“It just said ‘This must stop. Or you’ll be sorry.’”
“That’s all? What did it mean?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t know. What do they want to stop—the film, the pageant, our questions about Tara’s death…”
Felicity drew in a breath. “…our wedding?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“Surely not. Why would anyone want to stop that? You don’t have a jealous old flame in the closet, do you?” His attempt at jocularity sounded strained.
“You know I don’t.” She thought for a minute. “When could it have been put in your pocket?”
“Just about any time in the last couple of days. I don’t remember when I last wore those gloves. It could have been at the college or sometime while we were filming; at the B and B or even after I got here, I suppose.”
“Could it be a joke? Surely if anyone meant real harm they would be more specific. One of your students, perhaps? Have you given any particularly onerous assignments they would want stopped?”
They were both heartened by the idea that it could be something as innocuous as an overburdened ordinand not wanting another reading assignment. Still, when they rang off a few minutes later Antony’s last words to Felicity weren’t “I love you,” but rather a reiterated, “Be careful.”
As a consequence, a short time later when she and her mother were once again walking up the hill to Midnight Mass Felicity couldn’t help looking over her shoulder repeatedly. They were almost to the church when a crunching footstep on the gravel made her spin around. She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, Alfred. I hoped I’d see you.” She told him quickly about the broken gate.
He frowned, undoubtedly over more work to do at what should be vacation time, but merely said, “Aye.”
Instead of following her on into the church Alfred started down the path to the back of the grounds. “Alfred, I didn’t mean…” She began, but he didn’t hear. She hadn’t meant to keep him away from the Christmas Eve service. She took a step in his direction, then a rumble from the organ drew her to the lights and warmth of the church.
“Holy, Holy, Holy. This night the Word of God was made flesh and dwelt among us.” The monks in their black cassocks and grey scapulars filled the choir. Cynthia leaned over and whispered in Felicity’s ear, “I can’t believe this is real, that I’m really spending Christmas Eve in a monastery.”
Felicity smiled at her mother. Then the sound of an explosion and a blast of light beyond the rose window made her jump. What was that? Antony’s warning rang in her ears louder than the distant boom. Were they under attack?
A second flash of light tore through the sky, followed by another. And another. The monks seemed unperturbed. Didn’t they hear it? Then she smiled. Silly. This was England. Fireworks on Christmas Eve seemed to be a traditional part of the celebration.
She turned to survey the seats behind her. A good congregation filled the nave, people from the wider town, people who worked alongside the monks, several ordinands and their families. Felicity smiled at the wife of one of her fellow students, Kate, delicate and blond, beautiful with her baby asleep in her arms. A perfect picture for Christmas Eve. A picture of safety.
The choir sang the introit in Latin. The echoes ascended to the vaulted ceiling, accompanied by clouds of incense. Bells chimed high up in the tower; the high altar glowed. And beyond the rose window flashes of light continued to fill the sky like an intermittent Christmas star. One glorious bouquet of white flowers adorned the chancel, making Felicity think of her wedding flowers which would stand in the same place so soon.
After communion they sat in silence. And yet not silent. Clouds of witnesses surrounded them. The air was alive with angel wings. Holy, Holy, Holy.
Then, singing “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” they processed to the Holy Family Chapel for the blessing of the Christmas crib, which Felicity still thought of as a crèche. And this a most unusual crib: Three banners proclaiming: Word, Word, Word, Word, Word and stacks of books surrounded the holy infant. The chapel altar frontal read, “And the Word was Made Flesh.” All so appropriate for a community renown for their scholarship.
The crib was blessed with prayers, holy water and incense. Then everyone shook hands and exchanged “Happy Christmas” in hushed voices.
“I love being kissed by monks.” Cynthia almost giggled as they left the church. Walking back home was like wandering into Alice’s Wonderland garden as giant fireworks flowers suddenly burst into bloom over their heads. The glittering, erupting blossoms lighted their way home.
Felicity looked at the clock when they were back in the cottage. “Dawn mass is at 6:45, Mother. That’s just over five hours from now. Shall I let you sleep?”
