by Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw, Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray, Pam Weaver
Christmas
Fireside Stories
Christmas
Fireside Stories
Diane Allen, Rita Bradshaw,
Margaret Dickinson, Annie Murray,
Pam Weaver, Mary Wood
PAN BOOKS
Contents
Christmas at Briar Farm by Diane Allen
Uncle Percy – A Christmas Memory by Diane Allen
Kate’s Miracle by Rita Bradshaw
A Christmas Tradition in the Bradshaw Household by Rita Bradshaw
The Gift by Margaret Dickinson
Christmas at Thalstead Halt by Annie Murray
A Railway Christmas by Annie Murray
You’ll Never Know Just How Much I Love You by Pam Weaver
My Favourite Christmas Memory by Pam Weaver
A Wounded Christmas by Mary Wood
A Childhood Christmas Eve Memory by Mary Wood
More from Pan Macmillan’s Saga Authors . . .
Diane Allen Author Biography
More Books by Diane Allen
Extract from For A Father’s Pride
Rita Bradshaw Author Biography
More Books by Rita Bradshaw
Extract from Beyond the Veil of Tears
Margaret Dickinson Author Biography
More Books by Margaret Dickinson
Extract from Fairfield Hall
Annie Murray Author Biography
More Books by Annie Murray
Extract from Meet Me Under the Clock
Pam Weaver Author Biography
More Books by Pam Weaver
Mary Wood Author Biography
More Books by Mary Wood
Extract from Time Passes Time
Christmas Recipes
Diane Allen’s Sherry Trifle
Rita Bradshaw’s Christmas Cake Recipe
Margaret Dickinson’s Plum Pudding Recipe
Annie Murray’s Celery, Apricot and Walnut Stuffing
Mince Pies – Recommended by Pam Weaver
Mary Wood’s Favourite Christmas Recipe
Christmas at Briar Farm
Diane Allen
It was nearly Christmas at the start of the decade now lovingly called the ‘Swinging Sixties’, and the Bainbridge family at Briar Farm were rushed off their feet with work to be done before the big day arrived.
‘Look Mum, look Dad, it’s snowing.’ Seven-year-old Carol ran out into the farmyard and looked up to the heavens as large soft snowflakes fell onto her eyelashes and the tip of her upturned nose.
‘That’s all we bloody well need: twenty-two turkeys to clean, dress and deliver all around the Dales before Christmas Eve, and now it’s starting to snow.’ Bert Bainbridge swore as he pulled another bunch of tail feathers out of the dead turkey that was to make somebody’s Christmas dinner.
‘Bert, watch your language, you don’t want our Carol coming out with words like that at school.’ Agnes Bainbridge looked up at her daughter, twirling outside in the falling snow next to the barn that had been converted to a slaughterhouse full of oven-ready turkeys for neighbours and friends. ‘Remind me next year that I can do without this on the run-up to Christmas. Every year you take on more, Bert, and I’ve so much to do in the home without plucking and cleaning turkeys.’ Agnes felt her stomach lurch for about the twentieth time as she pulled the innards out of a particularly fine specimen. ‘By the time I’ve cleaned, weighed and bagged all these do you think I’ll feel like my Christmas dinner?’
‘Just hold your noise, our lass, you’ll not be complaining when we’re getting paid for them. It’ll see us into spring. Come back inside here, Carol, you are going to get frozen out there.’ Bert stood up straight and leaned backwards, straightening his back by putting his hands on his hips. ‘Nobbut another two to go and then we’re done. Carol, get hold of this brush and sweep some of these feathers up. Put them in that old animal-feed bag and then our Bob can burn them on a bonfire next time we have one.’
‘Dad . . .’ Carol moaned; she didn’t want to be back in the smelly barn with dead birds bagged up for tomorrow’s delivery in the old Austin van.
‘Don’t you “Dad” me, else Father Christmas won’t come. He knows what you’ve had your eye on in the Co-operative window. He’ll struggle getting it down the chimney as it is, without you whining.’ Bert winked at Agnes as his next victim was put between his legs to pluck.
