A Yuletide Dream-Conversation
The day, one of those curious, half-mirthful and half-mysterious Yuletide days that seemed to echo somewhere between church bells and the lowing of cows, was dissolving gently into the sort of early dusk England delights in mid-winter. The village had come to a hush; even the dogswell-fed on cold slices of beef and the crumbling leftovers of Christmas piesforsook their usual pleasure of barking at passersby or bickering with their kennel-mates. If a stranger had happened by, which never really occurred on the frost-locked lanes of this obscure hamlet on the outskirts of Norfolk, the abundance of darkened windows would have drawn a puzzled look. For, surely, during Twelfth Night, one might expect every home to burst with candlelight and laughter. But in this far-flung English village, all the locals, thick-coated and red-nosed, hurried instead to the handful of houses marking themselves by glowing panessummoned to the tables where the miraculous Yuletide tradition of Christs birth was still celebrated in the deep, rural fashion: long tables, endless cold cuts, chutneys, trifles, and that special, inexplicable nearness to the magical that English winters seem to bestow.
In the Beechams large, somewhat draughty villa, the last flustered sparkles of festivity fluttered in the kitchen. At last, the guests crowded in a half-moon by the table, expectant as children at annual pantomime, waiting for the lady of the house to distribute sheets with the carol lyricsfor to this group, Church was not simply a place but the thread of life itself, and Christmas incomplete without communal song, a sort of collective innocence brushing near the marvelous.
Violet, mistress of the house, energetic and ever just on the happier edge of worry, turned to her cousin, the choir leader. James, will you begin?
Her husband, Charles, poked James lightly with his elbow and nodded approvingly.
Jameswhose steely, bold gaze bespoke a man not easily led astraycleared his throat with youthful eagerness and answered in a baritone both rich and waggish, No, Violet! It ought not to be me, but the master himselfCharles!
But youre the choirmaster, someone protested.
Doesnt matter, James replied, with that same boyish fervor. Not a vicar, am I? The head of the house must start. Thats tradition. Full stop. No arguments.
So Charles led, the voices joined, wavering at first, then steadying under James guidance, melting together into a single, uncertain-but-devoted chorus.
Oliverby far the tallest man present, and only a few years in the Churchfound, to his contentment, that amid so many unfamiliar faces, his own voice did not jar. He always did love to hum a nonsense tune when no one else was listening.
Unlike his wife, Alicea willowy young blonde of one-and-twentyOliver was not local, hardly knew anyone, and looked about as artists dostudying the room as if each profile were a mysterious painting. Beside them sat another young couplesturdy, ginger-haired William, a games master at the local school, and his wife, a woman of seven-and-twenty with a kerchief tied cunningly at her neck. The hosts, bustling Charles and Violet, took turns steering the conversation, assisted by Violets friend Helen and her husband Edward, and by Peter, the wiry and astute parish warden, whose wife, Jacqueline, listened more than spoke, eyes darting with keen curiosity. The talk flew from one topic to another, as only happens when the air is sweet with the certainty of a second course to come.
While waiting for the next dish, fingers traced neat little wedges of cheddar, rounds of spiced pork, chopped up vegetables and ancient beetroot salads. Silence stuck for a brief second, and then, from the long-quiet end of the table, ElizabethJames wife, handsome and brown-eyed, her forehead noblespoke shyly, as if stepping carefully over her own embarrassment:
I always feel, at Christmastime, something odd in the aira closeness to the, um, other world. The snow falling, the strange warm hush before teaits all a bit… mysterious, dont you think?
Oh, Libby, thats just you remembering old telly, shrugged Valeria, who lived just over the hedge and came to visit her relativeViolet. No one sparred with Valeria: her opinions hit the table like thunder, her smile Mona-Lisa-like, holding no warmth and no censure, merely a puzzle.
Lizzy shrugged, smiling. Maybe. But in university, with my friends, wed sometimes she caught herself”do a little fortune-telling at Twelfth Night. Naughtiness. I saw it all as a lark, really.
Oh, Libby! Imagine! cried Violet, the first to jump into any parish affair.
Now, my dear, Charles said gently, and his wife relented, though clearly she longed to add more.
At this moment, the Beechams daughteranother Violet, a mirror of her mother in both face and spiritset down a roast piglet at the centre of the feast.
So, Libby? inquired Helen quietly when gasps of admiration died down.
I just mean, I love reading ghost stories this time of year. They have such a lovely, gentle sort of magic… ordinary and extraordinary, all at once.
Alice, lively and quick to join, nodded. Oh, me too! Last year I read a wonderful story by Wilkie Collinsabout a hand, and at the end, the guests stare as a hand pushes open the door. Cant remember the title, but it moved me nearly to tears.
Violet froze theatrically, knife poised over the pork.
Martha, why so quiet? she called.
