When I was a small girl at Christmas 1925, my paternal grandfather, who was stationmaster at Irthlingborough station, came to see us. I can picture him vividly now, sitting in Dad’s wooden-armed chair in the corner, a portiy man of medium height and thinning sparse grey hair. Oh, yes, and a ready smile. He pulled me on to his knee and together we sang The First Noel – at least I knew the first verse, followed by all the Noels. Three days later Mum, Dad and I went on the train from London Road station, Little Irchester, to Irthlingborough, four miles down the Nene Valley
Christmas at the Station House was an annual ritual, much enjoyed by us, Grandpa, Grandma and their unmarried daughter and son, who were still at home. The house was incorporated into the station buildings, so that two rooms looked out on to the platform, but access was by a front door and a back door in a station yard, although I believe there was a connecting door from the inside of the house on to the station proper so that Grandpa didn’t have to go outside to get to his office. I remember the kitchen mostiy- a big old fashioned room – with a goose hanging up in one corner!

I went to bed with all the happy anticipation of a four-year-old, knowing that Father Christmas was sure to come and fill my pillow slip: a stocking would not contain all my presents. I was a lucky little girl in that respect.

Christmas morning came, but the grown-ups didn’t share my excitement. There were glum, tearful faces all round.

“Where’s Grandpa ?” I asked. “Grandpa’s poorly and won’t be getting up today,” I was told. “Can I see him?”

“No he’s asleep.”

Christmas without Grandpa justwasn’tright.

There were comings and goings and I was left to play with my new toys. Then, surprisingly, an auntie on Mum’s side came and fetched me to stay with my other grandparents in the village, a mile above the valley. I went, clutching my new
doll Elsie-May.

Auntie first took me to the grandparents, but after dinner, instead of taking me back to the station, we went to another house in the village where there were some big girls ( apparentiy related to me) and a huge Christmas tree laden with presents and baubles. These girls made a great fuss of litde me, and allowed me to choose presents from the tree. If I remember correctly I had a chocolate clock face, wrapped up in silver paper with the hands and face depicted on the wrapping, and a pink ice pig with a curly string tail.

“Can we go now, Auntie?” I asked.

And so, before dark, we returned to the Station House -a house of gloom indeed, although the grown-ups did try to liven things up a bit.

“How’s Grandpa?” I wanted to know.

It was then Dad sat me down and said Grandpa had gone to live with Jesus.

It was not until much later that I learned that Grandpa, at 60 and on the eve of his retirement had had a heart attack in his sleep. Grandma had woken in the morning to find him lying dead beside her. A terrible shock indeed, and an unhappy Christmas for us all.

Wyn Daniels