Christmas in New England by Jonah
This is a work of fiction so be aware that every character herein is also fictitious. If you think you recognise yourself, or somebody else in here - you don't. Some places, and some institutions in here are real, but the people attached to those institutions in the story are not. Most characters are my own creations, but some are the creations of another author. I want to thank Jacob Lion, in the USA, for his permission to use his characters in my stories.
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Chapter 8
Christmas Eve was shrouded in freezing fog. A light dusting of snow lay on the ground. There would be no going out unless thoroughly wrapped up. There would be a substantial "full American" breakfast, but nobody seemed inclined to go anywhere.
At about ten o' clock the doorbell announced the arrival of old Mrs. Ning and her not-so-old son. Ning now dwarfed his mother, but then, he dwarfed me too. I'd always considered myself tall enough not to need to get used to looking up people's nostrils.
Yori led the two into the drawing room where I was sitting and watching the boys poring over a Japanese cook-book that Yori had agreed to them looking at. It was obviously written in Japanese in consequence of which, the boys could only look at the illustrations and try to guess what the text said. Barry and Lloyd seemed to be making a reasonable job of it, while Philip's suggestions were more humorous.
"Simon! Good to see you!" said the big guy.
I was momentarily at a loss but then I spotted his mother.
"Ning?"
"Yes Simon. I don't need you to wash me in the mornings any more - unless you want to, of course."
I felt myself blushing. Hopefully my skin colour would conceal the fact.
"As I remember, Ning, you used to wash me, as well as everybody and everything else within reach," I said.
"Well, I sometimes got the floor a bit wet," he responded with a shrug.
Mrs Ning turned toward the kitchen but was prevented from moving in that direction by Yori.
"Sit," he commanded. "Sitsitsit," having uttered which command he headed for the kitchen.
"So you're a doctor now then Ning," Garret ventured.
"Yes, E.N.T." replied Ning.
"That's lucky," replied Garret. "You wouldn't mind having a look at this corn would you?"
"Not my area," Ning pointed out. "I'm strictly E.N.T."
"Yes, I know that," Garret responded, keeping his face impassive. "E.N.T. - ears, nose and toes."
All three of our boys rolled on the floor as laughter siezed them.
"Idiot," said Ning, but his face wore a smile.
Yori returned with cups of tea as we exchanged pleasantries and regained our accustomed sang froid. That didn't take much doing as our sang had never been particularly froid in the first place.
The conversation turned to the question that we seemed to be asking everybody since we arrived in America; did Ning ever hear anything of Jake and Kori?
The answer seemed to be the usual one. Jake had moved to New Haven to take up a full-time post at Yale, and Kori was in post there as well. Nobody in Ashfield seemed to have heard from them since. Rumours that Jake might be considering repurchasing the farm to use for holiday accomodation, whose source we couldn't trace, had so far proved groundless.
Sneakily, Ning placed more presents under the Christmas tree in the drawing room. Junior doctors don't get paid a lot in any country, but Ning had been told that we had three young children in convoy with us. Ning could not ignore that information.
It was at this point in the proceedings that Yori and Mrs. Ning returned and ordered everybody to the dining room. Nobody had seen either of them leave the room, but they made sure we heard them come back. The table in the dining room contained three large bowls of rice, in three different colours (white, yellow and white speckled with various colourful vegetables) and an assortment of cold meats and fish. The selection of food for ourselves did not even cause a momentary halt in the lively conversation. I could only guess at the effect of this on an old man who, for some years, had been accustomed to live on his own. The face of a Japanese does not often betray emotion, so I could only guess.
After dinner it was time for the Nings to depart. Ning was on duty at the hospital in Northampton from two o' clock so their visit had to be a hurried one. Personally, I didn't mind that. It was just so good to see them again.
After their departure Yori was again brisk. He insisted that we wrap up warm and pile into his car. The destination this time was Deerfield - a town that we had seen briefly on our way to Ware (and on the way back - had I been awake). Deerfield is renowned as the centre of the production and trade in yankee candles. Its older part is a sort of Christmas village. It would put one in mind of the London of Dickens' "A Christmas Carol" except that it is obviously American. As dusk fell, the Christmas lights became spectacular in a way that was none the less, tasteful. Where it clearly departed from any similarity with Victorian London, or anywhere else for that matter, was in the rich aromas that pervaded everywhere. It didn't matter whether you were on the streets, or ventured into the shops there was no escaping the scent of roses, of lavender, of apples, of oranges and of cinammon. Of course, those things were also in evidence. The shops did not just sell scented candles. The aroma of freshly ground coffee was to be found outside a grocer's shop. That of fresh apples and oranges outside a greengrocer's. This was no model village, but the real thing. It had merely taken the opportunity to maximise its appeal to visitors - capitalising on its genuine and natural charm. Yori told us that in the Deerfield village it was Christmas all the year round but, as it was Christmas Eve, we had to take his word for that. What we could see for ourselves was that we had brought with us three boys whose eyes shone with more than the reflection of the Christmas lights.
We found a tea room that furnished us with exactly that - accompanied by pumpkin pie, which the boys had never tasted before. Whatever time we had left would have seemed too soon and, by the time we arrived back in Ashfield, it was only just shy of eight o' clock. The expedition had taken us six hours and it didn't seem like an hour.
Ordinarily it would be getting on for the boys' bedtime, but Yori suggested they shower and get dressed for Church instead. Yori had never been a regular Church-goer but, at Christmas, he made an exception. At half past ten he wrapped himself up in furs and suggested that we walk to Church, rather than take the car.
Outside, it was a clear, moonlit night with no trace of the fog from earlier, but biting cold. The pavement glistened and our breath smoked as we walked. The big Christmas tree outside Elmers store was still lit up. Those houses that were lit up for Christmas, which was most of them, were shining out into the night. Those houses that were too far back from the street had trees lit up on their drives. The crib and the tree outside the Church were both lit up.
Inside the Church, nothing was lit up - except by several hundred candles. If the Church heating was on, it didn't need to be. We were supplied with Bethlehem Carol Sheets and, at eleven o'clock sharp, the pastor commenced the service.
We sang Hark the Herald Angels Sing, and the pastor said some prayers to dedicate our worship to the Almighty. We sang It Came upon a Midnight Clear, to the American tune, then the pastor read a lesson. We sang While Shepherds Watched (Sweet Chiming Christmas Bells), then the pastor talked of poverty and hardship. We sang Silent Night, and the pastor prayed for the world and its people. As midnight approached the pastor spoke of hope and of love, then, as Christmas Eve turned into Christmas Day, he wished us a Merry Christmas and we sang all five verses of O'Come all ye Faithful. With a blessing we were dismissed. That was the signal for the congregation to start wishing each other a Merry Christmas. We exchanged Christmas greetings with Chris and Nesta (Joan was baby-sitting Simon), and with the pastor and then we set out into the night.
The moon had disappeared. Snowflakes fell steadily. We trod through fresh snow and played at stepping in each other's footprints. Most of the lights were dark now, though Elmers' tree still shone out like a beacon. As the congregation dispersed to their various homes, the sound of Christmas greetings grew fainter, until only the sound of our own footsteps could be heard - and the lively chatter of three boys.
We were home at half past midnight on Christmas morning and Yori immediately put on the kettle. Hot chocolate is a particularly English way of retiring for the night but, as we had come to realise, Yori had done his homework. Suitably hot chocolated, we bade each other a goodnight.