The Coming of Age December Part 2.

19th December. I have not been carol-singing since I was a teenager when we used to go round the village I grew up in, with the vicar and some handbells. I used to love it and when The Actuary asked me if I would like to go with a group he went with every year, I agreed. The Actuary has a lovely baritone voice. I have heard him in the bathroom, although he says it is not what it was. I do not have a good voice but I am enthusiastic, especially at funerals and weddings, when I feel that volume of sound is what is needed.

21st December. I arrive outside St Jude’s where we were to start at 6pm. There are about twenty of us. I notice several people I know, including Mavis’s husband, Keith, Piers Hackett, the owner of the ethical cotton shop and two women from the library. The choirmaster at St Philip’s is to lead the singing. There are a few choirboys and girls and also a group of young men from the Rugby Club.

‘Where are we going first?’ I ask.

‘We always go to Forest Drive, Lawn Road, and The Rise,’ says The Actuary, ‘then we usually get asked in to the Housemans, but this year we are going to the Ashpoles for refreshments and then we do the top end of the town.’

‘All the posh roads,’ I say. ‘Not the council estate?’

I am told that the collection from the former is much better and once, years back, when they did do the council estate, someone threw something rather unpleasant at them from an upper window.

The first part of the evening is uneventful and very pleasant. Everybody seems to be able to sing properly except me, so I stand to one side so no one can hear me too well.

Two hours later we arrive at the Ashpoles’ smart and surprisingly modern house and sing two old English carols outside as Vivian and Howard stand in the doorway looking modest. Then we go in and Vivian hands round some old English punch.

We all take glasses and gulp gratefully as it is warm and wet and we are cold and dry. There is a sudden silence punctuated by coughs as the mixture of sharp, thin cider and strange spices catches the back of our throats.

‘This is interesting,’ says Keith politely. ‘What is in it?’

The Actuary mutters, ‘I don’t think I shall ever be able to sing again.’

‘This is a 17th century poor man’s bishop’ says Vivien Ashpole. ‘It’s made with organic farmhouse cider flavoured with the dried root of burnet saxifrage, nettles, sloes and elder flowers infused in vinegar.’

I try and think of some 17th century bishops, so I can make a joke, but cannot, which is a good thing as Vivian Ashpole already thinks I am beyond the pale and anyway has no sense of humour. Piers Hackett has no such inhibitions and being a historian can remember the names of bishops.

‘Ah,’ he says looking serious, ‘you must mean Ken. I think he might have been known as the poor man’s bishop.’

There is polite laughter from the choirmaster and The Actuary. Nobody else understands.

‘Ken who?’ I whisper to The Actuary.

‘Bishop Ken, 17th century, that was his surname,’ hisses The Actuary.

Howard Ashpole looks anxiously at Vivien to see how she takes this abstruse joke. She narrows her eyes but then leaves the room, to return seconds later with a plate of warm mince pies, which she hands round. Several people take quick bites to try and get rid of the taste of the punch.

‘This is proper mincemeat,’ says Vivien Ashpole, proudly, ‘made with real meat and chopped figs. I get the meat, it is mainly offal, direct from the slaughterhouse.’

There is a strangulated noise from the owner of the Ethical Cotton Shop and one of the women from the library. They disappear from the room, handkerchiefs to mouths. The rest of us look uneasy.
Piers Hackett, whom I know is fond of his food, takes a bite. We all watch. He chews, swallows and takes a second bite. The rest of us take bites too. It is not unpleasant unlike the punch. But oh for some ordinary mincemeat and a nice Oloroso.

Vivian doesn’t notice any this. She is too busy giving us the provenance of the ingredients and the date of the cookery book she got the recipe from.

I ask her politely, ‘Do you make this every year?’ As I make my Mrs Beeton’s An Economical Mincemeat.

‘Oh no, I’ve never done this before. This is the earliest recipe I’ve found. It’s difficult to get the ingredients though. I had quite a problem with some of the spices and with offal of course. You can’t get offal anywhere these days.’

The Actuary whispers in my ear, ‘That’s an offal shame.’ and I splutter into the punch. He is given to making terrible puns like this.

After we leave, the owner of the ethical cotton shop saves the occasion by producing a packet of herbal lozenges, which we all suck to get our vocal chords realigned.

We walk to the top of the town and hear the sound of carol singing, loud and slightly distorted.

The woman from the library says ‘Oh it’s the Mayor’s Christmas appeal.’

