“Suet, Parson. It’s white fat. Any butchers will do, and you want 8lbs weight.”
He only trusted himself for the other two, sugar, and raisins in particular, needed to be searched out. Besides they were more expensive and he trusted himself more with the heavier purse. They reached the Market Cross and Davey told Sedgwicke to meet back at that spot. He pointed out a butcher, watched Sedgwicke shuffle nervously away, but in the right direction, then went off on his own errand. There was no market stall selling such fruit and so he had to search further. A good costermonger’s shop was eventually found and in went Davey to obtain 10lbs of raisins. Such a quantity merited some bargaining and Davey did so and obtained a good price. The sugar proved easier, so time came to return to the Market, and there was Sedgwicke, with bulging haversack and presumably equally filled knapsack.
“Well done, Parson. Let’s get these back, now. Figgy duff takes a long time mixin’ and makin’.”
They re-entered the barracks and carried their purchases to their table. Davey emptied out his parcels, making much of displaying the plump raisons, whilst Sedgwicke struggled with what looked like a soft and slimy parcel from each of his carriers. Davey opened the greased wrapping of one and ran his finger up the side of the soft white pile inside.
“Parson! What have you bought? You asked the butcher for suet, yes?”
Sedgwicke took umbrage, born of a growing anxiety.
“No. I asked for white fat and the butcher pointed to this, and so I said yes. He said he was a pork butcher and lard was all he had. He said that lard was used in lardy cakes. That’s a sweet dish, is it not? The difference between various kinds of fat lies outside my experience. Fat for a lardy cake or fat for a pudding. I bought what he had and spoke of.”
Davey placed his hands on the table and hung his head forward. Meanwhile the cooks were gathering. The Head Cook spoke up.
“Where’s the makings, then? We needs to start. What in the Lord’s name is that?” pointing a condemning finger at the two offending piles before Sedgwicke. This accompanied by comments such as “Damn fool”, “He must have lard in his head!” Davey raised his eyes and looked across to see a horrified and shrinking Sedgwicke, terror growing by the second as the cooks and mothers surrounded the table and them, both. Something describable as compassion rose within him; he couldn’t leave Sedgwicke to carry the blame and so he addressed the cook who had spoken.
“Beg pardon, Ma’am, but it seems we’ve bought you lard instead of suet. That won’t serve, will it?”
Several heads shaking told him all he needed to know, followed by comments that were all variations on the theme of, “What kind of addled numbskull doesn’t know the difference between suet and lard?” but after came the threat, this time from a male voice, Dan Smith.
“Put it right, or it’s a “cobbing.”
Davey had little idea what a “cobbing” was, but it was clearly a punishment and to be avoided. On top of that, and much worse, no figgy duff for the room; for which he would never be forgiven.
“We will, we’ll put it right. I promise. Give us an hour or so.”
Most walked off, but a few remained to listen. Davey turned to Sedgwicke.
“Parson, we’ve got to put this right. I’ll put in all the money I have, you do the same.”
Sedgwicke looked horrified, but horror of a different colour caused by the fear of being “cobbed”. He made no move. Seeing this, Davey went to his own belongings and took out his purse.
“Parson. Get your money. Get your money! There’s mine. We’ve got to put this right.”
Reluctantly, Sedgwicke copied Davey’s actions. Both emptied their purses out onto the table. All copper.
“Right. One shilling and a penny. We’re going to need four shillings at least. We’ll take back the lard and sell it back. What did you pay?”
“Four shillings.”
“We won’t get full coin, but he’ll give us half. That leaves us short by about eleven pence. Wrap up the lard and put one in each of our haversacks. We have to find the difference.”
They left the barrack room and out onto the parade square. The only people with any money were Officers and so Davey, followed by Sedgwicke, crossed the square to the Officers Mess. Desperate situations required desperate measures. Davey entered the main door but saw no one. Anxiously, he knocked on other doors. Depending on the Officer he found he was taking a huge risk to be in such a place without any orders giving him permission. Finally one opened. It was Major O’Hare.
