Return To Hoston

Would things have remained the same since Ned’s departure?

NED stopped on the brow of Scartle Hill just as Hoston came into view. It cheered his heart to see the village again, with its meandering lanes clustered about the ancient church.

He hadn’t been home in 12 months.

He’d wanted to come at Christmas, but the weather had been too bad to make the necessary journey on foot.

It was a beautiful day, the sky forget-me-not blue, with small clouds floating like blessings on high.

Trees were still shyly putting forth their young leaves, while clumps of violets and creamy primroses nestled in the hedge banks.

The benefit of leaving his return until Easter wasn’t just the chance of better weather.

Ned was looking forward to the Easter celebrations he had enjoyed taking part in since boyhood.

No-one he knew in town seemed aware of customs like peace-egging, but in Hoston the old ways were cherished and Ned was glad of it.

Peace-egging was a fine old tradition, raucous but good-humoured.

On Easter Saturday, the young folk would go door to door singing, accompanied by a fiddler.

Their mission was to collect eggs and other foodstuffs ready for a celebration feast for the village on Easter Sunday, held in the squire’s tithe barn.

A traditional play took place during this feast.

It was a simple entertainment, full of jests, with a script that had been passed down by word of mouth through countless generations of Hoston folk.

The main story was about St George being killed by a dragon then brought back to life by a quack doctor.

But several peripheral characters took turns to amuse the audience with songs, jokes or rhymes.

Ned had played St George twice and anticipated doing so again this year.

He relished the hero role, which had seemed his by rights, as the cleverest boy in the village.

Having learned everything Hoston School could teach him, there had been a general feeling that Ned would be wasted on the kinds of jobs available locally to boys his age.

Instead, the schoolmaster Mr Whitaker had found him a position as a clockmaker’s apprentice in Lancaster.

For the past year, Ned had worked hard at his new profession and was excelling in it.

An excited welcome awaited Ned at home in the

Hoston Arms, where his father was landlord.

Although Ned had sent word at Christmas that he’d return at Easter, they hadn’t known when he’d be arriving.

His parents hugged him, then held him at arm’s length to take a good look.

“Even more handsome than when you left us!” his mother declared.

She wiped her eyes on the corner of her apron.

“Town life seems to suit you.” His father glowed with pride. “What a splendid gentleman’s waistcoat you have on, my boy. You’re a perfect treat to look at.”

Ned had wanted to wear his new, striped waistcoat he’d saved his paltry apprentice’s wages to buy.

He knew the garment looked fine on him.

His youngest brother, John, rushed through the door but halted when he saw Ned.

“Jemmy Clayton said he’d seen you walking up past the church.” John smiled nervously.

He looked unsure whether to approach or not.

“My word! Where’s that little chap I could sit on my knee?” Ned laughed, stepped forward and ruffled his brother’s hair.

Thirteen-year-old John had sprung up since he’d seen him last.

“But you seem such a gentleman!” John exclaimed.

“Aye, he does that,” his father agreed.

His brother Amos and sister Kitty appeared, as did his granny, who’d walked up from Island Cottage.

News of Ned’s return was spreading like wildfire.

“Nay, sit there and don’t move another muscle,” his mother insisted. “You’ve had a long journey. Take your brother’s bag up to the bedchamber, our John.”

Ned remained in pride of place in the armchair by the fireside.

They all gathered around and questioned him about life in town while his mother made tea.

Ned described the watchmaker’s shop above which he roomed with a fellow apprentice.

Being a well-respected establishment, it was visited by many high-class clients and Kitty wanted to know about the ladies’ fashions.

Any initial awkwardness melted away and soon everyone was laughing.

“It’s good to see you’re the same old Ned,” John remarked.

“Who else would I be?” Ned goggled at him. “Anyhow, the other reason for coming home at Easter is to take part in the peace-egging.”

“Aye, there’s a meeting about it here tonight,” his father said.

“This year, I’m playing Doctor Foster,” his brother Amos piped up.

Leaping to his feet, the fifteen-year-old contorted his face, pretended to hold his doctor’s bag and paced about in a comical manner, scratching his skull in time-honoured tradition. Everyone laughed. “Oh? Have the parts been chosen?” Ned asked. “Aye.”

“Who’s St George?” Amos took his seat, looking sheepish.

He seemed to realise why Ned was asking. “Matty Barnes.” “Matty Barnes!” Ned exclaimed. “Really?” Amos nodded.

Ned remembered Matty Barnes as a pale, thin youth you wouldn’t look twice at.

At the time he’d left for Lancaster, hadn’t the lad just been taken on as a bellows-pumper at the smithy?

“Perhaps if they’d known you were coming . . .” his father said.

“Nay, that’s all right.” Ned waved his hand. “Why should it be me each time? Let someone else have their turn.”

He hoped he’d sounded convincing because, in truth, he agreed with his father.

