Christmas Day by Judy Mitchell

Opposite the old church and at the top of High Street, was the park, its land generously purchased and developed by a local benefactor whose name it had borne for more than twenty years. It was a place livelier in summer when nurses with their large prams pushed well bundled babies under its leafy canopies and where families strolled along its serpentine paths, their feet unintentionally falling into step with the distant sound of a brass band playing on the solid, iron bandstand. Later, before returning to their villas on the main routes out of the town, these families would pause to admire the tinkling waters of the fountains and acknowledge those they knew with a tip of their gleaming hats or the slightest smile and incline of their pretty heads.

When the first frosts crisped the paths, the park gates were locked to keep out those they thought might seek shelter in its pavilions and so, until spring, only two gardeners were allowed entry. Only they saw the beauty of the snowdrops on the banks of the rill or the Christmas Lenten Rose’s first flowers, with its white blooms flushed with soft pink or with dusky, maroon flowers circling rich yellow stamens, all nodding coyly in borders rimed with ice. The job of the gardeners was to keep out vagrants and to turn over the rich, loamy soil and prune the selection of exotic shrubs and trees shipped at great expense from the furthest corners of the Empire.  

Every year, two days before Christmas, with their breath steaming in the early morning stillness, the gardeners clipped the holly and bay trees and the carefully cultivated spirals of ivy. As the winter light slipped away and with their barrows full, they delivered the green foliage to the home of the park’s creator to be transformed into wreaths and garlands and boughs to adorn the large front door and the stairs rising from the grand entrance hall. The second barrowful was taken to a very different place in the town; the Workhouse next to the inky, black canal which ran directly towards the smoky city where the benefactor’s chimneys gushed and rushed their foul outpourings of dye and bleach into the sooty, grey sky.

Then it was Christmas Day. In the wide hallway of the town’s largest house, a tall fir tree was lit by candles and decorated with sweeties wrapped in twists of fancy coloured paper. Soft-shoed servants stood silently waiting for guests to arrive before taking them to sit on rich crimson seats by a blazing fire. For each adult there was ruby wine in a sparkling glass through which the glow of the fire became golden beams of light as if angels danced on the warming and spiced nectar.

Children stood tall by their parents, eyes alight with festive brightness, marvelling at the magic in the very word Christmas. All was kindness and benevolence, smiles and warmth from young and old, the rich and the not-so-rich. Their voices hummed with pleasure, joyful in the warm cocoon that was this home.

At the appointed hour, the double doors opened and before them was a table groaning under the weight of a gold-rimmed dinner service, sparkling glasses and silver cutlery set out with precision. The candles in wall sconces made magical shadow pictures on the ceiling and on the table, silver candelabras lit the jewels on the slender necks of the ladies. Then came loud murmurs of approval at the arrival of the largest turkey they had ever seen. An hour later, a staggering servant struggled in with a gigantic steamed pudding, dark and rich and smelling of oranges, figs and fruit from the warmest climes.

Cheeks became rosy with the warmth of the fires and the mellow after-glow of excellent wines and food as they gathered together to listen to those family members who each year were called upon to sing the most tasteful of arias and ballads for the guests. What a joyous celebration!

Across town, in a tall, dark, jagged-edged building with a chimney and large yard, a long queue of inmates stood at midday with hunched shoulders, waiting to enter the dining hall.  Festoons of gaudy, coloured paper were suspended in swags from the damp, limewashed walls. The garlands of evergreens that had been collected from the park only two days earlier, were tied with brown string and interspersed with paper banners with seasonal mottoes. The Master and Matron looked on as the queue shuffled forward in clogs that rung out sharply on the hard stone floor.

When the Workhouse Guardians arrived with their ladies in furs and wraps, they each nodded with smug, self-satisfaction at the orderliness of the tables and the cleanliness of most of the diners. As always, there were one or two who fell under the gaze of one of the sternest do-gooders, who noticed their necks and fingernails seemed to have escaped the extra soap made available, at great expense, to support the Workhouse aims of cleanliness, order and discipline. 