“Begging your pardon, Sir. I hope you’ll forgive the intrusion, but I was hoping that you may be able to help us out of a problem that could spoil Christmas for our room. Our cooks is making a figgy duff, Sir, that needs suet and, because of a mix up,” Davey turned to look squarely at Sedgwicke, “Because of a mix up, we got lard instead of suet. We need another eleven pence, Sir, to buy the suet needed. I was hoping to borrow it from an Officer, Sir, as our only hope. Could you see your way clear, Sir?”
O’Hare’s face broadened into a wide Irish grin.
“Lard instead of suet. For a figgy duff? Now, what kind of gombeen eejit thinks you can make figgy duff with lard instead of suet?’
Davey made no move, but O’Hare also looked squarely at Sedgwicke, who lowered his eyes and shrunk, both in height and girth. O’Hare noticed Davey’s shoulder wings.
“Light Company, are you?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Well, I’ll tell you; this is just the kind of initiative that we hope from such as yourself. I think I can find the necessary.”
He put his hands into his waistcoat pocket and extracted a silver shilling.
“There’s your finance. A penny more than you need. Pay me back when you can, and tomorrow I expect to come around and receive a portion. Which room?’
“Number three, Sir, and thank you. You’ve just saved us from a cobbing, Sir, whatever that is.”
“Oh, it’s nasty. You don’t want to know.”
“Right, Sir. I’ll try to avoid it, and thank you once again.”
Davey looked at Sedgwicke, expecting an echo of his thanks, but none came. He motioned with both head and hands towards O’Hare. At last Sedgwicke got the message and added his mumbled thanks. O’Hare stood in the doorway, enjoying the grand humour, as both crossed the parade ground and disappeared through the gate arch.
An energetic half hour saw them return, with suet of high quality and sufficient quantity. The butcher had taken the lard back, but, as Davey said, only for half the price. The ingredients delivered, both lay back on their straw mattresses, penniless and in debt, but free from the unknown but plainly dire punishment as threatened. Davey, relief now thoroughly run through him, turned over and addressed a passing roommate.
“Hey, Walter. What’s a cobbing?”
“Ooo, serious. You don’t want to know.”
“Oh. Right.”
oOo
Christmas Eve had broken. Whilst Christmas Day was for family, this day was the celebration day for villages, but for soldiers and their families their barracks was their village and all took their chance to join in whatever went on, in whichever room. Breakfast was the usual bread and tea, but all knew of the communal feast that would be served at dinner, each room having been given the rations for its occupants, and they were left to prepare it, as best they may. Rolled joints of pork, not the poorest cuts this time, turned before the fire, and a long line of mothers and daughters prepared the vegetables, tossing their carefully pared item into the appropriate pot. Meanwhile the children and the men, with a few of the females who had finished their tasks for the meal, set about entertaining themselves. The be-ribboned hoops of Game of Graces raced between the opposing sides, and elsewhere quoits, hopscotch, and games of chase, sent shrieks of laughter and excitement along the halls and corridors.
Tom and Joe’s room had fewer small children and so the older children and adults set about their Celebration Day with dances and jigs, performed to the accompan
iment of fiddles, fifes and penny whistles. Their room had a Drummerboy and so they had added percussion. Tom Miles revealed hidden talent with a Jew’s Harp and joined in with the growing band that was whipping up a frenzy on the centre space that was now a dance floor. The full repertoire of jigs and reels was gone through, and with that done, then tricks of all kinds with all objects; ropes, chairs, broomsticks and juggling with bags of beans.
Joe Pike took the floor and proved an adept tumbler, with cartwheels, handstands, and somersaults in profusion across the length of the room, end-to-end, and corner-to-corner. As if this didn’t endear him further enough to the female members of the room, when the dancing was done, solo’s were called for and he was amongst the first, singing in a fine clear voice, “They bid me forget thee”. During this rendition no vegetable was peeled nor pots stirred, the only stirring occurring within the emotions of many of Joe’s admirers as they struggled to maintain a steady breathing but found that lumps in their throats were making that difficult. Many followed to perform their party piece of song or recitation but soon it was to table.
