Page 43 of The Twelve Days of Christmas

‘Barnabus and I have often passed its gates on the occasions we have left Merrywake and bemoaned its sorry state. The reverend, your uncle, has shewn little interest in the place – quite wiped his hands of it, I do believe, under the circumstances.’

‘You know my uncle, Mrs Jenkins?’

‘That I do! I keep house for him.’ She gestured at the basket she had left by the toyshop door. ‘I am just come from the parsonage.’

Lord Heysten frowned. ‘I see. Pray, madam. What sort of man is he?’

Alice blinked. ‘You … you do not know, my lord?’

‘I confess I do not. I nearly wrote to him on my return but after the way my father and grandfather treated him, I was not sure of my reception, and so thought it best to leave well enough alone.’

Beside her, Barnabus continued to whittle. Alice cleared her throat.

‘Mr Soppe has been, I confess, prone to bad-tempered tendencies. But I have known him these past twelve years, and can attest to the fact that he is a good man of moral principles. Certainly, he would not be a vicar if he were not.’ Alice smiled kindly.

‘I feel sure that if you were to offer the olive branch it would be readily accepted. I’m certain he would be gratified to know his nephew … and his niece.’

Lord Heysten glanced down at the little girl, who had been watching the exchange quietly and now gave a small nod of her head.

‘Family is important,’ he murmured. ‘Especially at this time of year.’

Barnabus stilled in his carving before continuing once more.

‘So it is,’ said Alice gently. ‘And I suppose with you bringing Heysten Park back to life you shall be filling it with a family of your own in due course. I’ve no doubt Miss Faith would wish for the company, would you not, my dear?’

The child nodded her head again, and this time more vigorously, but it occurred to Alice then as Lord Heysten went very still that she had once more said the wrong thing – his face shuttered, a muscle in his jaw twitched.

‘Alas, madam,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid my plans for the future allow no room for further children.’

The words were said with such finality that Miss Pépin looked at Lord Heysten sharply.

She said nothing, however, and nor did Alice for a moment or two, so mortified was she at having let her tongue again run wild.

With a nervous glance at her husband, Alice attempted to divert the conversation by smiling warmly at Lord Heysten’s little relation, who was looking between them all with a somewhat bemused expression.

‘But your sister ,’ said Alice with a little more bravado than was needed. ‘Well, she is a delightful child, and would fill any house with as much laughter as ten children, to be sure. Mr Jenkins and I are very glad to have met you both.’

Lord Heysten inclined his head and proffered a smile that Alice, with relief, perceived to be as friendly as it had been some minutes before her misjudged remarks.

‘And we are very glad to have met you,’ he returned, with the same bravado that shewed clear the discussion had come to an end. ‘I have no doubt that Faith and I will see you again in due course. I am quite determined she shall have a doll at some point, despite Miss Pépin’s protests.’

Behind him Miss Pépin rolled her eyes with a slight shake of her head. Alice, not quite knowing what to make of it, dipped her knees in a curtsey.

‘Thank you, my lord. Farewell, and a Merry Christmas to you.’

Lord Heysten inclined his head. ‘And a Merry Christmas to you as well. Come along, Faith. We’ve yet to have your new dress adjusted, and Miss Pépin is quite famished. What is it?’ he said to his companion in teasing tones. ‘Swan for luncheon?’

Miss Pépin’s features shifted into one of resigned amusement, and with a shake of her dark head she turned to the door, whereupon Lord Heysten opened it and let in the noisy bustle of Merrywake village.

Together gentleman and lady stepped out into the street, but soon paused upon realising their charge did not accompany them.

‘Faith?’ called Lord Heysten. ‘Come along now.’

The little girl – who had not moved one inch from the middle of the toyshop floor – was staring up at Alice and Barnabus with wide button eyes.

‘I am sorry about your son,’ she said, in so beguiling a manner it made Alice suck in her breath and Barnabus lower his knife. The little girl pressed the wooden soldier to her breast. ‘I promise to look after him.’

‘Th … thank you, miss.’

It was Barnabus who had spoken, and Alice was glad for – unusually for her – she found herself at a loss for words.

‘And you should sell the other soldiers,’ continued the child, in a voice that belied her age. ‘George would like that, I think.’

At such a declaration neither Jenkins quite knew what to say, but no answer it seemed was necessary for the child simply smiled, joined Miss Pépin and Lord Heysten, and reached up to close the shop door behind her.

With one last wave through the frosted glass, the little girl followed Lord Heysten and Miss Pépin across the square and disappeared into the Crown, where Alice supposed they might be stopping for one of the proprietor’s excellent luncheons, which did not (as far as Alice was aware) include swan.

Having closed the shop to take their own luncheon, Barnabus and Alice sat at their small table in their small kitchen behind Jenkins & Son, quietly partaking of their pot pie and thinking deeply upon the words of little Faith Heysten.

For Alice, the child’s suggestion was one which she shared wholeheartedly.

She had on many occasions pressed upon her husband the importance of relinquishing the remaining wooden soldiers to any child who might have a wish to give them a home.

But, as is often the case, some people do not take the advice solicited so passionately from their loved ones, yet find themselves considering the same advice if offered to them by another party, and such was the situation for Barnabus as he ate a forkful of succulent chicken and pastry, and contemplatively began to chew.

If the girl had simply said she thought he should sell the other soldiers, and left it at that, Barnabus might have ignored her. Leave it at that she did not, however, and her parting words had set Barnabus upon a most torturous course.

George would like that, I think.

After the child left, Barnabus had removed the remaining soldiers from the shop floor.

