The English Christmas spirit continues to infiltrate every nook and cranny of our home at 51 Crescent Road on this December day in 1972; Papa comes home with his own pile of recently-purchased Christmas cards and insists that I am to write out greetings to his work colleagues. When I am unable to do this, he explodes into an irrational rage (see post Carry On Christmas Cards). I am only a child, yet Papa does not understand that he is meant to help me write out my cards, not the other way around as he is expecting me to do. I am beginning to hate Christmas cards, and I am also beginning to hate Christmas. At that moment, I decide that when I am grown up I will never, ever send a Christmas card to anyone. I will simply tell them to their face, Merry Christmas.
Mama hears Papa’s onslaught and swiftly comes into the room to rescue me. She moves me away telling Papa that those are all the cards he has to give out, and that he had better make the most of them. If necessary, tomorrow he can write out any further cards himself! She knows full well he is incapable of doing this and Papa falls correspondingly silent. Mama takes me into the lounge where Sis is now seated on the sofa watching television. It’s already eight o'clock and way past bed time for English children, but England does not exist at 51 Crescent Road. This is Spanish territory, and English rules do not apply. Sis and I go to bed when Mama and Papa themselves are ready to go to bed and not a moment before, even if this means midnight. On this one occasion, not being English comes with wonderful benefits. As well as an early Christmas gift, Mama also produces a box of chocolates called Milk Tray, and I am in food heaven. The day’s distressful events surrounding those rotten Christmas cards are momentarily forgotten as I join Sis on the sofa and pick out my favourite chocolates from the assortment spread out before me. I particularly like the ones with a nut or toffee centre, so make sure to devour those before anyone else gets to them.
But sometimes I accidentally take a chocolate with a centre I intensely dislike, like a coffee or strawberry cream, and when I do that I discreetly stick the chocolate back together with saliva and put it right back in the box. With a bit of luck, no-one will even notice that it and I have already had a close encounter, I tell myself. Wishful thinking. Just like our school Headmaster, Mr Quinnel who claims to have eyes in the back of his head (see post Hello Shame), a Mama is all-knowing and all-seeing. She spots me expertly gluing back together a strawberry cream whirl with the usual dose of saliva, and as I am about to return this unwanted jewel back to its rightful home amongst its other unappreciated counterparts, she jumps up from her end of the sofa and snatches the chocolate from my hand. Stop that right now! Do you have any idea how disgusting this behaviour is? How would you like to pop a coffee whirl into your mouth, only to realise that it has already been bitten into and glued back together with saliva? Mama is of course right. Only later do we comprehend that chocolate boxes in England come with explanatory labels detailing the different centres within, thereby eliminating the need for saliva glue.The intelligence of these English never ceases to amaze.
A relentless cascade of tears gush from within me. First Papa scolds me for not writing his cards in English, then for speaking in English. Then he tells me that the English will never accept me as one of them, that I will never fit in. How can he say such terrible things? Does Papa not understand how much his words hurt? Papa is changing, and I do not like it. This is an almost cruel side to him that I have never seen before. Perhaps he was already like this in Spain, but I never noticed because I was surrounded by a sea of family; Mama, Mama's Mama; Grandma Filomena, Mama's Papa's Mama; Great Grandma Celia, plus a multitude of aunts, uncles and cousins. Here in England, it's just Mama, Papa, Sis and myself. At that moment I am blissfully unaware that the kind and wonderful Papa that I knew, the one that brought me the doll at the Feria in Andalusia with the last of his coins (see post Meet The Family), the same one that I insisted upon marrying when I grow up has gone forever. In his place is a person whom I do not recognize.
My thoughts quickly flit to Sis, and I realize how blessed she is within the confines of her innocent four-year-old existence. The wave of sadness does not wash over her as it does me, as I contemplate the life I had before this one (see post Watching The English Part III). She does not have within her the mountains, the beach, nor the warm Atlantic waters of Tenerife as I do. I want to return to my beautiful Island with the majestic Teide volcano silently watching over me just as it did on the day I was born. But I slowly comprehend that this life has vanished forever. Worn down by the multiple distresses of the day and eyes brimming over with tears, I kneel on the floor besides the bed, and with clasped hands pour out my heavy heart: Sweet Jesus, turn me into a little bird so that I can fly away from here. Take me to a place where Papa does not frighten me, and where I am not ashamed to say that my name is Maria del Carmen. My tears are soon spent, and exhausted by the torrent of emotions I lay down on the bed fully clothed. After a short while I have fallen into a deep sleep. Mama does not awake me to undress for bed that evening, she understands that prolonging a distressful day serves no useful purpose and simply covers me with blankets.
That night Great Grandma Celia pays me a visit. Long departed for The Other Side (see post Share The Moon), she returns to me in my dreams and tells me to dry my tears, spread my wings and learn to fly. My wish will eventually be granted, but it will not be tomorrow nor the day after. Neither will it be in a manner which I would have ever imagined. Deeply immersed in this nocturnal reunion, I sit upright in bed and take refuge in Great Grandma Celia's warm arms. Her familiar aroma takes me back to those childhood moments spent in her care as Mama and Mama's Mama toiled in the fields to put food on the table, and suddenly I feel more homesick than ever. I miss my island and I miss everyone there, I tell her, I miss my aunts, I miss my uncles, I miss my cousins and I especially miss Mama's Mama, Grandma Filomena. Great Grandma Celia gently strokes my hair as I speak, I miss them also my child, she tells me. A full moon shines majestically outside the window, and from it emanates a shaft of moonlight that penetrates the bedroom illuminating everything within; Great Grandma Celia's long silvery hair falls around her shoulders like a shining halo. So this is what angels look like, I think to myself. This same moon is also shimmering far away, over my island above Grandma Filomena and everybody else that I have left behind; together we can gaze up and contemplate the same heavenly body suspended high in the sky above all of us. Sharing The Moon in this way feels warm and reassuring, and suddenly I realise that we are not so far away from one another after all.
Next post: Sunday 12.02.2018: Goodbye Share The Moon
Note: All written content is the intellectual property of this Author. Image material is drawn largely from Pixabay with some additions from private family archives.
No comments:
Post a Comment