A Friendly Letter, The Blog.

Candles in the Window –– A Quaker Christmas Story –– Part Four

Copyright (c) by Chuck Fager

(Yorkshire England — 1814)

Of course, the holiday would not go completely unnoticed by the Woodhouse family. The shop would be closed–there was no business that day anyway–and they always had a big dinner, with special desserts.

Then father would read the Nativity story from his big old Bible, wire spectacles balanced shakily on his nose. But that would be about all. “For Friends,” Gran had explained to him and his sister long ago, “Christ lives within, y’know, and Christmas should be every day.”

Abram could see her point, but he still yearned for some of the gaiety and gifts other households had. For that matter, it seemed that Gran herself did not keep entirely to this stern plain testimony. For each year since he had been old enough to work in the shop, Abram had noticed her preparing special parcels of pies and tarts and bread, which she set aside from the other orders.

And when he awoke on Christmas morning, she was always gone, never appearing until almost dinnertime, then coming in red-faced from the chill. She never explained where she had been; but next day at the shop, the special parcels would be gone.

Staring at the stack of well-wrapped pies, Abram suddenly understood where Gran had been all those Christmas mornings: Her parcels must be meant for some of the poor families of Settle. And as soon as he realized this, he felt a strong urge, almost a need, to join her on her rounds tomorrow. He turned toward her, bent over a counter flecked with flour.

Listening to his request, Gran looked up thoughtfully from the dough she was kneading. “If thee really wants to, Abram, thee may come,” she said quietly. “But think about it awhile before thee decides. I start well before dawn, and thee needn’t spoil thy rest on a quiet morning. Tell me before thee turns in tonight.”

Abram nodded, but he already knew what he would say. If he had to get up early, he would just go to bed sooner, that’s all.

It did not turn out to be quite that simple, though. The Woodhouse home was built of solid stone, and all its windows were covered by strong shutters, pulled tight against rocks and bricks on nights of illumination. Even so, Abram was jerked awake twice by the sound of bottles crashing against the outer wall, accompanied by muffled curses.

After the second time, he lay awake, blinking in the darkness, for a long time. He remembered the redheaded boy, wondered if it was him, and felt again his anger at the attacks. He wasn’t sure, when he heard Gran’s quiet knock at his door, whether he had been back to sleep at all.

She saw him yawning, and whispered, “Thee still needn’t come. Stay and go back to bed.”

He shook his head, and shrugged his way into his warmest clothes.

Heavily muffled, they slipped out into the darkness of Lancaster Street, each carrying a large basket laden with their treasure. Gran led the way, and even using her walking staff, she seemed to glide down the streets, sure-footed, as if hardly touching the ground. Abram, more than half a century younger, was hard-pressed to keep up with her.

The work was simple enough. On High Street Gran stopped at a doorway, and leaned a parcel against it at an angle, so it would stay put. She worked as silently as a thief. Around the next corner, another doorway. By the time they had worked their way to Tilbury Close, around the corner from the shop, their baskets were almost empty. Producing a key from her heavy skirts, Gran let them into the bakery, where in the dim glow from the banked coals beneath the oven Abram could make out another stack of parcels beside the door.

As they loaded up, Abram whispered a question that had been nagging at his mind: “Gran, how does thee know where to go?”

She shrugged, and whispered back. “Women know,” she said. “The Women’s Meeting keeps track, we hear things in the shop. And,” she paused significantly, “I just remember which windows have black ribbons. Come along now.” She pulled the door shut behind them.

There were some windows where candles still burned, flickering in low misshapen stumps of wax, but mostly Settle was dark. As they crossed the empty square, with its row of shops in the Shambles, Abram glanced up and saw that the sky had cleared. He could make out a sprinkle of stars between the dark shapes of the buildings.

They were headed up the steep side streets beyond the square now, where the houses were smaller and becoming shabby. It seemed that Gran was laying parcels more often here, and soon their baskets were almost empty again. Then she stopped by an alley, and gestured to Abram.

“Here,” she said, handing him a big parcel, “thee can take this one. Past the third house on the left there’s a gate, and a tiny cottage set back a few yards. Step quietly now.”

Abram eagerly took the parcel, and she followed him down the alley. He found the gate, but stumbled on a cobblestone as he reached for it. The gate creaked as he pushed it back. He couldn’t see the cottage at first, then spotted a glow. Moving toward it, he tripped over a milkpail and almost lost his balance as the metal rolled and clattered.

Frightened at the noise, Abram straightened up and took a few more paces toward the cottage. He was almost at the door, stooping to lay the parcel, when it was jerked open abruptly.

“Who’s there?” a frightened voice demanded. A figure stood in the doorway holding a lantern in one hand and a club raised in the other.

To Be Continued

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