Home for Christmas - The great day has arrived at last.

When I awoke, the dawn light of Christmas morning was filtering through the drapes.  I was so excited, and looked down to the bottom of the bed in eager anticipation of the pillow-case stuffed with presents, as has always been the tradition throughout my childhood. To my chagrin, horror, even, no pillowcase was to be seen.


I turned towards Elsie, only to discover that she had vanished. I felt the sheet where she had lain; it was cold. She must have been gone a while. Of course, this was only sensible: to return to her own room before the household began to awake. But then I was struck by a terrible thought: had my erstwhile lover stolen my Christmas presents? I was immediately ashamed of myself; why would Elsie steal my presents? Mens things would be of no interest to her - would they?

But where were they? My presents? Of course, in my early years I believed that Father Christmas had brought me all these wonderful gifts, for being a good boy. But I later discovered that it was my mother who crept into my bedroom in the night and deposited the goodies. I did wonder though, why she had told me a lie about this mythical, white bearded man. So unnecessary. I would have preferred to know from the onset  that my kind parents had gone out and bought my presents But I am digressing.

I lay back and reflected on last night's doings. I had been interrupted in my googling by a rapacious Elsie before I had had chance to resolve the question of  the rugby forward. However, when we had finished, I put it to Elsie, and she said she rembered now that he had  been a 'tight forward'. I therefore concluded it was a Rugby Union team upon whom  she had bestowed her favours, and decided to move on. There was stilll, of course, the matter of paternity, but we could let Jeremy Kyle sort that out later.

 I had other matters on my young mind. How should I comport myself during the coming Christmas Day? Should I tell mother that I knew about Borris? Or should I let her continue with her deception? If I pursued the latter course, then I would be also be guilty of deception. Mother and I had, hitherto, been totally honest with each other, so this was a difficult decision.

Then, of course, there was the question of father: would he be here for Christmas dinner? In the past he had always been the central figure at the festive board, carving the turkey and making  jokes about who wants stuffing. Oh the hilarity, the joy of my boyhood Christmases. But now, father - or so it seemed - was a fugitive. From what, though? From whom?

And then another thought struck me: if father was not present who would carve the turkey? Tradition held that it must be a male, and that left me and Borris. (I discounted Reverend Witherspoon who, although he would be present, would be, if past Christmases were anything to go by, be too drunk to be put  in charge of a carving knife.

I had never carved a turkey in my life, but the thought of the ghastly Aberdonian taking father's place filled me with horror. I wouldn't be surprised if he whipped out that knife he keeps strapped to his hairy leg. No, it was unthinkable.

I got out of bed and went into my bathroom.  My old scoutmaster used to enjoin us to have 'a clean mind in a clean body'. (I made a mental note to go and see him, now that he had been moved to an open prison.).

With loofah and brush I made a thorough job of removing all traces of last night's debauchery. But no soap and water could not remove the stain upon my conscience. How had I been led astray so easily?

I dressed quickly and left my room. The house slept, for it was not yet nine o clock. I tip-toed down the corridor and paused to listen at mother's bedroom door. I don't know what I was expecting to hear: the creaking of bed-springs, perhaps? But there was no sound. I continued downstairs. As I reached the first-floor landing, 'Merry Christmas, you young scallywag.'. Before I could respond to cook's raucous greeting, she had be in her bear-like hug and planted a kiss on my (already chapped) lips. I tasted sherry on her tongue.

I managed to extricate myself and, when I had recovered my breath, 'And a Merry Christmas to you, cook' I replied, mustering what little enthusiasm I could.
 'I got a little surprise for you, Master George.' slurred cook, 'you just pop into the kitchen later.'. And with that, she pinched my bottom and proceeded unsteadily down the stairs.

I followed, at a distance, wondering what the day had in store for me.