We often learn that one person’s loss can be another’s gain

Dec 11 2007 by David Charters, Liverpool Daily Post

BACK in our village, where the breath of time blows again on ancient faith, the people known as bricks, because of their industrious ways and sturdy manners, looked at the heaps of chestnuts to be roasted, at the wine to be mulled and at the sheets of carols to be sung in fervent voice, before the switching-on of the festive lights.

Every year, it takes a lot of bricks to celebrate the birth of a baby.

And beneath the dripping awning of the greengrocer’s shop, gossiping women blocked the doorway in a tight ballet of macs, plastic-baskets, spud-sacks and unfurling umbrellas – everyone staring at the sky. “I hope it clears for the big switch-on,” they said.

Meanwhile, across the brooding water, on a step by a pub in a busy street, the old tramp with the stringless guitar strummed a silent melody to the very slow rhythm of coins dropped in his cap by passing people of the big city.

“Listen to his song,” an artist had said, grabbing my arm, as we walked down the street a few days earlier. “I don’t hear it, but I see the sadness,” I said, looking at the cut-out, cardboard guitar.

“Ah, but it’s a grand song in his head,” the artist said. “It’s just that you have to listen a little harder.”

Incurable hope beats in the romantic heart.

But, on this special day, I was standing on the squelching mud of a field, cultivating, on the fourth toe of my left foot, the first chilblain of winter. The potency of its itching-swell would have persuaded a granite Buddha to reach for his scratching stick. As its intensity increased, I periodically pressed on it and rubbed it with the heel of my right shoe. This manoeuvre stretched to the brink my precarious sense of balance, causing me to hop nervously before regaining the bipedal stance favoured by humans – on this field near the cliffs overlooking the sea to Wales, where the hills rise behind the glowing lights of small towns.

We were spectators at a school rugby match, straggling along the touchline in our heavy coats and scarves, occasionally shouting words of encouragement to our young warriors, as the wind swept in from the coast. “Come on, lads. Push, push. Now pass it to Danny. Run, boy, run.”

Studs ripped the ground, grass flew in the air. Knees thudded on the turf.

But during the half-time interval, my mind wandered to Christmas. We could no longer pretend that our 11-year-old son, standing a few yards away caked in mud, really believes in Father Christmas, though he still tolerates our references to the old chap in the North Pole, stacking Rudolph’s sleigh with parcels.

But in life we often learn that one person’s loss can be another’s gain.

My wife’s belief in Father Christmas is growing by the minute, as is the list of must-have presents that she is preparing for him. A disturbing thought tweaked my nerves, as I gazed into her lovely turquoise eyes. I am now Father Christmas.

Once the match was over, we returned to the village. The stalls of mince pies, mulled wine and chestnuts were already in place. The sky cleared and the Salvation Army band tuned-up. In the brassy belch of the polished horns, you could imagine the faint reflections of Christmases gone. Faces flitting through the memory. Where are they now?

And we sang O Come All Ye faithful, for we had been faithful, and then came the carol which always grips the spirit, In the Bleak Mid Winter. “What can I give Him, poor as I am, If I were a shepherd I would bring a lamb, if I were a wise man, I would do my part, Yet what can I give Him. Gi-i-i-ve my heart.”

Yes, those bricks were smiling as the queues lengthened down the village’s main street. Christmas had started. Lights shone bright. Hundreds of people thronged, clumping their feet on the ground and blowing into gloved hands like Victorians in picture cards. Chestnut shells crunched on the pavement, but the mulled wine was running out. Demand had exceeded expectation.

Our son had found a friend from school and they were chattering away about computer games, but the mince pies and carols will call them back one day. An old friend introduced us to his five-month-old daughter, all wrapped in wool under her pink bonnet. A first Christmas for another baby, will she be cast as Mary in the Nativity plays to come? You can’t stop time.

Maybe, across the river, a tune sounded in the tramp’s stringless guitar. Too sentimental, eh. Well, why not, it’s Christmas time.

LISTEN to David Charters on his picture podcast at www.liverpooldailypost.co.uk