Tony: A Birthday

The time for my fifth birthday had come, and the little school, in the house three doors up the road from ours, would celebrate the occasion appropriately.  My mother would prepare a special birthday tea for us all, and Mrs Baker, the sole teacher and general overseer of the school, would lead the procession of children along the pavement to the gate of our house, where my mother would be looking out of the window, in readiness to receive us.  What were my feelings on that day?  Pride, dread, or sheer inquisitiveness as to the presents my mother would prepare?

It was late morning, no doubt a cold morning in December, at that very early stage in life when birthdays were still a novelty.  The children would be bulging with thick winter coats, some perhaps wearing gloves and scarves.  Mrs Baker marshalled us into procession in front of her sedate front door.  Simon, the senior pupil at all of six years, was entrusted with a small package, an offering of thanks to my mother for her hospitality.  Once through Mrs Baker’s ornate front gate, a festive sense of expectation began to infect the small but lively group – voices subdued at Mrs Baker’s warning words, yet still lively, as the party procession advanced, eyes turning and gazing at the windows of the other houses along the road, where a curtain might be turned as a curious neighbour inspected this unusual but agreeable movement of eager faces along the pavement, aware that someone was being honoured with a visit.

My mother’s friendly face, attentive, expectant, was ready at the door, and amid clouds of winter breath she advanced to receive Simon’s special  offering, and to invite the little throng into our hall.  Once inside, that risky moment ensued when the formality of the occasion might disintegrate, with a medley of children taking off coats and losing all formation in their eagerness to move forward to the birthday feast.  Mrs Baker, however, stilled the hubbub with one of her brief but stern commands, and my mother ushered us into the front room.  Here was a scene new even to myself – balloons lolling at the feet of armchairs, and bright decorations and paper parcels set ready for games.

Now, at last, the party food appeared.  What can be remembered?  A circle formed, a circle of laps, on which objects were placed precariously: sausages on sticks, and, of course, jelly!  Coloured straws, orange juice in paper cups, candles and a birthday cake.  A wish, and a blow of breath at the little flames.  What did I wish for, what future did I crave?  Then, when the food was cleared, the circle of laps prepared for “pass the parcel”.  This was cause enough for commotion and suspense, yet hardly had the package started its travels when the cry went up: “Brian’s wet his knickers!!”  It was surprising, to be fair, that bodily functions had kept themselves in check for so long.  The body, that most fearful and unpredictable thing to a child: cause of accidents, shame and loud voices.

Yet all was not lost.  Always, at first, the fear of sharp words.  Today, though, the adults were kind.  A brief look of impatience, a raise of eyebrows, the mustering of resources and, inevitably – a command!  Brian, red-faced and with pursed lips, was soon on his feet, and led by my mother hand-in-hand to a place of refuge, whilst the parcel, unharmed and still unwrapped, resumed its way.