The grocer’s Christmas Box

In the years before the 1960s, probably the most acceptable gift or treat you might give somebody was something they could eat. In an era of large families, scarce resources and borderline national poverty, ‘making do’ was a daily occupation.

What there was no scarcity of in those days was the caring, sharing and all-round kindness of the people. Those who didn’t have much shared with those who had less. When children wandered into the homes of their playmates, they would be given a slice of bread and jam, or a chunk of homemade currant cake. When the lone cow of one family went dry, a neighbour with two or more dropped in a can of milk every evening. When the potato pit of a household emptied, there was always enough in a neighbour’s pit to ensure a dinner was always on the table.

The annual killing of a pig was a big event in the community and the day after the ‘sticking’ (you ‘stuck’ a pig), a bucket of ‘griescíns’ (small cuts of fresh pork, liver, heart…) would be delivered to all the near neighbours. I’m sure that the same kindness prevailed in the towns, but that’s how it was ‘out in the country’.

Come Christmas time, and the spirit of generosity and goodwill was even more prevalent. Now, it is important to stress at this point that the people all had their pride and there was a thin line which could not be crossed. You could not explain exactly where that line between kindness and perceived ‘charity’ was marked; but the people just knew. As well as being given what they shouldn’t get for Christmas, a person’s pride could be hurt by not receiving what they felt they should get. Here is the story of one man who felt shortchanged by the size of his Christmas box.

Jimmy and May Brophy owned the local village grocery and provisions shop, selling everything from halfpenny bars to hay knives. The Brophys were good and decent people – more than fair in their dealings with their customers. Grocery bills had to be paid of course, but May or Jimmy handed out many a loaf of bread when they knew they would never get paid.

Brophys gave out a Christmas Box to their customers every year. It came in the form of a Christmas cake, which was naturally appreciated and valued by all – especially in a houseful of children. The cake was usually a fruitcake slab with a sprig of holly on top.

All was nothing but goodwill until one lady customer told another woman that she was in Brophys shop and saw with her own two eyes that Mrs Stella Stephens (big farmers) had been handed out an iced Christmas cake for their Christmas box.

Margaret was deeply offended, a state which she conveyed in no uncertain terms to her husband, Jack. It was Christmas Eve and Jack, not known for calmness, had to go down to pay for the week’s shopping, and receive the customary cake. ‘I’ll sort out this one,’ he promised Margaret.

Down to the shop, paid the bill, but then on being offered the fruitcake, Jack let rip. ‘Is my money not as good as the Stephens?’ he demanded? ‘A big iced cake for the big farmers and a brack for the rest of us?’

May Brophy never fell out with anybody and now spoke in a soft voice; ‘Yes, Jack, your money is good; but Stephens buy their animal feed, tools, petrol and coal here – as well as their groceries. We don’t have to give anything to anybody for nothing… and what we do give is nobody else’s business. Now, Happy Christmas, Jack… Do you want your brack or not?

Jack was mute for a moment, thought it over, and said: ‘Happy Christmas to you and yours, May… and thanks for the free Christmas cake.’ But he still departed with a hint of a huff. However, his consoled thoughts now dwelt on the new English £1 note in his pocket. His sister had sent him the money ‘solely for a Christmas drink for yourself’, the card said. Jack would go home with the cake and come back down to Barry’s Bar – where Christmas Eve gave license to indulge a bit more than usual. The pound would buy around 10 bottles of stout and a packet of 20 Goldflake cigarettes.

After putting the cake in the bag on his back, Jack was about to mount his motorbike when he noticed a young lad with a bicycle against the wall. The kid, maybe 12 years old, wore a flimsy coat and the way he was winding the burlap shopping bag around the handlebars showed there wasn’t much in the bag. Jack knew the kid had to be one of a large poor family who had just moved into a cottage up the road. Jack took the bag off his back. ‘Would you like a Christmas cake?’ he asked the kid. ‘I would…’ and the cake was put into the boy’s burlap bag.

With that little act of kindness, the spirit of Christmas almost overwhelmed Jack… something alien to his normal demeanor. May was surprised when the recently huffed customer came back in with a smile on his face. ‘How much is an iced Christmas cake?’ he asked. ‘Two and ninepence – but a half crown will do nicely’ – and with that, Jack left with a cake for the second time that night. It would have to be seven bottles of porter instead of 10 tonight… but that good feeling was worth more than a drink or two.

Jack arrived home, opened his backpack and plonked the decorated iced cake up on the table, as the children danced around in circles.

‘I told you I’d sort it out!’ was all he ever said to Margaret.

Nollaig Shona duit

Happy Christmas, one and all. Our final thought, as always this week, goes out to those of you celebrating Christmas far removed from where your thoughts and memories lie.