For each man and woman, there was pork, parsnips and sprouts with large helpings of mashed potatoes. The sound of sunken lips smacking together marked the start of the meal and empty gums slapped and chafed against the slices of tough pork and slightly undercooked potatoes. If the pudding had been cooked for less time there may have been some moisture left in the dried fruit that was sprinkled sparingly throughout the round bomb-like dessert but all agreed it had been a veritable feast. There were oranges and apples to follow and each man got one ounce of tobacco with a pipe. By mid-afternoon the fug of smoke in the day rooms was worse than any London fog that had ever swathed the capital in its grey blanket-like embrace.

For the old ladies, there was an allowance of snuff. When dithering hands failed to lift the tawny dust to nostrils, the powdered mixture settled on the chairs and for days after, had the effect of inducing loud, wet sneezing episodes which echoed across the dining hall.

To bring the day to an end, the Master introduced members of the local church choir. They urged the inmates to join them in the singing of carols and along the stark, whitewashed passageways and up the stairs, the stuttering words of ‘I saw three ships’ and later ‘Hark the Herald Angels,’ lifted into the cold air. Just for a short while, some forgot their poverty and the sad and lonely forgot their misery. Some even believed, as they went to their beds, that there really was peace on earth and that God and sinners had been reconciled.  

The Boy and the Travelling Circus by Chris Lloyd

Benjamin Witherbread, age 6 and a half, was staring at a rather strange sight from his bedroom window. The room, hence the window, was on the highest and oldest part of his parent’s rickety, rackety house. The house, as any sensible living thing would surmise, looked as if it would fall down if someone or something blew on it with even a small puff of air. However, it had stood at the end of a large wood near a muddy track which seemed to be going nowhere other than to circle the wood, for probably two or maybe sixteen hundreds of days or months or possible years. Nobody knew. Not even Benjamin’s Father or Mother come to that. His grandfather Silas however knew to the day.

            The “Strange Sight” that filled the young Benjamin’s good eye looked very colourful and he was reasonably sure that flags were fluttering although it could be something else. He patiently waited for it to come nearer so that he could see it properly with his good eye. It stopped. Benjamin waited and was willing the “thing” to move again. It did not. This was a quandary for the boy because his parents were not at home and at such times, he was to remain in the house, pointedly, in his bedroom which was …. as you know. He kept willing whatever it was to come nearer but no matter how hard he tried, it stayed where it was. After what seemed like a century to the boy, he noticed something very colourful coming towards him. It was a big yellow bird making a noise. It landed on the wooden window ledge flapping his wings as it tried to get purchase on it. Much to Benjamin’s surprise it started to speak.

 

“Benjamin, Benjamin come to the circus,” it squawked, “we await your presence.”

“I cannot Mr Bird. I am to stay in my bedroom when my mother and father are not at home.”

“Not even to go to the circus, the best place in the whole wide world? You could see all the

animals, jugglers, tightrope walkers, amazing Lions and Tigers. Yet you do not want to.”

“I want to more than anything but I cannot.”

“I could fly you there, it would take just a jiffy.”

“I must not, I must not.”

“What if I could make your wonky eye better, Benjamin – would you like that?”

“How do you know I have a wonky eye, Mr Bird?”

“I know all things, Benjamin,” said the bird, “ask me anything you like and I shall give you the correct answer, anything. But if I somehow fail you will never see me again.”

“I don’t know questiony things, Mr Bird,” said Benjamin, “except one.”

“I know the answer; ask me it.”

“What is my…?”

“Silas,” said the bird.

“How did you know that?” Benjamin asked, feeling slightly wobbly.

“I told you I did. Now Benjamin let’s go to the circus, everyone is waiting to see you.”

“Will you really make my wonky eye better to see through Mr Bird?”

