My name is not Mary

 A Case of Domestic Pilfering is a Holmesian romp set in high summer. Come, warm yourself on memories of hot streets ...

Madeleine had been stooping, picking at the flattened granules of something ground into the carpet.  Now she straightened, red in the face, and sat back on her heels for a moment until a movement at the door made her jump.

'Only me!'

Madeleine turned away.  'So I see.  How come you always turn up when the work's half finished?'

'It was John.  He kept me to help with – to help him shift something.'  The older girl moved across the room slowly, humming.

'Well, you took your time.  I've already cleaned over there, by the way.'

'So you have.  Good little worker, ain't you Mary?  Shall I do over here then?'   

My name is not Mary, protested Madeleine silently. 'No need.  It's all done, Sarah.'

'Well, lemme carry that then.  Oh by the way –  ain't it your half day today?  Don't feel like swapping with me by any chance?  I got some things I want to do.'

'No, I don't.  I've got things to do as well.'

'Oh come on, Mary!  What things?'  Sarah sat down on the piano stool; the lid was up, and she ran a finger along the keys.

'Shush that!  They'll hear you!' 

'Not them.  They didn't get in till light.  I heard 'em.'

'Couldn't sleep, eh?'

Sarah ignored the dig.  'You're mean, you are, Mary,' she said in complaining tones. 'You get much more fun than me, living out like you do.  It's work, work, work here, all day long.'

'I work.  Or hadn't you noticed?'  And my name is not Mary.

'Well, I'd have thought you could do me just one tiny favour...'

'I'm always doing you favours.'  Madeleine made toward the door.  'I've got things to do,' she repeated over her shoulder.

'Must be love, then!' laughed Sarah as she slid from the piano stool.

Madeleine stood still for a moment.  'No,' she said firmly; 'No, it's not love.'

They crossed the hall in silence, and disappeared down the back stairs.

Later, she threaded her way through the crowd.  It was hot, and although she'd washed her face and hands before leaving Mr Clements' house she felt dirty and sticky.  The pavements burned through the soles of her shoes, and the smell of people, horses and hot tar invaded her nose.  At last she decided to blow some wages on an omnibus, rummaging in her purse to find the requisite coppers.

Home at last, tired and flushed, feeling the hair cling damply to her forehead, she ascended the three steps and opened the door.  Immediately the smell of cabbage puffed at her, accompanied by its auditory equivalent: Mr Morgan's voice lessons wafting down the stairwell.  She hurried into the back room she shared with her mother, pulling at the ribbons of her bonnet.

Her mother was in bed, a great heap under the covers, snoring.  The yellow blinds trapped the air; the room smelled of sweat and unwashed linen.  Madeleine wrinkled her nose, withdrawing quietly.  She went downstairs to the basement where her younger brother Michael was reading at the kitchen table.

'Is that tea?'  She sat down opposite him as he refilled the cup at his elbow and pushed it towards her.  

'What you reading, Mikey?'

He held up the book.  'The Terrible Fate of Lady Melrose,' she read aloud.  'That's the same one you were reading last week!'

'Yeah.  It's got some good bits in it.  This Lady gets kidnapped by a gang of roughs - here, look -'

Madeleine read curiously.  'That's rude'.  She pushed the book away, blushing involuntarily.

Michael was grinning.  'I don't mind.'

'Don't suppose you do.  Anyway, no-one talks like that in real life.'  She swept some biscuit crumbs aside.

'It's books, innit?  Anyway, I'll be getting a new one tomorrow because – look.'  He slid something into his palm and made a fist.  'Which one?'

'That one.'  He opened his hand.

'Well well,' she said softly.  'You have been earning your keep now, haven't you?'  She looked at him.  'Anything else?'

'No.  Straightforward, this one. Never seen him before –  new to it, by the looks of him.'

Madeleine nodded.  'It's the regulars who turn out more interesting from my point of view.'

'And mine.  Did your Frog go for those papers?'

'Difficult to tell, but he was interested all right. Enough to make your gent worth another squeeze.'

