1930s: An unforgettable Christmas in the deep mid-winter of the 1930s

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Rose Loverock will never forget one particular Christmas more than 70 years ago for it was an anxious time for her and her family. Her beloved mother was confined to her bed and Rose, who was only seven at the time, had a nagging fear that she was seriously ill and might even die. In fact, Christmas morning brought a quite different outcome to what she had expected – as Rose (nee Williamson), of Findern, recounts.

Rose’s parents, Arthur and Mabel Williamson on their wedding day

Rose’s new sister, Joan, who arrived on Christmas Day in the 1930s

Rose's brother, Tom, in the 1930s

Rose’s brother Louis

My family had recently moved to a farm cottage on the outskirts of Egginton – my father and mother, Arthur and Mabel Williamson and we three children.

The cottage was close to a small wood where there was always an abundance of beautiful smelling violets and the nearby lane, during summer, was a joy with wild roses and wild flowers growing in the hedgerow.

Cars rarely used the lane and I recall cyclists coming to plunder the violets occasionally until few were left.

This Christmas Eve, in the 1930s, my dear mother was ill. A bed had been put up in the front room. She looked so pale, her face thin, unlike my mum at all.

Dad sent us out to play in the afternoon as mum needed to sleep. Not that we were noisy in the house, Dad would not allow noise. He never shouted himself, neither did mother. Even when she sang, her voice was quiet.

So it was that my brothers Louis, 10, Tom, nine, and myself, nearly eight, wrapped up warm and went outside. I recall dad saying to the boys: “Look after Rose and be back before dark.”

We meandered about. My brothers leaned over a small bridge down a lane away from our cottage, dropping pebbles in the running stream below. I sat watching, wishing I was home with mum, recalling dad telling our neighbour that a doctor would have to be sent for. I worried even more.

Then it began to snow, big flakes settling on the ground. Like children everywhere, we were excited, especially as it was Christmas Eve, not that the event this year would mean that much.

Dad had warned us not to expect Christmas gifts this year. Apart from anything Father Christmas might put in our stockings, other gifts had to be bought and paid for.

Dad was a farm labourer at that time and wages were generally poor. Quite often, farmers struggled, too.

My mittens were thoroughly wet, my hands were cold and I wanted to go home before I cried with hot aches in my finger ends.

It was getting dark as we ran towards the cottage. Dad was looking anxiously out of the door.

“Come on in. Don’t take your boots off,” he said, pouring warm water into a bowl. “Get washed. You first, Rose. You are all going next door for tea.”

I remember all turning to look at dad in astonishment. We had never set foot in our neighbour’s yard, let alone gone in for tea!

So we three children arrived on Mrs Brown’s doorstep. She opened the door immediately with a smile. I don’t think she had any children.

After much wiping and rubbing of boots on the big doormat, we were asked to sit at the kitchen table, which was covered with a Christmassy looking cloth on which reposed a large plate of bread and butter.

I can still smell the yeasty bread now and the gooseberry jam, and a pile of cakes and mince pies.

We were shy and not a little nervous. After urging us to tuck in while she made a pot of tea, we did. We were all hungry after sliding around in the snow, throwing snowballs.

I cannot quite recall if our neighbours name was actually Brown or something similar, as she and her retiring husband left soon after.

After thanking our kind neighbour, we scuttled back home. The snow had turned to slush. Dad opened the door and we put our boots to dry by the fire. He quickly ushered us upstairs to our beds, carrying a large candlestick, to light the way.

There was no question of us saying goodnight to mother. You did not ask. His word was law.

Sadness overwhelmed me, I cried and cried, not expecting to sleep. But I must have for the next thing I heard was the sound of a distant cockerel crowing on Christmas morning.

The blonde head of one of my brothers appeared round the door.

“Rose, dad says you are to come downstairs.”

His voice was subdued. I remember three pairs of bare feet slapping on the bare boards, missing the jute carpet down the centre.

Dad led us into the front room where mother, still very pale looking, was smiling and held out a hand to us to come and see a tiny baby lying at her side!

“This is your baby sister, Joan,” she said.

I climbed on the bed next to mum, a new baby, much more thrilling than the doll with sleeping eyes I had hoped to get and call Margaret. (That was to come the following year).

Dad said: “Look up there.”

Hanging on a line over the fireplace were three stockings and a baby sock with a dummy sticking out.

We were allowed to open the stockings on mother’s bed. In them were the usual exciting items most children received – nuts in the toe for Boxing Day, a big jaffa orange, rosy red apple, sugar pig, chocolate Santa, some sweets and a game of whip and top. My father always received a cigar at Christmas.

Over the months and years Joan was spoiled by all of us. We were her slaves! Despite the spoiling, she grew up with a lovely nature.

It was, indeed, a memorable Christmas. Dad announced that he had a rise in his pay of five shillings, so life was on the up. Before long, however, we were at war.

Little did I know then that history would repeat itself and my own first daughter, Rosemary, would be born on Christmas Eve in 1956.

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