A Friendly Letter, The Blog.

Candles in the Window, A Quaker Christmas Story

Copyright © Chuck Fager

[NOTE: This story is fiction. But the village of Settle, and Settle Friends Meeting, are very real, on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales.]

Part I

The village of Settle, Yorkshire, England – 12th Month, 1814

Abram Woodhouse was late, and he knew it. But even so, as the daylight faded he climbed the path up Castleberg hill on the north edge of Settle.

Castleberg Hill, Settle
From the hilltop, on a bright clear day, he could see from Settle southwest to Pendle Hill, where George Fox had his vision of a great people to be gathered; and to the westward rose the whitewashed limestone crags of Pen-y-Ghent. He wanted to look down and see the village all lit up.

A winter view of Pendle Hill from the Yorkshire Dales, England

But the sun was down and a cold winter fog was rolling in dark and low over the slopes of the Yorkshire Dales. By the time Abram reached the top, huffing and puffing, snow had begun to fall, and about all he could see were the tops of some leafless trees and the mist made by his rapid breathing.

He stopped there for a moment to catch his breath. Looking north, he couldn’t see the sheep he knew were out there on the rock-strewn hillsides, huddling against the cold under their thick, matted coats of fleece. Peering over the rocky ledge down toward the village, he thought he could make out a faint flicker here and there, but it could have been just his imagination.

Too bad, he thought. He had hoped to see Settle sparkling in the dark like the queen’s necklace on a black velvet cushion, with candles in practically every window. Every window, that is, but the ones in the Woodhouse bakery and pastry Shop, and at their house on Lancaster Street.

The Bakery! The thought reminded Abram that he was late. He snatched up his pie basket and scrambled quickly down the path, back to the village and a long evening’s work.

A steep street in Settle.

Christmas Eve, so called by the world’s people, was always a frantically busy time at the bakery. While the Woodhouse family, being Quakers, did not observe Christmas as a special day, almost all their customers did. That meant orders for dozens more pies than usual, plus hundreds of tarts and ginger cakes, and scores of extra loaves of their rich, thick bread.

So all the week before, the whole Woodhouse family were in the shop almost round the clock, mixing dough, sprinkling sugar and cinnamon, spooning out the cherry preserves, and tending the fire under the big brick ovens.

Abram did all of this, and more: he was often sent out with a basket full of pies or tarts for delivery to the better customers: beef and mincemeat pies to old Tilbury at the Golden Lion Pub beyond the square; or down the cobbles of South Street, through the narrow passage of the Ginnett and past the sturdy old Meetinghouse, with scones for the Blackburns and buns for the widow Kilburn. Sometimes he crossed the river Ribble to Giggleswick, where the vicar doted on Mother’s ginger cakes.

This evening he had been sent to the pub, where Tilbury wanted three more pies for his last round of customers, and it was from there that he had turned to climb the hill.

To be Continued

This entry was posted on Thursday, December 3rd, 2009 at 9:13 pm and is filed under Stories-Quaker. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.