First Footing
Gas lamps still cast their eerie circle of light along the poor street of two up two down parlour type houses that my Uncle, Aunt and seven year old cousin Adrian called home. My Father had recently bought a peanut shaped car , a very basic model which did not possess a heater, and so we travelled wrapped in blankets, to this our destination, where we were to 'see in' the New Year.
My Father was thought to be able to bring 'First Footing' luck because of his fine mane of black hair . I had the same hair, but girls didn't count.
The stench of the gas works filled the air as the car was parked outside the terraced house that had no particular features to distinguish it from the other houses, except that it was next to the entry. This grimy brick feature that gave access to the back yards meant that the first footer could leave the house by way of the dank dark green painted scullery with its single brass dripping tap and make a circuit along the street to reach the front door.
Inside the middle room of the house a black leaded cast iron range boasted a blazing coal fire, but to reach it a cold empty room which was designated the parlour must be crossed. It was many years until I was aware that people cherished this room, keeping it for best. This one though was furnished with a sandy coloured iron grate and bare floor boards.
Until the church clock struck the midnight hour we were entertained with my Aunt's idea of party food: fancy cakes, pink white and yellow, all slightly soft from the heat of the room. Tiny curled up white bread sandwiches containing some sort of salmon that were one mouthful for my Father, and which he ate with disdain, and a bought fruit cake set off with almonds and a feathery red frill. The choice of drink was either fizzy orange pop poured into tiny glasses or weak tea drunk from bone china cups which were a disaster to hold.
As the church clock wheezed into action my Father made his way through the scullery and through the flimsy rotten back door, holding a lump of coal and a tot of whisky.
We dutifully waited behind the front door in the freezing parlour, holding our breath in anticipation of the three loud knocks which announced the presence of the first footer.
You might imagine how excited we two children were, fed on sugary food, overawed by the occasion and past any meaningful bedtime hour. I was the quiet one having already learned, but my cousin had always been accused of being highly strung, a euphemism for a child living in terror, Adrian was a disaster waiting to happen, and happen it did.
Adrian's involuntary jump knocked the whiskey from my Father's hand shattering the glass into a million tiny shards, the act of which was followed by silence and the smell of fear. Once more we held our breath, the luck for the next year was gone, and someone must be sacrificed. Who better than the child himself.
I don't remember any spoken words as my Uncle marched Adrian through to the rickety winding stairs which were the only access to the upstairs rooms, there was no conversation as the thrash of a belt made contact with the meagre flesh of the child's upper legs, and the child made no sound, while my Aunt looked at the floor.
Their re-appearance was accepted and ignored. My Father placed the lump of coal onto the now dying fire, washed his hands under the scullery tap and we made our exit. The two brothers parted with a handshake, a New Year greeting and a few words. “Well he's got to learn,”
Tears brimmed in those brave blue eyes as the purple welts swelled with the anger that the child would never be allowed to express. As I hugged him in farewell his tiny body shook, and I squeezed his hand in sympathy.
I wonder now, did anyone learn anything worth learning that night?
