrant officer in the RA had considered the cut of Uncle Tommy’s jib less than immaculate on parade. The warrant officer barked, ‘Whiteside, you’re a bag of shit tied in the middle with string, what are you?’ and following protocol, Tommy had had to reply, ‘Bag of shit tied in the middle with string, SIR!’

It was on the occasions when we visited the Whitesides or they visited us, that I realised that our parents weren’t so different from us. They became a bit like children on a sleepover. With hindsight, it reminds me of two quotes from sources rather far away from Dickens. In Maurice Sendak’s book for little kids, Where the Wild Things Are, the hero Max at one point addresses the Wild Things as follows:

‘And now,’ cried Max, ‘Let the wild rumpus start!’

The other quote that comes to mind is from a Scots poem I heard at primary school, The Dominie’s Happy Lot, commenting on the easy life of the schoolteacher (bollocks, being a schoolteacher is no picnic), there is a line, ‘And when it comes to Hogmanay, and fun comes roarin’ ben’. That was what it was like. It felt like fun was going to come roarin’ ben.

Before I go, I want to draw your attention to a Youtube clip which I have cited before, but it is appropriate for the season. It is A Walk in the Night, by Junior Walker. It is not just that it is a terrific melody with beautiful saxophone playing. There is something very evocative about the video of the Christmas lights in an ordinary town in the North West of England.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Uea5C9ASBeg

Don’t fall out with your loved ones this Christmas. If interchanges become fraught, step back. And I hope fun comes roarin’ ben for all of you.