It was the winter of 1946 and it was very, very cold. In our community in the Mendips, we suffered
terribly. The hills were covered in snow and the livestock were already in poor
condition. The land girls did a good job, but the farm I lived on suffered a
loss of a good third of our sheep due to them being in poor condition when the
bad weather hit. We were more or less
trapped, and getting to the village for supplies was difficult; the old horse could
only do so much.
On a farm each day is the same – you look after the animals first.
So, on Christmas eve we got up early and went out to find the sheep so we could
feed them whatever silage we could dig out from the barn. But we couldn’t find
them. Our day was spent with the dog and the horse, looking for them.
The days were winter short, and Christmas eve was cold, but bright, the hills draped in snow as if they were ready for a wedding. We went
out again after lunch to look for the sheep, me, my brother and my father. Just
the three of us. My brother Jeff was always a quiet lad, and since coming back
from the war was even more withdrawn. He was happiest with the sheep, and his
dog, so not finding them today caused him some distress, though the only way we
knew it was because he was frowning more and hardly spoke at all.
Jeff took the lead with Scrap, the dog. She bounded up and
down in the deep snow, her black markings standing out on the white landscape. The
sun was low over the hills and shone bright, like a searchlight. If we hadn’t
been so concerned for the sheep, it would have been a beautiful scene. It was
hard for me to move through the snow, being the shortest, but I was determined
to keep up with the adults. After all, at 13 I was just about an adult anyway.
Scrap barked, and disappeared - the snow must have been very
deep. We headed towards her muffled calls and, wading through the snow, we
found her digging. Jeff looked hopeful, anticipating finding the sheep perhaps,
but Scrap had dug a tunnel in the snow not to one of our beasts, but to an old
wooden box. We finished Scrap’s work and dug it up; it was old, black oak, and
bound with brass fixings and a fastener with a padlock. Jeff looked at it in
disgust, so I took hold of it, out of curiosity. Father just looked thoughtful.
We looked for the sheep until the sun dipped behind the
lowest of the hills, and headed home in the weird light that you get when the
snow is lit by reflection upon reflection. We trudged home, still looking for
signs of sheep on the way, with Scrap bounding ahead happily, and me still
carrying the small wooden box.
When we got home, I asked father if I could have the box,
and he just shrugged. Jeff was totally uninterested, just tried fiddling with
the radio to try and get some signal and a sign of life outside or small,
frozen and desolate world. To me, the box was like a Christmas present, so I
laid it by the hearth so I could open it in the morning.
Christmas eve we ate some bread and dripping, and went to
bed early – Jeff hadn’t got a squeak out of the radio, and we were all
downhearted at not finding the sheep. Father let out a huge sigh, and Jeff
frowned some more. Scrap curled up by the fire, her tail wagging and her one
white and one brown eye looking up at me as if to say ‘goodnight’.
Christmas morning broke and we rose, wished each other the
usual seasonal greeting, and then went about our work. My job was to feed the chickens
and I wanted to do it quickly – the snow had fallen again overnight but the
blanket of white was almost insulating, and with the yellow winter sun, the
world was glowing as the sun rose. The chickens were pleased to see me but not
impressed with the few food scraps we gave them; they would have to scavenge and
dig in the snow.
Jeff had taken Scrap to look for the sheep again, but
promised to be back soon, he wouldn’t go far on his own. Father was busy with
the horse and the cow in our yard, and having finished my chores I went back into
the kitchen. It didn’t feel like Christmas – there was no tree, no presents,
but there was plenty of snow. I thought about my mother briefly – wondering what
she might have done for us on Christmas day if she hadn’t passed away with
smallpox when I was just a babe.
I started preparing for the one thing that would make us
feel like Christmas – lunch! Father had killed and prepared a chicken for us and
I peeled some of the wrinkly potatoes we still had. And then, I heard a noise –
a sort of muffled jingle. I stopped my work and looked around the cottage,
trying to fathom the source of the noise. And I came to my box – the one from
the field. The noise was coming from it, and getting louder as I got nearer.
Father was in the yard, Jeff was in the fields with Scrap,
so being brave I picked up the box and shook it. The noise continued! Something
in my head said that I had to open it and let out the sound so I put the box on
the kitchen table to see if I could find remove the padlock. I put the box on
the table and turned to our ‘everything’ draw. I found a bunch of old black
keys, some from the cottage, others just collected over the years. And one,
just one key on the bunch, looked more silver than black. It looked just about
the right size too.
I fitted the key into the padlock and it turned. It creaked
and was stiff, but with my small fingers firmly pulling the bar, the lock
slipped open and I took it off and opened the box. Inside was a small bell – silver,
bright and shiny as if it was new. As I lifted the bell out to look at it, the
door opened and Jeff and an excited Scrap came in. “Found ‘em” he said. And,
for the first time in weeks, he smiled. Father came in too; “There’s a cart coming.”
I showed them both the bell, then popped it back in its box and
returned to getting the chicken into the oven and the potatoes on the burner. We
would need a hot meal today, and if we had visitors, I’d best put the kettle on.
The cart and its occupants finally pulled into our yard,
with their horse steaming like the kettle. Jeff went out and rubbed the horse
down and Father invited the Carters in. He brought them into the kitchen as I
poured out a piping brew. “’Tis Martha and James,” said Father, “and they brung
us Christmas.” I was a little confused until Martha, smiling and slightly
steaming herself, came into the kitchen and put a large box on the table. “Presents,”
She said, “and some vittles. Thought it would be good for us all to eat together
today, seeing as how we are on our own too, just across the valley.” It must
have been quite a journey from their small farmhouse. Jeff smiled even more; I
think he liked Martha, and she was just about his age too. Father and James sat
at by the fire to discuss the challenges of the terrible winter, and Martha
helped me get more food on the go and set the table ready for a Christmas
feast.
After a wonderful meal and more talk at the table than I’d
heard in months, Martha brought the box with the presents out. There was a
white handkerchief for father, a small bear with a red ribbon bow around his
neck for me, and a penknife for Jeff. “We bain’t got no presents for you,” said
father regretfully, but I had an idea and took the ribbon from the neck of my
bear, and threaded the silver bell upon it. “Yes we have father, we have this
Christmas bell for them.” Martha was delighted and her smile made Jeff
blush with pleasure. Since finding the bell we had found our sheep, and found
Christmas. I hoped the bell would be as lucky for Martha and her father as I believed
it had been for us.
Story (C) Carolyn Sheppard
Photo (C) Carolyn Sheppard (it's Royston, not the Mendips, but there you go)
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