“Yes, I promise I will, come rook or by brook or readable book, that is my promise to you.”

“I will have to be back by teatime, Mr Bird.”

“Splendid – we shall have a grand day out.”

 

The big yellow bird scooped the boy up and sat him between his feathery ears and as they swooped, twisted and turned over houses and woodland, fields and rivers, the wind in their faces. Benjamin held on tight to the bird’s ears as they made their way to the where the circus tents were pitched in a large yellow and red circle of tents, flags, sideshows and cages where animals were pacing around and making their individual noises. To Benjamin, this was his dream come true.

The big yellow bird descended slowly and landed on a large humpy camel who did not seem mind being used as a landy sort of place. Benjamin slid off the big yellow bird and onto one of the camel’s humps. It was wibbly as well as wobbly but very warm. It was a bit smelly too but Benjamin didn’t mind that – he was at the circus, after all. He slid to the floor down the camel’s tail, very smelly, and looked all around. There was movement everywhere and noises that he had never heard in his old house. These were exciting noises, a cacophony of many noises. He walked and poked his head in any gaps he could see through. Lions roaring on top of huge barrels with a man with a long stick tickling their tummies. Acrobats swinging and spinning high in the tent and sliding down ropes. He was astounded. How could all this be going on so near to his bedroom? He looked to where his old house should be but it was nowhere to be seen. The big yellow bird had disappeared too.

He decided to look in two more tents before getting worried. It must surely be teatime because his tummy was feeling awfully empty.

The first tent he looked into was full of costumes for clowns. There were even some big red noses. He put one on. All of a sudden, he could hear music and see people in funny clothes. They seemed to be having a good time and they waved to him as they passed by. He took the nose off and they disappeared.

He went to the second tent and popped his head through a gap. What he saw astounded him. The Big Yellow Bird was perched on a large stick talking to his mother, father and his grandad Silas. And they were talking about his wonky eye. He tried to make them see him but somehow, they could not. Benjamin did not know what to do and was now very hungry indeed.

He decided to make his way back to the place where the big yellow bird landed, on the smelly camel’s back. But first he had to remember where that was. He stood still and thought. As he did an idea occurred to him. If he kept walking round all the tents, he would eventually find the camel. He started but quite soon he realised how big the circus must be – it was like seeing the same tent over and over. He kept walking but was beginning to get very tired. He decided to stop for a sleep, just a few minutes.

“Benjamin it’s school time. Come for breakfast, Grandad is here too.”

He jumped awake, got dressed and went downstairs; he felt very hungry and there was something different today. He could not immediately think what it was. Then he knew. His wonky eye! It wasn’t wonky anymore!

“Benjamin, why have you got a bright yellow feather in your hair?” asked his father.

His Grandad Silas chuckled to himself as he heard the question.

 

The End.

A New Home for Christmas by Juliet Thomas

 

Home is where the heart is, a phrase that is constantly proving to be true, and since we moved, this old house from the 1850s, has many stories to tell within its thick stone walls. From the sturdy servant bells in the kitchen, and grand focal-point fireplaces to the vast array of different period windows, there’ a tale unfolding in every corner.

This house has been a tug of war, since we fell in love with it this time last year, it took eight of the longest months to finally call it our own and cross the threshold in August. Our emotions raged from excitement to hope, frustration to panic, before finally our veins were flooded with sheer relief. We’d invested our hearts at an early stage, myself especially and I simply couldn’t imagine losing it after all these months of back-and-forth negotiations and being stuck in a chain, but it came dangerously close!

But wow was it worth it, when we originally viewed it, it was Winter, and dark. The trees in the garden were stripped and stark, the outside paving areas full of moss, it needed some serious TLC, but we knew that its soul was special, and there was magic buried in the bones of this house.

The history of the house would create a book at least, we have a huge file on Roseleigh, but in a nutshell, it was built as an old weaver’s mill, that’s combined with its Georgian period owner’s house, creating a mixture or styles and sizes of rooms, nooks and crannies, and later extensions to create a quirky, eclectic mix of living areas.