If Ned had arrived earlier, surely he’d have been picked as St George?

Then again, if he attended the meeting, the others might see the mistake they’d made in choosing Matty Barnes over him and switch the parts around.

He kept this thought to himself.

Dinner at midday was a matter of bread and butter with a little ham and pickle.

The best items from the pantry were being saved for the peace-egging, including eggs that would be hard boiled with onion skins to turn them a rich golden colour.

As it was a working day, his parents, brothers and sister could not be distracted from their tasks for too long.

At two o’clock, Ned offered to walk his granny home, and after kissing her goodbye on the doorstep of Island Cottage, he strolled around Hoston, where everything seemed so welcome and familiar.

He’d been in two minds whether to wear his fancy new waistcoat for this walk, but decided to keep it on.

There was one person he very much wanted to impress, should he happen to meet her.

Ned was walking up School Lane when he spotted her, hanging out washing in the garden of her family’s cottage and singing sweetly to herself.

Edie looked even more beautiful than when he’d last seen her.

“Edie!” he called.

She broke into a huge smile and came rushing across to him.

“Ned! How wonderful you’re back. You’re looking very smart, I must say.”

For a moment they both seemed lost in the wonder of seeing each other again.

“It’s good to find this old place just as I left it,” he said.

Was it his imagination, or had her smile frozen?

“Well, time moves on, you know,” she replied.

“Not in Hoston. That’s why I love the place,” Ned returned. “Would you care for a walk after finishing your job? Just to the foot of Scartle Hill. It’s such a lovely day.”

“I’d better not,” Edie said awkwardly. “Mother’s unwell and I was about to start cooking.

“Ned, I don’t suppose you’ve heard . . .” Her fixed smile was starting to droop. “Heard what?” he pressed. “I am betrothed to be married this summer.”

The news floored Ned, but he did his best to recover himself.

Edie was free to make her own choices. There had never been an understanding between them, despite a strong mutual liking.

Had he remained in Hoston things might have been different.

“Then congratulations are in order.” Ned mustered the best smile he could. “Who’s the lucky fellow?” “Matty Barnes,” she said. “Matty Barnes?”

Ned was taken aback. In his absence, the young man had stepped into his shoes in more ways than one.

Edie was watching him intently.

“I remember Matty,” he said finally. “I believe he’ll be at the Arms this evening.

“There’s a meeting about the peace-egging play. I shall be sure to give him my heartiest congratulations.”

After a few more pleasantries, Ned took his leave.

At the bottom of the lane, he passed his old school.

For once in its existence, the clock on the belltower wasn’t telling the correct time.

It was stuck at ten minutes to two, reminding him of the awkward smile upon dear Edie’s face.

He hadn’t a mind to walk any further, fine weather or not.

He went straight home.

Ned decided not to wear his waistcoat to the meeting, which was held in the snug.

Even so, he noticed how differently his old friends were treating him.

Though clearly delighted to see him, there was a kind of staid respect he found frustrating.

They seemed in awe of the exciting life they imagined him living in town.

Ned craved the teasing and banter of the old days, but it simply wasn’t happening.

The meeting was late starting because Matty Barnes hadn’t arrived.

Hearing of Ned’s return, Mr Whitaker came in for a chat.

At least his old schoolmaster hadn’t changed towards him.

Mr Whitaker had always believed in Ned’s abilities, and he seemed delighted in how his former pupil was taking to his new profession.

Speaking to Mr Whitaker helped Ned remember his enjoyment and pride in what he’d accomplished so far in life.

“While you’re here, could you take a look at our school clock?” Mr Whitaker asked. “It stopped working weeks ago.

“I’ve had so many complaints; the whole of Hoston seems to rely upon it.”

“Of course,” Ned agreed. “I’ll be round tomorrow morning.”

The door to the snug opened and in stepped someone Ned didn’t recognise at first.

“Matty!” Mr Whitaker declared. “At last we can start.”

The callow youth that Ned remembered had, in the space of 12 months, changed into a broadshouldered titan-like being.

With an apologetic smile Matty took his seat, but not before reaching over to offer Ned his hand.

He had a firm grip. All that bellows-pumping had not been in vain.

“It’s good to see you, Ned,” he said. “It’s the talk of the village that you’re back.”

“I saw Edie today and heard your good news,”

Ned said. “Congratulations!”

Matty’s artless smile showed he was unaware that Ned had been sweet on Edie, and that was just as well.

The meeting commenced, with a reminder of who was playing what in the play.

There was no question that Matty Barnes was the ideal choice for St George, and he’d already forged himself a fancy sword with which to do battle.

Everyone knew the basic script by heart, but they went through the lines nonetheless, and sang the songs despite there being no fiddler present.

“Wait, did you not want a part, Ned?” his brother Amos said.

“Nay.” Ned waved away the idea. “It’ll be enough of a treat to sit and watch the play this time.”

