Chapter 14 In a Heartbeat
In a Heartbeat
As I made my way down to the sitting room later, I thought it might be nice to give a Christmas present to Cariad, although I wasn’t sure what.
I’d already had my annual book from Evie, and Liv had, as usual, sent me nice, eco-friendly toiletries, so I wasn’t expecting any more Christmas gifts.
But then, I felt Christmas should be a special time for children and it would be lovely to celebrate it with Cariad and share in her excitement.
Cariad must have showered at the speed of light, because she dashed into the room, her hair still damp, before Kate had even reached for the nearest plate of canapés.
Everyone who had gathered there the night before was present by then, including Noel, who seemed to be on very good terms with Evie.
Nerys announced generally about my mother and I being distantly related to the Caradoc family and that she’d already told Timon and Rhys.
‘Of course, the connection is way, way back on the family tree,’ I put in hastily.
‘Evie told me,’ said Noel. ‘And about her search for information on the summer of 1919 when her grandmother Arwen Madoc was at Triskelion. She was an artist and Evie means to write a biography of her.’
‘Since she died very young, it will be more of a joint biography with the artist she lived with in Cornwall, Milly Vane,’ explained Evie.
‘Noel found me a couple of articles and also a small book about the artists who visited or lived in the St Melangell area, especially between the wars, when it had a kind of heyday. I’m interested in any other female artist who may have been working here then, too, for future biographies. ’
‘I’ll see what else I can find,’ said Noel. ‘And the voluntary curator of the little folk museum in St Melangell is a friend of mine, so we could go there together tomorrow, if you wish, and see if he can dig out anything else to fill in the picture.’
‘Great idea,’ said Evie.
‘And perhaps you, Nerys, might have some helpful information about Cosmo Caradoc at the time of Arwen’s visit. There may be old documents,’ Noel suggested.
‘I’m afraid there won’t be much. There was no Pepys in the family to jot down the daily doings at Triskelion,’ Nerys said. ‘But Cosmo’s career is well documented, and he is included in several books about artists of his era.’
‘I’ve only just started to research his life and work, since discovering our connection and the time Arwen spent here,’ agreed Evie. ‘But I’m certain there must be a little more to find out about the summer of Arwen’s visit to add depth to my biographical notes.’
‘Since my great-grandfather died in a tragic accident at the end of that summer, it’s not a time we usually care to dwell on,’ said Nerys, and then, clearly eager to change the subject, went on: ‘I hope the extra table in your room was suitable for what you wanted, Evie?’
‘Perfect, and it was kind of Rhys and Tudor to carry it up.’
‘No problem,’ said Rhys.
‘What did you want an extra table for, Ma?’ I asked curiously.
‘I brought my hard drive and two monitors, so I can get down to some serious work. Laptops are so confining.’
‘I don’t find it so,’ said Kate, through a mouthful of the last savoury tartlet, which she had snatched from under Cariad’s nose.
‘But writing a novel is somewhat different from my work,’ Evie said.
‘I think people who talk when they are eating are disgusting,’ Cariad said, but sotto voce.
Rhys gave her a quelling look and, as someone beat a gong outside, Nerys got up and said briskly: ‘Dinner!’
Almost automatically, it seemed, we took the seats around the dining table we had occupied on the previous evening, although it had not been like that at lunch.
At least this time only Opal was staring avidly at Toby like a starving Maenad. Pearl’s expression was more wistful, but when he caught her eye she smiled unexpectedly sweetly.
It was another delicious dinner. Rhys and Noel left us to linger over our coffee while they and Tudor set off for the village hall, where they would assume their various guises for the procession.
Since Bronwen was now single-handed, we all helped clear the table – well, apart from Verity, who was still chewing, and Kate and Evie, who were engaged in another fiery dispute. Timon looked happy to escape to the kitchen.
Bronwen, with the assistance of some friends, would be preparing the wassail punch and taking it, together with the wassail cake and the special biscuits, over to the village hall ready for the return of the revellers later.
*
We assembled in the hall at ten to eight, warmly wrapped up against the very frosty night air. Kate and Verity, who were not making the ascent, came to see the procession off.
