Bruach Blend (19 page)

By five o'clock on Christmas Eve my own work outside and inside was finished. Bonny and her calf were in their stalls in the byre, their mangers topped up with hay; the hen house with its huddle of roosting hens was shut tight against the cold. Rowan and I returned to the cottage, which was already decorated with holly and ivy brought home the previous day from the sheltered little copse across the bay. There was also a bunch of pine branches threaded with tarnished tinsel which made a cheerful substitute for a Christmas tree and as I had managed to get the accumulator of my wireless set charged I was thinking I might have a pleasant if not festive evening listening to the sounds of an English Christmas even though I was deprived of the scenes. Had Christmas Day not fallen on the Sabbath I should at this time have been busily and happily baking and preparing for a children's party, but since it did there could not be the merest mention of the word ‘party' and there was little I could do to dispel nostalgia save stay up to listen to the Watchnight Service and join in the singing of the carols.

In Bruach the morning of the Sabbath was always one of late rising; the day was one of boredom; of the disallowing of unnecessary toil and the total prohibition of pleasure. Even a walk on the moors or too close an approach to the shore was proscribed by the more fanatical. Bible reading and church-going were the only ‘pleasures' permitted; the missionary and the minister the only callers welcome in the home.

On the Christmas Day Sabbath I slept late and when I drew back the curtains I gasped with pleasure.

In the night the snow had come, softly and stealthily to swathe the land and now, unexpected and exciting as a white-wrapped gift, it awaited investigation. It was Rowan's first encounter with snow and he slid and pranced and capered about delightedly as I let out the hens and coaxed Bonny from the warmth of the byre. Normally I liked to bake bread on Sunday mornings, regarding it as being as satisfying a devotional exercise as going to church. But Christmas Day had to be different and once the morning feeding and milking was finished Rowan and I shuffled through the crisp snow searching for the tracks of animals which we might follow. The hills and the islands were magnificent in their new white cladding; the sea was a sun-tinted icy blue and the few clouds, tranquil as if they were slumbering in the sky, were soft and puffy with sunlit edges reminding me of fluffy suet dumplings dribbled with golden syrup. After we had been out about an hour the sky greyed briefly to release a further sprinkling of snow which descended gracefully, unhurried by even a breath of wind. It settled gently on my Burberry and on Rowan's coat and it was all so compellingly beautiful that I did not seek shelter but waited, enclosed in the stillness and the silent, dream-like quality of the falling snow. When it ceased and the sun emerged again Rowan shook himself and for a transient moment was enveloped in tiny rainbows of melted snow. The scene was exquisite; solace for all but the most persistent nostalgia and I felt smug that I was enjoying such splendour while the wireless report implied there was nothing in the English weather that was minutely enjoyable; only the misery of driving sleet and hail with slush underfoot.

The evening darkness came early and back home I noticed the barometer was falling steadily. I had hoped for a few days of calm but it seemed it was not to be, and after supper I poured myself a festive glass of wine and taking advantage of the continuing quiet stood for a few moments in the doorway of the cottage, counting my blessings. The lamp spread the snow with a fan of golden light and the wireless effused the voices of a carolling choir. But already the sky was beginning to be patched with dark, hard-looking clouds like bundles of steel wool that were scrubbing out the reflected moonlight. I closed the door and later, as I lingered over a second glass of wine and another of the mince pies I had baked the previous day I heard above the singing of the choir the first threatening whisper of wind; a whisper that was gradually augmented by a crowd of whispers which began to pick up the crisp particles of snow and fling them wantonly against the window. The crowded whispers were not long in swelling to a harsh full-throated roar and before the evening had finally yielded to the night the gale was upon us.

With doors wedged and bolstered against the penetrating draughts, curtains drawn and fire banked up I settled down to my Christmas cheer. If this wind continued to increase I knew how daunting would be the weather I should wake up to in the morning; how when I ventured outside, as I must, the cold would lacerate my face; the wind thrust against my body and tear at my breath until I was almost sobbing as I struggled against its bitter strength. But I drove such thoughts out of my mind. It had been a lovely Christmas Day, after all. And tomorrow was tomorrow!

First published in 1978 by Hutchinson & Co.

This edition published 2012 by Bello an imprint of Pan Macmillan, a division of Macmillan Publishers Limited Pan Macmillan, 20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR Basingstoke and Oxford Associated companies throughout the world

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ISBN 978-1-4472-2036-7 EPUB
ISBN 978-1-4472-1654-4 POD

Copyright © Lillian Beckwith, 1978

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