Remembrance Day. Leah Fleming

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СКАЧАТЬ sweet-smelling lavender sachets for her pocket. How she wished she could do more than just these little tokens, but they were going to have a fine feast with all the trimmings later; plum pudding and a traditional dish of frumenty, fresh creamed wheat in a bowl and mince pies to share with visitors.

      Tomorrow Ruth would bring treats from Bradford. She had been in service and married a wool sorter’s apprentice who had done well in the trade and set them up comfortably. Sadly there were no little ones so Essie’s own children were at the receiving end of much kindness. Not that they were short of anything this year.

      Only two days ago she had laid out old Mrs Marshall, who had died in her sleep, well prepared with her best nightdress and pennies ready in the top drawer.

      There was an art to laying out the dead with dignity and pride, plugging places that might leak, washing and dressing the body, tying the chin with a bandage, combing hair and changing all their linen for the first viewings.

      Mrs Marshall was a good sort, plain spoken but kindly, and would be missed at the weekly Women’s Bright Hour. Her son and widower were pleased and had left Essie two florins on the dresser for her willing services, a thank you that had come in useful in buying little extras for the coming days.

      It was not that Asa made a poor living, but with the rent and their everyday expenses, the budget was always tight. Growing boys needed good boots and strong breeches and shirts. She was trying to save for Selma to have some fresh skirts and blouses for her new post as a pupil teacher assistant, and it was time she wore a good corset to hold her firm. They were blessed with work and not want.

      As she crept down the dark stairs with a lamp she smiled at all the little trimmings Selma had dotted about the cottage, evergreen branches, winter berries, a kissing bough of holly hung from the kitchen. They didn’t go in for decorated trees because Asa said they were pagan and killing perfectly good shelter for winter birds wasn’t on, but he did light one candle at the window on Christmas Eve as a symbol of guidance to those who lived in dark ignorance.

      Asa was a good husband and one who didn’t put his religion away with his Sunday suit like so many she could mention. He was strict and fair and honest to the point of being a stickler. Only last week he had refused thirty shillings for a piece of wrought iron work that had taken him hours of reshaping and finishing. ‘Give me twenty-nine shillings, Alf,’ he’d said. ‘Never let it be said that I sold this for thirty pieces of silver. The Lord was betrayed for just that sum.’ How could you not love such a man?

      Now the front parlour smelled of elbow grease and beeswax polish, the pine needles added a rich tincture and the fire was laid and ready. They had roasted the joint overnight slowly, wrapped in greaseproof and cloth so it would fall apart and go further cold for Ruth’s visit.

      Every surface was cleaned and tidied, the best rag rug down and white linen cloth ready to receive the feast. Their boots were lined up for the Christmas procession they called the waits. Even she was not too old to feel a thrill on such a joyful morning.

      Soon the children were stumbling bleary-eyed into the dawn light.

      ‘Rise and shine! We shall stir the hearts of West Sharland with our songs of praise this merry morning.’ Asa was wide awake, chivvying up his sons to wash and shave while Essie shoved hot porridge from the stove into bowls for them all. No one was going out on an empty stomach in this chill.

      ‘Do we have to?’ moaned Newt, who liked his lie abed.

      ‘Faith before feasting, son! How can we honour the day without honouring Him first?’ There was no arguing with Asa when it came to what was right and proper.

      By the time they picked their way across the cobbled square there was a small crowd huffing and puffing, stamping their clogs; the faithful brigade of chapel stalwarts wrapped against the cold with caps, shawls and bonnets on their heads. Men in hobnail boots and hats holding baskets of hymn sheets, children, muffled with hoods, skating on icy flags.

      The last to arrive was Mr Best from the mill, in his carriage with his son and daughter and a line of servants walking behind, looking pinched underneath their best cloaks. Harold Fothergill flourished his trumpet and the sober remnants of the village silver band gathered in a huddle. The drummer strapped on his instrument ready to lead the proceedings. They were ready for the off but not before a prayer.

      ‘All present and correct,’ shouted the pastor, raising his hat. Only the old and infirm were exempt from this morning’s witness.

      ‘Hurry up, I’m freezing!’ yelled Frank, laughing. ‘What’s the first hymn?’

      ‘As it always is,’ Newt replied. ‘“Christians, awake” followed by “Hail, smiling morn”.’

      ‘That’ll wake the dead then,’ quipped Selma.

      ‘If we’re awake and doing, I don’t see why those still in their beds should slumber on,’ said the choirmaster. ‘I want full throttle.’

      There was a drum roll, a tuning up of the large euphonium and the procession stood to attention as the bass drum banged out the start of their parade. Everyone tried to stay in tune and on time but they kept parting company and stopping so stragglers could catch up as they stormed round the village green, past the church and through the side streets before back to the square.

      ‘Christians, awake, salute the happy morn…’ rang out in the frosty air loud enough to wake the dead in the churchyard; ‘O come, all ye faithful’ and ‘Once in royal David’s city’. A few curtains twitched and then a head appeared from behind the shutters of the Hart’s Head. An irate Charlie Plimmer was yelling his protest as he chucked the contents of his chamber pot out the window in their direction.

      ‘Shut that bloody racket! Can’t a man get a decent night’s sleep without you caterwauling?’

      ‘And a Merry Christmas to you and yours, Mr Plimmer…’ The minister raised his hat and everyone cheered.

      Essie smiled as they carried on singing until they were hoarse, standing under the elm tree that shaded both teetotallers and hard drinkers alike of a sunny evening. ‘Who needs John Barleycorn to lift spirits on such a day?’ whispered Asa, slipping his arm into hers. Essie smiled and patted his hand, her dark eyes flashing mischief.

      ‘That was a good sing-along. We got in first before the church bells,’said the minister.‘Time for a slice of Christmas pie in the chapel room.’

      Essie stood admiring the grey stone building, proud to see her family name, Ackroyd, carved into one of the foundation stones. We’re built to last, she thought, looking at her bonny children growing into fine specimens. One day they would be leading the faithful in this age-old tradition.

      The pastor handed small books to the children, full of terrible tales of poor little Eva who waited in the snow for her father to come out of the public house, dying with fever and bringing him to sign the pledge of her dying wish, alongside decorated biscuits. They sipped cups of tea with relish; glad of the warmth on their fingers.

      Essie smiled, thinking she had brewed up her Christmas cordial from hedge berries; blackberries and elderberries, rosehips all steeped in sugar for weeks on end; all the goodness of God’s earth in a stone jar. Asa, Ruth and her husband, Sam, would wolf it down and complain of a puzzling funny headache in the morning. Essie was sure it must be the extra sweetness of the juice, but what if the fermentation was too strong? Perhaps it was better not to know. She was sure the Lord, who turned water into wine at the wedding in Cana, would not begrudge a little laxity on His birthday.

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