Christmas Eve.
Headingley Methodist Church was hung with pine boughs and holly for the Christmas Eve service. The candles cast a golden glow. Harold breathed in the special piney smell, mixed in with melty wax and damp overcoats.
Harold sat in the family pew, fidgeting as usual. Father gave him The Look that signaled trouble. Mother put her hand on his knee to hold it still. It wasn’t easy for this wiggly seven-year-old to be still. The sermon went on and on and on. He tried to listen but it always sounded the same.
“The Almighty did Not send His Son into Glory!
but into Wretchedness! that No Man! However lowly!
might say that Christ had not descended to meet him where he stands.”
And so on, with fervor and emphasis.
He looked sideways to check on his older brother Percy who was sitting still like a proper gentleman. Humph. Percy was just showing off.
Finally came the singing.[1] Harold jumped up to sing. His favourites were “Hark the Herald Angels Sing” and “Joy to the World.” He was proud to know the words and sang them loudly, if off-key.
Christmas Morning.
It was awfully vexing to wait for everyone to gather in the great room. The fire crackled, and Harry inspected the presents for the hundredth time.
Because he was the youngest, Harry was allowed to opened his presents first, but he had to wait until everyone was there and, most especially, he had to wait until Father gave the go-ahead. Amy, Amy he thought, Please, please hurry up! She was always the slowest.
Finally, she floated down the stairs in her deep blue dressing gown with her hair perfectly arranged. The family was complete—well, except for his oldest brother Arthur who was spending Christmas with his wife Alice’s family—the Butlers of Kirkstall Forge. Mother handed Harry his present, which he ripped opened to find a box of beautifully painted lead soldiers
“Thank you, Father. Thank you, Mother!” he grinned. There was also a book of Hans Christian Anderson fairy tales illustrated with the most beautiful pictures. He could read, but not very well. Mother would read them to him at night.
Percy also got a book – Robinson Crusoe. Harry didn’t much notice what the rest of them got. There were some books that didn’t look interesting to him, maybe some cravats and felt top hats for his brothers, or gloves. Not the sorts of things that would interest a seven-year-old. He set about readying his tin soldiers for battle. Percy took charge of the blue soldiers. Harry took the red soldiers, and the tiny officers of the red and blue regiments led their tiny men into a skirmish on the hearth with its fire blazing behind them. By dinner time, there were no soldiers left standing.
Christmas Dinner
“Who shall lead our Christmas grace?” Father looked around the table from oldest to youngest. Charles, Amy, Douglas, Frank, Lottie, Percy, and last of all Harold.
Harold, what about you? I think you’re old enough.
Harold bit his lip. He was thrilled to be asked, but was he ready? He stood up and started,
“Bless, O Lord, …” whereupon he froze. He knew the words. He did! But they were stuck. He was worried speechless.
Amy caught his eye, and with a conspiratorial smile, she mouthed the next few words. Harold exhaled and carried on…
“Bless, O Lord, this food to our use and us to Thy service, and keep us ever mindful of the needs of others. Amen.”
He plunked back into his chair, exhaling with a “phwoofff!” relieved but proud. Father smiled, Mother smiled, and Percy tapped his leg under the table, as if to say “Good job, little brother!”
After grace, the servants, Sarah and Miriam, served oysters. Eww! To Harry, they looked likChapter 3.1. Christmas 1869.docxe the slimy slugs he found in the ponds. He could not eat them, and no one minded. All the more for the rest of them. Meanwhile, his mouth watered with the smell of roasting turkey.
Dinner was delectable. The best of all was the turkey with mashed potatoes and gravy. And stuffing! Harold did not care for smelly, soggy brussels sprouts, but he managed to get them down by smothering them in cranberry sauce. Not cleaning his plate would mean no plum pudding. He was not about to give that up.
Father talked about the Boot Black Union he’d helped to start nine years ago.[i] He was very pleased that they were able to earn a respectable living. One of the boot black boys had even saved enough money to emigrate to America. There was even a new music band at the Ragged School that the boys attended—well, most of the time. Their attendance was a bit irregular. Father was especially pleased his School Committee found a new places for the girls’ school. [2] The old building had been too crowded, too small for a proper kitchen which meant the girls’ food was barely adequate. But Harry had heard this all before, as had all the other siblings around the table. They all did their best to look interested, while savouring their turkey and gravy.
Harold quite liked the smart red uniforms that Mother had organized for the boot black boys. Thomas Holt, Mary’s father and Harry’s grandfather was one of the most well-respected wool merchants in Leeds. Mother had asked Grandfather Thomas if he could supply the wool for the uniforms. He had generously obliged whereupon Mother and her friends had found seamstresses to sew the uniforms. Harry had asked if he could have a smart red uniform of his own. “Absolutely, not! You are not are meant to be a boot black!”
“Maybe I could help the boot black boys?” “Well, I could… um… well…. I could bring them sweets?”
“They don’t need confections. What they want is work and and a bit schooling. But maybe we could bring them remnants from our Christmas table.“
“Or perhaps, my dear Harry, you might give them your tin soldiers?”
Harold said nothing, worried. He looked at Mother who gently shook her head. Father was just teasing. Harry hoped.
Harold was in luck. Tonight, he’d managed to be good enough to deserve plum pudding. Oh, the sweetness! He squished the pudding inside his mouth and held it there, savouring the sweetness to make it last. This was Harold’s vision of heaven.
After dinner, they went to the chapel for prayers, led by father. So boring. Harold poked Percy in the ribs. Percy poked him back harder. Harold almost yelped, but he knew better not to make a peep, no matter how much it hurt. He did not want to make father mad at him, yet again.
Finally finished with piety, they went to the drawing room and the singing began. Amy and Lottie took turns at the pianoforte. Amy played ‘From the Realms of Glory’ with a rousing chorus of oh-oh-oh-oh-oh, which were the only words Harold knew. Lottie took her turn with everyone’s favourite Christmas song, ‘Joy to the World,’ whereupon Harold and Percy burst forth with their own lyrics.
“Joy to the Joys, the Joys are here!
Let Earth receive her Joys!”
Father did not appreciate their clever, irreverent lyrics. “Percy! Harold!” was all the warning they needed to be silenced. They were highly amused with themselves, but managed to stifle their giggles. Lottie continued on the pianoforte, while Harold carried on singing his favourite carol his way, but now he sang silently inside his head. In fact, he would sing these lyrics his own silly way for the rest of his life. It would always make him smile.
[1] Another Methodist Christmas Song, Charles Wesley wrote the words to Hark the Herald Angles, Come Thou Long Expected Jesus. “The Wesleys were really concerned that all people realize that God’s love, grace and mercy are intended for everyone,” says United Methodist Wesley Scholar, the Rev. Paul Chilcote . “No one is excluded from the love of God.”
[2] https://www.childrenshomes.org.uk/LeedsEdgarStreetIS/
[i] Need to check. This source says Leeds shoeblack brigade started in 1869.
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