Stop the Cavalry

Sarah Ward

Apart from 1980, every Christmas of my childhood was spent abroad. That year it was decided - maybe because my grandparents were getting on a bit - that we'd head to the west coast of Scotland. Nana and Grandad lived in Port Glasgow. We spent most summers there. We were used to having the fire on in July, losing feeling in our feet swimming in the outdoor pool, playing crazy golf in the rain. But Winter? It was hard to imagine. But there was always a great feel to my grandparents' place, lots of stories and people dropping in. I was looking forward to the seven-card rummy.

The plan was we'd start there then move to my Aunt and Uncle's for Christmas itself. Uncle John and Aunt Kate lived in Greenock. Their house was too big to be cosy. It was a place where doors were kept shut and you weren't sure what lay behind each one. Somewhere on the first floor was the Chinese Room, with high arch-backed cane chairs and fancy tables. Children weren't allowed in. Snooping was a risk in case you stumbled on Uncle John, my mother's older brother, peering down his nose through half moon specs. He could step from the shadows like Mrs Danvers. His searing wit cut with astonishing precision. ... (continues)