For Dad and my city at Christmas, Birmingham

Dad used to park the car near Broad Street; it was always difficult to find a spot. I recall my eagerness to clamber from the car and reach the market as soon as possible when I saw the fairy lights scattered along the skeletal branches of the trees lining the crowded pavements, people walking by the brightly lit pubs, steam filling the space in front of their faces as warm breath met icy air. The clubs and bars were thriving, shops packed, smiles everywhere. The city was alive, and it was beautiful.

My dad held my small, gloved hand as we walked towards Brindley Place. My big coat sheltered me from the cold and as I pattered alongside my dad, avoiding stepping on any cracks- because in my childish mind that would’ve been fatal - the tassels hanging from the hat my uncle gave me that year swung from side to side in front of my face; I made them chase one another as I shook my head, playing my own little game. At the traffic lights by the Repertory Theatre we’d stop. Look left, right. Wait for the green man to appear, obviously. The theatre looked so warm and inviting. Posters promoting festive productions littered its front wall, some peeling from the surface, worn and weathered. Buses passing us, brimming with people.

The grit and gravel beneath our winter shoes crunched and slid noisily as we walked through the square. Dad’s always been a fast walker; I’d take the biggest strides I possibly could to keep up with him. Costa was in the middle of the square. An interesting building. Small and cosy.

We walked up the steps leading from the square, the ones that are surrounded by pools of water. Sometimes I’d throw a penny in, squeeze my eyes tight shut, make a wish. That time I stayed close to my dad, just looking at all of the pennies and tuppences laying on the surface at the bottom. All those wishes, I thought. That’s a lot of wishes.

We came to the bridge by the canal and I looked over the rail, trying to see my reflection in the water. The wind was blowing fiercely. It began to tug the surface and break its slumber, and the water rippled so soothingly to the edges of the canal. Each tiny wave rolled mesmerisingly into another, becoming the other. Three turned into two turned into one.

The railing was dusty, and its green paint was dry and peeling from the dark metal surface. Delicate flakes of it cracked and fell off gently, carried through the air, as I released my grip. I kept my hand on the rail, walking across the bridge whilst I slid my hand along, watching it rise and fall as it hit tiny bumps. Our footsteps echoed and I wondered what would happen if we were to tread too forcefully. The bitter chill in the air was beginning to make my cheeks and nose feel frozen. I had quickly to touch my face to check my nose was still there.

So it was a relief when we swiftly reached the ICC and the warm air from above the automatic glass doors engulfed me, banishing the cold. We walked through the ICC every time. It’s a huge, open building, with a little assortment of shops and cafes, never very full apart from when grand events were taking place, except it wasn’t ever very empty so you could always hear the echoes of people murmuring to one another, drink in hand or navigating their way through the building. Which exit leads where? Where are the toilets? Some people simply sat on benches under great white pillars, a mini shelter, attempting to escape the cold. There are two big stone staircases leading up through the building, towards Symphony Hall. I’d look, see how crowded each staircase was and attempt to race my dad. Or he’d show off by taking two or three steps at a time, which I tried to copy but my legs were much shorter than his. Sometimes he’d let me get up there first and I’d feel so proud of myself.

Walking out of the Hall, towards Centenary Square, the north side of Broad Street. Getting closer to the market, excitement building. There weren’t any clouds in the sky as I peered up. The sky wore the colour of crystal blue, almost translucent but there, solid. Lovely but severe. Icy.

We were nearing Paradise Forum. We walked down the long, wide path leading to that huge, imposing stone building. I’m trying to remember exactly what it looked like, but it has since been demolished and now they are building huge, modern office blocks in its place. As brilliant as those shiny, eccentric buildings look, I miss the old Paradise Forum. It was rough at the edges but inside it offered shelter, food, shops. I think the old Central Library was there too; dad loved that library.

The path leading towards it had tiny brick walls and greenery at either side of it. I stepped up onto the wall, walked along it and dad reassuringly held my hand if I wobbled. There was a selection of stalls lining the sides of the path, selling delicious food and drinks. They were part of the market and I was overcome with happiness as I realised Christmas was so close, and I loved this time of year and my city. I noticed one stall was selling hot, roasted chestnuts. The woman selling them looked kind and happy. I wondered if dad would let me try them.

I breathed deeply, absorbing every warm scent surrounding me. We walked through Paradise and as we stepped out into the open on the other side, my eyes were wide as they welcomed the sight of dozens of stalls selling beautiful things; jewellery, bags and hats and purses, handmade wooden toys. Drinks, food, some of which I had never tried. Crowds filled the streets, dad made sure I kept close. Surrounding my ears were the sounds of many different languages and accents coming from people passing me, music blaring and people singing along to familiar tunes. There was a band on the balcony of one of the grand beer shelters. People huddling together. Rotund men drinking ice cold beer.

The tree was standing proudly at the bottom of the steps that lead towards New Street. That year it looked ever so elegant, with tiny silver lights draped over its body like water droplets. There used to be a magnificent water piece next to those steps. The water would trickle down and children would often play in it in the summertime to cool off, whilst parents sat on the edge by the steps, eating a pastry or baguette from Greggs, looking down at the street, across at the statues, up at the Town Hall.

Some people were resorting to sitting on the stone globes at the top of the steps to enjoy a pretzel or colourful chocolate marshmallows. Dad would help me up onto those globes because I was too small to climb up on my own.

The music from the carousel drifted towards me. I looked towards the emerald roof and my eyes were guided down, first stopping at the intricate scenes painted above the golden poles attached to the horses, and then the bright lights which framed the scenes and lit up the carousel all around. It was a beacon in the darkness of the evening that was drawing in steadily. Dad saw me looking and asked if I wanted a go.

Sitting on the horse while dad stood by in the cold watching me go round. He must’ve been freezing but he waited there all the while. I gripped the pole tightly as I was frightened of slipping and falling off as the horse bobbed up and down. Each horse had a name and was painted in different colours, each as vibrant and rich as the other. Cobalt blue, gold, magenta, lilac. Going round and round. Parents taking pictures, capturing the moment. Probably wondering how much longer they’d have to wait. Still, happy.

Eventually we walked back through all the crowds, back through Paradise. I was hungry and the sweet scent of the roasted chestnuts filled my nose. We waited in line. Dad bought a few for the both of us; he was surprised I hadn’t tried them before.

Sitting on a wall near the Hall of Memory, an Art Deco war memorial near the stall- dotted path leading from Paradise. Dad had the brown paper bag filled with the roasted chestnuts in his hand. I heard the bag crumple open as he carefully folded back the seal. Food in hand, rosy cheeks warm. I bit into the tender meat of the chestnut and savoured its sweet flavour and aroma. Paradise.