The Christening Party.

I was a miracle baby.

Not that such a phrase would ever have come from the lips of either of my parents.

"Oh for gods' sake stop being histrionic." my mother Phyl would have laughed dismissively.

While my father, George, would have drily say something  that would  make me the butt of the joke.

Both of them had been married before and in each case it had been disastrous. Phyl had been consistently sexually abused by her first husband and, as a result, had been told before she married George that she wouldn't be able to get pregnant. As she was over 40 any cessation of her menses would be down to menopause; not pregnancy, she was informed.  

So it was rather a surprise all round when George was called in to visit the RAF doctor.

"Ah, yes, George, old man. Marvellous to see you looking so well."

"You could have seen how well I was looking at the Mess to-night." George raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, yes, jolly good idea. But I thought I'd better tell you this in private. Rather a SNAFU I'm afraid, old man. I feel damnable about it - but the results of your last tests have come in."

By now George was leaning forward praying for at least a quick & painless end.

"And?"

"Look, to tell you the truth I don't know quite how to tell you this....but..." he shook his head dolefully and George realised that whatever terminal disease he was about to be told he had, it would be neither quick nor painless.

"Well...that is....Oh lord, this is difficult."

"Well, out with it, man!" my father grated, his upper lip stiffening in advance.

"Dreadful thing...but you see, your results were....oh I'm at a loss..."

he must have caught the daggers darting from Georges eyes because he then said, finishing in a speedy gabble: "Well, uh, George..... it would appear, from, uh, your last set of tests... that-you're-14-weeks-pregnant!"

George had joined the RAF two years before the war and was a permanent officer : he and the doctor had run into each other all through that time. During the whole of which time George had been single. 

Both Phyl & George had undergone the regulation checks shortly after arriving on this posting (Egypt). But it was later discovered that the Change of Status forms had either not arrived, or had been delayed, at the docs. end.  So all their results were put in George's file; neither the Doc. nor his staff knowing there was now a Mrs. Simcox! It was this he had been apologising for, not because of impending doom.

I don't know if they cut their Egyptian posting short because of the pregnancy, or whether they finished their allotted time; but I do know that half the household was still in packing boxes when Phyl went into labour.

It was usual then to stay in hospital around 10 days.  On the day she came home quite a few people popped around and most, on leaving said "See on on Saturday".

"Oh, lovely" Phyl would say, beaming. But the minute she could she cornered George and asked him where on earth they were going on Saturday. And why? He looked at her in perplexity:

"Well, we're not going anywhere. How can we? We've got the Christening Party on then."

"The Whatt???"

George slapped his head "Oh, sorry, Pet.  Surely you remember: the Christening. Saturday? Here?" he prompted.

 I've never had a straight answer to the question of what Phyl actually said in response to this. But my imagination has soared over the years!!

However, she didn't have time to sit and brood...she had three days to get the unpacking done, set up the house, order in food, get the piano tuned; find someone to sort out her hair which was dry and untidy from hours in The Bitter Lake.

By Friday she'd got most of the important things - like glasses - unpacked & washed and was sitting getting her hair cut when the hairdresser said:

"So. What about the Christening, then? Plain old C of E, is it?" and Phyl froze.

That's right: it was a Christening party.  A party after a Christening. A religious ceremony!

Now, George was an atheist. Not sure if Phyl even knew herself what her beliefs were: but they were all tied up with nature and animals and did not include telling one's offspring there was a good chance they would suffer for eternity if they did something wrong.

So what the hell was George on about? How could he take it upon himself to take a step like this without even mentioning it? What gave him the right to make decisions of behalf of their daughter without even mentioning it? And if his basic ethos in life had done an about-turn wouldn't she be the obvious person to slip a hint to? After all, she hadn't married the one man in the world who shared, or at least respected her ideas and convictions; only to have him convert to religion (which one? her fevered mind wondered) less than a year after they'd married. And especially not when she was having trouble feeding the child and had been told she would have to switch to bottle-feeding and she was still fat and ugly and she hadn't come across the bottle-opener yet.

