A Quaker Christmas Story — Part III
Candles in the Window – A Quaker Christmas Story
Copyright (c) Chuck Fager
But then a hooded figure carrying a long stick loomed around the corner. “Here, now, what’s this?” a voice said curtly.
Abram recognized Gran’s commanding, husky tones. But the other boy, eyeing her staff cautiously, edged away from him, right up under a window in which two candles were burning. In their glow Abram got a good look at him: curly red hair and a freckled face, with one front tooth missing. His chin was wrapped in a gray muffler; his coat was ragged and patched.
“Go along now,” Gran commanded him. She tapped her staff significantly on the stone walk.
The boy turned and ran. “Bloody Quakers!” he spat again over his shoulder. “All your windows will be broken tonight! You’ll see!”
Gran watched him disappear around a corner, and then said, more quietly, “Is thee hurt, lad?”
Abram shook his head, and picked up his basket and hat. He was a little ashamed that she had discovered him preparing to fight. One leg ached where it had been kicked. But it would get better.
“Well, then,” Gran said, “let’s get on to `shop now. Thy father was worryin’ about thee.”
Abram limped a little as they walked through the square and he explained about his detour up the hill. Gran understood that; Castleberg was one of her favorite places too. But Abram was bothered by the boy’s words. “Gran,” he said anxiously, “hadn’t we better tell Father, so he can get the shutters closed? We don’t want anymore broken windows.”
Gran nodded. “We’ll tell him,” she said. “But I’ve a feeling we may be a bit too late.”
And so they were. At the shop, Father was sweeping up shards of glass from the walk in front. Behind him, inside the shop, mother and his sister Sarah were brushing off the display shelf.
No one seemed very upset. Abram was not much surprised either; after all, they were used to it, in a way. The nights of illumination were called to celebrate British battle victories. If your window didn’t have a candle in it on such nights, you risked having it broken by ragamuffins.
Even so, the elders of Settle Meeting had made it clear: the Quaker Peace Testimony forbade joining in illuminations or any other celebrations of carnal warfare, come what may. And the Woodhouse family kept to the testimony as best they could.
“Did thee see who did it?” Abram asked.
“Caught a glimpse of him running off,” Father said. “Redheaded lad. Ragged. No one I knew.”
Of course, thought Abram. The boy who kicked me! Anger flashed over him. Next time I see him, he told himself grimly, I will thrash him good, Peace Testimony or no.
Mother was shaking her head at Gran. “Well,” she said, “I expect it’s a good thing we’ve a standing order with Cobbold’s glaziers. They’ll be here day after tomorrow with a new window. I think we Friends have been keeping Cobbold in business through this war.”
“How many does this make?” Gran asked. “Five times, or is it six?”
“Six,” Father answered through the empty window frame. “It’s been a long war.” He clumped the big shutters closed over the opening and came through the door to bolt them from inside. “We’ll just have to leave them shut til Barney gets here.” He surveyed the shop and his family. “I think that’s about cleaned up,” he said. “So we better get back to work, eh?”
Mother nodded, and put away the brooms. Then she and Sarah returned to their tarts. Abram was sent to bring in a big sack of flour, then feed the fire and stoke it with air from the bellows, to be ready for Gran’s next batch of pies. Well-stoked, the oven fire kept them all warm despite the broken window.
Coming back from the wood bin with another armload of logs, he heard Gran whispering to Mother. “Did thee notice, Martha, there was a black bow on the candles in Margaret Newhouse’s window? It must be her boy Jack. He was off to New Orleans with the Yorkshire dragoons.”
Mother shook her head. “The poor lad.” she murmured. “God have mercy on his soul.”
“And hers, too,” Gran added, more loudly. “What’ll she do now, I wonder, with four other children and her husband gone too?” Then more softly, almost to herself, she said, “another one for my pie list, I reckon.”
Abram added the logs to the fire, and pumped the bellows. Then he wrapped up some orders for delivery that night. The vicar was laying in a double batch of ginger cakes, to get him through the holiday. Abram put the parcel on the counter by the back door, next to a stack of pies.
The pile of goodies made him feel envious of the lavish worldly celebrations of which they were to be part. Candy, gifts, parties, bright decorations–he had seen all these, if only for moments at a time, when making his deliveries.
To Be Continued