The Willows at Christmas

by William Horwood

  “Now, Nanny Fowle passed on a few years back but Mr Toad, ‘oo’s got a soft heart, couldn’t say no to Mrs Ffleshe coming every year, and it’s been the ruination of his Christmas, and ‘alf the Village’s too.”

  Just as the Mole was about to ask Mr Baltry to elaborate, for it seemed possible that here was a clue to the mystery of the gloomy River Bank Christmas, a sudden change came over Mr Baltry’s cheerful face and he said in a low voice, “‘Ere she comes now, so watch it!”

  They had been making for the tradesman’s entrance, but now the front door of Toad Hall opened and a woman emerged and stood staring at them from the top step.

  “Is that you, Baltry?” she said in a voice of such sharply disagreeable command that it sent a weary rook that was resting on a nearby wall flapping for cover.

  “It is, ma’am’ said Baltry respectfully.

  She was of solid, stocky build and though not quite large, nor yet quite broad, she was by any measure formidable. As she came down the steps and crunched across the gravel towards them she gave the impression of an army of Prussian soldiers engaged in an assault on an enemy position. When she arrived alongside she towered over Mr Baltry and also over his horse, which snorted feebly and dropped its ears in submission.

  “Let me have a proper look at that goose,” said Mrs Ffleshe, leaning into the cart.

  She fingered the legs and breast of the bird assertively, leaving numerous dents in it. Then she turned her attention to the venison, bending down and sniffing at it, as a vulture might examine carrion.

  “Passable,” she said, “just.”

  Then her eyes fell on the side of pork.

  “What’s this?”

  Mr Baltry sighed and said, “That’s spoken for by His Lordship the Bishop’s wife.”

  “Nonsense. I must have it,” said Mrs Ffleshe at once, ‘‘for we have an extra guest at Christmas luncheon.”

  “I promised to deliver it to her this afternoon,” said Baltry a mite feebly.

  “Well, it’s mine now,” said Mrs Ffleshe, attempting to heave it out of the cart.

  “Really, Mrs Ffleshe, if I was the King of Siam —”

  “You’re not and not likely to be,” said she. Then she pointed at the Mole and said, “Get your apprentice here to take it into the kitchen at once.”

  Before Mr Baltry could say anything the Mole was heaving the side of pork on to his own shoulder.

  “Glad to oblige you, Mrs Flesh,” said the Mole in a mischievously obsequious way.

  “Its ‘Ffleshe’, with an ‘e’,” said Mrs Ffleshe; “and that’ll be a tuppence a pound off your price, Baltry, for your lad’s insolence.”

  The sight of Mole puffing in to the kitchen and laying the pork on the table came as quite a shock to Miss Bugle, the housekeeper.

  “I am so sorry, Mr Mole, sir,” she whispered. “Mrs Ffleshe takes up residence at the Hall for the Christmas period, you see, and she does have her particular way of running things. I’m sure that Mr Toad would apologise if only he knew”

  The Mole laughed, for he rather enjoyed being taken for an apprentice. In fact, he was beginning to think he had been mistaken in his judgement of the River Bank at Christmas and that there was fun and jollity to be found hereabout after all.

  He wished Miss Bugle the compliments of the season and though he did not know her well he took the liberty — for she looked rather in need of cheering up and he could well imagine why — of suggesting that he might drop her off some of his chestnut and prune compote on Christmas Eve.

  To his surprise and dismay he saw tears come to Miss Bugle’s eyes.

  “O Mr Mole!” she said. “How kind of you to think of such a thing, for I’m sure no one else in the Hall will dare to, this side of Twelfth Night!”

  This was a strange comment, and the Mole would have liked to pursue it, but Mr Baltry’s negotiations were over and he was in a hurry to get on his way, so he said a hasty farewell to Miss Bugle and resumed his ride.

  He found Mr Baltry in very good humour, for he had made a successful sale of the pork to Mrs Ffleshe.

  “I thought you said that it was promised to someone else,” said the Mole.

