An Atheist Family Christmas

From the dining room window I watched two figures under dripping black umbrellas hurry across Baker Street in different directions. One of them disappeared into a side road and the other crossed the square and walked briskly down Orchard Street, where the lights above Selfridge's Food Store windows looked fuzzy in the rain. On the corner he stopped a passing cab, its roof a pool of liquid light from the stars strung across Oxford Street.
It was noon on December 25th 1957 and everyone was celebrating Christmas. Everyone, that is, except Jews, Muslims and Hindus. And, of course, us. We didn't celebrate Christmas because my father was an atheist. Not just a mild disbeliever but a Militant Atheist. A Fundamental Atheist. A fiercely There-Is-Absolutely-No-God Atheist. And he had all 140 volumes from the Thinker's Library to prove it: Man Makes Himself, Men Without Gods and Our New Religion were typical of the titles printed in a bleak sans serif typeface on the dust-coloured dust jackets of these prim little books.
I turned from the window and walked past the completely bare dining room table that could seat 15, pulling out the carved walnut chairs and pushing them back again as I went. The room was so high that on a rainy day like this I was sure you could see clouds floating near the ceiling. My brother insisted it was my mother's cigarette smoke caught in the updraught from the fat radiators chugging out enough heat to keep the whole flat at 70 degrees winter and summer, but I preferred the clouds theory. Clouds with angels riding on them, that's what I really would have liked to see, especially today.
I walked along the noiseless dark blue hall carpet, past a single row of Christmas cards on the six foot long chiffonier. Robins, snowy logs, skating scenes. No angels or shepherds. No Marys or Josephs. Happy Yule! Silent night, I thought. Silent day. Silent life.
Further down the hall I heard a tapping noise. I went over to my brother's room and knocked on the door. He opened it hardly more than a crack.
'What do you want?' His gravelly new manly voice sounded what he called 'rusty'.
'Thanks for the bath salts.'
'Mum got them.'
'Thought she did, they're not from Woolworth's.'
He opened the door slightly wider. 'What did you get from Mum?'
'A jumper.'
'So did I. It's too big though.' He widened the opening a bit more and pushed his arm though to show a fisherman knit sleeve hanging over his hand that held a tack hammer.
'Nice colour.'
'Gloom grey. Might just as well wear my school uniform.'
'You can wear it at school when you've grown to fit it.'
'Wrong design. Round neck.' He pulled his grey clad arm with the hammer back and closed the door. After a few seconds I heard the muffled hammering resume.
Across the hall I walked through the pantry into the kitchen, somewhere I almost never went. The 4 foot long neon light high overhead made everything look dead and unreal. My mother, also an infrequent visitor to the kitchen, was peering at something that obviously came from the freezing compartment of the refrigerator. She looked me up and down and smiled.
'I knew that jumper would look good on you!'
I smoothed down the sleeves I'd pulled up because it made me feel too hot.
'Nice colour. Sort-of dove grey.'
'The man at Selfridge's called it Norwegian blue.' She put the package down on the formica table top and poured herself a dry sherry.
'Sure you won't have one?'
'No thanks.'
She lit a Craven A and balanced it on the plaster-of-paris ashtray painted with pink and green poster paint my brother had made her.
'Look what Simon gave me! He made it himself.'
'He made me one too.'
'That's nice, dear. He's so good with his hands.'
She stood poised with the sherry in one hand and her cigarette in the other.
'It says 20 minutes at number 6. Do you think that's long enough?'
'I'd give it longer. The last one had bits of ice in it.'
She laughed. 'I thought it was glass at first!'
'Are we having vegetables?'
'I ordered a tin of those marrowfat peas you like. And we can have those new Findus roast potatoes.'
'Do you want me to make gravy?'
'I shouldn't think so, dear, unless you really want to.'
I walked over to the bulbous cream-coloured American refrigerator that was taller than me. FRIDGIDAIRE in fat chrome letters across its widest part made it look even wider. Tugging the chromium lever, I swung the heavy door open and looked into the lighted turquoise-coloured interior. It was crammed with packets and cartons, boxes and tins, all with cheerful slogans in bright colours.
I reached in and pulled out a small Christmas pudding wrapped in red cellophane and walking over to the table placed it beside my mother's sherry.
'Can we have this?'
'Oh, I quite forgot, dear!' She tapped the ash off her cigarette and it fell on the table as the ashtray with its limited capacity was already full. 'Simon asked me to get it. I can warm it up in the pressure cooker.'
A door opened behind us and looking round I saw my father standing in the doorway wearing an overcoat and scarf.
'Damned bells woke me up.'
'Did they, dear?' My mother smiled nervously. 'Shall I make you some breakfast¦er, lunch?'
'No, thank you. I'm going to the office. There's usually a tin of tomato soup in the canteen I can warm up on the gas ring.'
'I could make you some porridge?'
'No, you all get on with your dinner. I'm quite all right, thank you.'
Although he laid no emphasis on it the word dinner was charged with meaning, but my mother and I let it pass.
'I'll be back at the usual time.'
'Yes, dear. Don't work too hard.'
He grunted in reply and we listened for about a minute, until we heard the front door close with its familiar click. My mother lit another cigarette and refilled her sherry glass.
My brother sauntered into the kitchen, still wearing his gloom grey jumper but with the sleeves rolled up. He was holding the wooden boat he'd been making and yards of black rigging trailed behind him across the lino. He set his boat down on the formica topped table and gently pushed it to and fro.
'I like Christmas,' he said in his newly gruff voice, 'it's nice and peaceful.'