Village Christmas Read online

  Laurie Lee

  * * *

  VILLAGE CHRISTMAS

  And Other Notes on the English Year

  Contents

  Notes on England

  WINTER

  Village Christmas

  A Cold Christmas Walk in the Country

  My Country Childhood

  The Lying in State

  Born Survivor

  The Fight to Save Slad

  SPRING

  The English Spring

  A Place on Earth

  Spring Comes to Slagtown

  Conversations in the Sun

  The Last Ten Years

  Chelsea Bun

  The Shining Severn

  SUMMER

  Summertime

  The Thirties

  As-You-Were-Only-Better

  Things I Wish I’d Known at Eighteen

  Chelsea Towards the End of the Last War

  The Queen’s Elm

  The Magic of Water

  The Lake District

  Lords of Berkeley Castle

  My Day

  Notes on Marriage

  End of a Long Summer

  AUTUMN

  Harvest Festival

  On Craftsmen

  Letter from Britain

  Return to Stroud Secondary Modern School

  The Recurring Image

  The Street Where I Grew Up

  Follow Penguin

  Notes on England

  To most of us, England is a green sweep of heraldic history marked here and there by the black thumb of coal. The bit I know best is local and enduring, has little history and almost no official heroes.

  I was born in a corner of the Cotswolds – an odd lozenge of land centred round the small town of Stroud, cluttered, iridescent but unchangingly beautiful, comprising a bit of swampy plain, fine secretive valleys and a brooding ridge of bare hills stretching away to Wales and to the blue Wenlock Edge.

  I was nineteen years old when I first left my home ground, where all of us at that time, family and neighbours alike, had seemed happily and tightly wedged. ‘Ah, the Cotswolds,’ people said, when I got to London. ‘Stow-on-the-Wold, Bourton-on-the-Water, Burford, eh?’ I didn’t know any of them. They might as well have been in Lapland. People in our valleys seldom budged very far.

  Stroud, Slad, Sheepscombe, Painswick, Bisley, Miserden, The Camp – these were the Cotswolds we knew, the limit of our contentments.

  What I loved, and still love, about that small pocket of England was that it was odd, radiant and unlike anywhere else. So static, indeed, and immovable, that our staying put within its boundaries seemed to magnify the qualities of where we were, so that it seemed natural to know every blade of grass, each stone and roof tile.

  Our bit of country, because of its extremes – its slopes, shadows, oblique angles of light, deep woods and high open fields – seemed also to separate and dramatically magnify the seasons, the winter landscape locked up with a giant key, great snowdrifts arriving like the tents of Attila; spring too pretty by half with sudden shining streams and beech leaves like fresh-washed salads; summer, a brown exhaustion of baking wheat with cows lying in brown mud round the edges of ponds; and autumn, a fermentation of all that had gone before.

  Were these seasons remarkable or did they happen elsewhere? To me they happened only at home. And happening in that place, at that time, have become a reference for all seasons, everywhere, whenever I pause to think of them.

  As do those sudden outbursts of oceanic storms, western gales blowing in from the Atlantic, with sheep huddling in bunches, bushes bent to the ground and chimneys toppling, and birds flying backwards; so perpetual were those winds funnelling up my valley that I’d swear, at times, I could smell New York three days old and the overnight street of Cork.

  This bit of England was also a country of seepages, shaped and populated by them; seepages from the melting glaciers, the rivers and estuaries, up which my neighbours had arrived in their canoes and coracles, settling, raising cattle, building walls, digging holes, becoming miners, shepherds, weavers. ‘Hogg’, ‘Webb’, ‘Wynn’, ‘Jones’; you scarcely needed to open your mouth to speak such names, and with jobs like theirs you didn’t move about much. A damp green place this, small and domestic in scale. But the citizens know its measure.

  The expansive oddity of this district is that it breaks into three – the high, flat sheep-hills, the valleys dropping to the plain, then across the Severn westward to the black-eyed tribesmen in their forest, each with a private coal mine at the bottom of his garden.