'I'll squeeze him all right.  They're pathetic, that sort – dead scared, but keep coming back for more.  Must be my charm.'  Michael smiled pleasantly.  'The price'll go up this time, though.  We could do some serious business – tell your Frog that.  By the by, what about your gent?  Any chance there?'

'Mr Clements?  Too risky.   Anyway, he's catered for.  Got a nice friend staying with him now.'

'One of us?'  Michael leaned forward, interested.

'Nah.  He sticks to his own.'

Michael sat in silence for a while; Madeleine watched him.  He met her eyes.

'Mads - d'you think I should buy something for Ma with this?'  Suddenly he looked very young.

'She never notices!  Don't know why you bother.'

'Don't be hard on her, Mads.  She can't help it.'

'I'm sick of hearing that.'  Madeleine spoke coldly.  'She has it easy compared to you.  And me.'

'She's had a deal of trouble …'

'We've all got trouble.  Don't get soft on me, Mikey.  You won't last if you're soft.'

'I think I know that better than you,' said Michael quietly.  'Don't be angry, Mads.'  

There was a pause.  'When you seeing him, then?  Your Frog?'

'Dunno. Tonight, maybe. Or maybe not. I'm tired.'  She rubbed her eyes and passed a hand through her dirty yellow hair.  'No, tonight. I could do with a run. It helps.'

'I know,' said Michael.   

Upstairs Mrs Peterson reached a crescendo of snores, and on the floor above, Mr Morgan's pupil trilled on top G, cracked, and gamely tried again.  'Bravo!' came his voice, drifting faintly down the stairs; 'Bravo!'

All I saw was lit up by your body

This week we're delighted to share another beautiful poem by award-winning poet Christine Webb. 

First published in 2011, her remarkable work Catching Your Breath 'celebrates and mourns her partner of forty years, who died in 2006.'

Knowledge

That moment suspended in the dull room

above the streets of the January town

(a branch pecked on the window, but the curtains

shut out the garden of dead chrysanthemums)

– undressing for each other the first time

all I saw was lit up by your body,

its gold and ivory. Such knowledge to bring away,

to carry wrapped through the streets, past naked trees,

into the school where heating pipes clanked and gossiped,

where blackboards expressed decorous equations,

where at the corners of corridors we might breathe in

to pass each other, but did not speak or glance

in case the doorways should break into leaf,

in case the books we carried should burst into flame.

Christine Webb 

  

Oscar, I will start again

Happy New Year to all our kindly readers! We wish you all plenty of health, wealth and happiness and thank you for visiting our blog.   

As we note that it was Constance Wilde's birthday yesterday, it seems an excellent opportunity to take a peep into some private correspondence addressed to her estranged husband, Oscar Wilde. It is, of course, as imagined by Rohase Piercy in her excellent and well-researched novel, The Coward Does It With A Kiss. 

Villa Elvira,

Bogliasco,

Nervi.

2nd of January 1898

My Dear Oscar,

You may be surprised to receive another letter from me so soon after my last, and indeed I had not intended to write again for I have nothing in particular to say that has not been covered by our recent correspondence.  I'm sure I need hardly add that I have not changed my mind about anything, especially after your last letter to me, which is the letter of a madman.  I suppose that A.D. is still with you?  I hear rumours that Lady Q. has written to him, and that you are both short of money.  I can only say that I hope she has withdrawn his allowance as I have withdrawn yours, and when I think of your going back to him after all that has happened, and then blaming me because I have been biding my time before inviting you here to join me, a thing which everyone agreed to be the most sensible and delicate course of action, I hope you may both starve.

Oscar, I will start again.

I do not want to write you another letter full of bitterness and recrimination.  I want to write you at least one honest piece of correspondence, not to lecture you about your situation, but to tell you something about mine.  Or are you so far steeped in the madness of self-pity that you have not even the imagination to see that your wife has a soul to be tormented also, a soul as precious as yours perhaps?