She went home seething: but also, in some deep place she rarely acknowledged, a little fearful.  Was George going to turn into her first husband? Was he going to claim for himself Leader of the Household privileges? Would he begin giving her beatings as her father and previous husband had?  Would he...she couldn't bear even to think of it but...would he start doing the Unspeakable Things to her?

          

Although her mind was feverish, when she arrived home a couple 'of the chaps' had come over to give George a hand with preparation because they couldn't expect her to lift a finger one said, archly. She gritted her teeth and bit back the urge to shout that she'd been lifting more than a bloody finger - and then was, instantly, exhaustedly, very tired. She dragged herself up the stairs and into the nursery. As she was trying for the last time to feed her baby, she fell fast asleep on the daybed in the nursery, the baby on her chest.

She went down to breakfast the next morning rested enough but hollow: she had to accept it. She couldn't feed her own baby! 

Nanny had told her reassuringly that she had given the next feed in a bottle: and that the wretched, treasonous child had finished it completely and gone straight back to sleep. There'd been no need to wake Phyll at all. It was meant as comfort, reassurance; but it didn't work.  Her baby no longer needed her. Nor did her husband. He was going to spend the next forty years lording it over her, and making all the decisions and treating her as a rather jolly moron, as some of the other officers did with their wives.

George had spent the morning fetching ice in large zinc tubs; overseeing the  erection of the marque, and making dozens of the colourful, intricate canapes for which he'd already gained quite a reputation.. So the two of them didn't meet up until lunch time.

She watched him bounding up the steps in his white trousers, tied at the waist with an old tie, and thought dully "Here come the man I'm tied to for life. I'd better ask him what my orders are."

" So." she said all-business. "What time's this Christening?"

"Darling, you know perfectly well people are invited for 3.30."

"Yes: I'm not devoid of reasoning powers.  I wanted to know when the Christening was, and where it will be."

George looked at her quizzically. "The Christening starts at 3.30 and will take place here!"

"Oh, I see. They're coming here, are they? Will I be expected to put aside separate vessels? Turn pictures to the wall? Kiss someone's ring?"

George put his fork down and looked at her quizzically. "What are you on about?"

"You and your bloody Christening! You've not even hinted at what religion you've decided to inculcate the child in. It could be Voo-doo for all that you've said to me."

George had pushed back his chair and was halfway round the table towards her when she added.

"And I haven't enough milk for the baby! She's going to have to go on the bottle!"

"Well, now you'll be able to eat onions again." he hugged her. "And good god; I'd never do that to you: make a decision about the child like that!! And why would I do it in the first place?"

Phyl looked at the lock of hair falling across his furrowed brow, the puzzlement in his eyes and sat down with a bump. And then suddenly she began to giggle "Good lord; I've been as daft as pork, as Grandma used to say."

"The thing is," he didn't contradict her but pulled out a chair next to her and sat down "I wasn't the one who said that.  I asked everyone around to 'wet the babies head' . It was Group Captain Mycroft's silly wife who started the Christening caper. She just assumed that's what it meant so we all went along with it."

"But that'd be a Baptism" Phyl said practically "Pouring water on the head."

"She probably assumed you'd had the priest rushed over as soon as you went into labour for the baptism." he darted a look at her "What with you being so elderly."

Group Captain Mycroft's wife was 27, looked ten years older than Phyl and had the personality of a South Down sheep. She had whispered dire pronouncements of doom that would befall such an ancient crone as Phyl in childbirth.

Suddenly both of them began to laugh. "Ah never mind, pet. Hormones, you know."

She stopped laughing and said haughtily "You know perfectly well I don't have hormones."

George gave a shout of laughter and she said crossly "Oh you know what I mean! I don't have vapours or hysterics or get moody once a month." George said nothing but made a quizzical face. She stood up  and stood a moment looking at him.