All plates were hidden under pork, potatoes, and greens, with bread and small beer to accompany, followed by the magnificent size and glistening countenance of the figgy duff. O’Hare arrived in Room Three and wondered if the two crates of beer he had brought would be fair exchange for a plate of the wondrous pudding. Shouts of agreement and welcome were his answer and he sat in the midst of about 50 revellers, all common soldiery and their families. Once established, he gave free rein to his Irish temperament within good company and with good cheer, amongst people he well understood. After the meal the revels continued, although with stomachs so full, not so energetically. Nevertheless dancing and singing were the main entertainments and Major O’Hare got up and sang two songs before he took his leave, one a comedy ditty, “Courting in the Kitchen”, the other one a ballad of deeply poignant sentiment and sorrow that only the Irish can both compose and sing, the “Isle of Inisfree”.
The evening wore on in similar tone, but eventually became more subdued. Time was approaching for preparations for Midnight Mass. The families prepared and dressed themselves in their best clothes and husband soldiers donned their full dress uniforms. At 11.45 all filed out along corridors and out through the many doors onto the parade ground. There was no formality of parade by companies, instead, by the light of candle lanterns all assembled, soldiers with families, mingled with NCO’s and Officers. Each stood amongst faces that were familiar, the power of shared worship creating a time for friends and comrades, not the military formality of salutes, orders, and dress by ranks. The Vicar stood waiting and, mindful of his last appearance, stone cold sober. When all were assembled, and quiet had descended to match the silence of the black and starless sky, the service began. The Vicar led his congregation faultlessly through the hymns and prayers and, had he known, he would have said a prayer for the cause of the absence of one family from Room Three.
A child had fallen ill. She had joined in the gaiety that began the day and ate heartily from the Christmas meal, but, come late afternoon, she had returned to her family and lay down in her bothy, plainly unwell, faced flushed, then grey, forehead damp with perspiration. Through the night the fever grew. The Surgeon was away for the Festival and so there was little anyone could do but fall back on the folk-lore that had, or had not, got the sick children of families such as theirs through the diseases and ailments that so often added to the graveyards, but occupied little space. Her poor dress and shift were removed and she was wrapped in wet blankets, or dry, as the fever waxed and waned. As neighbouring families drifted back in, their enquiries were met with shaking heads and anxious faces. All through the night such was done as could help. Christmas Day came and presents and gifts were exchanged, but the mood was subdued.
On the opposite side of the room, on Christmas Morning, Davey took himself over to Sedgwicke and handed him a small bundle wrapped in green cloth.
“Here you are Parson. Happy Christmas.”
Sedgwicke looked up astonished, first at Davey’s gift, and then his friendly face. He took the gift and unwrapped it. It was a clasp knife, not new, but serviceable.
“I noticed that you haven’t got one. You’ll need one, it’ll come in handy, and often.”
Sedgwicke returned no thanks; his mind was fixed on the fact that he had nothing to give in return. Over the weeks leading up to Christmas the thought had never crossed his mind to obtain a gift for this gypsy that he shared with. He could think of nothing to say but an apology.
“I’m sorry Davey, but I have nothing to give you.” His sorrow was genuine.
“Never you mind, Parson. If you see something that I could count as handy and it’s within your means, well, that’ll be nice.”
Sedgwicke sat on his stool and looked at the gift, his mind in turmoil. This was an act of kindness, as also was Davey’s support with his shopping failure. Together both were wholly undermining his low opinion of the capabilities of the lower social orders to understand and be motivated by what he described as “higher feelings”. The knife opened and closed as did his thoughts on his hitherto well established judgment on the likes of John Davey and those that he called “as myself”. Not unintelligent, Sedgwicke appreciated that there were questions that needed answering and his previous life was not providing the answers. Davey left the cubicle. His “lady” acquaintance had come into the room and both exchanged gifts before sitting together for their usual quiet conversation. She had brought a piece of mistletoe which was put to good and frequent use.
