Chapter Text
“Then bring us some of your Christmas ale,
And likewise your Christmas beer;
For when another Christmas comes
We may not all be here.”
The lads finished off the carol, mostly together, and the small but enthusiastic crowd in the pub gave a rousing cheer.
It was the day after Boxing Day, that weird time in between Christmas and the New Year, when nothing is as it should be and anything is possible. Charlie Spring was behind the bar in his usual vac [1] job as a barman at the Queens Head. He mostly liked it, although the run up to Christmas had been a lot. He had expected his shift today to be quiet, and had bought his copy of Thuc [2] to read in between serving the occasional pint, but he’d forgotten that it was the traditional vac [3]Truham Soul-Cakers annual Walk [3] this evening. Might be a laugh though.
The Queens Head was the fourth pub on their itinerary. The mummers would have already been to the Dog and Partridge, then taken a short walk to the Duke of York, followed by a slower but slightly louder walk to the Red Lion. A few minutes ago, the seven men had burst through the doors into his pub letting in the chill air and singing raucously.
Charlie started to pull a pint and watched as the lads began to move tables and chairs to clear a space to perform in. He recognised most of the men even though they were all in costume.
Father Christmas in traditional green robes with a wreath upon his head was stacking up chairs. Normally this was Tim Brown who ran the butchers in town and was also the Deputy Ringing Master at St Philips’. His was the first pint Charlie pulled. He knew Tim liked Theakstons.
Moving one of the larger tables was Gurnam Singh who ran the Truham Post Office. Today he was in white robes, outlined in gold, and sporting a crown upon his head. “Wicked” King George was his role this year, which was in stark contrast to his usual sunny nature. Gurnam didn’t drink alcohol, so Charlie made him up a pint of lime and soda and no ice.
The Doctor (no, not that Doctor) was busying himself collecting empty pint glasses from the tables the mummers were moving and bringing them to the bar. He smiled at Charlie and Jon Thwaite (for he was the Doctor), who Charlie usually saw at the train station whenever he bought a ticket to go back to Oxford, joyfully stroked his long fake beard and asked Charlie for a pint of Thatchers. Charlie nodded and started on Jon’s drink.
The four sons of Father Christmas had, for the past two years, been played by some members of the Truham Old Boys Rugby Club, and this year was no different. Charlie scowled. He recognised three of them, even wearing their costumes of armour complete with helmets on their heads and carrying swords that were already looking the worse for wear: Sai, Otis and Christian.
Whilst they weren’t the lads who had bullied him at school, they hadn’t exactly done anything to stop it either. Even a few years’ distance and a happy, if academically stressful, life at university hadn’t made the memory any less painful. Three of the cheapest draft lagers coming up.
The fourth son, the tallest, he didn’t recognise. Charlie shrugged. From the way this Knight with a terrible fake red beard spoke with the other “sons” as they moved the last of the chairs out of the way, he clearly knew them well. Just another rugby lad. He could have a shitty pint too.
A space now big enough to perform in had been cleared and the Soul-Cakers began their play. As they were performing it for the fourth time this evening they should have been word perfect really, but this was also their fourth pub of the night and Charlie didn’t have high hopes. Last year the Queens Head had been the last pub on The Walk. He hadn’t been working that night, but had come in anyway to escape his family and have a quiet G & T next to the real fire in the snug room while doing a little reading for pleasure. Sometimes it was a nice change to read something that was written in this century.
He’d been interrupted by the mummers last year. Despite the memories of school that the “sons” gave him, he had enjoyed the festive feelings that the simple entertainment conferred and had laughed at the shenanigans as the mummers, who were clearly much the worse for wear, tried to remember both the words and the blocking. Last year had ended with Father Christmas nearly singeing his beard. This year, as he was working, Charlie just hoped they didn’t smash too many glasses.
The four sons of Father Christmas took off their helmets and clattered them together to ask for quiet from the other patrons of the pub. Charlie’s eyes were drawn to the handsome tall Knight whose blond hair did not match his fake beard at all. Not that Charlie really cared whether or not he was a blond or a redhead. Was he blond? He squinted in the soft light of the pub. Could be red if… Charlie shook his head.
“What ho! What ho! Make room for mummers
and old Anna Domino.”
