Green Grows The Holly

Mark felt a sudden wave of respect for the girl

MARK awoke to a heavy fall of snow – not the best start to the day. Dog at heel, he trudged around in the early morning dark, feeding the stock, seeing to the milking and collecting the eggs that were there, though the laying dwindled with the onset of winter.

In the stable he found that the horse had a loose shoe. That meant a visit to the smith on top of everything else that had to be fitted in to the limited daylight hours.

One of the pigs was not looking too clever, either. Mark was fond of his pigs. He hoped she wasn’t sickening for something.

As he toiled in the whirling flakes, he wondered if Mistress Briggs, who came twice weekly to cook and clean, would make it from the forge on the crossroads. He hoped so.

He was no dab hand at cooking and, with Christmas approaching, he appreciated the festive fare she generally provided.

A whiff of woodsmoke on the air was heartening. The first thing his housekeeper did was to build up the fire in the range, and the sight of the swirl of smoke huffing from the chimney as Mark rounded the corner of the barn suggested that she had managed the snowy trek to Hollin Farm.

With luck there would be breakfast rashers sizzling on the hob.

On entering the large, cluttered kitchen, Mark stopped short, the capful of newly laid eggs in his hands.

“Oh!”

Instead of his housekeeper’s rotund form, a diminutive figure with an all-enveloping apron over her gown was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing the stone flags for all she was worth.

She looked up, and Mark found himself gazing into a pair of challenging grey eyes in a snub-nosed face.

Tendrils of dark hair escaped the frilled edges of a cap that sat slightly skewed on her head. She offered a smile. “Good morrow. You’ll be Farmer Grieves. My aunt Rachel’s laid up with a bad back, so she’s sent me instead. My name’s Ellen.

“You’ll be wanting your breakfast. It’s all ready. Oh, you’ve got some eggs. They’ll go down a treat with your fried bread and bacon.”

As she spoke, flitting from one subject to the next in a blink, she rose to her feet, dried her hands on her apron then relieved him of the eggs and went to the range. She deftly slid the big black iron fryingpan on to the hob.

At once the appetising smell of frying eggs accompanied the aroma of bacon keeping hot in the oven.

As he divested himself of his outdoor clothes, Mark saw the table was neatly laid and the hearth was newly stacked with logs.

“You’ve been busy, I see, mistress.”

“It’s Ellen,” she replied. She slid the eggs on to the plate and brought his meal to the table. “I’ll brew you some tea. Oh, and just one thing: the floor was thick with mud. It would help to leave your mucky boots at the door.”

“Oh, aye? Do I tell the dog to wipe his paws before entering an’ all?” Mark returned.

“My uncle Abe’s dogs live outside. But there, I vow you need the company,” she conceded. “You being on your own.”

She resumed her attack on the kitchen floor, and Mark ate his breakfast.

Back outside again, Mark noted the snow had stopped. The landscape looked bleak and

It brought hope and good cheer to all – not unlike Ellen herself . . .

featureless under its white blanket.

His first call was the pigsty to check on Flora, his Tamworth sow.

“Ho there, lass. You any better? I reckon it’s nobbut a chill you’ve taken. Happen a warm mash will see you right. Let’s get you some extra bedding. ’Twill help keep out the cold.”

He saw to it, and leaving her nosing a thick layer of straw, he returned to the house to make the mash.

In the kitchen, Ellen was mixing pastry for a pie. She shot a pointed look at Mark’s snow-encrusted boots as he headed for the kettle, leaving murky puddles on the clean flags.

He wished for Mistress Briggs’s forgiving presence. She was not one for laying down the law.

The kettle was empty. “Any hot water?” Mark asked. “I need to make a mash for one of the stock.”

“Oh, my! If I didn’t use the last for the breakfast pots.”

“Best boil some up and bring it out to me. I’ll get on with summat else in the meantime. You’ll find me in the hagg beyond the orchard.”

“The where?” Ellen looked mystified.

“The hagg. The holly thicket. Not from these parts, are you?”

“No. Chester.”

“A town lass, then. You’ll be finding it different here.”

“Indeed. When Uncle Abe sent word about poor Aunt Rachel’s bad back, my sister was supposed to come and look after things. But Polly and her sweetheart are getting betrothed on Christmas Eve, so I’ve come instead.”

She spoke matter of factly, and Mark felt a sudden wave of respect for the girl. It could not be easy for her, facing the festive season in rural isolation and missing all the jollity taking place at home.

“Aye, well, that’s how it goes,” he said awkwardly, and with a reminder about the kettle he left the house.

