My Chosen Career and Santa's Role in It
Anne M Fielding
If anyone were to ask me what took place on a given day last week I should struggle to remember. Christmas Day, 1936? - that is a different matter! Its events are crystal clear, etched deeply in my memory. I could bore for Scotland on that one! I can see it all - how the coloured paper strips, glued together in a chain by my eager fingers, adorned the picture rail in the front room. These, with a few sprigs of holly scattered here and there, conspired to give our tenement flat a festive air.
We lived at the time in Hill Street, Radnor Park, Clydebank, a street of friendly folk who looked out for each other. I was five years old, a seasoned member of the Boquhanran School community, which I had joined in August at the start of a new term. Although I loved school, I already had aspirations above my lowly station as a Reception Class pupil.
I wanted to become a teacher when I left school. What could be easier? A teacher need know only which questions to ask. No knowledge of answers were necessary-the pupils supplied those! It was just a case of "Who can tell me how many pennies make a shilling?" or, "Who knows how to spell Monday?", for example. I reasoned that I could do well at the job; after all, I knew both the questions and the answers.
Our teacher was a beautiful lady, with shiny brown hair and blue eyes. I could manage the hair and eyes - maybe the beautiful bit was optional. I could use Her "stories for home-time" when I became a teacher. That was it then: my future was settled.
If I were to practise for this job some furniture was necessary, namely, a desk, chair, blackboard and easel. How could I get hold of such things? I had a sudden brainwave. Santa Claus was the very person to provide such things. I knew where to find him- in the Co-operative in Alexander Street. My mammy and daddy would be taking me to see him as usual, in any case.
In the meantime, my parents' reaction to all of this was slightly disappointing. They wondered aloud whether Santa's sledge could cope with objects of this size, or if he would have them ready in time for Christmas Eve. Santa, on the other hand, seemed more positive when I explained my situation. He said that he might, just might, be able to help me. He would, of course, leave me a present of some sort should there be a production problem at his workshop.
I now realise that my parents were acutely aware that the family coffers did not contain sufficient to stretch to school furniture. Along with many others, my father, a marine engineer who had travelled the globe, suffered the indignity of frequent spells of unemployment in this era of economic instability.
Blithely oblivious to their dilemma, I remained supremely confident that Santa would deliver the goods, especially with God's intervention. Now, God knew that I never missed Sunday School at Boquhanran Parish Church and that I always put the whole penny in the Collection: some girls spent a halfpenny on sweeties as we walked along to church but I knew that God would not like that! Yes, God would put in a good word for me with Santa. With such a team behind me failure was impossible. The teaching props were as good as mine.
On Christmas Eve my stocking hung above the specially blackleaded range and the kettle was on the hob. I was tucked up in bed, ostensibly asleep. Eventually there was a loud knock at the door. I heard my daddy's voice and another which sounded like that of my big cousin, Peter, my hero, home on leave from the army. He was in a regiment called the Cameronians, in India usually. When my daddy said, "Come in, Santa," I realised my mistake.
They went into the front room. The front room - a "no- go" area for all but the minister or the doctor! Next I heard the chink of china cups and saucers. Santa was going to drink tea from my mammy's wedding china!
"Wait a minute," I said to myself. "Why didn't Santa come down the lum?" I almost spoke out loud. Ah! the presents must have been too big. Santa would know that if he were covered in soot he would never have set foot in the room, let alone drink out of the minister's cup.
On Christmas Day there before me stood a brightly-painted orange desk, with matching chair, a blackboard and easel. Wisely, Santa had even included a box of chalks and a duster. My life was complete' I practised assiduously as a teacher, luring everyone into being my pupils - even resorting to my dolls when I had no other alternatives.
Years later I did, in fact, become a teacher. My childish preconceptions flew out of the window. A teacher had to know the answers to many, many questions I learned too that my benefactor had indeed been Peter. A most kind young man, so fond of his wee cousin and aware of the financial situation of his favourite uncle, he had bought my presents from his meagre army allowance.
Who was Santa? I know the answer. Do you?