It is no use. I am so full, so saturated with bitterness and spite, that it appears I can neither speak nor write without barbs.  I sometimes wonder whether my ill health is not caused by sheer anger - spite and resentment running like electricity through my nerves - which would account, perhaps, for the shooting pains and the tingling.  Of course I have plenty of encouragement from my family and from well-meaning friends (and your well-meaning friends have done little to help the situation) – but encouragement is no excuse.  The truth is that I am an unpleasant person masquerading as a likeable one, a vindictive women pretending to be a martyr; one who chose with eyes wide open to go where I would seem to have been led innocent and blind.  I say this in cold blood and without self-abasement; and I know that it will be as great a surprise to you as anyone, to know that I have long had a window through which to look into the secret recesses of your heart.  

It has often been said to me (how often!) that I could not be blamed for having misunderstood you, that your actions were, and still are, beyond the comprehension of decent people.  But I did and still do understand you, Oscar; I understand you perfectly well.  It is myself, myself I do not understand.

Cyril went back to Neuenheim yesterday, and I do miss him; especially as today is my birthday, as you know, and I enter my forty-first year.  But it is a beautiful morning here at Nervi, and I feel quite well for the first time in days.  Maria woke me with a breakfast tray on which lay a bouquet of sun-coloured roses – a gift from the Ranee, who always remembers me.  She must have sent for them specially, at this time of year.  Feeling rested, I rose early and have been sitting for some time now by my window, from which I can see the jasmine in bloom, and the white road leading down to the village.  I have been leafing through an old diary which I found in the bottom of my trunk – I am still in the process of unpacking, you see! - and which I am very thankful to have kept by me, for I blush to think what the bailiffs who ransacked Tite Street would have made of it.  I am not sure just what has prompted such a restrospective indulgence, at a time when retrospection can bring me nothing but pain – intimations of mortality, perhaps, having reached the age of forty (still young, the Ranee says, but it feels so old!); my ill health, et cetera; and thoughts of other birthdays, with you.

 You think this a rambling and self-indulgent preamble, no doubt.  Well, you should know all about that.

  

No.  If I cannot do better than this, this letter had best not be sent at all.  I am getting too tired, Oscar, to nag you for much longer, you will be relieved to hear.  Would you be interested, I wonder, in what I have been reading?  

 Well, prepare yourself.  The young woman who expressed herself thus was twenty-six years of age, and newly married; a young woman of artistic pretensions, ardent disciple of the Aesthetic Movement, and forty-eight hours wife of one who was, at the time, regarded as its High Priest.

Hotel Wagram, Rue de Rivoli

31st of May, 1884

The first day of my new life!  And my first chance to write about it.  It still seems like a wonderful dream, from which I pray I may never wake.  I have a few hours to myself this morning – by choice, of course, for O. pressed me to join them in a morning stroll but I declined, thinking how delicious it would be to spend some time writing by the window in our room.  We have a wonderful view of the Tuileries, and everything is in bloom, and I can see couples out strolling arm in arm just as O. and I did yesterday (as man and wife!  How strange, and yet how completely natural it seems already to think of ourselves in those terms).  Mr Sherard addressed me this morning as “Mrs Oscar”...

  Oh, I forgot to mention that Robert Sherard arrived at breakfast this morning, and was introduced to me, and was altogether most charming and contratulatory.  I had heard much about him from O. and so was very interested to meet him; he does not seem on first acquaintance to display any of the “puritanism” that O. likes to complain of – on the contrary, he seems a rather romantic figure, and puts me in mind of Chatterton.  And he is the great-grandson of Wordsworth!  Anyway, he and Oscar are taking a stroll together, and I do not at all begrudge them one another's company, for now I have a little solitude in which to revel in my happiness.  To tell the truth, I am also feeling tired – and aching in every limb!  I am very glad of those talks with Lady M.B. otherwise I might not be quite sure that all is as it should be.  It feels rather like one's monthly “indisposition”, but it is not at all unpleasant; in fact I feel extremely smug and contented, and I shall never allow myself to be intimidated by a bitter old spinster like Aunt Emily again!  For what does she know of life, when all is said and done?

“More happy love, more happy, happy love,

Forever warm, and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting and forever young!”

(O. prefers Keats to Shelley, and I am coming round to his way of thinking - we read this aloud only last night, and laughed for pleasure!)  

“Forever may I love, and he be fair!”

