On the Feast of Stephen!
by Wendy Pycock
Brother Stephen and I made a bet, that we could save our entire December sweet ration until Christmas. I weakened several times, unable to pass Barratt's sweet shop, without calling in for the odd two ounce bar of McGowans Licquorice toffee, a firm favourite at the time. Old Ma Barratt snipped off a coupon and relieved me of a threepenny bit from my pocket money each time I paid a visit to her shop. Staggering though it was, as he was really quite greedy, Stephen managed to save his full monthly coupon allowance until Christmas Eve afternoon, when he went to the local Coop and bought his Christmas Sweets, ten two ounce Mars Bars! I was green with envy as he tipped them out of a blue sugar bag onto the kitchen table. He lined up the bars, even half offering me one, before snatching it back, laughing manically meanwhile. Reaching for the bread board and knife, Stephen proceeded to cut each bar length and widthways to produce ten chocolate chunks which he tipped carefully into the sugar bag. When the operation was complete on the other nine bars, he waved the bag aloft, reminding me that ten times ten made one hundred pieces of Mars bar! In other words, his sweets were counted. I wasn't too bothered, I thought Mars Bars were a bit sickly after a couple of bites. Christmas morning dawned fine and frosty. For some time I was absorbed with my favourite present for that year, a pair of green painted stilts, made by my Dad. I stumped up and down the garden path on the stilts with our dog looking on nervously most of the morning but eventually was called in to stir the gravy and the bread sauce for dinner. All too soon home-made Crackers had been pulled, goose carved and the meal served. After two helpings of pudding I’d managed to find the two sixpences that had been stirred in weeks before when the puddings had been made, so I was happy enough. It was not long before Stephen appeared in the front room where I'd gone, to escape helping to clear the table. He carried his blue sugar bag grasped tightly in his fist and his cheeks were already bulging, how could he, after all he'd eaten for lunch. Since the summer he'd been rearing some bantams which had lived alongside our hens in the chicken –run in the far garden, and it had been agreed that he could have his own bantam, plucked and cooked for Christmas dinner. Even Stephen had been unable to eat all the bird to himself, as he was made to leave half for Biddy the dog. At three o'clock while the adults listened in the living room to the King's address on the radio, Stephen and I played with a new board game he'd got for Christmas, that is, until he rolled off the hearthrug moaning and grasping his stomach. Biddy recently returned from her sumptuous meal in the veranda, went across to lick Stephen’s face, only to be rewarded with a push, which also upset the sugar bag enough, for several pieces of Mars to roll towards the ecstatic dog. As Stephen lunged to retrieve his sweetmeats, he was caught with another spasm which had him dashing to the bathroom upstairs. Biddy and I looked at each other and then at the blue bag. I had enough room for just one piece of Mars, which I popped into my mouth while feeding the same to Biddy who sat and begged beautifully. It was the last I was to see of my brother that Christmas day. His calls from the landing were finally heard by Mum, who came into the hall to see what was the matter. Despite his moans, she was not persuaded to rush upstairs, she told him to stay in his room, but go to the bathroom if he felt sick! Mum had not thought a cooked bantam for a twelve year old boy a very good plan from the start, "another of yer Dad's daft idea," was how she'd described it. She came into the front room to see what I was up to and spied the sugar bag on the hearthrug. On hearing about the contents, she shook her head in disbelief, but then after throwing another sticky lump to Biddy, she popped a piece in her own mouth. Then screwing up the bag, she gave me a wink and disappeared to the pantry where she tossed it onto a high shelf behind some jars of jam saying, “the rest’ll keep until after New Year!” |
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