Sankta Lucia

 

What a year this has been. Nothing like the one any of us had planned, that’s for sure. And the range of intense emotions we have experienced has taken its toll. I have no doubt that we will be sharing stories of 2020, and how we survived it, for many years to come.

For me, not being able to see my children for so many months has been unbelievably difficult. I’m so used to hopping on a train to London or nipping up North on the motorway, or waiting excitedly at the station to greet them when they come home. The house has been particularly quiet this year. Thank goodness for technology! We have had endless video chats and family quiz nights, and flooded messenger with pics of treasured daily walks, devoid of the usual hustle and bustle. And judging by my Facebook feed, the rest of the nation has been doing exactly the same thing. By April, we were saying, ‘Let’s have Christmas in the summer when lock-down ends’. By the summer, when it did indeed end, we were so appalled at the mass invasion to our hometown, Bournemouth, that all thoughts of Christmas quickly disappeared. The children stayed put, we stayed put, telling ourselves it would all be fine by December. ‘Never mind, at least we can all get together as usual for Christmas’, we said by way of reassurance, knowing full well that any plans made this year have no guarantee of actually coming to fruition.

Nevertheless, the tree went up early this year in mid-November, on my birthday. And so a new tradition was born. Whether I actually stick to it in coming years remains to be seen but it brings a sense of hope, of joy. And provides me with a new backdrop for video chats and photos. There’s something restful, magical, about sparkling tree lights and a bit of glitter.

When the children were younger and their joy for the season boundless, I used to follow the Swedish tradition of keeping the decorations up until January 13^th - Knutdag - as we had done when I was a child but I got a little tired of well-meaning neighbours pointing out my tardiness and reminding me of the bad luck to follow. So I shifted to the English tradition of Twelfth night and then, as the children grew older, opted to clear it all away on New Year’s Day; welcoming January with a tidy house. 

All things considered, I got a good deal at Christmas in my younger years. We celebrated Swedish-style on December 24^th with presents, biscuits and glögg; not forgetting the impressive array of traditional food, although to be honest, I tried to steer clear of the jellied pigs trotters and brawn (otherwise known as ‘head cheese’; presumably because it’s made from a pigs head) and the dreaded lutfisk. Once smelt, never forgotten. It’s a hard one to describe; it’s not quite rotting fish, it’s not quite ammonia, but somewhere in-between. Not unlike the smell of fox pee on rusty metal (if you’re lucky enough to have a rusty bin that foxes pee on, you’ll know what I mean). Basically, lutfisk is white fish soaked in lye – because, why not?  I remember the bucket of soaking fish would be shut away in a cupboard for days – presumably in a bid to retain the smell in a confined space – and would be checked on regularly by my mother, or her mother when she popped round for a visit. It baffled me as a child; the amount of preparation that went into such a disgusting dish. So I stuck with the sill (pickled herring), meatballs, ham and sausages. One thing’s for sure, the Swedes make full use of a pig at Christmas. And fish. And it was all prepared at home; no chance of nipping out to Ikea to grab a bag of balls from the freezer. The baking alone is a mammoth task and my mother would start the biscuit bakes in November, ready for the first Sunday of Advent, although the celebrations really kick off on December 13th – Lucia dagen. It’s a big day in the Swedish calendar.

 The origins of the Lucia tradition can be traced back to the martyr St Lucia of Syracuse (283-304), known as the patron saint of the blind and of virgins, whose name means ‘light’, along with the Swedish legend of Lucia being Adam’s first wife. It’s said that she consorted with the devil and her children were invisible infernals. The custom of Swedish Lucia seems to be a blend of both legends. And it has changed somewhat over the years.

 

     “In the old almanac, Lucia Night was the longest of the year. It was a dangerous night when supernatural beings were abroad and all animals could speak. By morning, the livestock needed extra feed. People, too, needed extra nourishment and were urged to eat seven or nine hearty breakfasts. The last person to rise that morning was nicknamed ‘Lusse the Louse’ and often given a playful beating round the legs with birch twigs.  In agrarian Sweden, young people used to dress up as Lucia figures (lussegubbar) that night and wander from house to house singing songs and scrounging food and schnapps.”   (source Sweden se culture & tradition)

 

The white-clad Lucia first made an appearance in the 1760’s and by the 1900’s was the more popular tradition, banishing the lussegubbar to the history books. Lucia and her procession, bearing gifts of biscuits and buns, was a more acceptable form of celebration and remains so to this day.