****

Mark set about cutting the holly in the hagg, climbing the ladder and striking off the branches with a sharp sickle.

He was hard at work when a voice from below gave him pause.

“Farmer Grieves? I’ve brought the hot water you wanted.”

“I’ll be right there,” he called back.

She stood swathed in a shawl, steaming black iron kettle in hand, her gaze on the mound of holly clippings.

“All those berries! This is better than the holly at home. I expect it’s bound for the local market.”

“Nay. I’ve a better use for it than decorating folk’s parlours. Holly makes good fodder for the stock. Tes medicinal, like,” Mark explained.

“It’s prickly stuff. Doesn’t it hurt their mouths?”

He picked up a sprig and held it out.

“No barbs, see, on account of it being tender new growth. Comes of only taking the holly from the top of the trees.

“The old branches bearing the spiky leaves get left at the base to ward off grazing animals. Goes back to bygone ways of farm management.”

Mark hesitated. Not usually one for sharing his thoughts with anyone, he took the plunge and continued.

“I do wonder who planted this hagg all them years ago. The farm’s named after it. Hollin means holly, in the old speech.”

“All the more reason to sell some at the market. There’s mistletoe, too, in the orchard. People would flock to buy it,” she said eagerly.

“We had a speck once,” Mark said. “My mam traded sprigs of festive greenery alongside her chutneys and preserves. She’d come back full of how it was. She wunna miss the Yuletide market for anything.”

“I should think not indeed. D’you reckon –” Ellen began.

“I reckon that’s enough chitter-chatter for now. Better give us that kettle before the water cools.”

“I’m sorry about forgetting to fill it,” Ellen said, biting her lip. “Maybe I should make the mash in future; give you time to get on with other things.”

“Best come and see how tes done, then.” Mark smiled.

****

In the barn he mixed a warming feed of bran and milled oats.

“It looks good enough to eat!” Ellen said.

“Tes to be hoped Flora thinks so. She’s taken a chill. This should prevent it developing into summat more serious.”

“Will you chop some healing holly into it?”

“Nay, that’s for cattle and sheep. Flora inna either. Come and meet her.”

One look at the Tamworth’s vivid fiery hide and Ellen gasped.

“Oh, but she’s lovely!” “Aye, she is that. Here, give her this feed and you’ll be firm friends.”

After watching the sow guzzle down the mash, Ellen took up a holly stick propped by the door of the sty and scratched Flora’s red-gold back with it, provoking grunts of pleasure.

“Uncle Abe keeps pigs,” she commented. “They like their backs tickled, too. Pigs seem knowing creatures to me.”

“My mam used to say that. She were a little hob of a woman like yourself. Always busy. Never without a broom or a dusting rag in her hand.”

“Which reminds me,” Ellen returned. “I’d better get on with Aunt Rachel’s list or I’ll never hear the end of it!”

Mark watched her stomp away through the trodden snow, conscious that the day had taken an unexpected turn for the better.

****

At noon he returned to the house to find the kitchen pristine and a golden-crusted meat pie awaiting him for his meal. And it was every bit as good as Mistress Briggs’s.

Beyond the window, snow clouds were building up again.

“Tes looking grumbly out there. I’ve to take the mare to the forge to get a shoe fixed later. Want a lift there on Daisy? ’Twill save you a tramp back in the snow.”

“Me being a little hob of a woman who might get lost in a drift?”

Her eyes sparkled wickedly and Mark swallowed hard.

Teasing was alien to him nowadays, and it struck him how staid he had become, tucked away here with only the animals for company.

“Oh-ho, getting perky now, are we?” he replied. “Three of the clock, then?”

“Tell Daisy I shall be ready.” Ellen spoke demurely, though her grey eyes still held a twinkle. “Oh, and will I give Flora another mash before we go?”

“Aye, do that. Seems we’ll make a country lass of you yet,” Mark said.

****

Snowflakes were spinning down and the light was fading when Ellen was helped down from Daisy’s broad back outside the forge.

From within came the sound of hammering, accompanied by Abe Briggs, singing as he worked.

“Green grows the holly and bright are the berries,

Though winter winds blow cold and drear.

Take heart, says the holly, take heart says the berries,

For Christmas brings hope to all men and good cheer.”

Ellen turned to Mark with a smile.

“Hark at that. It makes me think of Hollin Farm and the holly

there, all green and berry bright, bringing good cheer.”

“Tes one of the old songs, not often heard these days,” Mark told her.

“It’s lovely. I shall ask Uncle Abe to teach it to me. Farewell, Farmer Grieves. See you Thursday.”

She crossed the snowy forecourt, heading for the back of the cottage on to which the forge was built.

