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Self-Sufficiency in Style 

Christmas carol

A memoir of 

  Christmas's long ago

 

It was my secretary that first raised the issue.

 It was about that time of year when the little German coasters entered harbour with trees strapped to the mast.

 

"They’re calling you Scrooge again," she said, with an air of satisfaction. 

"I thought I ought to tell you."

"Why? – They are all going to get the usual Christmas bonus," I replied, slightly upset. "And, the surprise bottle of drink from me personally. It’s about Christmas Eve again isn’t it?"

"Well, yes," she admitted. "It’s the way you try to keep them from partying."

"We gave them all a damn good dinner last week – all the spouses were there," I retaliated. "They all had a good time – well, apart from that incident…"

"They say that it’s not the same as a good traditional office party," she returned firmly. "They all love a good traditional office party."

I looked through the glass partition into the General Office. They were all young, well nearly all, apart from Arthur the Septuagenarian accountant and Miss Bates.

"Look, it’s the busiest time of year," I tried to explain. "We have ships to look after, the cargo to get through before the port shuts down. There’s a lot to do."

"They still like a traditional office party – a shipping office party. It’s traditional," she countered firmly.

My temper rose. "Look! When you’ve that amount of testosterone running about free, pour on a couple of shipping measures of alcohol and put temptation in their way, all hell breaks loose. And – and I have to ask you why you don’t keep a better eye on the girls. The way some of them dress. It’s asking for trouble."

"I don’t know why you make me responsible for all the women at Christmas," she replied sulkily. "I’m not the rest of the year. 

I think they just enjoy leading the lads on," she conceded. "It’s traditional."

"Remember last year," I said warming to my theme. Was it traditional to set fire to the lift? To throw Charlie in the wet dock? Was that traditional? And I’m not even going to mention the more sordid incidents, and the port police are still making enquiries about…"

"Well," she interrupted, " be that as it may, when work stops at noon, they are going to have a party, if not here then somewhere else. It’s only a matter of whether they call you Scrooge or not. You are going to have to give in, you know."

"I know," I agreed. "I’ll do what I always do. Stay sober, confiscate car keys, order taxis, fire-fight, protect her virtue (pointing at the office girl through the partition), clear up the mess, try to make sure everyone gets home safely. One day, I’ll get the Christmas I want I suppose."

"You will be retired first," she said. "This is a shipping office."

"I know!"

And so it came to pass. 

It was a traditional shipping start to Christmas.

The port stopped working at twelve noon, despite having promised to work ‘till 4. This was traditional.

The office party took place and there were red faces for a whole month afterwards, as was traditional. Many stories were added to the office annals.

And to my relief, I got them all home safely. Even the office girl’s virtue seemed intact despite having inflamed most of the males with a skimpy Santa Claus outfit. That too was traditional. I always wonder when the fellows will catch on.

I returned to the bosom of a growing family, in good order and in time to make the Midnight Mass.

On my way back, I talked to the children.

"Did I tell you about the time, when I had three ships come sailing in on Christmas Morn – just like the carol?"

"Yes, you did," they confirmed. "You tell us that every year – it’s boring!"

I deviated, into the port, despite complaints from the family, and pulled up behind number two shed. I ordered the family from the car.

"It’s the early hours of Christmas morning," my wife said, "What are we doing here?"

"Listen," I commanded.

They all listened.

"I can’t hear anything - it’s quiet."

"Exactly," I said. "This is the only time in the year when there is no noise. At every other time, the container berths are working, the ro/ro, the traffic, and the dredger – but at Christmas everything stops. I like it."

My wife peered at two vessels moored on the West Quay. "Are they yours?"

"To our agency – yes."

"Sometimes, you take your responsibilities too seriously."

"Yes, I’m sure you are right – anyway they are no trouble now."

At that moment, light burst from the accommodation. 

There was a little noise and a figure made its way to the stern rail, followed by a small group. 

They didn’t see us on the dark quay.

A young man began to sing, in cool clear tones…

" Stille Nacht! Heil'ge Nacht!

Alles schläft; einsam wacht , Nur das traute hoch heilige Paar, Holder Knab' im lockigten Haar…"

 

The priceless, peerless voice echoed around the old dock, over the dark waters, past the mill and between the transit sheds. We stood entranced.

Finally, he finished. His crewmates stood silent, but there was a sudden burst of applause from the Greek freighter at the next berth. 

Its crew had made their way onto the deck to listen, unheard unnoticed.

I put my arm round my wife. "Let’s go home - it’s Christmas."

Happy Christmas

- from Hangman's Cottage, just to the south of Misery Corner.

HOME PAGE or another Christmas Story from other years - Christmas Spirit or The Man who saved Christmas or  Christmas Poultry