My mother had undergone a major operation and needed a break away from the tropical coastal heat of Mombasa. I think she thought she would feel cooler if she could gaze out at the snow on top of the mountain. The hotel was expensive and fully booked. The four of us were crammed into a tiny room with camp beds for my sister and brother while my mother and I shared the double bed. There was barely room to turn around. Elbows sticking out for hair-combing or teeth-brushing were lethal weapons. We had to have a tree, even so. All Christmas trees were real trees in those days - highly inflammable resin fire-starters. No infuriating modern lights just pretty little wax candles in tiny metal candle-holders which clipped onto the branches.
Our tree was wedged on a rickety cupboard in the corner of the room. Someone knocked against the cupboard, the tree caught fire and flames ran up the curtain and along the hardboard ceiling almost before we realized what was happening. My mother successfully smothered it with the bedspread but the holiday was spoilt by the knowledge that my father would be furious when he received the redecorating bill.
Another year we decided to forego the traditional turkey dinner and have a barbecue on the beach. All was fine until a freak wave came up and swooshed all over us and the fire, drowning our Christmas sausages.
After our parents separated, we were spending Christmas with my mother in Mombasa. She never liked the heat over Christmas and couldn’t face cooking a turkey and Christmas pudding. Christmas lunch was booked at a hotel down on the South coast. We started off on Christmas morning looking forward to a scrumptious lunch and the chance to do some surfing. The main road was set back about two miles from the beach and we had to take a narrow dirt road to reach the hotel.
Midway along flames came pouring out from under the dashboard and into the car. My mother stopped the car and we all jumped out. She scooped up handfuls of sand from the road and poured them over the hood – a crime against engines but it did put the fire out. My brother and I were sent to the hotel on foot to get help. We weren’t met with Christmas goodwill. No one would believe our story. They thought we were mischievous trouble-makers.
Years later, my husband and I and our two sons were living in Saudi Arabia. Christian holidays are not recognized there and I had to work on Christmas Day and so arrived home late. We had bought a large goose for Christmas dinner and I had never cooked one before. To make matters worse I had invited my boss for dinner. He was a bachelor and I thought he would enjoy the company. Poor man! That was one of the most embarrassing nights of my life. The bottled gas for the cooker was at such a low pressure that the goose would not cook. It was still raw at 4 a.m. when we gave up and had tinned tuna sandwiches.
The most peculiar Christmas of all was the one I have made the basis of my story, “Christmas in Mazita,” which is available for free on Amazon Kindle Store for 5 days from 29 December. http://amzn.to/ZFva2k