All eyes turned to Martha, a quiet neighbour of Olivers, seldom seen because she lived with her husbandHelen and Edwards sonin London, appearing in the village only on rare holidays.
Oh, Marthas a lawyer now, but used to be” Violet puffed her cheeks and tipped her head, a picture of gravity”a wordsmith. A first in English literature, too!
Helen nodded loyally, Indeed, my daughter-in-law left university with distinction.
Martha, in her curious bonnet, turned with a composed air as if shed been awaiting her cue. Wilkie Collins… he isnt given full credit amongst the classic writers simply because he wasnt as vast as Dickens or as piercing as Hardy, but for feeling and subtlety hes their peer. He wrote about how the miraculous reshapes the soulhis stories arent so much about big ideas, but actual, lived transformation.
Blimey! James face stretched in astonishmenthe did not warm to protracted literary chat, so he leapt at a change of topic. So Martha, which story is thissome Christmas special?
Story? Martha cocked an eyebrow.
She turned to James, and for the first time, Oliver noticed her beautythe thoughtful brow, ever-moving lines of expression, the clever, patient eyes.
Alice, catching Olivers glance, smiled wryly. Shed seen this effect in Martha before, and it always happened: first, no one noticed Martha, but then her gazethose quiet, brown eyeswould catch someone, and it was suddenly impossible to look away. Who knows why? Perhaps it was something profound, or simply her own steadfastness shining out.
Theres a whole cycle of Collins tales for Christmastideand that hand-at-the-door story is from that set. But I just re-read The Kind Doctor by Arnold Bennett. Some call it his most human piece. In shorta family, deep in despair, watches from the frosty street as others celebrate New Year in warm, bright homes. They must return to their own freezing room, the newborn baby crying unfed, their pantry nearly bare, their mother feverish, the father broke after their savings disappeared to illness and lost work. He spends a hopeless day roaming the city, even begging, but in the end just wanders around, eyes scouring the cobbles for lost pennies. At last he sits in a frost-bright park, despairing until an old man, a stranger, sits beside him and listens to his troubles. Turned out, the old man was a doctor, and he follows the father home, gives advice, gives money, sets them back on their feet. When he leaves, he disappears anonymously, but leaves behind three big notes under his prescription. From that moment on, fortune turns. The father finds good work, the mother recovers; the children thrive. They never saw the old man againexcept once, years later, when they watched his funeral procession slowly cross the city. Only then did they learn, from the label on a leftover medicine bottle, his name: Sir Thomas Percival. True story, the author says: every word of it.
Martha fell silent, sipping juice, eyes calm even as everyones attention rode on her next words.
Yes, a good story must have a good ending Martha smiled. But then a knock at the door broke her gentle spell.
Violet swept from the table, declaring, Dont carry on without me! Ill be just a tic.
They heard the door open, and the deep, familiar voice of Father Michael greeted the household.
Peace be in this house.
And peace received.
Only stopping in, on my waylight in the window told me you were here. Got business with you.
Charles hurried out to the hallway, Father Michael, do join us! Christmastide, a house full of guestseveryones here, you mustnt leave us lacking!
Oh, I oughtnt stay, Charles. Wifes up north with her sister
But why sit alone? Come warm yourself!
Well, all rightjust for a spell, then.
Father Michael entered, still in his high-collared shirt, a tall, broad man of fifty-odd with a wise, gentle face and dark, quiet eyes. Room was made for him at the head of the table; as they set him up with a plate and knife, he asked, smiling,
So, what were you discussing as I dropped by, if you dont mind my asking?
Edward, steadfast as always and bearing a trace of northern coolness, replied, No secret, Father. Martha was recounting a curious tale. Shell tell you the rest, wont you, Martha?
Yesjust summarising The Kind Doctor. This visitor changed a whole familys fate. After, the father found work, the mother healed, the children prospered. Only at the old doctors funeral did they learn his name, Sir Thomas Percival. Martha paused. The writer swears its all true.
Charles spread his hands, puzzled. A strong tale, Martha, but wheres the miracle? The father thinks of death, a stranger helpsgood fortune, but…?
Martha shook her head, her eyes suddenly intense. Its just this, Charles. Isnt it a miracleto be heard in the very instant one despairs? To be recognised and saved in the very moment hope ends? For those with faith, thats miracle enough. Surely!
To us, Charles persisted, miracle means something… well, unnatural, ghostly.
Now Father Michael interrupted, soft velvet in his voice. You touch here on a delicate thingthe idea of accident and fate. Let us hear how Martha replies.
Martha spoke gravely. It wasnt that crowds came to help. Simple fact: nobody noticed but the stranger at the moment things seemed lost. Out of billions, to be heard by God! Isnt that… well, what more could we ask? The scriptures clear enough, so perhaps nothing needs adding.
A subtle tension gripped the table, all the more powerful for being so softly spoken. Father Michael sensed it too, and, with the measured confidence of an experienced soul-tender, lightened the mood.