  On my side of the river, in spite of the rapid spread of houses and factories muzzling up the valley slopes, you will still see wild animals, in sudden flashes of light, the bright stoat, stumbling badger, the diamond eyes of pheasant and fox; and occasionally, rarely, a red deer fleeing like a curate’s daughter.

  But overall, it is the scale and timelessness I love – the unblown mystery of this part of England. Trunk roads, TV masts, Berkeley Nuclear Power Station, yes; but behind us, where the escarpment runs like a long cliff above the plain, up there, outside the villages and above the towns, the little tumps and hillocks still stand in the grass. For three thousand years, the axe, the spade and the plough have carefully circled them and left them untouched.

  And beneath the turf they still lie, and we know who they are – grandfathers of our grandfathers whose hazed existence has been carried forward on the living breath of mother to child – the local bronze-age chiefs, squint eyed and laconic, who you still see throwing darts in the pub.

  WINTER

  * * *

  Village Christmas

  Christmas today often falls far ahead of its time, with signs in the shops appearing soon after the summer holidays. But in my childhood, Christmas began at the proper season, only just before the Feast itself.

  For us boys in our village in the Cotswolds, it always started on a star-bright night, never prearranged but intuitively recognized. A few of us would wrap ourselves in scarves and mufflers, fix lighted candles in jam jars and go through the streets calling out the rest of the gang. ‘Comin’ carol-barking, then?’ It was a declaration, not a question. One by one they appeared, flapping their arms and stamping their feet.

  We were a ragged lot but we had official status, for we were the boys of the village choir, and as a reward for a year of dutiful churchgoing, we’d earned the right to sing carols at all the big houses in the valley, and collect our tribute.

  Now our band of musical footpads set off merrily through the crunching snow, swinging out lanterns on loops of string. We began with the Squire, while still in good voice – advancing in awe down his well-swept drive to the great house. The old man, wrapped in a rug, stood at the door and listened, weeping softly, as our Christmas trebles reminded him once more of the passing of time.

  After that regal visit, we hurried onward up the valley, calling at the houses of lesser gentry. Beneath frosted windows, in echoing stable yards, under great Gothic porches and in tapestried hallways we sang, eight voices, clear and sweet, ringing out through the winter’s night.

  ‘Hark, the herald angels sing!’ Once again we were the bearers of the miraculous tidings to house and farm, to the folk by the fire, the stamping beasts in their stalls. And at each house, when we’d finished, we were rewarded with handfuls of coppers, hot mince pies, tangerines – gifts as precious as gold or myrrh.

  Next day was Christmas Eve, with preparations at a climax. The kitchen walls shone with reflected snow. Icicles curtained the steaming windows. As soon as we’d finished breakfast the table was cleared for the ceremonial mixing of the pudding – a formal ritual only, for Mother had thoroughly mixed it already, but now each of us had to stir it for luck.

&nbs
p; It stood rich and raw in its china basin, packed with currants, raisins, nutmeg, ginger and other musky indefinable spices. We each gave the mixture a solemn stir, made a secret wish, then took a long hard lick at the spoon. I remember well that voluptuous taste of suet and oriental bazaars, together with a faint flavour of pudding cloth.

  Christmas in the country meant feasts and fires, a few brief days of excess, when even the poorest among us would confront the stern gods of winter with the bravest possible show of good living. Everybody was busy this morning, chopping wood, carrying in logs or sitting on the doorstep plucking ducks or geese. Now the time had come for us to go up to the woods and collect leaves for decorating the house. Among the black and bare trees we shook the snow from the undergrowth with frost-reddened fingers, seeking the sharp-spiked holly, bunches of laurel and ivy, cold clusters of moon-pale mistletoe. With these, our sisters transformed the familiar kitchen into a grotto of shining leaves, an enchanted bower woven from twigs and branches sprinkled with scarlet berries.

  After tea, as darkness fell, we put on our coats and scarves, and trouped off with Mother to the town several miles down the wind-whipped valley. We always left the buying of our presents to this eleventh hour as part of the season’s dramatic crescendo, joining the rest of our neighbours who were all now heading from the shops to catch the last glitter of Christmas Eve. The tiny gaslit stores were gold caverns in the dusk, bursting with festive gods.

