The day started just like every other at Braunstone Frith Junior School. Seated, cross legged on the oak polished floor, the hymns had been sung, the prayers chanted parrot fashion. Eyes mostly closed, hands held together before us. Mr. Hopkins, the headmaster, walked onto the stage signalling that we should all remain seated for his announcement.
“Bring an item of food from home
tomorrow, children, for the poor in our Society.”
Collections were far from rare at
school, though we had no idea who these poor people were. They must have
been really poor because there were kids in class with
cardboard covering the holes in their shoes, the laces a length of frayed
string. Another promotion saw us buy photos from a book. Pretty little
faces stared back at us as we totally believed that our thruppence would help
this child directly. We were encouraged to set up a stall of old toys to aid
the PDSA and the mistreated poor animals. Our toys amounted to very few and
were hardly fit to pass on.
Most families from the council
estate were struggling themselves. Mum paid five shillings a week to the
milkman from one 1st January to the next, for a Christmas
hamper. A week before the holiday our hamper was accepted with great
excitement.
The milkman’s float buckled at
the axles with the weight of Christmas fayre for most people on the estate. The
electric float rumbled along even slower than usual, probably a good thing as
the milkman got a tot of alcohol at each grateful house.
Apart from the cockerel,
vegetables and mum’s mince pies, the box kept the family fed over
Yuletide. Shops were closed for at least three days, five if a weekend was
included.
There was little variance from
year to year. The menu for hundreds of neighbours were tins of Oak Ham, Libby’s
apricots or orange segments, a Fray Bentos meat pie, Pink Salmon, Ideal
evaporated milk. Jars contained Lemon Curd, Mustard Piccalilli and Branston
Pickle. A small pack of Scottish Shortbread rarely made it to Christmas eve. A
small Christmas cake and a plum pudding were barely family size.
One thing that never changed was
a box of five blancmange powders. We all hated blancmange. High on a shelf in
the pantry sat the box until … October, and the harvest festival.
Veronica Smith’s dad baked all
the bread for his family. Her contribution gained her a crowd of children as
she carried a large crusty wheatsheaf portrayed in bread form. As she trod the
path to school, the aroma of warm, freshly baked bread followed in her wake,
torturous for those of us who’d had no breakfast.
Our headmaster and all teachers
would marvel at the contribution. There was no point in my getting jealous. Had
the masterpiece been created in our house, it would not have made it out of the
front door without the crusty protrusions being picked, pulled or nibbled off.
An ear of corn here, another there. Mum’s Christmas fruit cake had been baked
late September. By the end of half term, the square cake was a very rough
roundish shape after a week with both parents at work and three hungry girls at
home.
On arrival at school I was able
to leave the crowd behind as I approached the donation desk to deposit my
contribution discreetly at the back.
History is said to repeat itself.
As a young mother, I too paid the milkman a weekly amount to fill our Christmas
menu.
Each October, my daughter too
turned up at Harvest Festival with the offering of Blancmange powder for some
poor person’s tea, but at least she did not have to compete with Veronica
Smith.
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| Photo by Belper Unitarians on Unsplash |
Carolyn Wheatley
