CHRISTMAS REMEMBERED

I had the dubious fortune (or misfortune – depending on interpretation) of being the lastborn child in a family of practical jokers. My mother was a gently raised English girl and my father was of rambunctious Irish descent - and there were two older brothers.

Being horse-mad but equinely deprived by the economics of a dairy farm I decided I would go over my parents’ heads and ask Santa Claus for a pony. Pencil and paper in hand I sat myself down and composed my letter telling Santa how wonderfully well-behaved I had been all year, how hard I had studied at school and how very much I wanted my own pony. I dropped my letter in the mail-box and confidently made preparations for the pony that I knew would be mine in two days’ time.

Christmas Eve took forever to arrive, but when it did I was in bed by 7 o’clock, eyes squeezed shut so Santa would know I was trying not to look for him. A carrot for the reindeer, biscuit and a drink for Santa sat on a little table by the foot of my bed, along with a big chaff bag that my father said would be needed for the pony.

I was awake bright and early next morning, flew out of bed and woke my parents and brothers for the milking because all chores had to be done before present investigating could begin. Then I realised that, with my new pony, I could go get the cows to save time.

The big chaff bag was still at the foot of my bed, but all that I found in it was some horse poo, and there was a small trail of poo out across the verandah – obviously Santa had brought my pony, but it had escaped! I had to find it, so off I went – bubbling over with excitement – but not a sign of the pony could I find. I was heartbroken and returned to my bed crying because my pony had run away. Christmas day was ruined for me and my misery took the shine off it for everyone else. Every time I looked at the chaff bag I burst out again until finally one of my brothers said he wanted to tell me something. He was immediately hauled outside by my mother and furious whispering took place. My father and other brother were subjected to the same treatment. I don’t remember seeing my mother look quite so ferocious before or since, but they were very subdued for the rest of the day.

Finally, my misery got the better of my mother as well, and she let me in on the secret. It was not Santa who left the horse poo in the bag – Santa would only bring toy type presents, never anything alive because of the mess it would make in his sleigh – it was a practical joke played by my father and brothers. Once this was explained to me and I was sworn to secrecy, my mother hatched her own evil plan.

My mother’s plan involved the guilt trip of all guilt trips. Knowledge dried up my tears, and since I couldn’t turn them on at will, I developed the art of lip trembling and looking sad (something children are very good at doing). I brought out all my horse books and lip-trembled my way through them, throwing in the odd sniffle and voice break for good measure. My mother smothered me with sympathy in my apparent heartbreak and glared at the family men, who dropped their eyes guiltily.

Over the next two weeks I appeared inconsolable over the loss of my Santa pony – my mother oozing sympathy every time my lip trembled or my voice broke. (Oscar award winning performances every time from both of us).

Gradually things settled back into normal routine – I got wonderful birthday gifts from my brothers which helped soothe my wounded little heart, and I was included in everything they did with their horses to make up for the “one that ran away”.

Over the next couple of years I appeared to forget that pony, just seeming a little morose each Christmas as I recalled the time Santa made a mistake (and to get back at the menfolk in my family). Even when Santa was consigned to the land of childhood myths, I dwelt aloud on the sadness I had felt – sadness that went too deep to ever be forgotten.

Drought settled over the district and while one brother worked away in the railways, the other stayed on the farm. As the drought tightened its grip, he and another farming son set off with a herd of the district’s dry cows and yearlings to drove them to a drought-free tract of public land where there were also a couple of mobs of brumbies. While they were there, my brother managed to capture a brumby foal – a little blue-roan colt that he brought home and presented to me. Velvet, named for the softness of the nose he thrust into the side of my neck, became my pride and joy and I was in horse heaven. He followed me everywhere and I loved him dearly.

When Velvet had grown enough my brother helped me break and train him and that was when Dan finally found out how my mother and I had conned them for all those years over the practical joke they played on me.

Memories are wonderful and I now laugh about my bag of horse poo, especially the subsequent way my quiet, gentle mother made a practical joke backfire on her wild Irish rogues.