How Mrs. Claus Saved Christmas

by Jeff Guinn

  “With the factory closed, Pamela, how will you make your living?” I asked.

  “I’m not certain,” she replied. “There are some businesses that hire seamstresses, and I’m very talented with needle and thread. But no matter where I go to work, I’ll keep hoping that Mr. Arthur and Mr. Leonardo return someday, so I can go back to helping them make toys. I’m not going to ask you any awkward questions, Layla, but I think I have a rather good idea of what the three of you really do. I’ll just say that Father Christmas is very real to me, and we’ll leave it at that.”

  When I stood up to go, Pamela hugged me. I thanked her again for sending me to her sister Elizabeth in Canterbury and promised I would keep in touch. Then I went on to my second stop, a fine brick house near Parliament. Oliver Cromwell’s dwelling reflected his rise in rank; though he was not officially the commanding general of the Roundhead army, everyone knew he made all the important decisions. Years ago, I had just knocked on the front door of his middle-class cottage, then joined him in the kitchen. Now he had guards outside his home, and it took several minutes before they would even agree to tell their commander that a Mrs. Nicholas wanted to see him.

  After another quarter-hour, a young Roundhead soldier came out to fetch me.

  “Colonel Cromwell is fearsomely busy, missus,” he said. “I’m surprised he’ll see you at all. Please state your business and then be on your way.”

  Cromwell received me in a large, well-lit room. He stood by a table that was strewn with maps. Looking up as I entered, he said, “So it’s Layla Nicholas, wife of colonist Nicholas Nicholas. Missus, I would have hoped by now you’d be safely across the ocean with your husband, and instead you come knocking on my door in London. Aren’t you afraid Blue Richard Culmer may run in and catch you?”

  “I’m sure Mr. Culmer has more important things to do,” I replied.

  “Don’t be so certain,” Cromwell said. “Blue Richard is never pleased when someone escapes his clutches, and he surely hasn’t forgotten how you avoided arrest—what, three years ago?”

  “Three years,” I agreed. “I assume you know I was never a spy for the king, and thank you for your warning so that I could escape. I don’t deny I am a great friend of Christmas, but I don’t believe that is, at least as yet, a crime. Will you make it one, now that you’ve beaten the king and England is yours to do with as you wish?”

  Cromwell rubbed his face. He looked very tired. “We began to debate this Christmas issue once before in my home and again in a public park. We obviously will never agree. But I wish you would at least try to understand what I am really attempting to do, what we true Puritans have intended from the moment this terrible civil war began. Yes, the king is defeated, and I believe that, within a few months, he will finally negotiate the peace that we have sought for so long. Charles will be welcome to return to London and reclaim his throne—don’t look so amazed! We never said we didn’t want a king at all. We just want one who will consult with Parliament, which is elected to give voice to the people, before the king makes his decisions. When Charles agrees to this, why, I’ll dust off his crown for him myself.”

  “And if the king refuses?”

  Cromwell rubbed his face again. “He won’t. He doesn’t have much of an army left. So Charles will come back to London, Parliament will have its rightful influence, England will be at peace, and I can return to my farm. See if it doesn’t happen just that way.”

  “It won’t be as simple as you make it sound,” I argued. “People like Blue Richard Culmer will shut down any churches that don’t worship God the way they want. Christmas, the happiest, most joyful day in the lives of almost every working family in England, will be banned. You say you want a government that listens to its people. But you don’t seem eager to hear what they say, only to impose your will on them. How is that an improvement?”

  Cromwell walked over to me and looked hard into my eyes. “Yes, there will be some new rules. Only godly men, those who truly understand the will of the Lord, shall control this government. We will allow worship for any faith—Catholics or Jews or whoever. But non-Puritans will never hold any positions of power, as, indeed, they should not. Though we will protect them, we will not allow them to taint our laws or godly nation with their false beliefs. As for Christmas, all right. I will state it for you one more time. Christmas is not a true Christian holiday. December 25 is not the actual birthday of Christ, but instead a pagan date appropriated by sinful people who want to practice bad behavior. Singing and gift-giving and feasting are not proper ways to give thanks to God. In short, missus, Christmas is not holy.”

  I stared right back at him. Years before, I had held my tongue in deference to Elizabeth Cromwell, but now there was no reason not to reply in detail. I had come to London hoping to meet with this man and offer a complete defense for the celebration of Christmas. I would take advantage of the opportunity.

  “Very well, Mr. Cromwell,” I began. “You have told me what Christmas is not. Now allow me, sir, to tell you what Christmas is.

  “Christmas is a day when we can reflect in our words and deeds the same generosity of spirit that moved our Lord to send us his son. It is a day when, for a few fleeting hours, every man, woman, and child can remember all the joyful things in their lives instead of being worn down by problems and hardship. It is a day when, for a little while, there are no masters and servants, no rich and poor, just human beings equal in their love of Jesus and in their respect for one another. In short, Mr. Cromwell, Christmas is holy.”

  Cromwell looked frustrated. “Surely, missus, you cannot see these Christmas drunks and troublemakers and tell me their actions are appropriate in the eyes of God?”

