Chapter Seventeen

Christmas 1974
We went into town on the 21st, for supplies and for the Solstice party. At the co-op we put up our notice about our Twelfth Night party, and then slogged down to the general through the ice rimes for our monthly stock. There was a note on the middle of the doors:
‘Close the door: it be winter.’
It was full of tourists and smelled of cinnamon and cocoa. Jingly Christmas music was playing over the PA, and it was warm from the well-stoked fire in the stove. James was at the counter, wearing a Santa hat and red suspenders. His habitual salesman’s smile became a broad grin when we stepped up from the queue.

“Haha! Geordie! ‘ He clapped him on the shoulders across the counter. ‘Hello Claire. I have your order, and something else! Stay right there!’ He disappeared into the back behind the curtain – now red and green flannel – and returned with a box that was the size of a Boxing Day gift, and a smaller one, suspiciously tall and lean.
‘Plain brown wrapper,’ he said with twinkling eyes. ‘Hell of a time getting it through customs.’ George looked perplexed.
‘It’s not French postcards…. May we open it?’
‘Please!’
He tore the wrapping away… and there was a bottle of 15 year old Laphroaig. I thought George would cry. He was silent for a long moment.
‘By God Jimbo, you are a true mate,’ he murmured at last. ‘How the hell did you swing this?’
James was still twinkling. ‘I had Bob get it for me –‘ the barman. ‘There’s another one at Mosey’s, just for you. ‘
‘We’ll have to share this one.’
‘I was hoping you’d say that.’
‘We’ll have something to properly toast the haggis,’ I said.
‘That’s what made me think of it,’ James told us, ’when I was ordering the sheep stomach.'
‘Thanks, brother,’ George said, and they shook hands warmly over the counter.

It was about two in the morning when we got home, hauling the sledge behind us on skis from the road. The fire was still nicely banked, so it was easy enough to warm it up for a few moments longer; it had snowed while we were out, and we had to clear the path to get in the door. When we were unmuffled, George went into the kitchen and rummaged in the drawer by candlelight. A few minutes later he returned to where I sat with the dog on the floor in the common room, and handed me a juice glass, with a dram of beautiful aromatic peaty single-malt. I stood with him, because it was proper to do.
‘Here’s to a Happy Christmas,’ he murmured, and raised the glass in James’ direction. He looked at me, that intense look that thrilled and stilled at once, and very slowly took a drop of the beautiful stuff.
‘Oh….’ He closed his eyes in ecstasy, and gave a long sigh. ‘Almost better,’ he smiled, ‘almost. But not quite…. Maybe both,’ he came and kissed me. ‘Oh yes, that’s it. Come on, baby.’ He dipped his finger in the rare scotch and touched my lips. It burned like fire. Another kiss. Then, putting the glasses down on the bookshelf, he moved into a slow dance with me, humming a jazz tune huskily. 'Until the Real Thing Comes Along.' Oh my....
‘Is there anything that fella of yours can’t do?’
I have yet to discover it.

We decorated the house in greens and red ribbon for Twelfth Night. I had made a couple of haggis, one vegetarian, black bun, and a vegetarian version of cockie-leekie, and we brought out the Stilton we had also special-ordered. We lined the path from the road in pierced tin lanterns – borrowed from James – waiting until the last moment, in case it should snow. The house and workshop were all open, and we wondered how we could cram thirty people in our little space to eat. The rest was not a problem. When Dave and Carrie arrived, Dave went up to George, and he nodded. Dave had his bagpipe around the back, and we had agreed we'd hand the haggis through the kitchen windows.

When everyone was assembled, Geordie and James poured out a wee dram into everyone's cups – displacing the lamb' s wool that preceded it – and George said,
'As some of you know, in England this is a very special night. It is the old Christmas. And since it would be extravagant to have two parties, Claire and I thought to combine it with Burns Night. And if you don't know who Rabbie Burns is, you have to leave –'
There was laughter. 'No,' He held up a hand. 'But to that end, we do have something rather special, in thanks to you all for your good friendship –' He nodded to me, and I handed the torch to Carrie, who went to the door and clicked it twice. In a moment, there was the sound of piping, a solemn pibrochaid, and then murmurs from those near the door when Mike and Dave appeared out the darkness, Mike in a dark plaid, bearing the haggis crowned with holly, and Dave piping before. It was quite a spectacle. There was a hush as they came into the house, and proceeded gravely to the top of the common room, where there was a small table, lit with candles; the place of honour.

I looked over at Maggie, whose eyes were shining, and we began the stamp-and- clap rhythm, pre-arranged. When the haggis arrived before George, he raised his head and recited in his beautiful voice,
'Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.'

How long we had worked on that! But it came off wonderfully. Then, Mike placed the haggis on the table, and George went behind it, taking up the biggest kitchen knife we had, he cut through the haggis crosswise, chanting,

'His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!
Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.
Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

'Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!
But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

'Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!'

He raised his glass, then did the company, and we all toasted the haggis. I looked at James during the exclamations over the whiskey, and he laughed out loud.
When it came time for the eating, some people were dubious about the haggis, especially as George was having the vegetarian one.
'What is it?'
'Mutton and beef and barley, raisins and spices,' I said, 'A meat pudding.'
'...in a sheep stomach!' winked James.
People who were already eating turned white.
'You eat sausages,' Joe said. 'Same thing.'
It was a great laugh.
We had all the usual Twelfth Night games, snapdragon and pantomimes, 'What am I?', King Bean and Queen Pea (Dave and Maggie), and wassailing the trees round the house. The sun was rising before the last of our revellers left, and we went to bed. 'And a good time was had by all.'

My sister Ellen for Christmas had sent me a copy of the Third Foxfire book. I had the other two, and copies of the magazine. This compendium of rural living, yielding both practical advice and sociological commentary, became a kind of encyclopaedia to us, to which we referred often or simply read for entertainment. The folk in it sounded so much like Joe and Shirley! Those two were delighted to see the books and would pick something out at random and say 'oh yeah, we used to do it that way' or 'My Daddy' or 'my aunt Marilee did it thus and so...' which added to our store of knowledge and the richness of our lives. Through the years, every two or three years, we added to the store, until the latest one – Number Twelve. There were additional books: a cookery book, a Christmas book, a book of toys and games, and we got those too.