  We children gazed awhile at the grander toyshops, those with stuffed tigers and life-sized dolls, but ended up as always at Piper’s Bazaar, the most magical place in town. In this glittering emporium were presents for all the family: rings, necklaces and brooches for 1d each, tiny tea-sets and dollhouse furniture, tin soldiers, cannons, paints and puzzles, Chinese lanterns and devil masks. For my mother I bought the best in the shop – a brass-framed photograph of Lillie Langtry for 6d. Home again, with the oil lamps and candles lit, we stowed our presents away in the backs of cupboards or behind loose boards in the washhouse.

  Later that night, a cousin, who worked in the woods, would leave a splendid Christmas tree at our door. We would haul it inside, plant it in a bucket, and smother it with Chinese lanterns. Mysterious and sparkling, still dripping with melted snow, its feathery branches filling half the kitchen, the tree was our Christmas crown.

  Everything was now ready for tomorrow. There was nothing to do except go to bed, curl up in our blankets and wait, each with his long stocking hanging on the bedpost, empty. Would there be a flash of red in the window, a snow-glint of beard and ermine, a whisper of sleigh bells on our rooftops as Father Christmas made his benevolent entrance? We suspended judgment and kept an open mind.

  And when it happened, it was like the opening of a flower in the dark, the sudden ripening of fruit on the bough. A minute ago there was just the limp dead stocking. Now it hung heavy, bulging with gifts. Of all moments in childhood this must remain the most haunting, most unforgettable: the drowsy hand in the cold of the winter’s dawn reaching out as a test of hope, then suddenly finding itself filled with this weight of love, bestowed silently while it slept.

  No matter how early it was, we sat up in our nightshirts, lit our candles, and began our day. Slowly we scattered our treasures across the bedclothes. The biggest toys came first, filling the mouth of the stocking – a clockwork fire-engine whirling with sawtooth cogwheels, followed by a boat, some spotted dominoes and a bright painted humming-top. Here and there among this procession of simple joys we’d find a wrapped bull’s-eye, a brazil nut, a russet apple, a couple of figs or a tangerine.

  Eager, impatient, yet longing to spin out the moment, we tried not to empty our stockings too quickly. We plunged our hands deeper, searching for the next surprise, trying to guess what it was by touch – hard or soft, sticky, smooth, oblong, round or square. What ecstasies of speculation those fumblings were till one drew forth the object into the light. Then at last one was down to the toe. It was over, that session of unalloyed bliss, like nothing else in life: the slow unwrapping of Christmas in the winter’s dawn.

  Christmas dressing was formal – for the boys, velvet suits, starched collar, and hair shining with Vaseline; for the girls, best dresses and new pinafores. We tumbled downstairs, three steps at a time, into the kitchen’s glow. The fire was ablaze, and Mother had already started the breakfast, frying great pans of eggs and bacon. We sat down to the finest breakfast of the year, which included real cream and porridge.

  ‘Hark, children!’ cried Mother, suddenly cocking her head, ‘Isn’t that pretty? Now fancy that.’ With our mouths full of bacon we ran out into the yard and stood listening in the snow. Then we heard it, the pealing of Painswick bells, the traditional and joyous sound, coming faint but clear over the distant hill like icicles stirred by the wind, ringing Christmas in the valley. Our own village bell started up soon after, cool as a snowdrop, calling us all to church. There were no dissenters this morning. Everyone turned out – from the gentry in their carriages to the farmers and their bonneted wives in carts.

  For us choirboys there were new robes, cold as sheets of tin, which we donned hurriedly in the shivering vestry. Then with pink cheeks glowing, faces modestly composed, sweets hidden beneath our tongues, we followed the snow-haired vicar to our place in the stalls to a resounding peal on the organ.

  ‘Unto us a Child is born! Unto us a Prince is given!’ We sang it full-throated, knowing it to be true.

  After a brief sermon, the vicar released us with his blessing and the rest of the day was ours. Back home, we found that Grandpa had come, and a couple of whiskered uncles, all wearing brown polished gaiters.