Cynthia paused in the act of kicking off her shoes, sensible, low-heeled shoes, Felicity noted with satisfaction. “Certainly not. What kind of a piker do you think I am?”
“Right.” Felicity kissed her mother on the cheek. “Good night, then. And Happy Christmas.”
Felicity went to bed, but not to sleep. Not yet. Just as they had arranged Antony rang at One-thirty. He reported that they had gone into Liverpool Cathedral for a Christmas Eve Mass glorious enough to impress even Gwena with two thousand worshippers, a full orchestra and chorus and lavish decor. Felicity wanted to hear all the details, but she could feel herself fading. Her final “Happy Christmas” was a mere mumble.
It seemed like minutes later when her alarm rang. She pulled on the warm clothes she had left on the chair next to her bed and went to Cynthia’s room. Before she could knock on the door, though, Cynthia appeared, ready to go. Outside the cottage her first lungful of biting cold air brought Felicity fully awake.
“Dawn Mass, you said. So where’s the dawn?” Cynthia asked.
Felicity started to answer, then stumbled on the uneven path. She held Cynthia’s arm on the stone steps ascending the hill to the church.
The interior of the dimly lit church seemed cavernous. Only two other ordinands joined the brethren at the side altar for a brief, silent meditation before the crib. Felicity hadn’t realized this was to be a standing mass. As all masses had been in medieval times, Felicity reminded herself. She quickly found it concentrated the mind. There was no danger of a sleepy communicant dozing off.
And apparently Cynthia was concentrating, too, even if not on the spiritual. “What a gorgeous robe thingy,” she whispered in Felicity’s ear and pointed to the celebrant whose back was to them.
“Chasuble.” Felicity supplied the word. And, indeed, it was beautiful—cloth of gold with rose embroidery like a French tapestry. Very old. Quite valuable, she guessed.
For just the briefest of moments Felicity wondered if there could be any way the misfortunes of the film company could be linked to the monastery and its treasures? It was only last Easter that the theft of their priceless icon had led to murder and mayhem. And Antony did provide a link between the two. The fireworks outside his study—could they be connected to the fire at Ampleforth?
She chided herself for fantasizing. Father Paulinus and Tara’s deaths had nothing to do with the community. They were miles away and miles apart from each other..
Cynthia nudged her and they moved forward together to receive the Gift from the One whose birthday they celebrated.
They were back outdoors when the community bell rang the Angelus—three rings for each of three Ave Marias. And then the birds began. A glorious dawn chorus to welcome Christmas morning. Cynthia pointed eastward. “Ah, here’s the dawn!” Red ribbons garlanded the sky.
Returning to the warmth of the cottage Felicity tumbled back into bed, pulled the duvet up to her chin and was instantly asleep. She was in a large echoing hall—whether a church or a castle she was unsure. Tapestries adorned the walls. She reached out to touch the golden embroidery, but pulled back when she realized the figure was not a winter tree filled with birds, but a gibbet complete with a staring body. Felicity tried to run, but tripped over into a stack of books adorning an alta
r. The chasuble-clad priest frowned at her as the books crashed against the altar.
Finally the blows penetrated her consciousness and Felicity realized the knocks were on her door. “Yes?” Cynthia entered carrying a stocking Felicity had put in the laundry two days earlier. “What?” Felicity sat up.
“I read a blog about English Christmas customs.” Cynthia sounded inordinately proud of herself. “Apparently tradition demands opening your stockings in bed.” She placed the lumpy sock in Felicity’s lap.
Felicity felt the thrill of being ten years old again, standing in front of the fireplace with her brothers, longing to grab her stocking, yet not wanting to spoil the delicious suspense. “Mother, you really are amazing.” Slowly she drew out each object and placed it beside her on the bed as a beaming Cynthia looked on: a velvet ribbon bookmark, a pen, a small bag of licorice all-sorts… Felicity reached deeper into the foot.
“Oh, a snow globe.” She turned the little glass ball upside down and watched it snow on the snowman standing in the woods. “I loved these as a child.”
