My father was in the British Merchant Navy and in those days he spent most of his life at sea. Basically, he was away nine months of the year and we would be lucky if he got a 3-month stay-at-home period. So our whole youth was spent waiting and watching for our father to come home.

My poor mother struggled with my two older brothers and myself. My father was hardly ever home for Christmas, but this Christmas would be different. He had written to tell us he definitely would be home.

My mother baked more than ever and the whole atmosphere was just one of constant excitement and elation. The Christmas tree seemed to be the biggest we ever had and the neighbours joined in in our joyous anticipation.

On Christmas Eve, a taxi pulled up outside our door and the whole street watched as this big bearded man knocked at our door. Unfortunately, we children hadn't seen our father in nearly a year and he hadn't had a beard then. We saw this apparition at the door and hysterically thought in all our excitement that Santa had come early! When we realised it was our father, it was a strange combination of disappointment and excitement.

I remember my father taking me on his lap (I was about 7 years old) and I proceeded to tell him what I wanted for Christmas! I was so confused and when I smelled him, I suddently realised it was my father. He always smelled of piped tobacco. He was a pipe smoker. I snuggled into him and I remember feeling as if nothing could stop this moment. My mother’s face shone so bright that I thought she was the Virgin Mary herself (in my child’s mind). We all sat around the big open fire in the kitchen and roasted marshmallows (that my father had brought back from the States).

We looked out the window and snow flakes appeared from a clear blue sky. This was the first snowfall in 1963/1964 that happened to fall on Christmas Eve. It was so magical and we watched as the snow covered the ground around our little village. Neighbours with their children ran out into the street. We all played with the snow and threw snowballs until our hands had no feeling left in them. My father invited everybody in and produced a strange-looking bottle! We didn't understand then that it was a bottle of Cognac and everybody sang and we were allowed to sit with the other kids and imagine pictures in the firelight.

The next morning Santa had left my brothers two huge soldier forts (my father had spent months making them on the ship), and I received my first Sindy doll in an ice-skating outfit. My father never had another Christmas with us. He was killed in an accident and was buried at sea when I was 14. But I will never forget that magical Christmas for as long as I live. It was as if the Gods above had decided to give us one special Christmas together. My mother, on her deathbed (years later) still recalled the special moments of that year. She joined her husband shortly afterwards with a lovely smile on her pain-ridden face.

My brothers and I still talk about that Christmas when we get together.

I wish you a wonderful Christmas.

Niamh Ni Bhroin

If you wish to comment or express an opinion about this article please e-mail the editor@TheHagueOnLine.com