Page 46 of The Christmas Retreat
‘I think people who talk when they are eating are disgusting,’ Cariad said, butsotto voce.
Rhys gave her a quelling look and, as someone beat a gong outside, Nerys got up and said briskly: ‘Dinner!’
Almost automatically, it seemed, we took the seats around the dining table we had occupied on the previous evening, although it had not been like that at lunch.
At least this time only Opal was staring avidly at Toby like a starving Maenad. Pearl’s expression was more wistful, but when he caught her eye she smiled unexpectedly sweetly.
It was another delicious dinner. Rhys and Noel left us to linger over our coffee while they and Tudor set off for the village hall, where they would assume their various guises for the procession.
Since Bronwen was now single-handed, we all helped clear the table – well, apart from Verity, who was still chewing, and Kate and Evie, who were engaged in another fiery dispute. Timon looked happy to escape to the kitchen.
Bronwen, with the assistance of some friends, would bepreparing the wassail punch and taking it, together with the wassail cake and the special biscuits, over to the village hall ready for the return of the revellers later.
*
We assembled in the hall at ten to eight, warmly wrapped up against the very frosty night air. Kate and Verity, who were not making the ascent, came to see the procession off.
Our feet sounded loud on the road as we all trooped off across the stone bridge to the little green, lit only by two standard lamps at either end of it, the lights on the tree in the middle and wall lanterns on either side of the village hall door.
A sizeable crowd was gathered. Cariad ran off to join her friend Mel and Mel’s family. Timon and Nerys began to give our little group a running commentary as the door to the hall opened and strange figures emerged on to the lighted steps, one by one.
‘The Druid. Rhys, of course,’ Timon said.
With his height and broad shoulders, Rhys made a magnificent figure. He was wearing a long white robe, and a crown of bronze oak leaves on his dark head. With his deep-set eyes and craggy face, he looked scarily impressive.
He seemed to scan the crowd and for a moment his eyes, shadowed by the wreath, appeared to rest on me, but that was probably my imagination.
‘He carries a long white rod or wand,’ Timon explained, ‘and a silver sickle to ceremonially cut a bunch of mistletoe when we reach the oak glade halfway up the hill.’
Rhys moved aside to make room for an even more fantastical figure topped with a horse’s skull, boldly painted aroundthe eye sockets and mouth, and mounted on a long neck that protruded from a wide oval body with skirts that swept to the floor, completely hiding the wearer.
‘Max Prynne, the Prynnes’ only son, is in there. He can make the jaw snap using a string that passes down the neck. The skirts are made of leather hung from an oval iron hoop, supported by straps over the shoulder, and are fairly heavy.’
‘And here’s Uncle Noel as Old Winter,’ said Nerys. ‘The staff is original, but the old costume fell to pieces and the St Melangell Amateur Dramatic Society made this one for him. It’s a bit over the top, all that silver lamé, but the effect by torchlight is quite good, isn’t it?’
‘Very effective,’ agreed Evie.
And indeed, the long robe, the hood pulled over Noel’s head and secured with a crown of bare twigs, did seem to sparkle strangely in the dim light, as if he was covered in hoar frost.
After a few others had passed by us, Nerys exclaimed, ‘Everyone looks a bit fatter than usual, because they are well padded against the cold, under their costumes.’
‘Ah, here’s Tudor – the Green Man – Celtic symbol of fertility, old spirits and traditions,’ said Timon. ‘But he’s so well documented he doesn’t really need an introduction. The hood and the mask covered with oak leaves sprouting from the mouth and forming a beard are made of moulded leather. The cape looks quite dark in this light but is actually green.’
Tudor in turn moved along the wide step to make room for the next mummer – a short, plump man whose white surcoat and cloak seemed rather too long for him.
‘St John the Baptist, rather aptly played by our vicar, Mr Truelove. Note the staff with holly tied to the top in onehand and the reed cross. And, of course, there is a red Maltese Cross on the front of his surcoat, too.’
The palm cross reminded me of one of those Victorian woven cane carpet beaters, but I didn’t say so.
‘And next up is St Melangell, played by Bronwen’s daughter, Megan,’ said Nerys. ‘She always wears a light blue robe and headdress, secured with a gold band to represent her halo – and the hare, her symbol, is embroidered on her robe.’
‘She’s such a pretty girl, it’s no wonder Rhys issofond of her,’ said Verity, just behind me. It was true, Megan’s face was extremely pretty in a mischievous sort of way.
‘They grew up together,’ said Nerys. ‘We’re all fond of her.’
But I wondered, as I looked at the blue-robed figure, whether Verity meant to imply that there was more than friendship between them.
‘One more to go,’ said Timon. ‘The hunter figure is Nigel Pritchard, from the village shop.’