It’s position, just out of the main Holmfirth centre, is set back from the main road, and beyond the large back garden is the flowing River Holme. This was a big plus point for me, I’m a water baby, and always feel drawn to the water. When we first moved in, after long days of lifting, shifting, sorting and storing, we would spend the Summer evenings sat on the bench under the tree canopy just taking in the view of the house and the garden with our aching backs to the river, and letting the powerful, yet soothing sound of the river wash over us.

And I’ve loved getting to know the river’s inhabitants! From the not so shy herons – they really like to pose, to the flash of turquoise and orange seen fleetingly as the stunning kingfishers do a fly-by, to the more sedate dippers, often camouflaged on rocks, happily bobbing away, it’s lovely to see all these new river-dwelling birds on my walks.

The different reception areas each have their own style, the kitchen is a fairly modern country kitchen with an aga and a bespoke colourful tiled splashback, it’s high up and looks over the sprawling garden at the back and is level with the treetops - it was a stunning view in Autumn.

The Sitting Room, Lounge and Dining Room, all have their own William Morris elegant themes, deeper and richer patterns than I‘m used to, and I’ve enjoyed making them cosy for Christmas.

And we’ve already started making memories here, Bonfire night was a particular pinch-me moment as we stood on the terrace with friends and family, in bobble hats and gloves, watching The Sands Park firework display from our own perfect personal viewpoint! Literally, the best seat in the house.

But it’s not all rose-tinted glasses here at Roseleigh, being in its elder years, there is always work to do, and trying to keep it warm in Winter, in the current climate, well that’s another story! Plus, it’s a physically demanding house, with multiple stairs and four floors in one half of the house, it’s certainly requiring better fitness levels!

The garden is going to be a big project, but I kind of like its current untamed beauty of all sort of unusual flowers, bushes, and trees, interweaving in a sea of green, golds, snow-white or red berries, and unusual shapes I’ve never seen before. The resident squirrel often scurries to the lawn and has even fought with the crows for apples or acorns. I’m no gardener, yet, but I’m looking forward to learning more about what we have here. It also has the most prolific apple tree I’ve ever known, apples have been donated to cafes, friends, and donkey sanctuaries, as well as making many apple crumbles for us of course!  

It's going to be a long-standing labour of love, but sitting here now with the fire glowing, the lights twinkling on the tree, and watching a Christmas movie, the story of this house will continue to be written and evolve with new memories and a growing family tree. We hope to be here for a long time because the possibilities for grandchildren playing hide and seek in this house are endless!

Merry Christmas everyone…

Chimera - Part 2 by Vivien Teasdale

 

Alicia, when she returned from her holiday, was naturally upset at the loss of her pet, but soon settled back into her work routine and shortly afterwards the pair found they were expecting their first child.  Gideon was ecstatic.  He took the greatest care of his wife throughout the pregnancy and willingly agreed to his father-in-law’s suggestion that the girl should return once again to their country estate, where the baby would be born.  Gideon and William visited as often as they could.’ Holmes glanced across at his friend, who was listening intently to the tale. ‘As a doctor, you might not have agreed with keeping the girl in the middle of the jungle, but it seems she thrived. And her father had studied medicine for a while, so it was felt that he could cope. However, it was during one of William’s visits that the tragedy happened.’ 

Holmes stopped, staring for a while into the flames of the fire, but after a few minutes he shrugged, leaned forward and continued. ‘I will finish what I’ve started, Watson, but you may not wish to write all this down.’  He sat back in his chair, and pressed his fingers together against his lips whilst he considered his next words.

‘The baby was born prematurely. All the servants had been given the evening off to attend a wedding in a nearby village and only William was there to help. He did his best but was unable to save its life. Afterwards, he told Gideon that it had been deformed which was why he thought it best to have it buried immediately in the family plot on the estate, before Alicia could ask to see it. Distraught, Gideon returned to his work and Alicia stayed at the country house, unable to drag herself away from the little grave. Gradually they drifted apart, Gideon only going up into the hills perhaps once a month or so, Alicia never leaving to visit him or working in the laboratory again.