  “I suggest, Mr. Cromwell, that you consider the actions of Blue Richard Culmer smashing windows in churches and arresting people on trumped-up charges. Are these things holy? Just as you, I know, would tell me Mr. Culmer does not really represent the Puritans, so I promise you that those who abuse the holiday for their own purposes do not represent Christmas. Let us be honest with each other, Mr. Cromwell. We both know very well that even if King Charles regains his throne, you personally will be the real power in England. When you have that power, will you use it to represent the people or to force your own beliefs upon them?”

  Oliver Cromwell started to say something, stopped, thought a while, and then sighed. “I will always do what I know is best for England. I’ve learned a hard lesson during this war, that sometimes right-thinking leaders must impose their will if the common people prove incapable of understanding. At first, some new rules may seem harsh, but everyone will accept them after they see how much more improved their lives are, living as God wants. When Christmas is gone, it will only be missed until a pleased Lord bestows new blessings on England, a country that turned away from pagan celebration. I am acting as I think right for the land I love, Layla Nicholas, and I hope you accept that.”

  I did. It is very hard, when you believe in something as completely as I believed in Christmas, not to decide anyone who disagrees must be evil. Oliver Cromwell and many, perhaps most, of his Puritans thought they were doing the right things for England, including making everyone give up Christmas. I wanted everyone to celebrate it. The difference between us was that I would never force my beliefs on others, and Cromwell and his supporters would. This did not make them evil, but it did make them wrong.

  I held out my hand, and Cromwell shook it. “We understand each other, even if we cannot agree,” I said. “You can defeat a king, Mr. Cromwell, but Christmas will prove too powerful.”

  “Please leave London immediately, missus,” he replied. “This is not a safe place for you. Neither is England, for that matter. Go to your husband in the New World, and I will pray that God helps you understand the sinfulness of this holiday you mistakenly love so much.”

  “Good-bye, Oliver Cromwell,” I said.

  “I sense that you might be very dangerous, Missus Nicholas,” he replied, and turned his attention back
to the maps on the table.

  I had wanted to make a final appeal to Cromwell, and I had done it. The London factory was shut up tight. I had visited with Pamela Forrest. I had no other friends in the whole city. There was nothing to prevent me from beginning the long walk back to Canterbury, where I would do—what? The Roundheads controlled England. I had no doubt, now, that Parliament would order Christmas ended forever. It seemed there was nothing I could do to stop them. I walked along the London streets, avoiding pigs and piles of garbage and thinking my gloomy thoughts until, quite suddenly, I became aware of a great commotion.

  Even though it was officially a workday, many people were bustling about in the central marketplace on the banks of the Thames. They were mostly young men of what was called the apprentice class, hired out to work for pennies for carpenters and cobblers and other trades-men, serving until they had learned the craft for themselves. Christmas was a special holiday for apprentices, who were otherwise required to work from dawn until dark every day but Sunday. Christmas was their one day a year to sing and feast and do silly, enjoyable things like playing football in the streets. But Parliament’s order to keep December 25 as an ordinary working day took that single holiday away from the apprentices, whose masters were glad to have them putting in extra work. Now, in the marketplace, some of these young men were congregating, defying the law that required them to work on Christmas Day. Many of them were quite young—a boy could be apprenticed out at eleven or twelve—and none seemed much over twenty. Quite a few looked fearful as they defiantly walked away from the shops where they worked. They were taking a considerable risk. Their masters, of course, could tell them never to come back and the years they’d served to begin learning a useful trade would be wasted. They could also be arrested by the Roundheads, if not officially for celebrating Christmas then for some made-up charge like disturbing the peace.

  And yet hundreds of them were gathered together in the marketplace, apparently without any prior planning, and they were running about chanting in unison, “God bless Christmas! God bless Christmas!” until even more others like them heard the shouting and couldn’t resist leaving their jobs to join in. Later, there would be reports that a thousand apprentices joined in courageous protest that day, and it might be true. I was there to see it, and though I didn’t count the participants, I know there were many of them.

  Despite what the Puritans subsequently claimed, the Christmas protestors did not overturn marketplace displays and threaten shop owners who refused to close in honor of the holiday. No one was beaten, or even spoken to harshly. Instead, these brave young men were making it clear that no law could prevent them from thanking God for his son as they saw fit. They kicked footballs around the streets and market stalls, cheering and laughing and enjoying the lives that God had given them. By high noon, they were singing “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” over and over, somehow louder every time, and Roundhead soldiers stood by watching helplessly, not certain what they should do. There were too many of the apprentices to arrest, and even the Roundheads didn’t want to fire their muskets into the crowd. Then, older men began to join in the singing, and women and children, too. I really believe almost everyone in London would have been swept up in the excitement, had not, at that moment, several carriages rolled up in the marketplace. The Lord Mayor of London got out of one, and Oliver Cromwell was at his side, whispering in his ear.

  The Lord Mayor waved his arms for silence; the singing stopped. “What is this gathering?” he cried. “Everyone, back to work at once, do you hear me? In this godly nation, December 25 is a working day!”

  “We want Christmas!” several apprentices shouted back.