Quite so. I think of the same thing in the garden, watching the ant-hillsGod hears me, hears each of us, amongst the billions, and that itself is something marvellous. We chase after spectacular miraclesas if, unless we could thrust our fingers into Christs side, nothing else would dobut we ignore the miracles ordinary to every hour. Every flower, every stonemiracle enough, if we open our eyes.
He looked about the table, wagging his preaching finger as he had in his days as headmaster. In the last two centuries, mankind has vacillatedwe sense Gods existence, but struggle to believe something so grand as life is made by Him. Yet the true believer needs no proof. For them, the world itself is miracle.
Peter, the aged warden, well into his eighties but sprite as spring, piped up, We still get real miracles about, now and then. Proof enough, for those who care.
He launched into his own tale, his voice rich from decades of fireside storytelling.
In my home countyDerbyshirethere was an old drunk who always turned up for the Blessing of the Water out by the river at Candlemas. No church there, so the women took the blessed water homea protection against illness. My mother went, the old drunk trailed along, cursing and grumbling all the way. Now, ones meant to walk silent; even better if youre praying. They drew water, lifted their jugseverybodys crystal clear, but the drunks was thick with green scum! Our rivers deep and cold; never a scrap of weed in that drinking water. Mystical, perhaps… or justice?
Charles chuckled. Now thats a miracle, surelynot healing or visions, but, well, uncanny.
Or mere chance? young Mark ventured.
Possible, certainly, Father Michael nodded. For those of faith, a sign; for others, mere happenstance. No irrefutable proofalways a matter of how one sees.
At this point, Valeria joined in, Father, what need for more signs? The Virgin herself blesses us.
Father Michael blinked. Excuse me?
I mean the Madonnathe icon you were gifted today by that American Gregory, wasnt it? The son of Mrs. Dean.
He raised an eyebrow, not recalling anything supernatural. Its a picture. Nothing odd about it, is there?
O but yes! Valeria sat bolt upright, her habitual serenity replaced with zeal. It smells of roses! I smelt even the bagit carried the heavenly scent!
Puzzled, Father Michael left the table to investigate, returning with the bag, rolling back the cloth to reveal the ancient icon. A tiny vial dropped outthe source of the fragrance, apparently rose oil, the stopper loose.
Father Michael beamed wide. Theres your miraclerose oil. Nothing more. Gregory must have dropped it in by accident. I told you: no need to hunt for black cats in dark rooms if there arent any.
Valeria opened her mouth, but Father Michael hushed her gently. Lets leave it at that. Instead, let me tell you a true story, if youll indulge mea long one, but worth it
Do! everyone chimed.
As he began, Oliverimaginative at heartclosed his eyes and saw the tale unfold as though in a stagey, moonlit dream.
*
It happened in England, in the hard years after the old order had passed. In a sizeable Norfolk village, an old man, Arthur, worked as church caretaker. To the children, old Arthur was the croaking guardian by the vestry door, but once, ages past, hed led the hymns, booming out with a baritone that shook the rafters. Time had changed him; war had hoarsened his voice, life had narrowed his brow. Yet on certain nights, candlelit and close with incense, delight flickered in his drawn face.
Eastertide rolled ingrimmer than usual, for clouds had gathered: young men gone to distant wars, the land unplanted, hunger lurking. Yet somehow, for these folk, festivity pressed back dread. The church filled for midnight service, villages walking in under coats heavy with snow. Old Arthur checked the processional ornaments, saw to the altar cloths. He watched the ceremony begin, his heart pounding.
Suddenly, in swirled government menthree in heavy coats, one thin and cross-armed, revolver at his side, ready to wield authority even in a sanctuary. They pushed past Arthur, startling the congregation to silence. The vicar, caught mid-litany, froze.
Whats this? barked the government man. A gathering? For an outlawed feast? He looked with contempt at the sacred things, the frightened faces.
Arthur, recalling mortal peril faced in France, knew fear was a weapon best met by faith. He strode to the front, throat thickbut sang, And on earth, peace His voice was weak, more croak than hymn. The government men laughed and the congregation hesitateduntil, from afar, one youthful voice joined in. Then, like a spell, all raised their voices, brave and fragile, the hymn soaring, defiant.
The government men, unnerved, retreatedno closing the church that Easter, nor ever after, even as persecution swept the land. This humble parish endured, open and bright through all the years.
Father Michael paused, smile sly. And theres your miracle, Charles. The only church in those parts never shuttered in the worst of times. You may see only good fortune. But I sayits a wonder to remain bright when all else has gone dark. Thats enough miracle for me.
Charles pursed his lips, thoughtful as a sleepy tomcat, and the dream hung in the fire-lit air, precious and brittle as English crystal, suspended between the possible and impossible: a midwinters conversation, echoing after the last carols final note.