  Eddies of tempting smells filled the crowded kitchen – mince pies, hot pastry, the tang of fresh-chopped parsley, the tingling aroma of the goose, which was too big for the oven and hung turning on a spit before the roaring fire, its fat dripping into a small brass dish. Nothing could be hurried; Christmas dinner was sacred and the waiting was part of its price.

  When all was ready at last, the table had never looked more beautiful: the decorated plates, the paper napkins which appeared only once a year, the dishes steaming with vegetables and the little willow-pattern saucers full of dates and nuts and figs. We sat in our places, confidently clutching our knives and forks, knowing that this was one occasion when we could eat our fill, and when there would even be second helpings.

  Plates clattered up and down the table, returning laden with helpings of crackling goose. All over the village it would be like this, families gathered for their Feast of the years; proud and flustered mothers giving their star performances, the old and toothless blissfully chewing, the young gorging themselves, grinning fatly at each other, babies in high-chairs sucking marrowbones.

  Finally came the climax of the meal – the Pudding – steaming royally on its china dish, a great ball of glory, as black as night, with a bunch of holly twinkling on top. Grandpa fished from his pocket a tiny medicine bottle of brandy, poured it over the pudding and set it alight. Whiskers of pale flame began to purr and flicker around it, dancing over the surface like tremors of lightning.

  We all cheered; Mother blushed. ‘I hope it boiled long enough,’ she murmured. Then she ladled it out with a fiery spoon, a great dollop for every plate. It was the last of the orgy, a surfeit of richness. We searched each morsel for the lucky sixpence, and each child found one, to our astonished delight – the uncles had seen to that.

  Christmas dinner over, the elders slumped in their chairs, sipping ginger wine, their voices furry and sentimental. So we left them to doze among the orange-peel and walnuts while we ran out into the snow-filled lanes.

  At this hour in the village, mid-afternoon Christmas, only the children seemed to be left alive; the boys trying out their popguns, pelting each other with snowballs, or whizzing up and down on the frozen pond; the girls, more sedate, showing off their bright new ribbons, lace-up boots and rabbit-fur muffs.

  Night came early, with the valley and its woods closin
g in darkly around the house. Now was the time to light the tree, its branches loaded with tinsel, with silver cut-out moons and stars, and with the clip-on candles, each a living tongue of flame, building up a pyramid of dancing light. Mother put out the oil lamps one by one, and we stood hushed and entranced together, adoring the tree and its chaste white glare coated all over in frosty fire.

  The precious day was dying. We boys struggled to keep awake, our eyes shadowed like burnt-out candles. How could we leave the beautiful tree? We piled our toys at the foot of our beds and Mother tucked us up, her shadow large on the ceiling, thrown by the beams of a single candle. As long as she was there it was still Christmas, as long as she held the light in our room, the day somehow could not end. We clung desperately to this last moment.

  Then Mother left us, and the angle of the candlelight grew narrower on the wall, and finally went out, closing that day forever.

  A Cold Christmas Walk in the Country

  The women in the kitchen are wrapped in their ritual vapours, having swapped dreamy beds for the clanging hellfires of ovens, spitting bird-roasts, bastings, boiling suds of greens, baked piecrusts and mysterious stuffings. Distracted but agile they shove me against the wall as I grope to look for my boots. Women preparing a meal, like women at their make-up, inhabit a similar chaos that is not to be tampered with.

  ‘Think I’ll take a small walk. Up the road,’ I say. ‘Past the wood. Down the Pond. I think.’

  Spoons flashing in bowls, they raise their heads vaguely as though they’d heard an odd sound in the plumbing. Their eyes look through me but do not see me. I belong to an army of men-in-the-way. I get some raw mince on my fingers, lick it off, wish I hadn’t, muffle myself up, and go …

  Outside there is no surprise in the coldness of the morning. It lies on the valley like a frozen goose. The world is white and keen as a map of the Poles and as still as the paper it’s printed on. Icicles hang from the gutters like glass silk stockings and drip hot drops in my hand as I breathe on them.