mummers broke into applause and Father Phelan along with them, though his mood was dampened a little to have missed Callum. Callum had spent the entire Christmas season recovering from his fever and the priest was surprised to find him not at home now. He’d gone off on his own hours ago, Lizzie said, to try and make something of the final night of celebrations.
—Is it a man from the Gut? the King asked.
Clap, clap went the wooden jaws to say no.
—A man from Paradise Deep?
Clap.
—A man from Paradise Deep then. Now is this a rich man or a poor man, Horse Chops?
One clap signaled the former.
—Bless you child, a rich man in love with you. And is our rich man one of Father Phelan’s flock?
Clap, clap.
—A Protestant? An Englishman? A black?
Lizzie turned to Devine’s Widow and said, For the love of God, Missus. It was clear to them both who the King was suggesting, and Lizzie thought the suggestion crossed the line, even for mummers.
—Let it be, Lizzie, the old woman said angrily.
—And now Horse Chops, the King said, the most important question. Will our girl marry her rich Englishman from Paradise Deep?
Mary Tryphena held her breath, trying desperately to look disinterested, dismissive, though she couldn’t help but feel some portion of her destiny was about to be laid out for her to see. Horse Chops stepped back and gave two claps and the mummers fell over one another, groaning in despair.
—No wedding, the King said. —No riches for our girl, alack. He turned to the room and said, A song. We’ll give her a song and a dance at least.
—And she’ll be better for it, Devine’s Widow said under her breath. She was watching Mary Tryphena, reconsidering the girl’s inconsolable moodiness through the fall. Thinking of King-me Sellers and all she’d done to keep clear of his way, only to find herself these years later, married to it regardless.
The mummers’ last stop of the night was Selina’s House, the stars almost doused by the first hint of dawn. There was no one up, the house dark and the fireplace cold, but they hammered at the door until they heard movement upstairs. King-me despised the mummers, who treated him as no one would dare without their disguise and the license granted by the tradition. He only let them in for fear of what they might do if he refused. During his first years in Paradise Deep he barred the door and had his chimney stopped up with sods, one morning found his cow lowing mournfully on top of her shed. He allowed their visits then to avoid worse again, although he was frugal with the food and drink he offered. The mummers ensured they had plenty of snow on their shoes and clothes to leave a mess behind them, as a protest against King-me’s lack of enthusiasm for their entertainment.
—King-me! they shouted up at the windows, but it was only Absalom who peeked out finally, his hair flat on one side of his head and still shivering himself out of sleep. —Any mummers ’lowed in? the King asked as they pushed past him into the cold hallway and felt their way along the walls to the kitchen.
Absalom lit a taper from the embers piled under ash in the fireplace and brought it to the candles on the table, then set about getting a lunch of tea buns and old cheese and two pint bottles of spruce beer. The group stamped the snow off their feet and shouted for King-me to join them, though it was clear Absalom’s grandparents had retired hours before and the youngster was the only representative of the family they would see. They were all exhausted and half-asleep and finally let the issue drop. Absalom measured the beer into equal portions and stood back against a wall to wait, like a servant dismissed from table.
Father Phelan watched him through a fortnight’s haze of booze and sleeplessness. All night he’d been wondering if it was true that Absalom was in love with Callum’s girl and had somehow made it known in the world. He had never seen the boy outside
—Is it a man from the Gut? the King asked.
Clap, clap went the wooden jaws to say no.
—A man from Paradise Deep?
Clap.
—A man from Paradise Deep then. Now is this a rich man or a poor man, Horse Chops?
One clap signaled the former.
—Bless you child, a rich man in love with you. And is our rich man one of Father Phelan’s flock?
Clap, clap.
—A Protestant? An Englishman? A black?
Lizzie turned to Devine’s Widow and said, For the love of God, Missus. It was clear to them both who the King was suggesting, and Lizzie thought the suggestion crossed the line, even for mummers.
—Let it be, Lizzie, the old woman said angrily.
—And now Horse Chops, the King said, the most important question. Will our girl marry her rich Englishman from Paradise Deep?
Mary Tryphena held her breath, trying desperately to look disinterested, dismissive, though she couldn’t help but feel some portion of her destiny was about to be laid out for her to see. Horse Chops stepped back and gave two claps and the mummers fell over one another, groaning in despair.
—No wedding, the King said. —No riches for our girl, alack. He turned to the room and said, A song. We’ll give her a song and a dance at least.
—And she’ll be better for it, Devine’s Widow said under her breath. She was watching Mary Tryphena, reconsidering the girl’s inconsolable moodiness through the fall. Thinking of King-me Sellers and all she’d done to keep clear of his way, only to find herself these years later, married to it regardless.
The mummers’ last stop of the night was Selina’s House, the stars almost doused by the first hint of dawn. There was no one up, the house dark and the fireplace cold, but they hammered at the door until they heard movement upstairs. King-me despised the mummers, who treated him as no one would dare without their disguise and the license granted by the tradition. He only let them in for fear of what they might do if he refused. During his first years in Paradise Deep he barred the door and had his chimney stopped up with sods, one morning found his cow lowing mournfully on top of her shed. He allowed their visits then to avoid worse again, although he was frugal with the food and drink he offered. The mummers ensured they had plenty of snow on their shoes and clothes to leave a mess behind them, as a protest against King-me’s lack of enthusiasm for their entertainment.
—King-me! they shouted up at the windows, but it was only Absalom who peeked out finally, his hair flat on one side of his head and still shivering himself out of sleep. —Any mummers ’lowed in? the King asked as they pushed past him into the cold hallway and felt their way along the walls to the kitchen.
Absalom lit a taper from the embers piled under ash in the fireplace and brought it to the candles on the table, then set about getting a lunch of tea buns and old cheese and two pint bottles of spruce beer. The group stamped the snow off their feet and shouted for King-me to join them, though it was clear Absalom’s grandparents had retired hours before and the youngster was the only representative of the family they would see. They were all exhausted and half-asleep and finally let the issue drop. Absalom measured the beer into equal portions and stood back against a wall to wait, like a servant dismissed from table.
Father Phelan watched him through a fortnight’s haze of booze and sleeplessness. All night he’d been wondering if it was true that Absalom was in love with Callum’s girl and had somehow made it known in the world. He had never seen the boy outside
Similar Books