  “Saying isn’t always meaning,” said Mr Baltry with a wink. “The likes of Mrs Ffleshe always like to feel they’ve got something someone ‘igher in the pecking order wants, and they’ll pay more for it, and be ‘appier too, so where’s the ‘arm in telling her it’s for the Bishop’s wife? But now we must press on. I need to get to the Village and then back to Lathbury before dark.”

  The Mole judged it best to let him get on with the driving without further talk, for the wind was strong enough to toss the horse’s mane and tail about, and rock the cart as well. Worse, it was driving spits of rain into their eyes. Only when they had crossed the bridge and headed west for a few miles did Mr Baltry speak again.

  “I tell you,” he said, shaking his head, “you wouldn’t get me living in these parts, and never in the Village!”

  “Why ever not?” asked the curious Mole.

  “Folk down ‘ere ain’t got two halfpennies to rub together, times is so hard. The livestock’s all gone, what with the sheep rot last year and the cow gangrene this. And the crops is no better!”

  “No!” exclaimed the Mole, who was sorry to hear that the sheep had been ill and the cows poorly.

  “Aye, and they say that the wheat round the Village has got the drone fly good and proper now, and there’s no disputin’ their taters are harbouring riddle worm. And, o’ course…

  “Yes?” said the Mole, much alarmed by what he was hearing.

  The poultryman dropped his voice to a confidential whisper, “… their sugar beet’s taken the fluke root, and that’s bad, very bad. Eat one of them, yer’ll have the pustules by dawn. It’s no wonder folks is deserting the Village like fleas off a dead dog fox.”

  “O dear, O dear. I had no idea,” said the kind—hearted Mole. “In that case, may I ask what business is taking you to the Village yourself today?”

  The poulterer laughed.

  “Business? There?” Then, looking back at the produce he was carrying and understanding the reason for the Mole’s query, he added, “Ah, it’s not what you’d call business exactly. You see, the verger’s wife’s my sister, and seeing as ‘er ‘usband’s not the man ‘e was since ‘is geese got the gander fly, I’m giving ‘em some provisions for Christmas, and I’ve thrown in something for their neighbours too, seeing as they’re close to starving. Mind you, that shouldn’t be my job! But the local gentry’s not what it was in the way of helping people out.”

  “Really?” said the Mole, realising that he must be referring to Toad of Toad Hall.

  “My sister says that in the days of good old Toad Senior he was so quick to help and generous with doctor fees that there’s no way you’d have red mite running riot among the hens like they have now”

  “Not them as well!” gasped the Mole.

  “Them and the rest!” came the reply. “Why it’s common knowledge that every last pig in the Village has gone deaf, and some say the bees is twaddled as well, which don’t give much hope for pollination of the kale come summer and we all know what that means!”

  “What does it mean?” asked the Mole.

  “Means the fish won’t bite and the black fly’ll swarm in consequence and bring back the plague and every man jack of ‘em’ll be pushing up daisies by next Christmas. If you ask me it’s all up with the Village and the best thing now is for it to be eradicated and razed, and those poor devils remaining given free passage to Australia.”

  “You mentioned Mr Toad Senior,” said the Mole to bring the conversation back to his present concerns.

  “Only met him once,” said Mr Baltry, “when the sister I mentioned took ‘er son up to the Hall to be blessed. It was widely thought that the Village had stayed free of disease all those years because of Mr Toad Senior’s special powers, so my sister said that he ought to lay hands on her Chesney, who was the youngest an
d the runt of the pack and ‘ad rickets and all sorts. Toad Senior blessed him and ‘e was cured and never needed braces and blinkers again.”

  “A miracle!” said the Mole.

  “That’s what we said. My sister wrote to the Pope in Rome to ‘ave Mr Toad made a Saint but seem’ as he was not a Catholic ‘e wasn’t, which is wrong in my opinion because religion shouldn’t be allowed to get in the way of saintliness. You are or you aren’t, I reckons.”

  “So Mr Toad Senior was popular?”

