Dearest Deborah,

Happy Christmas Shamwari.

Another Christmas without you and I find myself thinking of Christmases gone by– Christmas at Tokwe; the flats resembling a giant’s shoe box; balancing on one end, white and imposing. Scarlet bougainvillea spilling at our feet as we stand on the fire escape looking down on to the lit road: Quendon Road looks like a ribbon of Christmas lights wrapped round the landscape as we watch Father Christmas in his sleigh flying low. Christmas at Villa Montmatre. Christmas at Belsize, Christmas at Taormina, did we have a Christmas at Taormina? Or had we moved again by then?  - we only lived there for three months. Christmas at Melrose, Christmas at Kepel, Kensington, the hotel… I know we had several Christmases in England, when Dad was trying to make up his mind which continent he wanted to live on. It became quite a routine having Christmas in England….

Today we will meet my father’s parents. Our suitcases and coats are by the door, where they have been for the last two hours. Grandad Norman is late picking us up.
‘Nothing changes,’ says my mother.
Deborah and I keep watch out of the window. Finally a white van pulls up onto the kerb, wheel arches peppered with dirt and rust.
‘At last!’ says my mother. She presses her lips together. ‘Here comes Norm.’        

An old man climbs down from the van. He reminds me of a bat. He has large ears and a long, dark coat which wraps around him like a pair of wings.
My mother opens the front door.
‘Hello, Peg… Pam, er…’
‘It’s Pat, Norman. How are you?’
‘Not too bad, Peg… Pat.’ He turns to Deborah and myself. ‘My, you’ve both grown. Sorry I’m late, had to stop at the doings, and buy sweets for you girls.’ We quickly learn that ‘doings’ can mean any place, activity or person that Grandad cannot remember.
We kiss Nanna Fe Fe goodbye and climb into the van’s dark interior. It is like an enormous cave, walls of glass made from hundreds of jars, each containing a cluster of nuts, bolts, hinges, screws… I climb over jumbles of saws, to perch with Deborah on a wooden dining chair in the back. There is only room for one bottom cheek each, on its slippery upholstery. Grandad hands us a sherbet fountain each and We untwist them and dab liquorish in sherbet. ‘I heard you like sherbet fountains.’ Then he hands us a box of sherbets - 13 sherbet fountains, here are thirteen sherbet fountains packed together like sticks of dynamite ready to be lit. Six each, how will we share the thirteenth one?

The engine starts, its rattles vibrate through my feet, shaking the tools around us. We pull away, the chair tips backwards, making us grab for my mother’s seat in front. Deborah’s mouth froths with sherbet, her blue eyes are wet with laughter, sherbet runs down her chin. She points to a hole in the floor where we watch the passing tarmac, exhaust fumes fill our nostrils. We share hidden winks and nudges as the van twists and climbs Ditchling Beacon towards Brighton.
Nanna Ian opens the front door. This is the woman who was desperate for a little girl but ended up with six sons. Nanna Ian is a solid woman with dark wavy hair and an olive skin. She greets me with a punch to the left arm, a hook to the right, an upper cut and finally to a jab to the ribs.
‘Come on then,’ she laughs, ‘show us what you are made of.’
I rub my thin arms. I usually play-fight with my father and Uncle David; a chop, a back fist, a reverse punch – it’s their way of showing affection but it does not usually hurt this much. Nanna Ian must have taught them, like a trainer, a coach but they’re men, I cannot punch an old lady back, it would be wrong. I stand there like a gazelle in headlights.
‘Come on you big wuss,’ she says, ‘what’s wrong with you?’
I tap her gently on the shoulder.
‘Is that the best you can do?’ she sighs.
Our grandparent’s house at Coldean Lane is a happy hub of chaos. A chicken roasts, a cabbage steams, a kettle boils, a television blares and a radio crackles. I wander from room to room. Every surface in the house is covered in clutter. In the kitchen the shelves skulk beneath boxes of bargains, special offer tins, a half eaten banana, a bottle of engine oil, dirty pots and pans and many broken radios. In the lounge the mantlepiece shies away as if afraid of the feather duster. Upstairs on the landing the window sill lurks under a mosaic of old penny coins, a watch, a razor blade, a glass, another radio and a melted toffee. I am in awe. The bath is buried beneath a heap of clothes.
I wonder where we will sleep. I watch my mother tip-toeing round as if she is afraid to disturb the chaos, the chaos that distracts me and stops me thinking about our father we left behind on call up. My mother perches on the edge of the sofa as if she intends to make a break for the front door.
Sons and daughter-in-laws keep popping up at the house like acne on a teenager. Another chair is pulled up, another meal is found – I witness the feeding of the multitude. It is the miracle of the loaves and the fishes except that Grandad Norman hands round plates of chicken, bowls of roast potatoes, boats of gravy and dishes of Yorkshire puddings stacked high. A mish-mash of crockery; floral, stripy, swirly, spotty, white, brown, blue but never black. Grandad believes black plates bring bad luck. During dinner Grandad sings ‘Doot-de-doot de doot doot’ to a baby he jiggles on his knee. A granddaughter laughs, a toddler squeals and somebody falls down the stairs.
Suddenly we drop into darkness. The many relatives groan. I wonder - have terrorists sabotaged the powerlines?
 ‘Anyone got a 50p for the meter?’ comes Grandad’s voice.
Hands jingle change in pockets, zips and poppers open on handbags as everyone searches for a 50p piece but nobody can find one in the dark. With a bump and a thud Grandad searches for his torch. He returns – he looks even more bat-like with the torch light illuminating his chin. Relatives offer handfuls of coins to the torchlight– a 50p is found. Grandad opens the cupboard under the stairs and slips the coin through the slot in the meter. The lights ping on and everybody cheers. Coldean regularly plunges into darkness as Grandad will only put in one coin at a time.
It is bedtime at Coldean. The random relatives have left. Deborah and I lie in camp beds in the lounge. I cuddle my ‘hot water bottle’ - a glass lemonade bottle filled with hot water and cocooned in a woolly green sock. Deborah waves her blue socked bottle at me. She holds her nose and pretends to faint at the smell of the sock.
‘Jeez man, I think Grandad’s been wearing this one.’ Deborah and I snort with laughter and have to hide under the covers when my mother and grandparents come back in.
I lie there listening to them. My mother takes a sip of her tea, grimaces and looks round trying to find somewhere to put it down. Grandad always throws a dumper truck of sugar into every mug, even if you ask for no sugar. My mother does not complain.
It is morning. I open my eyes; I cannot remember where I am. My hands touch the hard ‘hot water bottle’ – I smile. Grandad is in the kitchen cooking us a full English breakfast. My mother is cleaning the sink in her marigold gloves that she brought with her.

I hope you enjoyed a visit to a Christmas past, Shamwari.

Love and hugs your No. 1 sister, Anita.xxx

PS I have kept up the tradition of Sherbet Fountains at Christmas