  Cromwell whispered again in the Lord Mayor’s ear. Nodding at Cromwell, he shouted, “If you disperse at once, there will be no arrests. I will forgive this terrible behavior. Tell your masters I said you were not to be punished. All will be as it was.”

  There was a great deal of murmuring. Cromwell nodded to the Roundhead soldiers, who brandished their muskets. The apprentices had no leader to rally them, to assure them that the soldiers most certainly would not fire in fear that the peaceful protest would then become a riot. So, first one by one and then in pairs and finally in dozens, the apprentices dispersed, walking unhappily back to their jobs, but warmed, I hoped, by the knowledge they had made their love for Christmas known.

  Cromwell and the Lord Mayor remained in the marketplace. Cromwell talked; the Lord Mayor listened and nodded. Finally, the apprentices were all gone, and the marketplace activity went back to normal. The Lord Mayor got back into his gilded carriage. Just as he, too, was about to climb inside, Oliver Cromwell took one last long look around and saw me standing there. He thought about ordering some of the soldiers to arrest me, I’m sure, but didn’t. Instead, he gazed at me thoughtfully before getting into the carriage and closing the door behind him. The horses pulled the carriage down the street and past me; Cromwell watched me from the window, his face wrinkled with concern. I knew he was wondering how it happened I was in the very place where the apprentices’ Christmas protest took place. I did not believe in coincidence, and neither, I guessed, did Oliver Cromwell. He would think I had somehow organized that protest, even though I had not.

  On the long walk back to Canterbury I had much to consider. One surprise was that the walk took a single day rather than three or four. I was regaining some of my power to travel faster than normal men and women; that was because the English civil war was finally winding down. Soon, once a peace treaty was signed, I would be able to go from one border of England to another in hours rather than weeks.

  But there was something else to occupy my thoughts. The apprentice protest in London had been a spontaneous event, yet one that made a powerfully effective statement. The Lord Mayor and the Roundhead soldiers had been confounded by the sight of so many citizens insisting boldly, yet peacefully, that Christmas not be taken from them. Had Cromwell not been on hand to offer guidance, I believed, the Lord Mayor would not have acted decisively, and all of London might eventually have joined in sending the holiday message. What if there was another such protest, one that was better organized, one that had strong leadership? I had seen Oliver Cromwell in the marketplace afterward; I had looked into his face. He had been worried. If the people spoke in defense of Christmas again—even more of them, and louder—then perhaps Cromwell would not be able to ignore what they were telling him.

  Some churches, usually only one or two in each community, bravely sported holly and evergreen boughs on their doors, windowsills, and altars, and there were services in them giving thanks to God for sending his son. In almost every case, black-robed Puritans made a point of gathering outside the churches and staring hard at the worshippers as they left.

  CHAPTER Sixteen

  The power of the protest came from so many voices uniting in their demand to be heard,” I told Elizabeth and Alan Hayes as we sat at the table in their cottage. “One person shouting out support for Christmas would certainly have been arrested. The same is true for five or ten or two dozen. But hundreds of men, women, and children standing shoulder to shoulder, peacefully but forcefully demanding the right to enjoy their beloved holiday, was too much for the Puritans. If the crowd had been better organized, I think they might be singing ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’ yet!”

  It was mid-January in 1646. Sara, who had just celebrated her twelfth birthday a few days before, was up in her loft bed. Almost everyone in and around Canterbury was surely asleep at this late hour of perhaps ten o’clock, but my two friends and I had much to discuss. Ever since I had returned from London, I’d burned with excitement whenever I thought of the apprentices’ Christmas protest. Rumors about it had swept through England, gladdening the hearts of everyone who still loved their special holiday and wanted to keep it as an important, joyous part of their lives. Elizabeth and Alan sat transfixed as I offered them my eyewitness account.

  “It must have been amazing, Layla,” Alan said, lightin
g his pipe and puffing happily. In those times, of course, no one realized how bad smoking was for your health. “I wish I could have seen it. Very soon I’ll need to go to London myself and sign on with some company for a new voyage. But I doubt there will be more Christmas protests there until the holiday draws close again.”

  Elizabeth looked sad, and I certainly couldn’t blame her. Families of sailors had to accept long, frequent absences of their loved ones, but that didn’t make the separation any easier. I knew how it felt to miss your husband. I hadn’t seen Nicholas now for more than twenty-five years. When I wasn’t thinking about how to save Christmas in England, I often found myself remembering his warm smile or the softness of his wide white beard.

  “Perhaps the next protests won’t happen in London,” Elizabeth mused. “Country folk don’t want Christmas taken from them, either. Sometimes I believe the members of Parliament only think about what happens in London, because that is where they spend most of their time. If they really want to know what people want in England, they ought to get out into the rural villages for a change.”

  “Some sort of big demonstration out in the country supporting Christmas could be very effective,” I agreed. “Why couldn’t it happen, for instance, here in Canterbury?” I began imagining some grand gathering on High Street near the cathedral, with hundreds of participants, even a thousand, so many people singing songs and shouting out their love for the holiday that their example would inspire similar pro-Christmas demonstrations in every corner of England.

  Alan, though, said he doubted it could happen.