Page 40 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

STAVE IX.

The Wooden Soldier

N INE D RUMMERS D RUMMING

As Miss Prudence Brown observed, the village of Merrywake could be viewed in its entirety from the upper reaches of Hodge Farm.

It was a charming prospect as villages go – thatched roofs, yellow bricks, neatly kept gardens and charming shopfronts, all spanning off from a well-maintained square – and if one were to pass by the farmhouse, thence down the north-western field to join the country lane abutting it, they would soon find themself in that bustling square, where the sounds of friendly chatter could be heard amidst the more serious conversation of village trade, for business outside of the vicinity of Wakely Hall in the first week of January continued on just as it ever had.

Indeed, the baker kept his customers in bread, the tailor worked hard at his needle; the stationers ensured their shelves were full of the finest papers and inks, the basket maker toiled over her weave, and the Crown continued to secure its steady ream of visitors, both local and otherwise.

For Barnabus Jenkins, his days passed by in much the same manner as all the rest – he would sit on his tall stool behind his little counter, carving his wooden figures by the hour, always happiest when a parent consented to purchasing for their young boy or girl the fruits of his labour.

As the county’s only toymaker for some miles, Barnabus made good trade over the festive period.

His shelves had been quite depleted of dolls and whistles and animals and spinning tops, so much so that he found himself somewhat put upon to fill them once more.

At that very moment he was carving a cup and ball to add to the others he had made this past week, and once he had done that he would move next on to a new collection of dolls.

His dolls were always popular. Barnabus enjoyed carving their faces and seeing their characters take shape beneath the tip of his paintbrush.

Alice would sew them little outfits from leftover scraps of linen donated by the dressmaker across the square, and so when they were complete no one doll was the same, each unique and lovely in her own fashion.

Often Barnabus would see his dolls clutched in the arms of little girls when they chanced to pass by his shop window, and the sight always made him proud.

Oh yes, he liked carving dolls. They were a steady source of income, keeping him and Alice in comfort in the small cottage happily situated behind the toyshop, the sales ensuring that food was kept on the table and the woodpile generously stocked.

In these winter months, such commodities were of great importance to their well-being, and the quiet course of their lives.

But it must still be said that sometimes Barnabus grew bored of his Merrywake Dollies (so did Alice dub them).

Many years afore he had made other figurines, even going as far as writing brief histories for them on miniature notecards tied about their necks, so that little boys could imagine them victorious on the high seas or on the battlefields.

But that was before.

Before.

Still, those little boys of Merrywake had other toys with which to amuse themselves – Barnabus was most adept at carving bears or horses or exotic monkeys and, of course, there were the cup and ball sets, the spinning tops, ninepins and ring-toss games. Those he could make without a second thought.

Not that Barnabus never thought. He sighed as he pulled his blade over the curve of the ball he held and let the wood shavings drop into the cushion of his lap.

Their George would have been seven-and-twenty this past November, and though it had been two years since he was lost to them, not so much time had passed that his death should not still cause pain to his parents.

Absently – as he twisted the knife across the grain – he thought of the girl George had been secretly courting and wondered if the loss of him hurt her, too.

George had always been such a quiet, private fellow, never one for gossip and so very careful in his conduct with others.

Such strength of character was commendable, but Barnabus often felt he never truly knew his son because of it, a feeling made even more acute when George’s personal effects were returned to Merrywake.

It took some months for him and Alice to find strength enough to sort through them, but when they did …

all those letters! Such neatly written ones they were too, filled with such pretty words of affection.

Yet all that Barnabus and Alice could glean from them was that George’s sweetheart was a local girl, for she mentioned the village often enough, but never quite enough that she could be identified.

They did not even know her name. She signed the letters only as your dearest Heart .

Oh yes, it made Barnabus sad indeed to know that George had kept such a secret from his parents, and sadder still that somewhere out there lived the girl who one day might have been his daughter-in-law.

They could, between the three of them, have offered each other comfort.

He could have asked her what George’s own letters contained, if he too felt guilt for the manner in which they had parted.