Our feet sounded loud on the road as we all trooped off across the stone bridge to the little green, lit only by two standard lamps at either end of it, the lights on the tree in the middle and wall lanterns on either side of the village hall door.
A sizeable crowd was gathered. Cariad ran off to join her friend Mel and Mel’s family. Timon and Nerys began to give our little group a running commentary as the door to the hall opened and strange figures emerged on to the lighted steps, one by one.
‘The Druid. Rhys, of course,’ Timon said.
With his height and broad shoulders, Rhys made a magnificent figure. He was wearing a long white robe, and a crown of bronze oak leaves on his dark head. With his deep-set eyes and craggy face, he looked scarily impressive.
He seemed to scan the crowd and for a moment his eyes, shadowed by the wreath, appeared to rest on me, but that was probably my imagination.
‘He carries a long white rod or wand,’ Timon explained, ‘and a silver sickle to ceremonially cut a bunch of mistletoe when we reach the oak glade halfway up the hill.’
Rhys moved aside to make room for an even more fantastical figure topped with a horse’s skull, boldly painted around the eye sockets and mouth, and mounted on a long neck that protruded from a wide oval body with skirts that swept to the floor, completely hiding the wearer.
‘Max Prynne, the Prynnes’ only son, is in there. He can make the jaw snap using a string that passes down the neck. The skirts are made of leather hung from an oval iron hoop, supported by straps over the shoulder, and are fairly heavy.’
‘And here’s Uncle Noel as Old Winter,’ said Nerys. ‘The staff is original, but the old costume fell to pieces and the St Melangell Amateur Dramatic Society made this one for him. It’s a bit over the top, all that silver lamé, but the effect by torchlight is quite good, isn’t it?’
‘Very effective,’ agreed Evie.
And indeed, the long robe, the hood pulled over Noel’s head and secured with a crown of bare twigs, did seem to sparkle strangely in the dim light, as if he was covered in hoar frost.
After a few others had passed by us, Nerys exclaimed, ‘Everyone looks a bit fatter than usual, because they are well padded against the cold, under their costumes.’
‘Ah, here’s Tudor – the Green Man – Celtic symbol of fertility, old spirits and traditions,’ said Timon.
‘But he’s so well documented he doesn’t really need an introduction.
The hood and the mask covered with oak leaves sprouting from the mouth and forming a beard are made of moulded leather.
The cape looks quite dark in this light but is actually green. ’
Tudor in turn moved along the wide step to make room for the next mummer – a short, plump man whose white surcoat and cloak seemed rather too long for him.
‘St John the Baptist, rather aptly played by our vicar, Mr Truelove. Note the staff with holly tied to the top in one hand and the reed cross. And, of course, there is a red Maltese Cross on the front of his surcoat, too.’
The palm cross reminded me of one of those Victorian woven cane carpet beaters, but I didn’t say so.
‘And next up is St Melangell, played by Bronwen’s daughter, Megan,’ said Nerys. ‘She always wears a light blue robe and headdress, secured with a gold band to represent her halo – and the hare, her symbol, is embroidered on her robe.’
‘She’s such a pretty girl, it’s no wonder Rhys is so fond of her,’ said Verity, just behind me. It was true, Megan’s face was extremely pretty in a mischievous sort of way.
‘They grew up together,’ said Nerys. ‘We’re all fond of her.’
But I wondered, as I looked at the blue-robed figure, whether Verity meant to imply that there was more than friendship between them.
‘One more to go,’ said Timon. ‘The hunter figure is Nigel Pritchard, from the village shop.’
The man wore a leather helmet to which a pair of antlers had been secured, and a long cape that looked like leather, too.
Led by the Druid, they descended the steps and took their places behind him on the green, in pairs: Old Winter and the Green Man, the deer and horse, St Melangell and St John the Baptist.
At the rear stood a boy of about thirteen or so, with a shallow drum around his neck.
Suddenly the crowd shouted: ‘The bonfire!’ and I looked up to see the bright leaping flames near the top of the slope.
The boy began to strike the drum in a steady rhythm, like a beating heart, and the Druid led his mummers over the bridge, the rest of us following on behind, our feet seeming to echo the relentless rhythm of the drum.