Not everyone's memories of the season are as shiny as a piece of tinsel, writes Melosina Lenox- Conyngham
Christmas came early not only to the high street this year, but also to me. My small black spaniel, her tail wagging like a mad metronome, appeared with what I first took to be an old pillow leaking feathers in her mouth. On closer examination I found it was a turkey, a teenage turkey that had been snatched from the springtime of its existence by death, or rather by Inca. It required no Sherlock Holmes to detect where the murder had been committed. The terrified siblings of the victim were squawking and clucking in huddled groups in my neighbour's yard where they were being reared for the Christmas market.
I have to confess I did contemplate concealing the crime - in fact I tried to dig a grave for the corpse, but the excessively dry weather had made the earth rock-hard and I could only scratch a depression on the surface that would scarcely bury a leg, let alone a three-kilo turkey. I then considered denying all knowledge of the offence, inventing an alibi and impugning the felony to a fox. But there was the possibility of the postman, who had suffered much vociferous displeasure in the past from Inca, coming forward as a hostile witness. As I cogitated on these matters I took the disgraced one for a walk in the fields far, far from the scene of the atrocity. She scampered gaily along the ditches and returned hoping to assuage my anger by bringing back a pheasant in her jaws. This was an even more heinous crime than the turkey as the keepers of game protect their birds with unparalleled ferocity and even if they don't shoot you, their language is not nice.
This time there was no wrestling with my conscience as I threw the pheasant into the hedge and went straight home to hide under my bed.
Christmas has never been a feast of unalloyed pleasure. My first memory is of Santa Claus and his little helper arguing at the foot of my bed. "If you put it in that way it will break," squawked the little helper. There was a crash and Santa Claus said angrily: "Just shows how badly it was wrapped." The little helper hissed triumphantly: "I told you so. It was very expensive present and one which I had gone to great trouble to get." Santa Claus muttered placatingly that if he took the broken bits away "she" would never notice. Actually a dolls' tea set loses a lot of its charm if it does not have a teapot!
When I was about 12, I spent the school holidays with a childless uncle and aunt near Macroom. They were not the sort of people who celebrated with tinsel decorations and garlands of greenery. A sprig of holly stuck above the portrait of great great grandfather Gunning and the Christmas cards ranged along the chimney piece were considered a sufficient display of merriment. We did not hang a stocking from the end of our beds as Santa Claus was not invited to make a personal appearance - to arrive down a chimney would have been considered unforgivably presumptuous and anyhow the jackdaws had blocked the bedroom flues with their nests.
On Christmas morning we went to the little Victorian church in Coachford and sang See Amid the Winter Snow, though I never remember there being any snow in west Cork. The organ, wheezing and groaning, was played by my aunt and pumped by an ex-naval commander who arrived for church on a bicycle and who supplemented his pension by selling eggs. Retired British majors and colonels with their wives made up the rest of the small congregation. They had settled in this part of Ireland in order to fish, but in the 1950s, the River Lee had been dammed for electricity and they were bereft of the sport so now occupied their time squabbling as to how to get the bats out of the church roof and planning a revolt against aunt Violet, who insisted on playing Irish tunes to all their favourite hymns.
After returning from church we opened the presents that had been heaped on top of the piano. Christmas lunch was traditional, turkey followed by plum pudding, and we shared this yuletide fare with a neighbouring widow. On one occasion she was accompanied by her son; he was observed helping himself to a dram of whiskey before lunch instead of the obligatory glass of dry sherry and was pronounced to be a bit of a bounder. Looking back, I am not surprised at his transgression. Though we did not have snow in Co Cork there was a certain damp, raw, winter chill in the house that was in no way alleviated by the single electric bar that heated the drawing room. When the gong was sounded, it was carried ceremoniously into the dining room and plugged in beside the window which was kept open, as otherwise Uncle Dick said the room was stuffy.
Since those days, many Christmases have come and gone. I must have danced round a forest of trees garlanded with tinsel, pulled enough rings out of the Christmas pudding to hang up a pair of curtains (though never a Mr Right to place one on my finger) and fought bitterly with my nearest, but not now dearest, on how to make brandy butter (they never beat it long enough).
Now another Christmas is upon us. Inca, I fear, is planning another contribution to the season of goodwill. Her eye has been caught by the two geese, who live on the opposite bank of the river. I know just what the recipient of the gifts for the 12 days of Christmas must have felt!