A large float comes into view, with Father Christmas sitting on it surrounded by fairy lights, stuffed reindeer and assorted greenery. He is waving vigorously and amplifiers are blaring out Silent Night. Acolytes from the Loyal Order of Moose or something like that are darting up and down the road, beating on people’s doors and rattling buckets of coins.

‘I think we are outshone,’ says Mavis’s Keith.

‘No, no,’ says Piers Hackett, surprisingly decisive. ‘If we take a short cut down Grove Road, we can come out ahead of them and sing outside The Warrens before they get there. We are the real carol singers after all.’

The Warrens is an upmarket development of old people’s sheltered flats. I am looking forward to going there and perhaps even seeing inside because it’s never too early to check these places out.

We assemble in the courtyard of the Warrens and begin to sing 'In The Bleak Midwinter'. The doors of the flats and houses open and people come and stand there listening. We are giving a sensitive rendering of The Sussex Carol when the float arrives, blasting out Hark the Herald Angels Sing. Men from the Loyal Order of Moose carrying buckets come briskly into the courtyard. Our group slithers into silence. An old lady in the first flat calls out in one of those carrying upper class voices, ‘Tell that thing to move on.’

The men with buckets look disconcerted.

‘Off, she gestures to them. To us ‘Continue.’

The choirmaster lifts his arm and we start the third verse ‘When sin departs…’

Three more men with buckets arrive and rattle them. The young men from the Rugby Club leave our group and advance menacingly towards the Moose.

‘You can’t do this’ says one of the Moose, We’re collecting for Charity.

‘So are we.’

‘We are collecting for the Mayor’s Charity.’

‘Go and collect somewhere else. We were here first.’

During this exchange we are still singing the final verse and have just reached ‘and peace to men, now and for evermore’ when there are scuffles behind us, as Moose and Rugby players come to blows.

Then Piers Hackett turns round and says ‘Is that you Velge? I didn’t know you were a Moose.’

‘What do you mean, Moose? We are Lions.’

The younger choirboys make roaring sounds, like Alice and Letitia do whenever the word lion is uttered. The choirmaster fails to stop them.

‘Velge, get that abomination to move on. We haven’t finished here.’

Piers Hackett is very proud of his bass voice and the yearly carol singing is one of the few occasions when he can enjoy exercising it. He is very annoyed that his annual treat seems about to be curtailed.

He strides out of the courtyard followed by the rugby players and some choirboys. They head purposefully for the float.

Santa, still vigorously waving, suddenly notices this hostile posse and moves towards the far edge of the float, knocking over a stuffed reindeer, whose horns catch on the fairy lights and bring them down. There is a sudden fizzing noise and the float is plunged into darkness but not, alas, silence.

‘O Come All Ye Faithful’ seems to be summoning the Lions to the aid of Santa. Several of the collectors rush back to see what has happened, only to be stopped by the rugby players spoiling for a fight. I blame it all on Vivian Ashpole’s punch.

Piers Hackett reaches the float and, maddened by the noise and emboldened by the Poor Man’s Bishop, tries to pull one of the loudspeakers off. Being an academic, he is not very technological and does not think to disconnect anything. He drags the entire public address system across the float together with a stuffed reindeer.

The wires tighten round Santa’s ankles and he jerks round to face a miraculously animated reindeer advancing towards him with fairy lights draped round its antlers. Although Crispin Velge is trying to restrain him, Hackett gives another violent tug at the loudspeakers and Santa topples off the float with a loud yell, clutching at the reindeer.

Santa and the stuffed reindeer fall to the ground as one and appear to be wrestling or something else but I think Santa was only trying disentangle himself.

One of the choirboys - Why are the young always so good at things like this? - quickly hoists himself on to the float and disconnects the public address system during the first line of God Rest You Merry Gentlemen. The grunts and thumps of the fighting Lions and rugby players are the only things to be heard.

Santa struggles to an upright position, somewhat encumbered by the fairy lights and takes a swing at Piers Hackett but hits petulant poet, Crispin Velge instead. Piers Hackett makes a grab for Santa’s beard which comes off in his hand. Santa Claus is revealed to be the Editor of the local paper.

‘Don’t think you can get away with this,’ he hisses to Piers Hackett.’ I know who you are, Velge.’

The Actuary and the Choirmaster quietly call the rest of us, who have been gazing with much enjoyment at the scene from a safe distance, we are far too old to engage in unseemly brawls, and we return to the Courtyard of the Warrens and start The First Nowell. By the time we have started The Holly and the Ivy, Piers Hackett has rejoined us, looking untidier than ever but with a light in his eye that I have not seen before. Of Crispin Velge, there is no sign.