O. seems vastly pleased with himself, and enjoys showing much tenderness and concern.  I do not like to spoil it for him, although he knows perfectly well that I was neither ignorant - how could I be, with a father whose indiscretions were the talk of the household? - nor apprehensive!  He insists that all his past experience counts for nothing, that there was no-one to compare to me, and of course that pleases me.  And he is so beautiful … I nearly told him what Lady M.B. said to me about the Rajah on her wedding night, but feared that instead  of amusing him it might offend.  His delicacy is so delightful, I hope he never loses it ...

Oh, Oscar!  I really think I had better not send this letter.  Embittered and cynical as I have become, it still brings an indulgent smile to my lips, even a nostalgic tear or two.  And Robert Sherard!  Not that I have any particular suspicions, for it is true that he was infected with a lingering puritanism … but even so, more than one of my friends thought it strange, on the second day of our honeymoon, and said so!  Well, it comes as no surprise to me now, to remember that I thought the two of you charming together.  But see what comes next:

 

I am interrupted by a knock at the door, and there has just been delivered a beautiful bouquet from O., who has not yet been gone more than an hour and a half, and a card with sweet words on it! What must Mr Sherard think of us?

  

(What indeed?  I remember how, a few days later, he threatened to throw his swordstick out of the carriage door on the grounds of being tempted to murder us for being too happy.  I thought it a great joke, and offered to relieve him of the tempting weapon there and then...)

 Ah, Oscar, our honeymoon!  Visits to John Donaghue's studio (you remember the bas-relief of the naked boy harpist we both admired so much?); Sarah Bernhardt's wonderful Lady Macbeth; ordering heaps of new clothes (at last I could order with impunity the costumes of which Aunt Emily so disapproved - soft flowing fabrics, rich colours, no bustle); reading Keats to one another in the evenings, when “Chatterton” had made his bow and retired.  And we were in Paris, in June!  Of all places and all seasons!  I felt as though a banner had unfurled in my heart declaiming Liberté, égalité, fraternité!  Strolling through the Tuileries in the evening, lamps flaring out against an indigo sky - I felt like a queen newly crowned, installed in the palace of your heart, Oscar, with all your adorers hastening to cast themselves at my feet also.

  After Paris, Dieppe was quiet, was it not?  A little too quiet for you, I think, but for me it was just what I wanted, for I needed time to reflect, and prepare for our return to London.  I had much to reflect on – at least, I seem to have thought so at the time, for my diary entries become quite copious, all much in the same rapturous vein:

  

Oscar is like the white moon, hiding the secret blue of his eyes under langorous heavy lids, and the amber waves of his hair are like an aureola around him. He makes me feel as deep and as powerful as the sea; the moon leans down, and she rocks him in her lap, like a lover.

  

A little too “utter”, perhaps, but not all bad I think – even comparable to something of yours?  I was told that you described me on occasion as a “violet-eyed Artemis” - well, I cannot imagine that you found me much like Artemis on our honeymoon!  Looking back, I wonder whether I might even have frightened you a little?

  

Received today a letter from Lady Wilde, who addresses me as “Dearest Constance” and signs herself “La Madre Devotissima”!  Mainly compliments about the wedding...  Will I ever live up to her expectations?  I wish I had the courage to display even half her unconventionality!  I really do not want to be a  Virgilia to her Volumnia, though I am sometimes afraid that is how people will see us.

  

Ah, poor Speranza. She was looking for a daughter to fill the chasm left by your little sister's death all those years ago.  I think that in time I did come to fill it, at least partly.  I certainly did come to love her, with a true affection; it is one of my greatest regrets that I was not more of a comfort and support to her at the last.

The spectre at your feast

 This week, Sylvia Daly's poem hints at a different Christmas meaning - which seems appropriate, as this year it's definitely going to be a different kind of Christmas for us all. Thought-provoking.

P.S. Nevertheless, we wish you all a cosy, healthy and safe Christmas!

Christmas Visitor

I am the dark Christmas Angel,

the spectre at your feast.

Watching over celebrations

that change you to gorging beast.

Your God, reduced and captured

in swaddling clothes and stall,

gentle, safe, rendered harmless.

Offending none and pleasing all.

This is not the Christ of my world,

doe-eyed baby smiling sweet.