The tiny clock on the counter chimed. A quarter to midday.

Soon, Alice would return from her housekeeping duties at the parsonage, and they might partake of the pot pie she had cooked for them that morning.

At the thought of it Barnabus’ stomach grumbled, and he was just setting the half-carved cup and ball toy down upon the counter to ready the shop for closing when the toyshop door opened, and in walked a tall gentleman in fine yet simply tailored garments, one of the renowned Pépin daughters, and a little girl in an ill-fitting dress with a bandage about her ankle.

‘Mr Jenkins, I presume?’

‘That I am, sir, yes.’

‘Splendid. I am Lord Heysten, and I should like to purchase a doll.’

Lord Heysten! Well now, this was a surprise.

Barnabus had heard of the son’s return to Merrywake – it had been the talk of the village for some months – but the toymaker had never had occasion to see the new lord.

Lord Heysten kept very much to himself, only coming into the village (so Barnabus heard) to enquire after labouring men or the hiring of new servants (although, on account of Heysten Park’s history, there were very few who would consent to accepting a situation there).

Sometimes the new lordship partook of the occasional meal at the Crown Lodge, but always alone.

That he had with him now a child was perplexing, and accompanied by a Pépin daughter stranger still, for it was no secret that there was little love lost between those two aristocratic families on account of the Pépins assisting Merrywake’s vicar after that sorry affair with the maid, Eliza Granville.

All this Barnabus thought but could not express, and so the best the toymaker could venture was a morning greeting and a deep bow befitting the company.

‘Good morning,’ rejoined Lord Heysten, tipping politely his hat, ‘though just barely. The noon hour shall be upon us soon enough and I daresay my young charge here will be begging for sustenance. But first, a present.’ He smiled at Barnabus in a manner he considered exceedingly agreeable for a Heysten.

‘As I said, I wish to purchase a doll, and I see you have some lovely ones here.’

He gestured to the last of the Merrywake Dollies Barnabus had yet to sell this festive season.

They were not so pretty as some of the others he had sold in December – those had worn lovely damasks, floral silks, pretty bombazines and poplins.

These that were left wore dresses of poorer materials for the less affluent buyer: checked cottons, dyed linens, barred muslins.

None to please a little girl of quality as this child evidently was and Barnabus, feeling humbled, ventured from behind the counter, wood shavings dropping to the floor.

‘So I do, my lord,’ he said, ‘but I confess not as many as usual. I regret that the Christmas season has emptied my shelves.’

‘My good man, I should hardly hold it against you. No, no, these dolls are perfectly lovely, exactly what we should want. See, Faith,’ said Lord Heysten, pointing to a doll wearing a dress of red-and-green check. ‘She has hair just like yours.’

The doll in question had hair made of sheep’s wool, gathered from the sheddings of Nathaniel Hodge’s flock by Alice whenever she collected the young farmer’s laundry.

Creating the hair was another task Barnabus left to his good wife – she was particularly adept at cleaning and combing the wool to make it soft, and dying it to mimic the natural hues of human tresses.

This particular shade had been treated using the juice of horse chestnuts, and was indeed similar in colour to the child’s own mass of curls.

So too was the shade similar to Lord Heysten’s and dark like Miss Pépin’s also, who held the little girl’s hand, and it struck Barnabus briefly in that moment what a handsome family the three did make until he remembered only one Pépin daughter was married, and it was not the one that stood before him now.

Nor had he heard of the new Lord Heysten having brought a child with him back to Merrywake.

To be sure, this really was a curious trio that stood in the middle of Jenkins & Son Toyshop, for Barnabus could not fathom their relation at all.

The child named Faith – having regarded the dolls with curiosity but no apparent enthusiasm – swung her ill-fitting skirts and announced, with a voice so bright and clear as not to be mistaken:

‘I do not want a doll.’

There came an awkward pause.

‘Sweetheart,’ scolded Lord Heysten, looking a little embarrassed, ‘do not be rude,’ and Miss Pépin, with an apologetic look to Barnabus, bent down to address the child.

‘What would you like, then, if not a doll?’