The visits grew less until they almost ceased. About five years later, when Gideon hadn’t seen his wife for almost a year, he suddenly decided to go up into the hills. Arriving unexpectedly, he walked, unannounced, into the house, to where he could hear voices in the parlour. Gideon recognised his wife’s rather high-pitched voice and also his father-in-law’s deeper tones. There was another voice, too, giggling and squealing in the way young children do. Gideon pushed open the parlour door, stepped inside and was transfixed in horror.’

‘But, Holmes, are you saying it was his own child? Was she so deformed, then?’

‘Listen. A five-year-old girl stood there, staring back at him with eyes that matched his own bright blue. The child’s hair was the same dark, shining colour that had first attracted him to Alicia. Though small, with delicate limbs, she was obviously healthy. There was a mischievous laughter in her eyes. Everything admirable about a child, you might say. But, Watson, around her nose and mouth grew long whiskers that were twitching as she sniffed inquisitively at the newcomer.  She stretched out a hand, its long, narrow fingers and sharp little nails beckoning to Gideon.’

Watson’s eyes grew round, horror forming in their centre. ‘Holmes, are you saying ..?’

            ‘Yes. It was, so Gideon said, his father-in-law who moved first. “Come in, Gideon,” he said, “I see we need to talk.”. Gideon couldn’t move. He stayed by the door, staring at his daughter. “What have you done?” he asked.

William’s excuse was that his wife had died of Dengue fever, just as Gideon’s mother had. “We have been trying to find a cure.  We didn’t realise it might have this effect.” was his explanation, pleading with his son-in-law for understanding.

But Gideon didn’t see it that way. “You were playing God. We were playing God.  What have we done!” he cried. Then his wife jumped to her feet and pushed past her father. “Stop it!’ she shouted. “It was my decision, my right…”.

Gideon thrust her away and she fell, clutching her stomach in pain.  A dark shape sprang forwards from behind the couch, biting at Gideon’s arm and scrabbling to reach his throat, before Gideon managed wrench it from his shoulder and flung it across the room where it tumbled onto an armchair, falling over against the oil lamp, which crashed to the floor.  Flames spread across the rug and flickered up the side of the chair.

Gideon turned, ran out of the house, leapt to his horse and galloped away.  Behind him the flames spread throughout the wooden building and black smoke thickened the air.’

‘But, Holmes, why has none of this been reported?’

‘Gideon returned to the coast.  It was night by the time he got back.  He went aboard the Matilda Brigg and destroyed all the work. Every paper, every animal. Then he set fire to the ship. It sank within minutes. He was lucky to escape himself. The fire at the country house destroyed everything there. Only the bodies of his father-in-law and his little girl were ever found. William had obviously carried the girl out into the garden then gone back for his daughter. He was found in the doorway, with the body of a giant rat at his throat.  But there was no trace of anyone else.’

‘And what happened to Gideon?’

‘He inherited all his wife’s wealth, which he used to set up a hospital near Medan. As far as I know he is still there.’

‘So that’s the end of the story, Holmes.’

‘I think you have missed the point, Watson.  Two bodies were recovered from the country house.  What happened to Alicia?’

‘But surely, the fire obliterated her body.  If she had survived, wouldn’t have she come forward, claimed her inheritance?’

‘It is her inheritance that Gideon believed kept her away. Away somewhere that he cannot find her.  Her inheritance from her father.’

‘Which is?’

Her father’s work. You see, the reason Gideon rejected her so forcefully was not just his shock at understanding what his daughter had been. It was not just that Kim, the giant rat was there, protecting his beloved mistress. It was the fact that Alicia was pregnant again. And Gideon knew he had played no part in that.