My Christ suffers, works for justice,

speaks with passion, acts in heat.

Is there a place for such as I

at this false, festive season

With myriad gifts, glittering trim

and drink to lose all reason?

Yes, I’ll attend your vulgar romp,

though not atop your burdened tree.

A shadow fleeting, movement quick,

a flicker in the eye, knows me.

"The Darcy visit was brief, and every bit as difficult as I feared..."

What makes Anne de Bourgh look 'sickly and cross'? Jane Austen never tells us - but Rohase Piercy gives us a clue in Before Elizabeth.  

I have very little memory of my father's funeral.  My main impression is of a room full of people, with Mama in black silk sitting rigidly in Papa's favourite chair at one end and Mrs Henderson ushering in guests at the other.  I do remember feeling both surprised and gratified that a quiet, reclusive man like Papa should have attracted so many mourners; not as many as had attended my Uncle Darcy's funeral, but enough to bear witness that he was loved.  I know that William was there – I remember seeing him in conversation with Edward, and later with Mama – but I do not recall what I said to him.  It was my turn now to be unreachable in grief.

A fortnight or so later, I fell ill.  The shock of losing Papa in so sudden and violent a manner, at a time when my nerves were already at full stretch, made me easy prey to a virulent fever which confined me to bed for three full months.

I did not realise until much later how critical was my situation during those months, or how close Mama came to losing a daughter as well as a husband.  I remember the pain which racked my limbs, and the burning in my head and throat; Mrs Jenkinson's arm supporting my head as a glass was raised to my lips; the movement of the curtain at the open window and the menacing shadows which danced around the candle during long, broken nights. I recall sharp, vivid dreams invading my sleep with harsh voices and garish colours:  my father calling out my name, Miss Harvey's mocking laughter, writhing worms of light, splinters of blue glass.  Several times I became aware of a low moaning sound, only to realise as I surfaced from delirium that it came from my own throat.  I also have a memory of opening my eyes to find Mama sobbing at my bedside, a sight and sound so startling that I long believed it to have been a dream.

When I came to myself I felt drained, exhausted, and light as a feather.  It was a curiously pleasant feeling, as if the flotsam and jetsam of my life had been washed far out to sea, leaving me becalmed upon a wide, white shore.  I was horrified, however, upon first seeing my reflection in the glass: I had always been slight and fair-complexioned, but now my face was skull-like and white as bone.  My hair came out in great clumps upon the brush, causing me to drop it with a cry of alarm.  Mrs Jenkinson was my nurse throughout, singing old lullabies and stroking my head as though I were once again the little girl she had nursed through so many childhood illnesses; and her tender care brought me back to some semblance of health.

“You have nothing to worry about now, my chicken, except regaining your strength.  We have all the time in the world.  Let me help you to the window, precious – that's right, slowly now, lean upon my shoulder whilst I take your arm.  See, I have arranged the cushions nicely for you – let me lift your feet.  Now, we must wrap you against the cold – look, the trees are almost bare, just a few bright leaves clinging to the birches.  You're as pale and slender as a birch yourself, my poor darling, but have patience – we must all have patience - and we'll have you as bright and gay as a daffodil by Easter.”

I was in no hurry whatsoever to be as bright and gay as a daffodil.  I had no desire to do anything other than lie upon the sofa and watch the last leaves succumb to their fate, spiraling down one by from the skeletal birches.  Every movement pained me and tested my strength.  For what seemed like weeks I could walk no further than the window; then gradually I progressed along the length of the corridor outside my room, my knees giving way upon seeing the turn at the landing and the great flight of stairs beneath.  Eventually however  I was able to descend, and spent a hollow and cheerless Christmas by the drawing room fire, trying to force down sips of spiced wine as the sight of Papa's empty chair brought a lump to my throat.  Mama sat watching me anxiously, her voice unusually gentle and low as she read from Georgiana's letter sending me good wishes from herself and William, and promising to visit in the Spring.  I felt no enthusiasm at the prospect.  I had no wish for company, not even William's; the sensations that his very name had once evoked seemed as distant and ephemeral as a fairy tale.  I moved from day to day like one in a dream, feeling quite content to lie upon the couch and watch my life drift by without taking any active part in the proceedings.

