The Christmas love that dared not speak its name
A young boy examines a display of Action Man toys made by Palitoy at the British Toy Fair in Brighton in 1966. Picture: Leonard Burt/Central Press/Hulton Archive/Getty Images
At this most nostalgic time of year, my thoughts invariably wander down the byways of memory and, without fail, arrive at and linger over my first love and how to quote Wordsworth:
Now that we live in liberated alphabet soup times, I can at last come out of the toy closet and admit that my first love was a man. It was love at first sight, maybe even first sound, for when I heard for the first time in that Castlebar schoolyard of this god among mortals, this Herculean hunk with his handsome, chiselled visage, his rippling, honed physique and battle-ready stare, I knew this was the man for me and like many a determined suitor before me I set out to make him mine.
Well, faint heart and all that, so I embarked on a course of action that would make this man - Action Man - mine. The first, and quite considerable, obstacle was that I’d already written to Santa for binoculars. Not quite sure what possessed me to ask for such a sensible gift as any semblance of me actually acquiring common sense was pretty far off on the horizon back then.
The second even more significant obstacle was my pal Alan Aston, who after I foolishly confided in him about my new passion, mortified me by declaring for the whole Saleen gang to hear that I was getting “A DOLL!” for Christmas.
What betrayal! Yes, I’d just hit him with an especially hard snowball, but to sink so low as to slander my Action Man with that loathsome doll epithet was going way beyond the Pale.
Even worse, his sister Ruth was in earshot and before that snowy afternoon was out I was being taunted unmercifully about my ‘doll’ from Santa. Men have been driven to the Foreign Legion by less.
So I’ll admit that I wavered. The taunting was unremitting and almost too much to endure. After all, I had my reputation to consider. To test my resolve I cycled into town to gaze at the object of my desire who, for the time being, resided upstairs in the toy department of Staunton’s shop on Main Street.
He was even more impressive than I remembered. What’s more, also on display was a frogman’s suit and kit custom-made for himself. That was the clincher. He would be mine – slagging or not.
But how to break the news to Santa of my change of heart at this very late stage? I’d clearly and unambiguously stated that I wanted binoculars. But that was before…
If only I could intercept that letter but I’d seen it drop into the post-box only the week before. There could be no ambiguity here as well I recalled the trauma caused by my mother’s adamant refusal to put a stamp on the envelope, insisting that one was not required for the North Pole. As we crossed the Mall towards the post office she met our postman Tom McGreal who she inveigled into assuring me that no stamp was necessary. I wasn’t convinced but since the other Santa letters from our house were travelling stamp-less, I had to accept matters.
So Santa already had my letter and that was that. Unless! Unless, might it be possible, conceivable, that this Santa – those of delicate temperament close your eyes now – might not be real after all? I’d heard the rumours and wondered how some of the bigger lads could be so blasé about such an important matter, but I was still a believer, sort of. A Santa agnostic, if you like.
There again, if he didn’t actually exist then I was in with some chance. But how to confirm whether my doubts were based in reality or just wishful thinking? Such perplexing questions have challenged philosophers throughout the ages and this one left my child’s mind confused.
There was no option but to consult with the oracle himself, the font of all wisdom – Tom Galvin, aka Daddy.
When he arrived home at teatime from his District Veterinary Office located then, to our delight and mystification, in the Army Barracks where incidentally I started primary school, I requested an audience away from the prying ears of my siblings. He accompanied me out into the hallway and I bit the bullet, put it to him straight, did Santa really exist?
I can still see him pause, consider his response and then give me a sad-ish smile as he shook his head and replied “No, but don’t let on to the others.”
“Great,” I exploded excitedly – I was always a sensitive child – “I don’t want binoculars, I want Action Man” and I proceeded to outline the wonders of this marvellous creation, the object of my heart’s desire.
My father enquired about the binoculars, about birdwatching, nature study and a few other educational merits of such a possession. It struck me he was more interested in them than I, so I let him down gently.
“No way. I want Action Man.”
He sighed and relented.
Now I was on best behaviour as any last-minute misdeeds could no longer be assumed to be forgotten by Santa, as he usually did. Mammy and Daddy were now judge and jury and one wrong step could actually see me receiving that turnip on Christmas Morning, as my mother was forever threatening. In fairness to her, she varied it a bit. Some years it was coal, others a sod of turf and I seem to recall a head of cabbage slipping into the equation. No matter, the message was clear - be good or else. I all but sprouted a halo.
That year we were having goose for Christmas dinner and my father had met a man who knew a man who knew a woman who bred the finest geese in Mayo. The deal was struck, no doubt clinched with the aid of some seasonal good cheer.
Where I entered the equation was that I was charged with heading out on my bike to somewhere in the wilds of Ballyheane to collect the bird. I saw this as a challenge, something to prove my new-found, post-Santa-belief maturity, and my worthiness for Action Man.
As you did, in those more innocent days, I peddled in the general direction of Ballyheane and made inquiries as I went along. Eventually, I arrived at the farmhouse and was introduced to our fine-looking goose.
The problem for me was that it was very much alive and not very happily kicking as it was unceremoniously stuffed into a sack and handed over in exchange for the envelope I’d been entrusted with.
Now, not being au fait with such transactions I assumed this was the normal modus operandi for transporting geese.
So, off I set with the unfortunate creature in its hessian prison, hanging over the handlebars. It was a torturous journey with each turn of the pedals administering another knee to the sack and its poor occupant protesting angrily. Eventually, I decided it would be easier, and possibly kinder, to walk and spare us both the trauma. This was one very unhappy goose, but not as unhappy as Mammy, when I arrived home with our noisily discommoded and very aggressive Christmas dinner.
She let it out of the sack in our yard and there it held sway, with us all giving it a wide berth, until eventually, my father arrived home and unceremoniously dispatched it with a hatchet.
Plucked of its feathery covering and devoid of its head it was hoisted high in the shed rafters like some medieval felon adorning the town gates as a salutary warning to all. I averted my gaze each time I passed, plagued with shame and guilt for my role in this goose-icide.
Where the breakdown in communication over the delivery details of the late goose occurred was never revealed – I suspect the location for the planning process was a couple of high stools - but can’t confirm this. Anyway, it transpired I wasn’t to blame and that was all that mattered as the big day drew near.
Now I can’t pretend to remember what the doomed goose tasted like, but I’m fairly certain Maura Galvin drew a line at live deliveries thereafter.
And to end this seasonal tale on a happy note, not only did Action Man arrive into my life that Christmas Morning, complete with coveted frogman gear, but so too did my slighted binoculars. Could life get any better than this?