 

 

Being the only girl in our family, from a very early age I would be dressed up in a long white dress, balancing a wreath of candles on my head and a laden tray of baked goods in my hands, and parade for family and neighbours with my brothers close behind, dressed in similar white gowns, white cone hats and carrying candles. A standard sight in Sweden but quite a novelty for my London family. We sang a small selection of traditional songs, tunefully accompanied by my older brother on his recorder, with a record playing softly in the background to boost our infant voices. Warm glögg was offered round by my mother, and after our singing and biscuit offering duties were done, we too were allowed a small cup of glögg each. Just the one. But we were allowed to eat the raisins and almonds from everybody else’s discarded cups; we were secretly convinced we could get tipsy on the wine-soaked raisins. Maybe we did. I always slept well on Lucia night.

The original record is still going strong after fifty years

 

One of my favourite memories of living in Sweden was congregating with my class (and some eager parents) at 6 in the morning to serenade our teacher with coffee and Lussekatter (saffron buns in the shape of a curled up cat but more resembling the letter S). Of course it had been pre-arranged with his wife but he had absolutely no idea. A sound sleeper, despite having a new baby, he was completely stunned to find 20-plus children in his bedroom when he woke up. We sang our rendition, then sat cross-legged on his bedroom floor, talking nineteen to the dozen, while his wife busied herself with distributing cups of juice – and coffee for the adults. We were still buzzing when the school day started a few hours later. Our teacher however, was distinctly groggy for the rest of the morning. The rest of the day involved a whole school Lucia assembly, a procession down the street to the local supermarket where we sang for the staff, and an evening performance at one of the boat restaurants in in the heart of Stockholm. For the latter, we earnt some money for our pending school trip along with as many biscuits as we could eat.

Lussekatter

In comparison, Christmas Day celebrations back in England seemed less exciting, particularly on the food front. For a young palette, sausages and meatballs outshone sprouts and parsnips by a mile. But I loved Christmas at Grandma’s in London. What she lacked in biscuits and marzipan sweets she more than made up for with love and cuddles. As ever, her house was full of laughter and song as a dozen bodies rubbed shoulders in front of the fire, and the Quality Street tin did the rounds along with Grandpa’s best whiskey. And sherry for the aunts.

I’m not sure if my grandma - or her mother before her - celebrated Nollaig na mBan, the Irish tradition of ‘Women’s Christmas’ or ‘Little Christmas’. On January 6^th, the last day of Christmas, the men take over household chores giving the women a chance to get together and have a celebration of their own. I hope that with a husband, three sons, and two brothers who lived with her for their entire adult lives, Grandma took advantage of it and had a well-earned day off.

 

                                     Happy Lucia Day! God Jul! Merry Christmas to you all!

The tradition of Lucia features in my latest novel, The Box. I love to use personal experience when I’m writing stories, along with using family names. The character names of Majbritt and Annika are a loving nod to my great aunt and her daughter, with whom I spent many happy holidays, including Christmas.

Click here to find The Box on Amazon

Punk & Prejudice

 

    If somebody had told me I’d hit fifty and then start chasing childhood dreams, I would have laughed but that’s exactly what happened. I had very simplistic aspirations as a child: get married, have children, be a writer. I did it in that order and as it turns out, it’s worked really well for me.
   I grew up in the thick of a large, Irish family in North London – our names of Murphy and Cody give an indication of how large – and emulating my grandma’s family values became my main focus in life; she influenced me from such an early age. Marriage and motherhood suited me, and living on the Dorset coast sets a particular pace; life isn’t to be rushed, dreams will be realised … one day. And then a wake-up call happened, giving me a suitably sized kick up the backside. It hit me that while I am perfectly content to bob along at my own speed, time isn’t so laid-back. It hurtles along, carrying us to the finishing line at an alarming rate, with people like me blissfully unaware of it. Our children have grown up: two at college, one at Uni and the eldest living in London since she finished Uni there a few years ago. They’ve all moved on and yet, I’m still dreaming that one day, when I grow up, I’ll be a writer.
   I’m from a long line of story-tellers. Most of us, I’m sure, have had to sit through Sunday lunch listening to a grandfather or great-aunt ramble on about a time gone by, and how things were so different then, and we don’t know how lucky we are.

My Grandma & her siblings at my parents wedding

   As I have pieced together my family history over recent years, and found contact with cousins who share the same Cody ancestors, it occurs to me how alike we all are in our artistic bent. We all have a drive to share stories, through writing books, writing songs and music, acting, dance, painting, photography. Any medium we can find to share our passion. Each generation has produced this talent, going back through the ages.

We found evidence from the 1870s of our great, great, great aunt, Ellen Wood, performing at Covent Garden as 'The Great Azella', before setting sail for fame & fortune in America. She sang, danced and performed acrobatics on a tightrope, creating quite a name for herself; though not quite in the same league as our more famous showman cousin, William Frederick Cody, aka Buffalo Bill.