It was Edward who first came to visit me, arriving with the crocuses in mid-February.  I was reluctant to see him at first, ashamed of my changed appearance and cropped hair; but he wisely persisted, and his company proved to be the restorative I so badly needed.  I saw in his face that my pallor and thinness shocked him, but he took my hand with brotherly affection, spoke cheerfully, and declared himself happy to be at Rosings again.  We did not speak of Papa at first; in fact I spoke little at all, leaving Edward to manage the conversation.  He talked of matters that seemed as distant to me as the moon: his promotion to the rank of Colonel; Georgiana's continued progress at school; William's new London friends, whom he had lately been entertaining at Pemberley.

“He is apparently reckoned to be the perfect host. 'Tis a transformation I should dearly love to witness, should not you, Anne?  William making himself agreeable in company – well well!  But then a young man in possession of a large estate is always described as the perfect host by guests hoping for a second invitation!”

I tried to smile, but my incomprehension must have shown in my face; Edward looked concerned, and fell silent.  At length he said quietly “I am so sorry, Anne, that I had to leave Rosings so soon after – that I could not stay longer, and be more of a help to my aunt and to you.  It could perhaps have lessened the gravity of your illness.  I have failed in my promise to my uncle.”

He blinked rapidly as he spoke, and my desire to reassure him roused me to speech. 

“You have nothing to reproach yourself with, Edward; what could you have done?  You are a soldier, not a nurse!  I think I was better off in the hands of Dr Harris and Mrs Jenkinson, do not you?”

Mama, to do her justice, was both courteous and welcoming to her nephew.  Grief had changed her; she had softened towards him, and was appreciative of his kindness to me.   Perhaps having now no occasion for jealousy, she could acknowledge his good qualities without rancour; perhaps his promotion to the rank of Colonel impressed her.   According to Mrs Jenkinson, Edward was a brave and gallant officer.  He must, I realised, be required to command obedience, lead men into danger, risk his life for King and country.  William's responsibilities, great as they were, paled into insignificance beside Colonel Fitzwilliam's; and yet Edward gave himself no airs, stood not upon his dignity, remained open and pleasant in his manner to all.  Who would not love such a man? Papa, I reflected, would be so proud of him.

The months passed, and I grew stronger. Eventually I became curious to see how Georgiana was getting along, and to feel myself equal to that meeting, both longed for and dreaded, with William.  No sooner had I expressed the hope, than Mama arranged the visit. My agitation as the occasion approached was only increased by her repeated assurances that a pale, delicate appearance was greatly preferred by gentlemen of taste, and that short hair was now very much in fashion.  I understood fully for the first time that my bloom, such as it was – 'I would not have you lose that delicate bloom, Anne' - had been irrevocably blighted by my illness; I began to regret having prompted the invitation, which it was now too late to rescind. 

The Darcy visit was brief, and every bit as difficult as I feared. William's shock at finding me so changed was obvious for all to see.  He recovered his countenance well, quickly replacing his expression of horror with one of concern, but it was too late to erase it from my memory or to prevent me from calculating the implications of it.  And it was not just I who had changed.  Edward's talk of a 'transformation' had not been exaggerated - Fitzwilliam Darcy was now a man of the world, his manners confident, his appearance fastidious.  He spoke, with a detachment that appalled me, of the vulgarity of public balls, the tediousness of dinner parties; of shooting parties organised by a boorish neighbour, Mr Hurst, who had recently married the sister of his friend Charles Bingley; of the merits and shortcomings of Mr Rowe's stewardship; of pressing matters of business at Pemberly, to which he must shortly return.

Was it really less than two years since we had stood beneath the trees in St James' Park, and I had felt myself melt before the eloquence of his gaze?  It seemed a lifetime ago.  When Mama took him away to make the obligatory call at the Parsonage, leaving Georgiana and I alone together, I felt only relief.

