ENTRY 18 -- The Idyll

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An Excerpt from the Travel Journal of Nigel Fox circa 1925

Entry 18 -- The Idyll



Somerset is one of the most extraordinarily beautiful places in the world. Excursionists from America and the Continent flock to see the ancient castles, stately houses and historic churches. Friendly inns are booked year-round with those hoping to recapture the glory that once was Camelot. The legend of Glastonbury is the foremost reason for visiting. The tale goes something like this:

At the time of our Lord, there was a Jew from Arimathea who had boldly taken the Messiah's body down from the cross. He brought it to a new tomb that he had paid for out of his own purse. Our Lord had only a few possessions, but the man from Arimathea collected them all. These relics had an awesome power for good and evil which would eventually ignite the Tribulation. The leaders of the Early Church had asked this man to take the Gospel to the Western Coast-lands (Great Britain). Unfortunately, like James the Just, he was a Judaiser and refused to go. However, this Judaiser from Arimathea had a son who had been greatly influenced by the Apostle Paul. This son, Josephus of Arimathea would bring the relics to Britain when he set up the first Celtic Church.

Norah spent many hours each day in various parts of Somerset researching the early history of the area. Knowing that her quest was rooted in the legend of the Abbey, I asked several subtle questions. "I am a scientist," she would reply, refusing to share until she had something to share. I respected her privacy. Although she worked very hard, she was able to devote a great deal of time to our relationship. I was becoming passionately fond of her. In my daily devotions I thanked God over and over that this brilliant and loving creature had come into my life.

The 'Coming' Season

Summer turned to autumn, and by late November we were settling into the Advent season. Sipho spent long hours chopping wood for the fireplace in the parlour and complaining about the cold. The house had coal heaters in most of the rooms, but somehow things never seemed warm enough for those of us used to hotter climes. Norah, however, was in her element. Delighting in the chilly air, she continued to zip around in her open-air Auburn while wearing a fur hat and coat. My heart would grow light at the sight of her.

I was becoming a thoroughly modern man, listening to popular jazz music and even going to the bioscope. The Cecil B. DeMille film, Male and Female, was the first motion picture I ever attended. Although it was not a recent release, Norah and I found it delightful. I would dare to say that we saw every motion picture that was ever made: some two and three times. Life was euphoric.

As the celebration of Christ's birth approached, I was haunted by memories of those Christmases from long ago. I hoped they would not put me out of humour with Norah or indeed Christmas itself. Father had frowned upon too much 'frivolity', but Mother had managed to decorate the house in a very tasteful manner that even he could live with. The main element of the decorations had been a large creche, which was set up in the front room under the window. The hand-painted, wooden figures had come from Germany and were exquisite in their detail.

One day in mid-December, Norah arrived with her vehicle filled with boughs of evergreen, holly and ivy. A large box was packed with velvet ribbons and glass ornaments. With a flourish, she even produced a ball of mistletoe, which she directed Sipho to hang high in the doorway between the vestibule and the parlour. When he climbed down from the ladder and rubbed his hands together, Norah pecked him on the cheek. Sipho stood as if struck by lightning until we explained the curious tradition that surrounded the parasitic plant.

With holly sprigs and berries decorating the entrance, my residence was looking more festive than it ever had. Even the large knocker was tied up in red and green crepe. It was a jolly time indeed. Norah's artistic abilities amazed me. With a few branches and ribbons she had transformed the house. To me it still seemed to be missing something, so while Norah pulled Sipho into the pantry for lessons on making egg-nog and mulled wine, I climbed to the attic to search for our family decorations. My thoughts of Christmas were interpenetrated by memories of mother's telling of the Christmas story. In a back corner under the eaves I was eventually rewarded: packed carefully in tissue paper, each piece wrapped individually, I found the entire creche. With a pounding heart I carried the box down to the ground floor.

While Sipho and Norah bustled around in the back of the house, I quietly set up the manger scene with all its life-like figures; from kings to camels on a table positioned under the front window. I shall always remember the looks on their faces when they stepped into the parlour and saw my small contribution. Sipho gaped at the display as if the wooden scene had appeared there by magic. Norah clapped her hands together so vigorously that she nearly upset the tray Sipho carried with its offering of egg-nog. Proud as a peacock, I basked in their praise.

The Christmas Gaiety

Somerset seemed to be infected by the Yuletide spirit. On Christmas Eve, to our wonder and delight, a group of carollers with gladsome looks stood outside the house and sang in clear, young voices. When we opened the door to hear them better and to invite them in to warm themselves, Sipho recognised the neighbourhood children who had once raced past the house in fear. The oldest of the young people solemnly presented Sipho with a gift while the others hummed, 'We Wish You a Merry Christmas'. Inside the brightly decorated package was a beautifully knitted, dark blue toque and a pair of mittens to match. He immediately put them on, wearing the hat askew to the right in Xhosa fashion. So moved by the gift, Sipho forgot himself, repeating, "Enkosi, enkosi," over and over again, as I translated, "Thank you, thank you!"

Later that evening, we all bundled off in Norah's car for the Christmas Eve service. As we got out of the vehicle, another near-miracle occurred: flakes of snow began to drift down upon us. As more and more fell, Sipho stuck out his tongue in child-like wonder, in order to catch one of the flakes. By the time the service concluded, the county of Somerset was nearly half a foot deep in snow! Sipho was as enchanted with it as anyone I had ever seen. When Norah suggested we build a snowman, it seemed the next logical step.

Our perfect Christmas was rounded off the next day with an incredible meal, which somehow Norah and Sipho had managed to plan behind my back. They had suggested that I attend the morning service on my own, and I must admit to being slightly disgruntled, believing my friends to be rather slothful. When I returned around 11:30 a.m., my eyes were greeted with a festive scene out of a magazine such as Saturday Evening Post. The dining room had been totally transformed through the addition of red, white and green tartan bows, greenery and golden balls. Christmas crackers and paper hats lay at each place around a remarkable centrepiece of ribbons, poinsettias and candles.

My amazement grew when Sipho emerged from the kitchen carrying a glazed turkey which had been imported for the luxurious repast. My knees felt weak and I had to sit down at the out-pouring of love reflected in all the work that had gone into the preparations. Norah followed Sipho with a black pudding, which she said she had made from a recipe found at the back of a box in the kitchen cupboard. After dinner I read allowed with great expression A Christmas Carol In Prose; Being a Ghost Story of Christmas. My holiday was complete.

As we cuddled in front of the fireplace after Sipho had retired I told Norah that the past few months of my life had been amongst my best; thanks to her presence. In the soft glow from the Yule log her dark hair shone like Japanese lacquer and copper-coloured flecks danced in her large green eyes. Norah's cheeks were flushed with the warmth of the fire and the excitement of the day. I kissed the tip of her nose and she lay her head contentedly on my shoulder. Love, as the golden age of English literature testifies, can transform the soul.

I whispered in her ear, "I have a present for you."

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