‘Aye, you’ve a busy few days; tomorrow we’ll deliver these turkeys and then Christmas Eve you can go over and pick your Aunty Brenda up from Cowgill and Uncle Tom from out of Dent. They’re stopping with us over Christmas. That is, if I get their beds aired and my baking done.’ Agnes knocked a lock of hair out of her eyes with the back of her hand and watched as Carol grasped the brush handle with a sullen face.
‘Will our Jim take us over Kingsdale or the boring way round by Ribblehead?’ Carol started sweeping up, making more of the fine under-feathers of the turkey fly into the air and causing Bert to sneeze.
‘You’ll have to ask him, when he’s finished the milking; it’ll depend on the weather now.’ Agnes looked out at the snow-filled sky. It looked threatening: a good covering of snow was all they needed. Two miles out of the nearest village on a rugged Yorkshire fell top, Briar Farm could be quickly snowed in. The small, rough farm track was unpassable for anything other than a tractor with snow chains on its wheels.
‘I hope he goes over Kingsdale, I like that road: it’s nearly off the edge of the world.’ Carol stopped brushing for a minute and thought about the narrow road that led down into the valley of Deepdale and then the journey upward into the small dale of Cowgill. It was there her maiden aunt Brenda lived, while her father’s single brother Tom had his home in the village of Dent at the bottom of the dale. It was a Christmas tradition that they came and stopped at the farm for a day or two, and Carol relished each day they stayed. Being the youngest of the family, she was smothered in love and affection from both her aunty and uncle.
‘Well, you can go and ask him when you’ve swept that pile up, and take that Indian headdress that you’ve made with you – else your father will put it in the rubbish.’ Agnes weighed another turkey and wrapped it up in greaseproof paper, wrote the weight on it and the name of the customer who had ordered a turkey. ‘And then when we’ve done we’ll put the tree up. Bob got the decorations out of the loft for me this morning.’
‘I can put my angel on the top, the one I made at school out of cake doilies. And have we any crackers?’ Carol shoved the pile of feathers into the big paper sack that still smelt of cow ration with added vigour. ‘And I can make some paper chains before I go to bed and Bob can put them up in the front room.’
‘We’ll see, our Carol. Now have you swept up, because if so go and get under our Bob’s feet instead of ours.’ The things to be done before Christmas were weighing heavily on Agnes’s mind, and her patience was wearing thin with her youngest child’s excitement.
‘I’m going, because I’ve done.’ Carol picked up the Indian headdress made out of corrugated cardboard decorated with wax crayon in a striking zigzag pattern, and with the holes filled by an assortment of turkey feathers from the plucked birds. A piece of knicker-elastic held the strip of cardboard together and was just tight enough to fix the stunning headwear firmly on Carol’s head. She dropped her brush onto the barn floor and danced her way out of the barn, simulating a Native American war dance, a loose feather from her creation floating down behind her.
Agnes looked around. ‘Some sweeping up that is: I could have done better with my eyes shut.’
‘Just leave it, Mo
ther, I’ll tidy up. We’re nearly finished.’ Bert pulled the last turkey down from the hook where it had been hanging and started to pluck.
Agnes sighed. If only they were nearly finished; she’d only just begun.
Carol skipped across the farmyard. The snow had stopped and the moon was now beaming down from a cold, frost-filled sky laden with stars. She looked up and whispered, ‘Happy birthday, Jesus. Can you make sure we all have a good Christmas and that Father Christmas brings me that big doll from out of the window at Settle.’ She skipped a few more steps and then looked up again and added, ‘Sorry, Jesus, I forgot to say thank you.’
‘Who do you think you are talking to, loony?’ Bob came out of the cowshed carrying a bucketful of milk ready to be passed through cooling equipment in the dairy, and then into milk-kits waiting to be taken by him in the tractor and trailer down to the stand at the end of the farm lane the following morning.
‘I’m just wishing Jesus a happy birthday.’ Carol followed her older brother back into the cowshed. The smell of the cows and last summer’s hay hit her nostrils, making Carol feel warm and at ease in her surroundings. The steady swish of the cows’ tails, along with their chewing and the drone of the milking machine, made her feel happy as she watched the big roan cows bat their eyelashes at her.