The eight now lay atop the Reverend Soppe’s dirty bedsheets in the wicker basket, face down except for one, who stared up at Barnabus from the folds of linen with what he could only describe as judgemental eyes.

And thus became the reason for Barnabus’ present turmoil:

George’s eyes. George’s face. George’s voice as well, which told him gently, Yes, Father, I would like that. I should like that very much indeed.

Barnabus sighed so deeply and so loudly, that Alice laid down her fork.

‘My dear,’ said she. ‘You have lived with your guilt for so long now. You cannot continue to torture yourself.’

‘’Tis easy for you to say,’ Barnabus said, piercing another piece of chicken with his fork. ‘Your parting words were not in anger.’

‘No,’ Alice conceded. ‘But it should not serve that you punish yourself and others in the manner that you are.’

‘What manner? By not selling the last of the soldiers?’

‘Yes! Why, Barnabus – it serves no one but yourself. Toys are supposed to be loved and cherished, not hidden away in the dark.’

In answer Barnabus shook his head, and held so fast to his fork that it shook.

When he first received the letter notifying him of George’s death, Barnabus had felt duty bound to cease making the soldiers.

He had laboured under the notion that he was somehow profiting from the wars by selling them, and that was as good a reason as any.

But there was another reason, one that he had not quite dared put into words, for to say it made it all so painfully real.

But say it he must because the truth of it was that Barnabus was weary, and the events of that morning had made him wearier still.

‘Alice,’ he whispered. ‘They are all I have left of him.’

The declaration sat stark between them, as harsh and painful as the day they discovered their son was dead.

‘Oh, dearest,’ said his wife, pressing a shaking hand to her chest. ‘George will always be with us. His death—’

‘Was a waste. George did not even die fighting. He stood at the front of that battalion with nothing but a drum and they shot him at point-blank range. He never stood a chance.’

‘His role was important,’ Alice replied now gently.

‘Drummers are essential for delivering instructions on the battlefield, and it took a lot of bravery to do that well. That’s what the letter from Sergeant Harrington said, do you not remember?

George …’ She stopped, took a steadying breath. ‘George died a hero.’

Barnabus shook his head, and realised that the tears which had threatened in the toyshop fell now freely. But Alice – with tears in her own eyes – would not allow him to ignore her.

‘He wanted to go to war and serve his king and country. There was no stopping him, not when he saw all the other village men go. You know that as well as I.’

Oh, but how could he forget? Barnabus would for ever remember their argument the night before George left.

He and George, saying such dreadful things to each other because neither one was willing to relent.

All Barnabus could think of was the toyshop and all that he had invested in it, and that if his boy were to die then his dream of Jenkins & Son would die with him too.

But George would hear none of it – the shop could wait, said he, but England could not, and so incensed was Barnabus at such stubbornness that he – in his own stubborn will – could not even find it in himself to say goodbye.

He would regret that to his dying day.

‘I am proud of our George,’ Alice continued, with such passion that only a mother could bestow on her child. ‘I am proud, and you should be too.’ She glanced at the basket by the hearth, its wooden cargo. ‘Hiding those soldiers is no way to honour our boy.’

Shamed, Barnabus ducked his head.

Oh, but he was proud of George! Once his son left Merrywake Barnabus realised his error, how unforgivably selfish he had been, and began to carve the wooden soldiers to prove just how proud he was.

But some small sense of shame had prevented him from writing to George to confess it, and so his son had died without ever knowing how his father truly felt.

It was a guilt Barnabus had suffered under every day since.

‘We do not even have a portrait of him,’ he whispered. ‘These soldiers, they …’

‘My dear,’ said Alice. ‘The solution has always been so obvious to me, though you would not hear it. Will you hear it now?’

Barnabus nodded and wiped his eyes.

‘The solution,’ said she, ‘is to keep one of the soldiers. Set one on the mantel of our sitting room, so we might always look upon him of an evening and smile at the happy memories we share. Put the others in the shop window, so Merrywake’s young boys might see them and give them a home. They deserve to be loved.’

‘I … I suppose George would like it, wouldn’t he?’

‘Of course he would.’ Alice stood and came about the table so she might put her arms around him. ‘Of course he would.’

She kissed him gently on his forehead, just where his hairline had begun to thin, then turned to pick up the basket which she held out to her husband like a gift.

‘Which soldier do you chuse?’

Barnabus hesitated before finally selecting one. He chose, of course, the soldier that stared up at him from the folds of linen.

‘There now,’ said Alice, satisfied. ‘Shall I put him on the mantel? And we shall drink a toast to him this evening. To our dearest George.’

He could not speak, only nod, whereupon his wife took the soldier and disappeared into the sitting room. Barnabus stared at the soldiers which remained, and he continued to sit thus until Alice returned.

‘Right, then,’ she declared, brisk again, like her old self. ‘I’ll put Mr Soppe’s linen in to soak, then head up to Mr Hodge and collect his. Will you be all right?’

‘I think so, my dear.’

‘Very good.’

She removed the other soldiers from the basket, until they stood tall upon the pitted terrain of the kitchen table, staring up at them with George’s gentle eyes. Together husband and wife stared at them in turn, until Barnabus found enough strength to clear his throat.

‘I shall put them in the window, Alice, just as you said. But they cannot be displayed without …’

Alice frowned. ‘Without?’

Barnabus raised himself from the table and kissed his wife’s cheek.

‘You carry on,’ he said. ‘You shall soon see.’

And later that afternoon Alice did see, when she returned from Mr Hodge’s farm – for in the window of Jenkins & Son Toyshop, front and centre, were seven wooden soldiers, standing atop a bodhrán drum with gold tassels, the very same drum Barnabus had made for George, all those years ago.