  “That ‘e was, just like his son after ‘im, the present Mr Toad. But o’ course things have changed since Mrs Ffleshe turned up for Christmas. You wouldn’t think a small thing like that would have such a terrible effect.”

  “It has? And on the festive season locally?”

  Though this was intended as a question, Baltry took it as a statement.

  “You’re right there, sir. To all intents and purposes for the twelve days of Christmas Mr Toad isn’t the toad ‘e normally is. As I said afore and I say again, she is as good a mother—in—law as a bachelor like ‘im is ever likely to find, and since every married man knows what a disaster they can be, especially at Christmas, it’s no surprise the effect she’s ‘ad. Which reminds me, don’t eat no beans from the Village, they’re all sluggified and not good for your — whoa, there!”

  Mole had been so absorbed by the conversation that they had arrived at the crossroads at the heart of the Village without his realising it.

  “Where shall I set you down?”

  Mole could see the church to one side and the Public House to the other, with the Post Office not far off.

  “This will do nicely,” said he. “But before you go could you just explain —?”

  “Can’t stop, I’m afraid, for the mushrooms ‘ereabout have contracted flux and that’s catching when the wind blows hard from the north like it is today If there weren’t the moisture in the air keeping it down we’d all be dead by sunset. So if it’s all the same to you, and wishing you the compliments of the season, and a Happy New Year, if you get that far, I’d prefer not to linger a second longer!”

  II

  The Village

  It was some time since the Mole had visited the Village, and then only briefly, but he remembered it as a busy, cheerful, thriving place. He was therefore surprised to find, considering it was a weekday morning, that the only sign of life was at the Public House across the way.

  Its windows were lit by the flickering lights of candle and fire, and its paint was peeling, but its half-open door offered some kind of welcome to strangers. Mole therefore decided that once he had collected his package he would pay it a visit and see what he could find out from the locals about Mrs Ffleshe and her effect on the community.

  On his way to the Post Office, he passed the church and noticed at once that it lacked any sign of festive decorations, within or without. Upon its porch door, whose ironwork was rusty and whose frame showed signs of woodworm, the following dismal notice had been pinned:

  To this had been added a pencilled note:

  Pondering these unhappy announcements, the Mole carried on to the Post Office, where he was alarmed to read another notice:

  Feeling increasingly anxious that he would never see his parcel, the Mole proceeded towards the bridge, which he could see a little way ahead. On his way, he passed what had been a thriving Village shop when he was last here, but which was now boarded up.

  “O my!” gasped the Mole, for he felt that the Village was in such rapid decline that if he did not find the Parish Clerk’s house and collect his presents soon, he might never get them at all.

  He walked over the bridge and into a part of the Village he had not explored before, where he soon found Court House Yard, a lonely square overlooked by a grand building which seemed to be the Court House.

  There was a noticeboard declaring “Parish Clerk’s Residence”, upon which there were a number of announcements in the now familiar writing.

  The most prominent read, “Duty calls! He who is normally in is out. Back at 11 o’clock. Closing soon after for Christmas Day, If work allows.”

  “‘Signed the Parish Clerk’,” intoned the Mole with some respect. This was a Village official who certainly seemed to take his job seriously.

  Mole looked to right and left but saw no one resembling a parish clerk, nor anyone else for that matter. His pocket watch showed him he had only quarter of an hour to wait, but as it was cold he decided to keep himself busy by examining what he had always thought, till he had seen the imposing Court House, to be the Village’s main architectural feature, namely the bridge.

  Its size and splendour spoke of more prosperous days in the Village. A point affirmed by an inscription upon it which read, “Erected by public subscription to the glory of the Monarch, 1766.”

  Mole was just contemplating the rushing water beneath, and thinking that the moment his business was complete he might be wise to return to Mole End, when he espied another building he had never noticed before which projected downstream from the bridge and was part of its structure.