‘You are crackers. There’s no such person, and anyway, if he does exist, you are two days early, and he’s not going to listen to you anyway.’ Bob washed the udder of the next cow to be milked and fitted the milking cups onto its teats, setting the machine into motion to milk the docile cow.
‘He does exis . . .’ Carol struggled with the word. ‘And Mrs Wilson, at Sunday School, says he listens to all good children,’ Carol protested.
‘Exactly. He’s not going to listen to you, you are never good.’
‘I am good, our Bob, and he will listen.’ Carol nearly started to cry, thinking she was unloved.
‘Stop blubbing, I was only teasing. What do you want, anyway, shrimp?’ Bob walked between cows and gave the next one to be milked a bucketful of feed.
‘Mum says you are going to pick up Aunty Brenda and Uncle Tom and that I can go with you. Which way are we going? Can we go over Kingsdale, I like that way?’
‘If it’s not snowing.’ Bob carried the milk unit and attached it to the next cow.
‘And if I make some paper chains tonight before bed will you put them up for me in the front room?’ Carol pleaded.
‘Yes. Now jigger off and leave me in peace. I’ll do whatever you want, just let me get on.’
‘Thanks, our Bob, I’ll get out of your way now.’ Carol hesitated in the cowshed doorway. When she was old enough she was going to marry her big brother Bob, because she loved him.
The next day dawned fresh and frosty. The snow clouds had gone, leaving the surrounding countryside twinkling and sparkling with a slight covering of frosted snow.
The old Austin van was filled to the brim with plucked turkeys as Carol climbed into the back and sat like a pixie on top of the wheel arch.
‘Hold on tight, and don’t you fall on any of these birds.’ Bert slammed the door shut and twisted the handle.
‘You all right back there?’ Agnes turned and looked at Carol holding on to the back of her dad’s seat while balancing on the wheel arch. ‘You’ll have more room as soon as we deliver some in Settle, so not far to go before you can kneel on the floor.’
Carol smiled. She was enjoying every moment, because she knew that, as in previous years, with every turkey delivered they’d be invited in, made welcome in people’s homes, offered a drink and perhaps, if she was lucky, a small present for her. It didn’t matter that there wasn’t room for her for a while because that added to the excitement of the day.
The van trundled down the farm track and into the village, making the first drop-off at the village post office.
‘I’ll not be long here, you two stop in the van. We’ll see Harry and his wife over Christmas, so I’ll not go in.’ Bert carried the designated turkey into the post office and came back smiling, carrying a bottle. ‘Here, Mother. Harry and Mary say happy Christmas and they’re looking forward to seeing us up at the farm, day after Boxing Day.’
‘Aye, that’s good of them. I’m looking forward to having them up for a bite to eat. It’s not Christmas without friends.’
Carol didn’t say anything, but she’d expected a present from Uncle Harry and Aunty Mary, as she was used to calling them, and her Dad had not passed her anything.
‘Right, let’s knock on: one down, twenty to go!’ Bert put the old van into gear and pushed on through the country roads that twisted and twined through the Dales.
Every so often he stopped at outlying farms and houses with his delivery of turkeys and Christmas cheer, while Agnes and Carol dropped off Christmas cards and presents to friends and customers. Every house they called at offered a drink and a catch-up with news and warm Christmas wishes.
‘You’ve done well, our Carol. Look at all the sweets and presents you have in the back of this van. And Father, just you concentrate on driving; I think you’ve had one too many tipples of whisky. Them little sherry glasses hold more than you think, and Winnie Brunskill’s was a heck of a portion.’ Agnes held on to her seat as Bert dodged the side of the road.
‘Aye, she’s a grand woman, is Winnie, always generous.’ Bert grinned, his cheeks flushed with drink.
‘I’ll give you generous, just get us home safe. It’s already dark and getting near Carol’s bedtime,’ Agnes scolded. She knew he had a soft spot for Winnie Brunskill and her charms.
‘Nay, lass, don’t get jealous, you know there’s only one woman for me. Besides, we’re nearly home and it’s Christmas, isn’t it, our Carol?’ Bert shouted back to Carol.
