WHAT WE'RE WRITING: RHYS CELEBRATES CHRISTMAS

 RHYS BOWEN: I wonder if there is anybody in America who is not feeling tense and nervous right now. We have had our nerves frayed with the pandemic (not to mention murder hornets, deadly caterpillars, fires and hurricanes) and now with the election looming the tension has risen to unbearable levels.

So I'm grateful at the moment to be writing about Christmas. And not only that, Christmas suitably long ago and far away with Lady Georgie. After THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS did very well my publisher asked me to write another Christmas book. And I readily agreed. After all, who doesn't like to spend time vicariously in the holiday spirit?

Writing about Christmas allows me to relive my childhood memories: mince pies, carol singers, hot punch, holly and ivy, crackers (the type that explode, not dry biscuits) and silly party games. All part of the Christmases I remember from childhood and have tried to recreate with my family.

So writing about this at this moment is in many ways bitter-sweet. Because it's unlikely that we'll be able to have any kind of family Christmas this year. Or Thanksgiving. The oldest grandchildren will be coming home from college. The younger two are back in school full time. We have three teachers in the family and a son-in-law who works at the veteran's home. So the only contact we could have would be outside, at distance. And Christmas is likely to be cold and rainy in Northern California.

That's why I'm enjoying escaping to a country house in England every day and watching the cook bring in the flaming Christmas pudding!  Of course it's not all fun and games and happy days in my books. They are mysteries, after all. There is bound to be a body or two. Of the most tasteful sort, naturally!

But here is a snippet from the beginning of the book, and the first days of preparation for the big event.

And the title? GOD REST YE ROYAL GENTLEMEN. (Which might hint that a few famous characters are going to be part of this story)

I addressed the envelopes, put on stamps and had just deposited them on the tray in the front hall for the postman to collect when Mrs. Hollbrook appeared.

     “Oh, there you are, my lady,” she said. “I wonder if you’d come down to the kitchen for a moment.” Alarm bells sounded in my head.

     “Oh dear. Nothing’s wrong, is it?” 

     “Not at all, my lady. It’s just that it’s pudding day.” 

    “Pudding day?”     

    “Yes, November twenty-fifth. A month before Christmas. Always been pudding day in this house. The day the Christmas puddings are made. And it’s always traditional for the lord or lady of the house to come and give a stir for good luck.”

     “Oh, right. “ I gave a sigh of relief. Not a disaster at all. “I’ll get Mr. O’Mara. Perhaps he’d like to be part of this.” 

     I hurried back to the study. Darcy looked up, a trifle impatiently this time. “What is it, Georgie?” 

     “Mrs. Holbrook has invited us to come and stir the pudding.” “What?” 

     “It’s pudding day, apparently and the lord and lady of the house are supposed to give the puddings a stir for good luck.”

     “I really need to get this stuff off to the post,” he said. “Do I have to be present to ensure good luck?”     “I suppose not…” He saw my face and pushed back his chair. 

    “Of course I can spare a few minutes. We have to make sure we have good luck next year, don’t we?” And he put his arm around my shoulders, steering me out of the room. He really is a nice man, I thought with a little glow of happiness.

     Down the hallway we walked, past the dining room, through the baize door that led to the servant’s part of the house and down a flight of steps to the cavernous kitchen. On rainy days I expect it could be rather gloomy unless the electric lights were shining. Today the windows, high in the south wall, sent shafts of sunlight onto the scrubbed tables. Queenie was standing at one of them, her hands in a huge mixing bowl. She looked up, giving us a look of pure terror as we came in.

     “Hello Queenie, we’ve come to stir the pudding,” I said. 

     “Oh yeah. Bobs yer uncle, missus.” She sounded distracted. I noted she now called me ‘missus’ instead of ‘miss’. I suppose it was a small step forward. After several years she had never learned to call me ‘my lady’. Or perhaps she knew very well and was just being bolshie about it. I sometimes suspected Queenie wasn’t quite as clueless as we imagined. 

     “Is something wrong?” I asked.

     “Wrong?” Her voice sounded higher than usual. I walked toward the pudding bowl, with Darcy a step behind me. Inside was a big sticky mass of dough and fruit. It looked the way puddings were supposed to look, from my limited experience. 

     “It’s just that you had both hands in the bowl when we came in. Doesn’t one usually stir with a spoon?”     “What? Oh yes, right.” Her face had now gone red. “It’s just I was looking for something.” 

    “Looking for something?” Darcy sounded puzzled but then he hadn’t had close contact with Queenie for as long as I had.

     Her face was now beet-red. “It’s like this, you see. A button was loose on my uniform again. I meant to sew it on but I forgot and I I was giving the pudding a bloody great stir when all of a sudden—ping—it popped clean off and went flying into the pudding mixture and I can’t for the life of me find it again.”             “Queenie!” I exclaimed. I knew I should be firm with her and scold her for not keeping her uniform up to snuff, but it really was rather funny. 

    “What exactly is this button made of?” Darcy asked. “It’s not celluloid or something that might melt when it’s cooked, is it?”

     “Oh no, sir. It’s like these others.” She pointed at the front of her uniform dress, where there was now a gaping hole revealing a ratty red flannel vest. “I think it’s bone.” 

    “Well in that case nothing to worry about,” Darcy said breezily. “If someone finds it—well people are supposed to find charms in puddings, aren’t they?”

     “Silver charms,” I pointed out. 

     “We’ll tell them it’s a tradition of the house, going back to the middle ages,” Darcy said. “It’s a button made from the bone of a stag that was shot on Christmas Day.” 

    “Darcy, you’re brilliant.” I had to laugh. “Just as long as someone doesn’t swallow it or break a tooth. Please keep trying to find it, Queenie, only use a fork and not your fingers.” 

    “Would you ladyship like to stir now?” Mrs. Holbrook asked, handing me the big spoon. I took it and stirred.

     “You’re supposed to wish, my lady,” Mrs. Holbrook reminded. “Oh, of course.” I stirred and you can probably guess what I wished for.

     Then Darcy stirred and I wondered if he was wishing for the same thing. Mrs. Holbrook opened a little leather box and handed us the silver charms. “You’ll want to drop these into the pudding,” she said.

     “Oh yes. What fun.” We dropped them in, one by one: the boot, the pig, the ring and silver threepences.     

    “And the bachelor button,” Darcy said, dropping in a silver button and giving me a grin. 

    “Thank you, sir. Thank you, my lady,” Mrs. Holbrook said. “I’ll help Queenie look for the unfortunate button, don’t you worry. We’ll find it between us.” 

    

As we came up the stairs from the kitchen Darcy put a hand on my shoulder. “Now do you agree that we need to get a proper cook before Christmas?”  

And because we all need a good chuckle right now. This is the sort of family photos we sometimes take!