  It was square and squat and quite small and had only one narrow window, as far as he could see, which was barred and set curiously high from the ground. He retraced his steps and saw that there was an old gate, its padlock and chain rusted and broken, which opened upon some steep steps that went down the side of the building and stopped at a low arched door, which had some substantial ironmongery in the way of chains and padlocks, and a little square grille.

  “Odd,” he said to himself, “and strange.”

  Mole, who was always curious about such things, succeeded in pushing open the gate and venturing down. There was evidence of past flooding on the lower steps in the form of waterborne debris — reeds, bits of wood, rope and the remnants of a swan’s nest.

  Standing on tiptoe, he was able to look through the grille. In the dim light cast by the window he could make out a flat stone bench into which were set iron rings, with thick chains hanging from the wall above it. In one corner there was an ancient wooden chair of very sturdy construction, and near it, upon the floor, an earthenware bowl of the kind used by criminals for their ablutions. In another corner the Mole could see a culvert or well of some kind, which he surmised must fall away into the river itself.

  “Why, this is a gaol!” said the Mole to himself in astonishment.

  This was immediately confirmed when the Mole noticed a battered old sign, its paint peeling and its lettering faded. After considerable effort, he was just able to make out the words, “Village Pound — examine your conscience and your ways all ye who enter here, especially sneak-thieves, pickpockets, felons, traitors, poll collectors, vagrants, nags and witches, to whom every justice shall be shown but no mercy given.”

  Underneath this a further inscription announced, “Renewed by Act of Parliament 1781, this place of retribution and fitting punishment under the jurisdiction of the Lord of the Manor & Court Baron. Hereinafter, as decreed, are listed the trials and tortures to be administered upon the innocent till proved guilty, all in the interests of Justice and for the good of…”

  All else was indecipherable. The Mole shivered, for the place had about it an air of past punishment, and long servitude, and was made cold and damp by the proximity of the river. This he now saw flowed hard against the gaol’s walls, and by the look of its colour and the weather it was about to rise even further.

  Shivering again, and by now much concerned by the river’s rise, the Mole hurried up the steps and back to the Parish Clerk’s residence.

  He was greatly relieved when the door was opened by a tall, gaunt man, dressed in an old-fashioned black frock coat, who in response to the Mole’s query as to whether or not he was the Parish Clerk, responded thus:

  “By election and decree and the powers vested in me by the Lord of the Manor I have been, presently am, and shall till my dying day continue to be, unless deposed by statute or proven guilty of treason and or treachery to the Lord of Sess
ion, the Clerk of this ancient Parish.”

  “You are the gentleman who has signed various notices throughout the Village?” enquired the Mole politely.

  The gentleman’s pallid face suffused briefly with pleasure. “You have read, marked and learned them?”

  “Some of them,” said the Mole judiciously.

  “Then please come into my office,” said the Clerk.

  Mole followed him, expecting to be shown into some small room where there might be a few papers, a ledger or two, and, perhaps, a Bible and some Acts of Parliament. But no, they went down a flagged and echoing corridor that opened into a great antechamber with huge wooden benches around its vast perimeter all lit by a skylight. At its far end were three varnished oak doors, the first of which carried the notice “Legal Gentlemen and Witnesses”. The other two were labelled “The Judge” and “The Condemned”.

  “Go in there,” instructed the Parish Clerk, pointing (to the Mole’s considerable relief) to the first door, “while I don my robes.”

  Mole found himself in a room even vaster than the antechamber. Like the Village Gaol, it was lit by small, narrow, barred windows set high into the walls, through which a cold winter light filtered.

  Here and there a little extra illumination was provided by candles in brass holders, which showed it to contain some wooden seats in serried ranks like pews, a witness box, a jury box, a bench behind which were three huge judge’s chairs decorated with heraldic devices, and various other nooks and crannies for court officials.

  As his eyes grew used to the gloom the Mole observed at one end a curious set of ancient stone steps much worn by use. They rose towards a door above the general level of the room, which appeared to go straight outside. Above its lintel, in red and gold, were the words, “Ye Who Have Been Found Guilty, Prepare to Meet Thy Doom!”