‘Yes, Dad.’ Carol was kneeling in the back of the van between the two front seats, staring out of the windscreen at the trees and hedges that looked like weird monsters and creatures from the storybooks she loved to read. Her eyes were heavy with sleep, but it had been a lovely day and, as her mum said, she had been really lucky with presents of tangerines, sweets and wrapped presents that were not to be opened until Christmas Day.
Carol pulled her blankets up around her face. The air in her bedroom was cold and the grey light of morning struggled to brighten up the room through the frosted windowpane. If it hadn’t been Christmas Eve, she would have stayed a little longer in bed, not wanting to climb out of her comfortable bunk. But it was no good, she was going to have to face the cold linoleum floor of her bedroom and get dressed before running to the bathroom. She pushed the blankets back and quickly walked across the ice-cold floor to where her clothes for the day were laid out. She pulled off her flannelette pyjamas and pulled on her cabled tights and pants, quickly buttoning her liberty bodice, then adding the woollen jumper her mother had spent hours knitting, before tightening the buckle on her pleated tartan skirt. There, she’d done it. She sat in her bedroom chair and pulled her slippers on, and the image of Sooty adorning them smiled up at her in relief at the warmth from her feet. She walked over to the window and blew hot breath on the frosted-up windows, marvelling at the fern-like pattern made by Jack Frost while rubbing a small hole to look through into the farmyard. She watched as her father carried bales of hay to the cattle in the cowshed, the farm cat following him in the hope of a saucer of milk, and she listened to Bob as he shouted instructions to the farm lad who was employed two days a week. She’d better hurry downstairs: once everything had been fed and the milking done, Bob would want to be off into Dent to pick up their relations.
‘Now then, lady, I thought you were going to snooze in bed all day. Our Bob’s already been in to see if you’ve stirred your shanks.’ Agnes patted her pastry out on the vinyl-covered kitchen table and rolled it thin with her rolling pin. ‘There’s a bacon sandwich on the top of the Rayburn: I’ve kept it warm for you along with a cup of tea. Then you can go and feed the dogs before you set off for Dent. Their dinner’s here, in this bucket.�
�� Agnes pointed to a bucketful of scraps and dog food ready prepared for the dogs’ dinner and then started to cut out circles of pastry with a biscuit cutter before placing them in bun trays to make mince pies.
Carol helped herself to the sandwich and tea, and in between mouthfuls of bacon and bread helped her mother fill the empty pie cases with mincemeat.
‘Not too much, Carol, else it will run out all over my oven.’ Agnes supervised until all the cases were full and Carol had finished her sandwich. ‘Go on now, them dogs will want their breakfast as much as you. Put your Wellingtons on and an extra pair of socks over your tights, and don’t forget your coat – it’s cold this morning.’
The bucket banged against Carol’s legs as she carried it across the yard to the kennels where Spot and Benjie were housed. Both dogs heard and smelt her coming and pulled excitedly on the chains that held them to their kennels. They barked in anticipation of their breakfast and pranced as Carol pulled their dishes out of the kennels and filled both up out of reach of the hungry pair. Once the bowls were full she put them in front of the dogs and watched them eat as if they had never been fed before. The food vanished in a few seconds.
Are you ready, our lass?’ Bob yelled. ‘I’m just going to have a cuppa and then we’ll be away.’
Carol watched as he brushed his mud-covered Wellingtons with the yard brush and then disappeared into the farm kitchen. She ran in after him, leaving the empty bucket outside the kitchen door, and pulled her wellies off in the passageway.
‘Which way are we going, Bob? Can I sit in the front?’ Carol couldn’t control her excitement.
‘We’ll have to go the bottom way today, shrimp, it’s too icy to go over Kingsdale; we’d end up down in Deepdale in a crashed van. You can sit in the front until we pick Aunty Brenda up, and then you and Uncle Tom will have to sit in the back.’
‘Ohh!’ Carol’s face dropped.
‘Never mind, I’ll go fast over the humps, and then your tummy will feel like jelly.’ Bob slurped his tea and picked up the van’s keys from the brass keyholder next to the back door.