The flying harness worn by Ellen 'Azella' Wood

   As cousins offered their insights into our family history, replicating my own knowledge, it became apparent that those lengthy lunchtime stories held a weight of truth - not just embellished rumours as I had thought - and our ancestors had successfully preserved history, passing it down by word of mouth. And although the tales from Ireland were of unbelievable hardship, starvation, loss of family and being forced to leave their homeland in order to survive; and of our Yorkshire grandfathers, drovers by trade, facing the arduous, dangerous journeys to London with their livestock, there was always a sense of achievement, of triumph, of spirit. As it turns out, my great aunt was right: we really are lucky and we can’t possibly truly comprehend what it was like back then. We can only imagine. And keep the stories alive for the next generation.

   Although my father’s side of the family dominated my early childhood, my Swedish mother’s side played an important part too and memories of sun-soaked summer holidays by the lake, still crowd my mind. Each July we would embark on the journey across Europe, crammed into a hot car that smelt of melting vinyl and cigarette smoke, to spend the summer months with my grandparents. The road trip was a huge adventure for us - well, for my brothers and me at any rate, not so sure about our parents - and the well-travelled route across France, Belgium, The Netherlands, Germany, Denmark and finally, Sweden, filled us with mounting excitement. The promise of two months of freedom was almost too much to bear; endless swimming and rowing on the lake, eating strange food and salt sweets, and being utterly spoilt by doting aunts and uncles, was always heaven.

My grandparents house backed onto Lake Drevviken, south of Stockholm

   But growing up within the two cultures was also confusing; I could never quite decide on my identity. We moved to Sweden when I was nearing the end of primary school, then my brother and I moved back to England to live with one of my dad’s cousins, half way through secondary school. By then, childhood idyll was a thing of the past and teenage angst had taken over: identity crisis set in. In England, I was the Swede with the funny-sounding mother; we were the Catholic kids who got picked on (and frequently beaten up) by the C of E kids. In Sweden, I was the prim and proper English girl who was good for help with English homework. And then, back in England again, I was the Swedish girl with trendy drainpipe jeans, when everybody else was still wearing flares. I never quite fitted in. I decided early on, I could either give in to the angst and endure the torture or I could make myself happy. Find my escape, my happy place. My bubble.
   Yes, of course I rebelled, but on a small scale compared to some. It was the era of punk rock; I endured ulcers in my cheek from futile efforts to push a safety pin through it. I left it half hooked in for a couple of weeks until the pain became too much. Long enough to prove a point, I felt. I smoked and drank before legally allowed, which enabled me to fit in, to go with the crowd, but my salvation lay elsewhere. In music and books. I arrived in England with a state of the art radio, which became an extension of my left arm. The size of an A4 folder, I cradled it in the crook of my arm and fed my fingers through the handle. Why it didn’t occur to me to simply carry it by its handle, I shall never know. Much cooler to have a permanently bent arm, apparently. It gained me friends and kept me company 24/7. It never left my side and I slept with my ear pressed against it every night, drifting off to the sounds of Radio Luxembourg. School was much more lax in those days and we were allowed to discreetly crowd round my radio in morning registration, eagerly waiting for our favourite hits on Radio One, the DLT show. Obviously, I had to turn it off during lessons but it remained on the desk, amid my school books, pride of place.
   I stumbled across the village library one day, quite by chance, en route to a friend’s house. I’d been living in the village for a year and had no idea it even had a library!  Reading had always been my escape but the books I had brought over from Sweden had been read over and over, and outgrown, so I was keen to find something new. As I worked my way along the shelves, I immediately spotted a title I recognised: Jane Eyre, by Charlotte Brontë. My mother had had a copy by her bedside for years when I was younger. I’m not sure she ever completed it; she had been given a collection of classics by one of my many great aunts, in a bid to help her learn English. I know she appreciated the gesture but it probably wasn’t the best way to learn how the natives spoke in the 1960’s.
   Full of nostalgia, I borrowed the book and instantly fell in love; with the story, with the landscape and most importantly, to any romantically starved fifteen-year-old, with Mr Rochester. I went on to read the other Brontë books the library had and fell in love with Heathcliff, from Wuthering Heights. Working backwards on the shelves, I discovered Jane Austen and – as you probably guessed – fell in love with Mr Darcy. By now, the local lads didn’t stand a chance with me. How could they? Nobody compared to my new heroes.

I read Brontë and Austen on a loop, totally hooked. In an effort to remain cool, I always borrowed a couple of naff romances (which I usually read as well), claiming the classics were for an elderly neighbour. And so, at the weekends I would take my neighbour’s dog – a gorgeous Golden Retriever named Henry – for long walks along the top of Ironbridge Gorge, armed with my radio, my library book and my Players No 6 cigarettes. We would tramp through mud and bracken to sit under our favourite tree, where he would sprawl across my legs, keeping guard, while I lost myself to Mr Rochester. Or Heathcliff. Or Mr Darcy. And that is how I survived my teenage years, with my sanity intact. Relatively.