Shetland Childhood Christmases remembered

Christine De Luca is a Scottish poet and novelist who writes in English and in Shetland Dialect. Born and raised in Shetland she spent her formative years in Waas (Walls) on the west side of the mainland, here she reflects on the typical Christmas of her 1950s childhood in Waas.

After tea, dressed in whatever bizarre combination of clothes we could muster, we would take our blinkies (torches) and, meeting up with other children, would go guizing round the neighbours. We all wore faas faces (masks) and tried not to say too much in case our voices gave us away.

We all loved Christmas. Preparations started early with Mum stocking up on dried fruit and soft brown sugar and checking that the piece of nutmeg she had grated year after year was still spicey enough for the marathon baking. My sister Joy and I were roped in lining baking tins, weighing ingredients and cutting out pastry shapes. While we agreed the best bit was getting to lick the bowls afterwards, we sometimes disagreed about whose turn it was. Anticipation rose with the aroma of mince pies, Christmas cake and Black Bun emerging from the oven of our trusty old Rayburn stove.

There were two community parties to enjoy: the big school party and the Sunday School soirée. Halls were decorated, there were games and party food, but the climax of the school party was the arrival of Santy, fully kitted out, pulling his sledge with the sack of gifts. It was a happy, if slightly scary, thing to get a present from him: this oddly uncommunicative stranger coming out of the night air … with reindeer, snow or no snow.

Another special pre-Christmas treat was the local shop, A K Reid’s, opening its upstairs floor to display Christmas goods. For us, who rarely visited shops in Lerwick, it was particularly exciting; we were allowed through the counter and up the narrow, dark wooden staircase; places normally reserved for staff. Cathie would call after us ‘Geng peerie wyes, bairns.’ She was kindness personified.

We had anticipated this opening for weeks, had saved our pocket-money and, like other children, were desperate to explore the delights and dazzle of what felt like an Aladdin’s Cave. There were a few toys, but plenty of boxes of handkerchiefs, scarves, nightgowns and slippers, talcum powder and boxes of soaps and scent in dainty bottles. (Oh, would we ever reach that age when we could have a dab of Evening in Paris or Whitefire?) Never for a moment were we made to feel unwelcome although our purchases were modest and out of all proportion to the time taken to make our choices. We only had a shilling or two to spend, but these decisions were serious.

By Christmas Eve we could barely contain ourselves. We’d sung our carols, prepared the food and wrapped our presents. Would mum and dad like the hankies?

After tea, dressed in whatever bizarre combination of clothes we could muster, we would take our blinkies (torches) and, meeting up with other children, would go guizing round the neighbours. We all wore faas faces (masks) and tried not to say too much in case our voices gave us away.

We enjoyed coming into a room bright with lamp and firelight, full of suspense. Once we had all been recognised, and the atmosphere had become jollier, we peeled off our masks and tried not to choke on the spicy ginger cordial which was always dispensed. Then back out into the cold we tumbled, masked once more, and on to the next house.

Before we went to sleep, we hung up our stockings on the ends of our beds; one of Dad’s thick, home-knitted woollen socks warmed on the hot water pipes by the stove. Mum would promise to leave out some sherry and a mince pie for Santy. It was beyond exciting – the very thought of that jolly old man coming down the bedroom chimney (how?) and leaving us gifts. And our elder brother didn’t have a chimney in his bedroom… did Santy sneak around the house looking for children (and sherry and carrots?) And to wake early in the darkness of a December morning to the feel of those socks now holding something mysterious. Our gifts were small: a game or a jigsaw and a book perhaps, plus the obligatory tangerine in the toe; and always an envelope with half a crown – that’s 12½ pence – or perhaps two half crowns (untold wealth). We examined the writing on the envelope but could never decipher who had written it. Obviously, it was Santy, the empty glass being the clue.

Christmas Day was still a working day in Scotland at that time and we would look out for the postman, just in case there might be a late parcel. Mum always cooked a turkey procured from our uncle’s farm at Bigton, and duly stuffed. No turkey could have tasted better. We usually had our granduncle Laurie staying with us and, after lunch, he always said ‘First class cook, Jemima, first class cook!’ Mum lapped up the compliment, even if she hated her name. Our old cat Whiskers seemed to agree; he licked his lips after his extra special meal.

The afternoon of Christmas Day would pass with us all in the ben room (sitting room) with a peat fire blazing (if the wind direction allowed), and one of us delegated to play the slowest game of draughts imaginable with the old man, while he sipped a whisky. Later, Dad would light the lamps, Mum would close the shutters so no one would see our little tree stuck as far from the window as possible, and we would enjoy time together. We played a lot of cards which I preferred to board games.

We had an old piano which our brother Eric played. Sometimes we would all sing. By teatime we had no room for much more food so, as a special treat, we were allowed to make toast on a big fork in front of the open fire and have tea in the ben room. And the Christmas cake would be duly cut and declared delicious.

We’d eventually realise that was it for another year… but of course there was still New Year to look forward to (more guizing and staying up late for the Watchnight service) … and a faint memory of Aald Christmas on January 6th… and taking down the Christmas decorations. There was something to be said for getting the house back to normal.

One Christmas was extra special (when I was 7, going on 8): we found out there was to be a baby arriving in March (a late parcel after all)! A baby still makes Christmas.

By Christine De Luca
Christine De Luca is a poet, novelist and children’s writer who writes in English and Shaetlan, her mother tongue. She particularly enjoys collaborating with musicians and visual artists and was appointed Edinburgh’s Makar (laureate) for 2014-2017. Find out more at www.christinedeluca.co.uk

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