Crime and punishment on Christmas Morn

When I was growing up in Castlebar there was a tradition in the Galvin household, devised by some child-hating sadist no doubt, that we weren’t allowed next nor near the Christmas tree and our ‘big’ presents until after Mass on Christmas morning. Can you imagine what Joe Duffy would make of such cruelty today?

To stave off the toy DTs, however, a small stocking would be left at the end of our beds, a sort of amuse bouche to whet our appetite for the greater things to come.

These stockings, for the boys at least, would usually contain a few soldiers and, if you were lucky, the odd Dinky. But for a man who might diplomatically be termed pleasantly plump, and by current HSE standards, possibly even obese, Santa seemed inordinately fond of fruit. Invariably, these starter stockings were top-heavy with bloody oranges and the like.

Now why, I wondered, did he go to all the bother of transporting oranges all the way from the North Pole when he should have known that our mother had an orange fetish anyway, a leftover from the war no doubt, and was forever forcing us to eat them. If there was one thing there was no shortage of in our Saleen home it was oranges. Yet every year, himself insisted on bringing us yet more oranges which, if truth be told, didn’t taste much different from those Mam bought home from Garavan’s or Horkan’s.

Anyway, this particular Christmas morning I awoke dark and early to see what had been delivered. As usual, there were oranges in abundance but there were a few choice items mixed in as well. The stocking was of the nylon mesh variety so I was able not only to see what was in mine but also what my younger brother Brian had received.

He hadn’t done too badly in the fruit department either but I couldn’t help noticing that Santa had been more than generous to him when it came to military hardware as well. Now, this alarmed me because Brian was a gentle soul who, if anything, displayed disquieting pacifist tendencies at his tender age and I thought it quite inappropriate of Santa to have imposed such unsuitable gifts on such an innocent lad.

In fact, if Santa had taken the trouble to customise his deliveries to his clients, he would have surely realised that oranges, lots of them, were the gift this young lad would have most appreciated.

Being the selfless sort, I decided to rectify the anomaly before my brother woke and had his young illusions shattered by Santa’s thoughtlessness. I quickly swapped my apples and oranges for his soldiers with the result that Brian’s stocking resembled a greengrocer’s delivery and mine an FCA corporal's fantasy wish list.

Satisfied that I had made my contribution towards peace, harmony and a more equitable distribution of resources in my household, I settled into a good game of soldiers. When Brian finally awoke he seemed happy enough with what he’d got — at least he certainly wouldn’t have to worry about scurvy for a while.

I could hear the girls, Patricia and Margot, in the other room getting excited about things that were beyond my comprehension: sissy stuff, which again made me question Santa's priorities. Why waste valuable sleigh space on dolls and the like when he could be using it to pack in more guns and tanks?

I was ever the philosopher, forever pondering the mysteries of the universe and trying to figure out how best to exploit them to my, er, I mean, mankind’s advantage.

Speaking of mysteries, one was about to unfold that took me years to fathom. The bedroom door opened and there stood my mother. She surveyed the scene but instead of the usual banter about what good boys we must have been for Santa to be so generous to us, the smile on her face evaporated, to be replaced by a look that would sour cream.

Without saying a word, she stepped over Brian - who in my defence, I have to point out, was happily playing with his galactic oranges - and landed me such a belt across the ear that I think I can still feel it ringing as I write.

“You dangerous little yoke,” she scowled, one of her many terms of endearment for me, before she got busy redistributing the booty. Brian got half my army and a Mini Cooper Dinky, which no doubt is now a collector’s item that would fund comfortable retirement if I still had it today. That’s the problem with parents, they act impulsively without taking cognisance of the consequences of their actions.

Some Christmas morning this was turning out to be. I try to do a good turn and hardly before the day has begun I have a thick ear, am in Mammy’s bad books, and like Julius Caesar before me, am weeping for my lost legions.

But here’s the mystery! How on earth did she know what Santa put in our stockings? I mean, she didn’t even mistake the cap gun I’d got for Brian’s Dinky. There was something really odd going on here. Even the bloody fruit was reallocated in accordance with Santa’s perverse share-out. Truly Maura Galvin, like Santa, worked in mysterious ways.

Figuring this out, however, would have to wait because we all had to get ready for Mass. Everybody dressed up in their finest, the girls looking like, well, girls, and my older brother John looking smug, as if he knew a secret the rest of us didn’t.

I was a bit worried that Santa might have got wind of my reallocation of resources so I thought I’d better check the sitting room where the big presents were left under the tree. But my run of bad luck continued. The handle had been removed from the door. The whole thing was gone and the sitting room was as off-limits to me as our neighbour Gerald FitzGerald’s orchard.

Where was the trust? How could my own father have so little faith in me that he went so far as taking the knob off the door to prevent me making a quick inventory before we went to Mass? I was more saddened than angry. I felt he had let himself down.

I thought about punishing my mother by not giving her her annual box of bath salts I purchased in Staunton’s with my hard-saved pocket money she had provided. Worse, I even considered withdrawing my father’s gift but couldn’t since this year it was something really special I had acquired for him in Best’s new shop, a classically tasteful red plastic cover for his steering wheel that had to be laced up like something from an adult shop (not that Castlebar boasted such an establishment back then).

So off we went to Mass with me bemoaning the loss of innocence and cynicism abroad in the world even at this the most special time of the year, apart from my birthday of course.

Archdeacon Nohilly said Mass that morning and, obviously, he wasn’t expecting much under his tree for he dragged proceedings on forever with all that true meaning of Christmas palaver. This tedium was made worse by the presence of luckier children who got their big presents like normal people at the crack of dawn. I felt naked and exposed as I worshipped unarmed surrounded by gunslingers, soldiers and nurses (yuck).

Anyway, we eventually got home and much to my relief neither Santa nor my mother bore a grudge because I got the commando kit I had written for, just like the one I spotted in Heneghan’s window, complete with camouflaged helmet net, canteen and a knife with a blade that went back into the handle when you stabbed someone with it. Could life get any better than this?

Sad to relate I must end these musings on a discordant note. My father finally, after weeks of me prompting him, fitted that red plastic steering-wheel cover in the car. I felt it added a touch of James Bond-like class to be honest. But would you believe it, it was hardly in place for more than a day when it was stolen. Yes, stolen! And from the army barracks of all places. 

The Department of Agriculture where Tom Galvin was a veterinary officer was located there at the time, as was my first school. He arrived home a saddened and world-wearier man to break the terrible news. Some reprobate had so coveted that treasured item that he broke into our car and made off with it. The Guards it seemed, didn’t hold out much hope of apprehending the guilty party. There was no CSI Castlebar back in the ‘60s.

I suggested we check Best’s to see if we might find a replacement but my father wearily shook his head. It would be too much of a temptation for the town’s criminal fraternity so he’d reluctantly try to manage steering without a red steering-wheel cover lest he spark an escalation of the crime wave. What a thoughtful man. 

Let that be a salutary lesson to you all as you enjoy the season of goodwill.