"Oh, all right then. Perhaps one or two got through." she turned at the door and said "But it'll never happen again."

"I'll wake you in time if you want to have a sleep now?"

"That'd be nice."

"Oh; one thing I haven't told you yet is that it was assumed that we'd want to withdraw from Overseas Postings now we had a family."

Phyl said "But..."

"Oh not to worry; I told them that wasn't the case. We'll have a bit of a rest-up here for a while and then be happy to take another O.P."

"Oh, good. Now I'll have that little sleep and dream of where we'll go next time." and then, as she was at the head of the stairs " And I'm jolly pleased you aren't going to beat me."

Now although that was my first party, I expect my participation at two weeks old was limited to being cooed over at intervals; and by around 7 I expect all the people who had been invited for form's sake had left. It would have been the hard core of 'real' friends who were left by then. Phyl's mother and my Aunt Joan were among the few women left (RAF parties commonly being top-heavy with men) and my mother was at the piano banging out old music-hall songs before the inevitable degeneration into (sanitised)Mess-Hall  favourites; so very few people noticed the young AC who slipped discretely into the marque with a telegram message for George.

But gradually George's utter stillness, standing with his back to the crowd, telegram in hand,  attracted my Grandmothers attention. "What is it George?" she inquired and my mother, turning round, abruptly stopped playing when she caught sight of him. "George?" she asked in the quietness. George seemed to pull himself together and turned round, waved the telegram in the air. 

"I say, Phyl" he called across with a strange smile, "Here's some good news for you! You won't have to bother unpacking the rest of the boxes after all: I've been posted."

"Well I hope it's somewhere sensible this time, where you'll be closer to us in Peterborough!"Huffed my Grandmamma.

Phyl looked directly at her husband and he kept his eyes on hers while he answered

"Ceylon"[as Sri Lanka was called then.]. My grandmother wailed and flopped down on the nearest chair but Phyl said only "When?"

"I've to report for duty next Thursday."

This time it was my Aunt Joan who flopped onto the nearest chair.

"Oh, not to worry, no rush. You and the baby can follow on by ship and have a lovely cruise."

"When?" said Phyl again.

"Um...you'll have until the following Monday to throw a few things together for you and the baby?"

A concerted wail from both my grandmother and Aunt.

For a moment that was the only sound in the room until Phyl straightened up, turned around, and began to play "My Old Man, Said Follow the Van". And THAT was the start of the real party.

The young AC was despatched to round up the bods at the Mess, George got on the blower to those who had gone home already, my Aunt popped into both next door houses to invite them in and the legendary party began - the Christening Party morphed into a kind of Bon Voyage party and George went off to collect more zinc tubs of ice.

By 9 the next morning when the silly wife of Group Captain Mycroft arrived in hysterics looking for her missing husband, and dragged him out from under the piano; there were few still standing.  The young AC, his cap perched jauntily on the bannister, was spread across three stairs, snoring loudly.A WAC was overlooked until midday, unconscious on the day bed,  George & Uncle Dick were 'sorting the men from the boys' by serving up huge plates of bacon eggs; and the smell of greasy fry-up caused a bit of a blockade outside both lavatories.

Years later, from time to time, I would run across the odd person who would look at me and cry "Good Lord! I was at your Christening Party." Though most of their stories I took with a grain of salt - the Adjutant falling in the fish pond and being hauled out by my Aunt and two WACs? The wife of the left-side house being escorted home and put to bed in the right-side house? These and many more tales I kept hearing for the rest of my life.

But one thing I know is that by the time my eyes began to focus properly it was to a Sri-Lankan sun, and Sri-Lankan flowers, and the soft silky feel of my Nannies sari.

 

So yes, whenever I'm asked where I was born I always, truthfully, answer England.

But if asked where "Home" was until I was about 10, I  always said Sri Lanka.