“I remember. I was so pleased when I found that in the market.”
Felicity tried to reply, but her throat closed.
“Put your robe on, Darling. I have breakfast ready.” Cynthia led the way to the little kitchen where bowls of porridge brightened with Christmas fruit mix, a platter of bacon on toast and a pot of tea awaited.
“This is delicious, Mother.” Felicity was too amazed even to question the new Cynthia she was encountering. Had this person been there all along and Felicity not seen her? Or had this time the two of them were spending together brought out a completely new woman in her mother?
“Mmm, I’d love another cup of tea, but we can’t dawdle.” Felicity pushed her cup away.
“Don’t tell me. Another service? Those monks do have stamina don’t they?”
“Yes, they do, but this one isn’t at the community, it’s on up the road—parish mass at Saint Saviour’s.”
A brisk walk up the road past the community grounds took them to a grey stone Victorian church with bells chiming merrily from the tower under its spire. Inside, the sanctuary was heaving with children. Felicity looked around and was pleased to spot Drue and Flora with two women who were apparently their mother and grandmother. The warm, family communion service with lots of carols was much more like the ones Felicity remembered from her own childhood. She could still feel the flush of pleasure she had experienced on those rare occasions when her whole family attended church together.
After the service Father Douglas invited everyone to step next door for tea and sherry at the vicarage. While Cynthia sipped her sweet sherry and talked to the vicar—Felicity hoped she wasn’t flirting—Felicity sought out Flora and her brother. “How nice to see you here this morning. Is this your mum?”
“And my gran,” Flora introduced them.
Felicity told the women how pleased she was to have Flora and Drue in the pageant. They agreed it was a fine thing for the young people and assured Felicity they were looking forward to the event. Felicity commented that she had been pleased with the excellent job Father Douglas had done encouraging his congregation to attend the Epiphany pageant. She had good hopes that Saint Saviour’s would be well represented.
As the women chatted, though, Felicity could feel Drue’s growing anxiety. Under the excuse of getting a glass of sherry, Felicity took the boy aside. “What is it, Drue?”
“You ain’t gonna snitch, are ya?”
“You mean tell your mother what you were doing under the stage yesterday? No, I hadn’t intended to. Not as long as it doesn’t happen again.”
Drue seemed to relax a little, but his forehead still creased with anxiety. “I don’t want Syd to think…” He bit his lip. “He said he’d do for us if we told.”
“You didn’t tell. I caught you. But what does Syd have to do with this?”
“Nothin’.” Drue spoke too fast and darted away.
Felicity considered. Was Syd running some sort of gang? It was obvious he liked throwing his weight around, but was it something more sinister than that? Was Syd leading the younger boys at the centre astray? She would have a chat with Corin and Nick when they got back tomorrow.
In the meantime, she and Cynthia had the rest of Christmas Day. Back at the cottage they opened their gifts in front of the fireplace—only two parcels under the tree, since Felicity and Antony had agreed to exchange their gifts when they would be together again—that a gift in itself—and any other gifts from family and friends would show up in the form of wedding presents this year.
Felicity took a red and white candy-striped package from under the tree and handed it to her mother. Cynthia tore off the paper and exclaimed over the bright sapphire pashmina stole nestled in the tissue paper. She pulled it out and wound it around her neck before handing Felicity a shiny red package containing a soft, supple pair of fur-lined leather gloves. Felicity hugged Cynthia and kissed her. “Thank you, they’re lovely.” Then she laughed. “It seems we had similar ideas—to keep each other warm.”
Cynthia shook her head. “I don’t know how you put up with it—this climate. But since you seem determined to stay here you might as well be equipped.”
Then they turned to preparing their Christmas Feast: Roast chicken with wine gravy, broiled, herbed tomatoes, grilled onions, Brussels sprouts, parsnips… Felicity set a folding table in the living room then ran outside to gather berry-laden branches from bushes along the path. By the time Cynthia had added the final touches to their dinner Felicity had the room decked and the candles lit.
When they were seated Felicity said, “We have to pull our crackers first.”
