Christmas Morning 1985: A True Story

This story has nothing to do with the covid scam, politics, our shattered society or anything else in 2021. Or maybe it has - you can decide. The year was 1985 and I had, to my astonishment, become a 'child-care' social worker. Not a formal, qualified, wage-slave servant of the state, but an "agency worker" paid by the shift. I was, however, getting paid a bit more than Joe average, because I had fabricated some non-existent 'paper' qualifications that forced the agency to place me at a higher grade. I'd been employed since late summer, when my then girlfriend- who really was highly qualified- assured me that I had the necessary skills. I gave it a shot, and it turned out she was to some extent correct.

On Christmas Eve 1985 I was window-shopping in Lewisham High Street, a seedy, dodgy stretch of south-east London concrete and commerce. Bright, flashing illuminations strung high across the car-jammed road. Xmas trees galore, corny seasonal pop-songs blaring, thousands of over-excited shoppers of all ages spending like lottery-winners, speed-walking between the cash-registers. 

I was at the tail-end of a rare day off after twelve on without a break, (shifts of 8 to 24 hours, including 'sleep-ins'.) I was working at a children's home in Peckham Rye, mainly with a group of three young siblings who had, mysteriously, bonded to me in particular during the last three months. I was booked to parent them for a 10-hour shift that Christmas Day, starting at 6 a.m.

Lewisham high street was a merry hell. Wall-to-wall Xmas singles echoing in the malls, twinkling rainbow strip-lights, giant, flashing  commercial trees, the babel of voices, crowds of panic-shoppers on last-minute missions like me. Tipsy adults prowling the stores wearing Santa hats and tinsel rings. It was that kind of Xmas. 

I was now-or-never present-hunting for my woman.  My inclination was to ditch the mall-monkey nightmare and flee into the nearest dark, anonymous pub and get seriously drunk -a common 'day-off' instinct among my social-work colleagues. It was our best stab at compensation. The business of play-parenting a procession of confused, traumatised,  mercilessly abused children whose parents belonged in jail pushed us relentlessly towards alcoholism.

But Xmas was calling. Being half a couple, I still needed that one "special" present to validate my relationship. My mind was a whirlpool of duties and fears. Trudging past Marks & Spencers I stopped to admire their fifty-foot window-display of life-size Santas and inflatable reindeer, drifts of fake snow and glitter-wrapped present facsimiles. A banner warned shoppers the store would be closing at 8 p.m. sharp. And like a star exploding, the fickle, nomadic light-bulb of inspiration ignited above my head.

I stomped into the store, found the nearest senior member of staff and explained my brainwave. She smiled, agreed and started making arrangements. I hadn't yet learned to drive so a cab was required, but the inevitable Christmas-Eve delay meant I had over an hours on my hands, which I spent usefully in the Black Horse Inn. 

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My woman was comatose when I got home, having just finished a 20-hour shift of her own at a residential unit in Eltham. We weren't planning any festivities until I returned from work on Christmas day. I slept well and rose at five without waking her.

At 6 a.m. I got out of my second cab in 24 hours - a huge extravagence for me in those days- and entered the children's home as quietly as possible. Clutched in my arms were a magnificent seven-foot Santa Claus, one of a pair salvaged  from the M&S window-display, and a bag of very real presents the store-staff and its manager had insisted on thrusting into my cab. I had got the distinct impression they were pretty much yanking stuff off the shelves at will. Christmas can take people that way sometimes.  

I parked Santa in prime position, dominating the front room -left of the telly, next to the skimpy Social-Services tree-  and spent the next half-hour wrapping the pot-luck presents the M&S workers had chosen for three kids whose needs had suddenly been so simple to explain to complete strangers on Christmas Eve. I hadn't asked for anything more than a big cardboard Santa for the children's home, but they had picked up the festive ball and run with it. Unconditional love could still be found in shops back in the twentieth century.   

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The three petites were all up and squealing by seven, eager for the Big Day in an oddly abstract way that spoke of longings and wishes a spoiled brat like me could barely understand. I kept them penned in the kitchen till the messy chaos of breakfast was over, then loosed them into the front room, following close on their heels. 

Daniel, Derek and Charmaine literally froze at the sight of Outsize Santa. Then we had screams, whoops, air-punching and tearing of wrappers. There was so much stuff the floor became a kalaidescope of shredded paper. Toys and clothes, games, trinkets, footballs and costumes were everywhere, being admired, adored, rejected, traded and fought for. 

When the adrenalin rush died down I suggested they might like to watch The Snowman  which was next up on Xmas Morning TV. All three leapt onto the sofa, dragging me into the warm centre of their childish delight, and for the next hour sat in awed silence -something they had never achieved, on any day or night, in the long three months we had known each other. Several times other staff-members appeared at the door to smile and tiptoe around -wisely- because this was child-care at its premium. 

We all knew these lovely, loveless children had never experienced anything remotely like a decent family Christmas. Our shared sorrow and guilt was that we were mere imposters; substitutes for the parents these three would probably never have. But for this wonderful morning at least, we had somehow made it right.

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I got home at six, an hour late, smelling conspicuouslyof beer, and got an earful for my trouble. Then I got a big thankyou for the seven-foot Santa in the corner (M&S had had several to spare) and for the standout present that I had allowed a shrewd shop-assistant to recommend. Then I explained how it had all come together the night before. And hearing my breakfast story, she cried a few tears. I was a bit sniffly myself.

It wasn't the worst ever Christmas, in 1985.

Ian Andrew-Patrick

I want to thank all the many woderful readers and supporters  who have kept the this blog going throughout these last two years. Many times I have got close to the point of despair -these are such insane days- but the knowledge that so many people care so much is a measure of the strength we -together- possess. I wish you all the best possible Christmas for yourselves and those you love. I look forward to a year when we can break through the dreadful spell cast upon this world, and reclaim the freedoms that are ours by birthright. Resist and refuse, my friends!