An Unexpected Christmas
One Christmas Day ‘Crowded with event” as Lady Bracknell would say.
Christmas on the Island of North Uist was a non starter; condemned from the pulpit as a ‘Papist’ festival. It looked like we were going to have to spend it on our own.
Things began to change in early December when, full of missionary zeal, I made a batch of Christmas Puddings, enough for us and gifts for my neighbours. Taking the hob plates off the peat stove to increase the heat, with the smoke and the steam generated I spent the day in my own mini version of hell. Problem. My neighbours looked anxious. What were they supposed to do with these cloth wrapped bombs? Nothing for it, they would all have to eat chez nous on Christmas Day.
Our itinerant butcher brought us back a lovely Christmas tree from the mainland which we decorated and lit as usual. People defied the Minister and came from all around to look at it.
Then disaster; on Christmas Eve all the lights went out. This was not unusual. The electricity supply was overhead, and went down with every serious gale, i.e., often. No matter, our ancient peat stove would serve as long as I covered everything in the oven with foil to stop the food getting covered with flakes of rust.
We were aware that most of the officers on the army base, thought us very eccentric. We had chosen to live “with the natives” rather than on their smart new housing estate. But those smart new houses all had electric kitchens and needed electricity to operate their central heating. Christmas day for the officers who had remained as skeleton staff was going to be bleak. Our guest list again increased sharply and we were now twentynine for Christmas Dinner. Luckily the NAAFI’s biggest turkey was doing nicely in the stove, and I had already cooked a large ham. Plenty of vegetables and all the puddings donated, I suspect with relief, by my neighbours would go round with a bit of luck.
The preparations all went well, with everyone rolling up their sleeves and digging in. We didn’t give much thought to the possible consequences of a nuclear attack occurring while the Brigadier was on the next island, peeling sprouts. The children sat at the table, the rest of us ate sitting, standing, leaning, perching wherever we could.
Naturally all our guests had arrived bearing booze. There is only so much you can use to set fire to the puddings; the rest we drank. By evening the electricity supply was back up, so everyone could return home, everyone, that is, except for those who had drunk a little too much to be safe negotiating twisty roads and a causeway to get home. Every possible bit of bedding was brought into use, and we managed to squeeze everybody in.
A Boxing Day lie in would have been nice, but at six o’clock I was woken by the voice of my little boy, loud with delight
“ Mummy, mummy, there’s a sleeping bag on the floor of my bedroom, and there’s somebody in it.”
Happy Christmas.