“Oh, do we need crackers? There’s some in the cupboard.” Cynthia started to rise.
“No, Mother. Here.” Felicity picked up one end of a gaily-wrapped tube she had placed on her plate.
“Oh, yes. That blog mentioned it.” Cynthia grasped the other end. On the count of “three” they gave a sharp tug. The popper snapped, the ends came off and the contents flew out.
The ritual continued with the women pulling Cynthia’s cracker, unfolding and donning the red and yellow paper crowns and playing with the miniature toys. “Okay, now the best part,” Felicity said, unfolding a slip of paper from her cracker. “The jokes. What does Santa suffer from if he gets stuck in a chimney?”
Cynthia looked blank.
“Claustrophobia!” Cynthia’s groan was louder than Felicity’s crow of delight. “Your turn now.”
Cynthia located the small piece of paper that had fallen on the floor. “Why does Santa have three gardens?”
Felicity shook her head. “No idea.”
“So he can ‘ho ho ho’!”
The meal continued in a similar jolly mood, timed just right to end with watching the Queen’s speech on the television while they ate thick slabs of Christmas cake washed down with cups of steaming tea. After the brief, encouraging message they raised their teacups in salute while “God Save the Queen” played.
“Oh, that was lovely, but I can’t believe I’m so full,” Cynthia groaned. “I’ll have to admit that cake wrapped in marzipan and fondant icing is nothing like the fruitcake I know.”
Felicity smiled and refrained from saying I told you so. “There’s about an hour of daylight left. Let’s go for a walk.”
Cynthia was on her feet. “Oh, yes. A nice country ramble in the fresh air is exactly what I need.”
They bundled up, Cynthia wearing her new pashmina and Felicity her new gloves and set out walking down the hill away from the monastery, toward the Dewsbury Canal. The moist, cool air was almost like walking in a thin cloud and the moisture gave a dewy freshness to the green fields and bushes. “So lovely to be only five minutes from open countryside.” Cynthia drew in a deep breath.
They came to the old towpath, Felicity’s feet picking up the firm footing of the way trodden by men and horses perhaps for centuries. Once the canal had been a major route for tran
sportation of goods; now it was a useful recreation area. Her mind had just wandered to Mr. Toad’s time on a barge, disguised as a washerwoman, when her mother’s voice cut in on her reverie. “I know you hate my interfering, but, really, darling. Think how cold it is.”
“Hmm?” Felicity’s soft reply covered her apprehension. It had been days since her mother had meddled in her wedding plans. What would it be now?
“I know your bridesmaids’ dresses are velvet with long sleeves but wouldn’t you let me buy faux fur stoles to go with them? I saw them online yesterday and they were really lovely.” Her voice was almost pleading.
Felicity gasped—more at the tone of Cynthia’s voice than at the suggestion. Did it really mean that much to her mother?
“I do so want to help. And I haven’t been able to do anything but tie a few bows.”
Felicity still didn’t answer.
Cynthia ducked her head “Sorry. Silly idea, I suppose. I just thought—”
“No, no, Mother. Actually you’re quite right. They sound lovely. I’m sure Judy and Gwena will appreciate the warmth. And your thoughtfulness.”
Felicity turned and hugged her mother. Now it was Cynthia’s turn to be speechless. Especially when Felicity took her hand and they walked on side-by-side, Felicity thinking about the hidden depths she had seen in her mother lately. “Mother, have you ever considered becoming a Friend of the Community?”
Cynthia looked as stunned as Felicity felt at her own suggestion. Where had that thought come from? “Me? Become a nun?” Cynthia blinked.
“No, Mother, of course not. Friends aren’t nuns, just people with strong ties to the Community.” She wondered briefly if she should just let it pass, then continued, “Actually, I meant it. I know it sounds silly, but you seem strangely in tune to things here—in a different sort of way. I mean you’d get regular updates on events here and all that. It’s just that… Never mind, daft, I know.” She didn’t want to say that if Andrew never came back her mother might need something new in her life.
Cynthia didn’t reply, but she looked thoughtful.
An All-Consuming Fire Page 13
