Wind whistled and moaned through the windows mocking Charley’s guarantee to Mary that the putty applied that fall had been sufficient to do the trick. The flame on the candle on the windowsill flickered and danced in synchronicity with snow drifts that passed close enough to the dim light to be seen through the frost rimmed circle in the single pane of glass.
“Are you sure they’re coming, Mommy?” Clara asked as she glanced at the window once more. Even with the excitement and anticipation, the little girl’s eyes continued to focus on her toy she named Marly. Her daughter was still in awe of the present Santa Claus had brought her. Clara smoothed her hand over the knitted doll with the pretty dress that Mary had fashioned from a long outgrown garment.
“They’ll be here, darling,” Mary replied as she loosened the apron string behind her neck and in one swift movement, grabbed it and slung it on the nail behind the woodstove. She took the leftovers of the lamb roast from the warmer to the pantry and stopped near Clara when she returned. “Now, get out of the draft before you catch your death.”
Mary hoisted her daughter from the daybed and laid her on the chair beside the stove. She checked the wicks on the oil lamps on the wall and adjusted them so that the room was brighter. Mary poked the fire and threw a junk of dried spruce in the firebox, enough to keep the heat in the house and the kettles hot for a cup of tea or a toddy later.
The Mummers would be here, she was sure of it. And not just because Charley had said so when he left. It just wasn’t Christmas without them.
The house trembled and the window moaned once more as the fire crescendoed and ebbed to the tune of the fierce Northeasterly gust. Charley would be back, she reassured herself as her body shivered in the draught that found her. “He’ll be back,” she whispered and brushed her fingertips across the blessed medal hanging from her neck.
As if conjured, bells jingled and were followed by a sharp knock. The door burst open as several masked characters surged in. One grabbed the birch broom near the door and swept snow out over the stoop only for it to be carried back in by the stampede of the rubber booted crowd.
Mary took the broom, chuckled, and nodded dismissively as she tossed it behind the door. The gathering spilled into the kitchen in a flurry of snow, shouts, and cold air. Clara squealed and clapped her hands, strewing Marly aside then following her to the woodbox seat. Her vacated spot went to the leading visitor who held an accordion.
The instrument was playing before the person’s rear end hit the chair. The others began shouting, swirling, and stamping to the beat in the now crowded kitchen. One of them took Mary and swung her around before hugging her and lifting her off her feet. She swiped at the lace covered face and grinned.
“Put me down, you fool,” she said as she giggled and pushed on the person’s shoulders. The figure prattled loudly and swung her again.
“That’s Daddy,” Clara shouted as she bounced on her perch. “I know it is.” She clapped once more and smiled widely at the shrouded figure which laid her mother down then reached for her. Mary was grabbed by somebody else and swung to the music from the disguised accordion player.
“That has to be David,” Mary said as she lowered her face to peer through the eye-holes of the disguise at the musician. The music stopped for just a second as the man pulled off his cap and pillowcase mask.
“Thank God,” he said as he gave a heavy sigh and wiped the beads of perspiration from his glistening red forehead. “I’d die in this heat.” He started up a feisty jig which sent the other costumed crowd stamping, swinging, and hollering once again.
Clara shrieked as she helped pull the mask from the one that carried her. “I knew it was you, Daddy,” she shouted as she threw the lace doily and hat on top of Marly. Her father twirled her around the floor in his arms.
By now the kettles and even the dampers on the stove began to rattle as the herd of revelers renewed their steps to a faster tune on the accordion. One of them pushed at David and he laughed before ending the dance with a long and piercing note.
“Mary, get the lads some spruce beer from the pantry,” Charly yelled to be heard above the racket. She nodded at him from across the room, untangled herself from her dancing partner and headed through the door on the far side of the kitchen. David began playing a slower tune to settle the crowd and Mary made three trips to the pantry bringing brown bottles back to the table.
Charley opened one snub-nosed bottle and gave it to David while he took another for himself. The masked crowd spread out and sat down on the daybed and on the chairs, while more backed up against the wall and waited for Mary to guess their identity.
“Are you from down the Lane?” Mary asked the closest fellow. He or she had a raglan on which was wrong-side-out and hung to the edge of the knee-high rubber boots. The disguise was too long and big to determine the shape of the person. The mummer shook its head and spoke gibberish. She recognized the voice, “Wilfred Barnes, I know that’s you.”
Wilfred tore off his head gear and grabbed the beer she offered. “Indeed, it is, Mary my dear. You were the first one to guess me so quickly.”
“I recognized the cut of your mother’s coat,” Mary said with a grin before she moved to the next person. This one had long johns on over their clothes and wool socks covered their hands. Mary pushed on the belly. “Stuffed,” she said. “You’re trying to throw me off.” Mary held her hand to her brow and then tapped the figure’s head. “My height.” She looked at Wilfred and then back again. “Marie, Marie Barnes.” But the figure shook its head vigorously. Mary squinted her eyes. “Do you have anything to do with this fellow here?” she said as she pointed to Wilfred. The figure nodded. “Got anything to say?” she asked but the figure shook its head. Mary inspected the socks. “You can’t be Mrs. Barnes, can you?” Mary asked.
The woman shed her head garb. “Well, what’s got into your mother, Wilfred,” Mary said, “to be out on a night like this.” Mary chuckled as the older woman ran her fingers through her hair. She laughed and shook her dissent as Mary offered the beer. “I got a drop of sherry there we can have after I’m through with this crowd,” Mary said, and Mrs. Barnes nodded.
“I’m a fool, Mary girl. But it was one of those nights I didn’t feel like being home by myself.”
“Good for you,” Mary said as she patted the woman’s shoulder then moved to the next person. She questioned the patrons one by one. She guessed several names until she had the group figured out and unmasked. Wilfred’s wife and his mother were the only two women among the bunch.
When the spruce beer was all passed around, Mary took Mrs. Barnes and her daughter-in-law into the front room. She motioned for Clara to join them, but Clara wanted to stay with her father.
Mary lit the candles on the Christmas tree and poured a glass of sherry for the Barnes women as well as one for herself.
They sipped the thick red liquid and listened to one of the men as he spoke a recitation he’d learned from his father. The only sound was the deep and languid tones of the man’s voice and the crackle of the log in the fire. A cheer erupted when the man finished, bottles clinked, and the music started again.
“Drink up,” one man shouted, and the two Barnes women followed Mary to the kitchen.
“Mind the candles, now,” the older Mrs. Barnes said as she nodded toward the tree.
“I will, Ma’am,” Mary said making a mental note to blow them out as soon as the crowd was gone.
“Merry Christmas,” David shouted over his shoulder as he pulled the door open and began playing Jingle Bells which was carried away on the drifting snow by a furious gust. Hearty shouts and yips followed as the others danced along behind him out into the night.
“Only two more houses to go,” Charly said as he kissed Mary and Clara then pulled the disguise on over his face. “I’ll put the horse away in the stable when I get back and then I’ll be home.”
Mary and Clara shouted goodbye as the group jumped on the sled behind the mare and waved. Jingling bells mixed with the music from the accordion and came in whisps on the frigid air as the group pulled into the inky blackness of the night.
Mary guided Clara onto the bench on the woodbox while she grabbed the mop and wiped up the water puddles. She smiled. Mummers. It wouldn’t be Christmas without them.