Father Christmas began the traditional play with an expansive gesture to the other patrons of the pub and nearly smacked the King in the face. It was pretty much downhill from there as during the second stanza the West Knight, Otis, leant on his sword which, as it was not a real sword and only made of cardboard, did not support his weight. Otis flailed and fell onto The East Knight, Sai, who then crashed into the tall North Knight, who promptly fell against the bar.
The broad North Knight righted himself and looked straight into Charlie’s eyes. The blond blushed.
“Hi,” he said with a lopsided smile.
Charlie raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think that’s in the script.”
“Err…” The North Knight blushed again and turned back towards Father Christmas.
Fortunately for everyone involved, the audience was able to recite the words along with the mummers and the play picked up pace. Truham inhabitants had been performing this play for more than two hundred years. It was ingrained in their blood, even if their blood was starting to fill up with alcohol or “festive spirit”.
The knights fought the wicked King, the Doctor revived the dead and everyone celebrated along with Father Christmas. THE END.
The mummers finished off the play with the Kentish Mummers Carol, sung with more enthusiasm than skill. The patrons of the pub cheered once more and everyone helped to put the pub back to rights. The East Knight handed his phone to The Doctor and the knights stood together and posed for a picture.
“Am I ok to tag you on insta, mate?” asked Sai. The blond Knight nodded in the affirmative.
In turn, each of the mummers went up to the bar to collect their drink. Father Christmas, The Doctor, The Wicked King, then The Knights of the East, South and West. Finally the Knight of the North went up to the bar.
“Hi.”
“You said that before,” said Charlie, handing the blond his shitty pint. He tried not to look into the honey eyes of the tall man standing on the other side of the bar, and he definitely hadn’t noticed the well-formed muscles in his arms.
“Right. Yes.” The Knight blushed again and grabbed his pint before moving over to the table in the corner where the other knights were sitting.
From his observation point behind the bar, Charlie could see the knights conversing deeply and periodically looking over in his direction. He bristled. If they were going to cause trouble, they could fuck right off. It might be Christmas, peace and goodwill to all men and such, but Charlie was not in the mood for mildly inebriated homophobia. He glared at them whilst he was wiping down the bar.
Father Christmas suddenly stood. They were behind schedule and had two more pubs to visit after this one. The mummers gathered themselves together and made to leave the Queens Head. They started trooping out the door, but the blond Knight trailed behind. He went over to the bar with his now empty pint glass in hand and waved it at Charlie.
“Just… er.. returning this,” he sputtered out.
Charlie raised his eyebrow again. “I can see that, rugby lad,” he said frostily.
The Knight placed the glass on the bar and gaped at him. “How did you know that?” he questioned.
The West Knight called from the door. “C’mon, Nick! You can come back and flirt with Charlie later when we’ve finished The Walk.”
The blond Knight, Nick, turned bright red, dropped his gaze and hurried out the door with the other mummers.
“Flirting?” thought Charlie. He’d hoped that being made fun of by Truham rugby lads would have stopped after he’d left the place. He scowled again and returned to drying the bar. These men must think that he was some kind of idiot, he thought, sighing. God, he couldn’t wait to be back in college. The pickings in Truham were very slim but in Oxford he never had to be without the company of a gentleman friend, if he was so inclined, and Charlie was generally very much so inclined. Grindr had nothing on the Wednesday Night Bop.
His phone suddenly pinged a notification. Someone had tagged the Queens Head in an insta post.
Glossary / Notes
11 The holidays between the terms at Oxford are known as vacations, or vacs. Charlie is on his Christmas vac here.[return to text]
22 Thucydides. He wrote “History of the Peloponnesian War”, one of the earliest surviving scholarly works of history. This writer does not enjoy Thuc.[return to text]
33 Whilst the Truham Soul-Cakers are fictional, the tradition of mumming groups is very much real. The play described here is loosely taken from the play that is performed by my local mummers. Mummers are typically all-male amateur actors who perform folk plays and songs often at Christmas or Easter. The plays often include St George, a Doctor who brings the slain Knight back to life and some kind of villain. The scripts don’t tend to change and the story would be very familiar to regular patrons of the pubs of Truham.[return to text]