Georgiana was kindness itself, complimenting me upon my hair riband and bringing me extra cushions with sisterly concern.  She brought her chair close beside my couch and proceeded to regale me with such tales of school life as had formerly been my delight - but what a chasm now lay between us!  Beside Georgiana, I felt old at sixteen; an old maid to whom her eager prattle seemed childish, her robust good looks a reminder of long-faded youth. I reproached myself, recollecting that she had lost both parents, and I only one;  but how could I match such resilience?  Why was I so damaged, and she so wholesome?

Eventually my listlessness and obvious disinterest defeated her.  She timidly observed that I seemed fatigued, and offered to ring for Mrs Jenkinson.  I did not object.

When our guests departed on the following day, Mama declared herself vastly pleased with the visit, and with William's solicitude toward me; but I knew otherwise.  All my hopes and expectations regarding my handsome cousin were now as insubstantial as a dream.  He had left me behind, in a realm of shadow, while he forged his way ahead in the world.  

Unequal to battle, I took refuge in surrender;  I remained upon the sofa and watched cherry-blossom drift past the window as spring gave way to summer, and my seventeenth birthday came and went.  

There was now, of course, no question of my being presented at Court.  

The wind howled that Christmas night ...

Well, it is the first Sunday of December and we all need some winter cheer. This marvellously evocative account of a Christmas in Wales by Maggie Redding is just the thing. 

 An Adult’s Christmas in Wales

(‘A’ certificate – for adults only)

With apologies to Dylan Thomas.

'Twas the night before Christmas

when all through the house

not a creature was stirring

not even a mouse.

But at Pantyfer, at Christmas in 1984, this was not strictly true. Life here was raw in tooth and claw and everything was stirring, including spiders in the roof, my Scottie, Haggis, as well as two mice, both of whom were pounced upon by Haggis. They squealed at the death blow, poor little things.

But that was nothing compared to the mass slaughter going on around us – and I do not refer to our next door neighbour – a quarter of a mile down the valley – who had attempted to murder his wife and was securely behind bars by now.

No, I mean the business of preparing for Christmas by every farmer in the area. Turkeys and geese were being made ready for the Christmas table in poorly lit barns, by people in long overalls, heads covered, in snow storms of down and feather. A lucrative trade, it was.

And we, being mini-farmers (in our eyes at least) with our one and a half acres, had geese, chickens and ducks needed to deal with two geese, one for our table the other for that of a friend. They were dispatched according to the advice sought of the RSPCA, after a neighbour, the Mink Lover, we called her, not for her coats but because of her protection of these pests, had complained about our intention.

We had four geese who were terrific watchdogs, setting up a fervent honking and gaggling on the approach over our bridge of anyone, friend or foe, especially, for some reason, if they were wearing wellingtons. We preferred not to kill one of the chickens for Christmas. That was to be for the New Year.

Sylvia was efficient in the dispatch to their maker of the geese. This East End girl had quickly adapted to country life. They didn't know, the geese, what had hit them. It was over and they would no longer wander beneath our apple trees nor swim on our stream. 

The two carcasses had to be plucked, an irritating procedure as particles from the feathers and down floated in the air and up our nostrils. Their wings, when viewed close to, were a marvel to behold and the down, on their chests, so soft. The feathers and down went on to the compost heaps.

Now that we had naked carcasses we had to clean them, that is, deal with their innards, an interesting procedure from an anatomical point of view. We kept the hearts and livers for gravy.

These procedures took place in our rickety conservatory which was in desperate need of conservation as was the rest of the cottage. Dusk fell and we needed to switch on the light, a 40 watt bulb. Once plucked and drawn, all that remained was to burn from the flesh (bumpy goose flesh) resistant down and quills with a lighted spill. I turned the first of the carcasses over. It honked, a familiar, angry sound. I screamed. Air, remaining in the carcass had been pushed through the windpipe in the neck and it made the same sound as when it had roamed under the apple trees. In the dim light, the sound was haunting and eerie. 

For the next days, the goose now being in the fridge and filling it, we made other preparations for Christmas. Holly and mistletoe grew on our one and a half acres, holly on the boundary, with sharp protective leaves and red berries, none of the tame stuff, and mistletoe on our apple trees. Mistletoe grows also on other rough-barked trees, like oaks and poplar.