With the evening, it was plain that the child was losing her fight. Delirium and shallow breathing were telling their story. At midnight, she died, her little heart unable to sustain the effort needed to keep her body alive through the assault that many thought must be scarlet fever. Not one family in the barrack room, and plenty from elsewhere, failed to come and pay their respects to the anguished Father and distraught Mother. Marjorie Smith, wife of Dan, came over to Davey and Sedgwicke’s cubicle. She addressed herself to Sedgwicke.
“Won’t you go over and say a few words, Parson? For the pity of the Lord’s Sake.”
Sedgwicke was readying himself for sleep. He looked up at Marjorie Smith, and then to Davey, he was surprised and unsure. Davey nodded to him.
“Take your Bible, Parson. Put on your red jacket. Full fig and up to the mark.”
Sedgwicke reached inside his canvas bag and found his Bible. He took his jacket off its peg, put it on, buttoned it fully and brushed it down. He motioned to the woman to lead on and he would follow. He reached the bothy and found both Mother and Father kneeling beside the lifeless figure, the rag doll that was to have been her Christmas present lodged under her right forearm.
“Would you like me to pray with you?”
The Father replied, “Yes, Parson. That would be nice.”
Sedgwicke kneeled beside the child. As he knelt, so did her parents and almost all around besides. Sedgwicke was moved. The sincerity and gravity of this simple act of faith were not lost on him.
“Dear Lord, thou hast chosen this child to come to thee and be amongst thy Heavenly Host. As was said by our Dear Lord Jesus, suffer the little children to come unto me. Give succour, please Dear Lord, to her Mother and Father, brothers and sisters. Comfort them in their sorrow and in their hour of need.”
Then, surprising himself, he departed from the stock phrases that he had used so often before.
“She was but an innocent child, Dear Lord, born and raised into a life of toil and disappointment, but she was well loved, Heavenly Father, and held dear, not just by her family but by all her friends and neighbours around her. Her riches she already had, not silver coin, but the love of her family and all who knew her, and counted her as one of their own. As thou loved thy only Son, take her unto thee, and let her dwell in thy Holy House. For Jesus Christ’s Sake. Amen.”
Amen echoed from all present. When they were all upright, the Father shook Sed
gwicke’s hand.
“Thank you, Parson. Those were fine words and a comfort. We’re burying her tomorrow, first thing. Would you do the ceremony? She was a soldier’s daughter and we bury our own. We’d like you to, as one of us.”
“One of us.” The poignancy of the moment and the Father’s genuine request had both made a profound impression on Sedgwicke.
“I will. Yes, of course.”
Come the morning the sorrowful figure was laid out on one of the tables, dressed in her best dress, with the rag doll still in the crook of her arm. Then she was wound in the best white sheet the room could provide, and her face was kissed by each of her family, her Mother last, before the final folds closed over and around. Then her Father picked her up and carried her out. They were followed by all others in the room. Few had any clothes that could be described as appropriate for mourning, but all had managed something dark or at least dark armbands. The men wore their dress uniforms that needed little cleaning nor burnishing having been prepared so recently for the Midnight Mass but were nevertheless checked for perfection. As they walked the corridor and traversed the parade ground to the gate they walked between two silent rows formed by all the occupants of the barracks, all also in their best clothes or immaculate uniforms.
The small cemetery lay behind the barracks and so the mournful procession continued its way through the weak December light to the small grave, dug not an hour before in the growing dawn to be prepared and ready. As the small body was passed down to her Father, Sedgwicke read the familiar ceremony. When all was done, the Father shook his hand again and the Mother thanked him for giving what was a “good and right ceremony”. Whilst the grave was being filled in, he stood with the family and for the first time in his life, he felt he had a clear understanding of what it meant to be a “Christian Man of God”.
oOo
Chapter Five
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 17
