‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ my mother was apt to sing out on Christmas Eve, ‘but when it comes, it brings good cheer.’
Since this was 1945 and my father (the politician Frank Pakenham) was due to stand for Parliament in the coming summer general election – in the Labour interest, in Oxford – I though it tactful to ask, ‘Will Father Christmas vote Labour?’
My mother did not seem to like the political question very much. ‘Of course he will vote Labour,’ she snapped, ‘and bring us a lot of good things, just as Labour will.’ Clem Attlee duly won.
That night, our uncle John Harman arrived for Christmas: he was our mother’s unmarried brother. He later went on to marry and become the father of the distinguished Labour politician Harriet Harman.
He tended to sleep in a bachelor bedroom in the attic. I happened to be rooting about there, seeing if I could add to my own presents in advance, when I heard familiar voices: our mother and Uncle John.
‘They won’t show,’ said our mother.
‘It’s important,’ said Uncle John. He seemed to be wrestling with something.
Then I fled and began wrapping my presents for the next day. But I managed to leave a vital object upstairs, and it was in that way – another secret creep – that I came on a garish pair of tartan trousers lying half-hidden by his bed.
Imagine my amazement, on the next day, as Father Christmas danced in the drawing room, to see, clearly visible, another pair of garish trousers beneath his scarlet robe.
Another pair? Surely it must be the same pair – but that was impossible. How could Uncle John manage to get hold of Father Christmas’s trousers?
I decided to find out by cunning questioning.
‘Do you know Scotland, Uncle John?’ I asked in a voice of casual politeness.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘What about tartan?’ I persisted. ‘No, I can’t bear tartan.’ It was a tremendous relief. Father
Christmas was real. ‘Christmas comes but once a year,’ declared my mother again at the end of the year. ‘And next year it’s going to provide more cheer than ever. Your father and I have bought a little cottage in Scotland. The only thing is that the Scots don’t really celebrate Christmas. It’s New Year up there.’
‘New Year!’ I cried with horror. ‘But what about Father Christmas?’
‘Oh, Father Christmas is coming too,’ said Uncle John casually. ‘A real opportunity to wear my new trousers. I love dressing up and Christmas is the perfect opportunity. Did you think they suited me?’
Horrors! Father Christmas really was just playing a game. I muttered to myself, ‘When Christmas comes, it brings a tear.’
