The Christmas Pantomime

'St. Nicholas, Christmas Number' Anon., 1896 (American)

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Christmas was always my favourite day of the year, and Father Christmas was my paternal saviour dressed in red. I waited all year for his visit, untroubled by how he descended our blocked chimney, and almost burst with excitement in the months leading up to the Big Day, dreaming of the piles of beautifully wrapped presents he would leave me around the fireplace.

Every Christmas Eve I wouldn't be able to sleep and, whilst the rest of the house rested in darkness, my head would be peeking out from under the bedroom curtain, staring at the stars. He would always let me know he had found my house safely, and I would wait patiently to hear his sleigh singing through the sky, before drifting off into a peaceful sleep.

Mother would ardently decorate the house until everywhere looked like happiness. At Father's house it was quite the opposite; he usually managed to get the tree out of the loft just in time for Christmas Day, and it always looked hungrier with each passing year.

At Mother's, big fluffy swathes of silver and white tinsel would snake down the stair banister as if competing in a race. Shiny lanterns hung in equidistant precision around the ceiling edges of every room, their red, gold and green reflections dancing on the walls when I blew them into life. Our dining room was adorned with rows and rows of hanging Christmas cards. I used to stare at them thinking that we must be very loved. I didn’t recognise any of the names as I nosily went through them (when Mother wasn’t looking), trying to work out who all these people were.

Mother and The Man never had friends over.

It would take Mother all day and night to finish decorating the house and I knew not to get in her way during the annual domestic routine. In the evening, it would be time to dress the Christmas tree, which had been standing awkwardly in its birthday suit all day in front of the living window for all and sundry to see. I would watch a film, rented from the video store as my regular Friday night treat, and Mother would let me watch her decorate the tree at the same time.

It would take her all evening but by the time bedtime came, I would be lifted above the gold and silver tinsel that was perfectly encircling the branches, and the smell of pine needles and Christmas magic would hit my senses like a soothing elixir. I'd reach up and place the sparkling giant angel onto the highest tip, and beam with pride, as if Christmas had now officially begun for the world.

Mother would place me back on the brown shagpile carpet, adjust the angel so that she was perfectly straight, and then we would both stand back admiring her handiwork, before I was allowed to have a chocolate now hanging lazily from the tree.

It was a night just like this, after I'd finished writing my letter to Father Christmas and handing it with regal fortitude to Mother, that my brother turned to me and said, "You know he's not real though." And I always remember so distinctly how it was a statement, not a question.

I froze as if I'd been slapped and instantly looked to Mother. She had her angry face on and was staring at my brother with those eyes. I didn't like those eyes. My brother always seemed immune to their power. "For goodness sake!" she spat, and then turned to me. "Of course he's real. Don't listen to him." I looked between them both, waiting for a punchline that never came.

My brother repeated his declaration and I vaguely remember Mother shouting at him, although my hearing was fading by this point as I stood there in shock. Their angry faces seemed to become smaller and smaller.

I stared at their floating heads, the room on mute, with the same words going round and round in my mind...

...you lied you lied you lied you lied you lied.

Father Christmas isn't real.

Father Christmas never existed.

Mother lied.

I never heard sleigh bells.

I never heard sleigh bells.

I never heard sleigh bells.

I didn't hate my brother for telling me the truth that night, in some ways it needed to be done, although I will never forget the pleasure in his eyes when he did so, and his satisfied smile as mine vanished.

I no longer eagerly stayed up until midnight on Christmas Eve, with my head poking out from underneath the bedroom curtain, my face pressed to the cold glass, staring at the pitch-black sky and twinkling stars blinking back at me, waiting to hear Father Christmas fly over my house.

I continued to play my part every year with the performance of mince pies and carrots. I feigned excitement about what "Santa would bring," and I pretended not to hear my brother's annual reminders of the truth that he never wanted me to forget.

I knew that I would be rewarded on Christmas Day for my silence in the plot.