Our home, Pantyfer, meaning ‘hollow of fir trees’, although by now there were none, had been a pair of cottages knocked into one, the homes of the blacksmith and the stone-mason. We had four, low ceilinged rooms, two up two down with exposed beams downstairs, supporting the upstairs floors.  The roof trusses were exposed upstairs, so we had only tiles above our heads up there – with spiders and dust, dust especially when the wind blew.

Father Christmas would not be paying a visit as the fireplace in the sitting-room smoked because the chimney, in relation to the size of the fireplace, was too small, and there was not sufficient draught. But by the time we had decorated the cottage with holly, the place looked a treat, no garish colours just holly and ivy and a bit of tinsel.

The wind howled that Christmas night. The fireplace smoked, the Rayburn roared joyfully, consuming Polish anthracite even though we lived close to a colliery mining the best anthracite in the world. This was the time of the miners’ strike. We were at the western edge of the valleys. The people suffered at that time. All the children, with few exceptions, in the Gwendraeth Valley Comprehensive School were on free meals.

Next to our land was a bluebell wood, in spring. In winter, the wind roared down the little valley of the Isfael and the river was in spate. Shallow-rooted trees often fell and the Gwendraeth River, further down where it received the rushing, gushing Isfael River, would flood. The cottages seemed to have survived for two hundred years nearly, so we worried about neither falling trees nor rising floods, only dust in our eyes.

Haggis slept, all through that windy night, by the roaring Rayburn in the kitchen, the warmest place in the cottage. The goose next morning was soon in the Rayburn's oven, a good hot fire having been stoked up.

The observant among you would be recognising in that four roomed cottage, two up, two down, no bathroom has been mentioned. There was none. A shower had been installed above the kitchen in one bedroom, but no toilet. We had an Elsan chemical toilet, outside, in a crumbling shed without a door. We had rigged up a shield for privacy and also place for a torch or candle when it was dark. We called it Tenko, after a TV programme at the time. No, we had no television either.  Reception in the valley was non-existent.

Buckets featured heavily in our lives. Buckets of earth had to be moved around the garden in preparation for spring vegetable planting, buckets of compost, to the heaps or from the heaps, buckets of wood for the open fire, buckets of anthracite for the Rayburn, buckets of ash from the fireplace and the Rayburn, and buckets from Tenko to the compost heap.  Our lives were lived promoting nature’s cycles.

At this time, some seven or eight months in our crumbling little grey home in West Wales, we had to fetch all our shopping, including corn and potatoes to fatten the geese, by shopping trolley and bus to Carmarthen and back, seven miles from the village, which was one mile uphill. There was a village store up at Llanddarog which later delivered many of our groceries. Milk, unpasteurised, was delivered by a bullying milk-lady, and anthracite was delivered by the half ton to our smithy, the also crumbling blacksmith’s shop on our land, where we stored gathered wood and fuel. Wood and anthracite, in buckets of course, we carried over a bridge and into the cottage. The only catastrophe that ever befell us was the freezing of the water pipe under the bridge, when winter did its worst. Being Wales, there was still plenty of water available. Neighbours were helpful. And winters were otherwise wonderful, what with sledging down the hill, snowball fights and snow people galore in the garden.

Our Christmas dinner that year consisted of our delicious goose, of course, locally grown vegetables carried from Carmarthen market along with the ingredients for our home-made Christmas cake, mincemeat for mince pies and Christmas pudding.  Drink was only cider, obtained on a trip by bus and train to Hereford, some eighty miles across the border to the county of apples and cider. Here we would visit my relatives.

For the Christmas meal we had our own apple sauce for the goose and cream – oh, so thick – from the milk-lady. In later years, everything came from our own garden except dried fruit and bread for the bread sauce.

Every year, we recall the Pantyfer Christmases. We were poor, we had little money, even on a trip to Carmarthen shopping, we could afford only one cup of tea between the two of us. But those times were challenging, creative. We learned a lot, about ourselves and each other and life. Only outside events caused us to leave our idyll.  Ever since, we have dreamed about doing it again. Now, we couldn't cope with the cold, the carrying, the chopping of wood, the dispatch of livestock. But we are happy and proud that we did it.