Unfortunately, no-one tried talking him round.

Perhaps they considered him too grand to take part in their little play, but Ned could have kicked himself.

In truth, he wanted desperately to join in.

The meeting was breaking up when Mr Whitaker turned to him.

“What’s the matter, Ned? You’re a bit quiet.”

Ned felt he could confide in his old schoolmaster.

“I was so excited to be coming home; now I’m not sure I belong in Hoston any more.”

“Of course you belong here, lad,” the man replied. “What about the play? Didn’t you want to join in?”

“Perhaps I spoke too soon,” Ned admitted. “But all the parts are gone now.”

Mr Whitaker sipped his ale and considered.

“There’s one we have all forgotten about,” he said. “When I was a lad, I used to play Old Motley.

“Do you know who I mean?”

Ned said he did.

Old Motley the fool hadn’t appeared for a few years, but was a stock figure, well known to all.

Within 10 minutes, Ned had consented, and it was agreed with the organiser.

The plan would be kept secret from the rest of the cast, as Old Motley could enter right at the end and wouldn’t disturb the rest of the action.

On Easter Sunday the tithe barn looked glorious, decorated with bunches of catkins, violets and primroses.

The long trestle tables spread with white cloths bore a feast of pies, puddings and sweetmeats that had been gathered by the peace-eggers the previous day.

Along with a multitude of gold-coloured eggs, it was all beautifully arranged.

With the villagers sitting on either side of the tables that ran along the four walls of the barn, there was room for all, plus a space in the middle for the entertainment.

During the meal, the players slipped away to don their costumes.

While no-one was looking, Ned exited in a different direction to put on his own, loaned to him by Mr Whitaker.

From a distance, he heard the players re-enter to loud applause.

The fiddler struck up the first tune and St George began to sing about fighting the dragon and saving their village.

The audience knew the song well, and in between the multiple verses, joined in singing the chorus with gusto.

There was a duckpond on the edge of the field and Ned viewed his reflection in the water.

The circlet of greenery on his head drooped over and obscured his face.

His green tunic was bedecked with ribbons, and he carried a painted stick jingling with bells.

Satisfied that no-one would recognise him immediately, Ned approached the barn door to watch the show from outside.

The dragon had slain St George, who lay prone on the floor.

With its elongated body supported by five of the village lads, it danced about while the fiddler played a sinister tune and the crowd booed.

Doctor Foster’s moment had come.

Ned chuckled at the sight of Amos, with a white stocking over his head to make himself look bald.

He consulted his medical book before attempting all kinds of strange interventions to try to save St George, each more bizarre than the last.

After cracking an egg over his head, St George sprang to life miraculously.

There came a surge of cheers from the crowd, and he and Doctor Foster sang a duet praising the medical profession.

After random songs and jokes by other characters who turned up to offer St George advice, a final battle ensued, at the end of which the hero used his mighty sword to finish off the dragon.

“God save our brave St George!”

With a cry, Ned capered in.

He approached the stricken dragon, prodded it with his jingle stick, and when the dragon let out a cough, he fell backwards in alarm and performed a roly-poly before jumping to his feet.

The crowd exploded with laughter and Ned heard cries of “Who’s that?” as he began to sing.

“Old Motley’s my name and jesting’s my game.

“At Hoston I’m welcome, for such is my fame.”

St George looked surprised by the new character but played along.

After the comic song, the two of them had a mock fight, with St George pitting his sword against Motley’s jingle stick, but letting the fool get the better of him.

Then, with a swift movement, he used the tip of his sword to remove the circlet of greenery.

The crowd gasped and Matty laughed. “Heavens be! It’s Ned.” By the time he had danced once more around the floor, the crowd was up on its feet and clapping along to the fiddler’s tune. Ned felt elated.

This was a better homecoming than he could have imagined.

Two days later, Ned needed to begin his long journey back to Lancaster.

After tender scenes of farewell at home, he walked through the village, and several of his old friends left off their work to come and say goodbye.

Since all the fun of the peace-egging feast, they seemed reassured that, at heart, Ned was the same Hoston lad he’d always been.

It was a pleasantly warm day, and the school windows were open.

As Ned passed, he could hear Mr Whitaker teaching a geography lesson and recalled his younger self in that same classroom, hungry to find out about the world.

It gladdened his heart to see the old clock running smoothly, since the fault had been an easy matter to fix with his newly learned skills.

Tradition was as important as it was comforting, but time would keep moving on, even in a place like Hoston.

Doubtless, the villagers were relieved to have their clock working again, and Ned was pleased to have left them that gift.

On Scartle Hill, he stopped for his last view of the village for a while.

He’d enjoyed his stay, but was equally looking forward to returning to the new life he’d made for himself in town.

Ned turned and headed on his way, while down in the valley, the old school clock chimed the hour.