Mark Grieves was not as she had been led to believe.

Quiet and a tad taciturn, Aunt Rachel had cautioned. Kept himself to himself.

Ellen would have summed him up in one word: lonesome. What he needed was a helping of good cheer, like in the song.

She paused by the back door. Thursday was Christmas Eve, and at Chester they would be celebrating Polly’s betrothal. Everyone would be there.

Ellen had stitched herself a new gown to wear, but that was before the message came from here.

Somehow, the disappointment at missing the event was not now quite as bad as before.

Stamping the snow from her boots, she lifted the latch and entered the cottage.

Inside, all was warmth and comfort. Rachel Briggs sat in a winged chair by the fire, a cushion at her aching back and a whiff of wintergreen salve drifting.

“Ellen, lass,” she greeted her. “Come and get warm. Tell me how you fared.”

Ellen hung her shawl on the peg by the door and went to hold her hands to the blaze.

“I did everything on the list, but I forgot to fill the kettle and Farmer Grieves wanted hot water for a mash.”

“My heart! I vow that brought a black look.”

“Not really. He said to bring some out to him. He took me to see Flora – that’s who needed the mash.

“He brought me home on Daisy, too.”

“Well, I never! Shows what a pretty face can do,” Rachel replied.

Ellen recalled the feel of strong yet gentle hands around her waist as she was lifted from Daisy’s back, and the memory filled her with an emotion she could not quite comprehend.

“I’m not pretty, Aunt. Polly’s the beauty in our house,” she replied.

“Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder. Happen it’s done Mark Grieves good, having a young person to talk to.”

“He mentioned the market his mam attended. She sold holly and mistletoe there from the farm.”

“And cheese and butter come summer. Mark’s the youngest of the Hollin Farm brood. He aged after his folks passed on. He can’t be much above thirty, though he looks more.”

“Mother says I’m young for my years. Two-andtwenty in May! And there’s Polly, only eighteen and on the brink of matrimony.”

Ellen sounded wistful and her aunt gave a reproachful cluck.

“There’s time enough for some fellow to come along and sweep you off your feet.”

“It seems to me that I’m the one doing the sweeping.”

Ellen laughed.

“Oh, that kitchen floor! Small wonder your back hurts. How is it now, Aunt?”

“All the better for the rest, dear,” Rachel said comfortably.

****

It had to be meant. Rachel eased herself to a more acceptable position in the chair.

Behind her, Ellen bustled to and fro, preparing supper.

Mark Grieves and their Ellen! Why hadn’t it occurred to her before? They made an ideal couple, her so lively and him less so, yet able to hold his own where necessary.

A good man – and their Ellen would make a wife to be proud of. Time would tell. Happen it would be no bad thing to give Cupid a helping hand and spin out her convalescence an extra week or so.

****

While the smith attended to Daisy’s shoe, Mark’s mind drifted back to when his folks were still alive.

At Christmas, the farmhouse would be decked to the rafters with festive greenery.

There would be talk and laughter around a laden table; the singing of the old songs around the pianoforte.

Both sisters had been pianists, and their father played a lively tune on the fiddle.

Now, the old ones were gone, sisters long wed and fled the nest, and it seemed to Mark that the house was waiting for something. But waiting for what?

The smith flung his tools into a battered wooden box with a clatter, jerking Mark from his reverie.

“There you be, Mark. That should hold for now. Bring her back after Christmas and I’ll have a new set made up for her,” the smith told him.

Mark fished in his pocket for some coin.

“My thanks, Abe. What do I owe you?”

“We’ll square up next time. Are you off to the market come Thursday? What with you wanting the shoe seeing to . . .?”

“You’re not the first to ask that. Your niece was going on about it.”

“Oh, aye?” Abe chuckled. “Managed to get the jobs done in between all the chatter, did she?”

“I reckon so. ’Twas good of her to stand in for your missus at a moment’s notice. Well, I’d best be off. Compliments of the season to you.”

“And to you, Mark,” Abe replied.

On the way back through the softly falling flakes, with Daisy plodding along behind, Mark was aware of a change. It was as if the sun had appeared after months of dripping grey fog.

It was clear to him what his next move would be, and the prospect effectively vanquished the final traces of mist that had clouded his vision for far too long.

****

He heard the singing first, a voice that was clear but a little breathless.

“Green grows the holly and bright are the berries . . .”

The next minute, Ellen was entering the farmyard. Today she wore a bonnet and warm cape over her gown and carried a basket.

Seeing him seated on the cart loaded with baskets of holly and mistletoe, the horse between the shafts, Ellen halted.

“You’re going somewhere, Farmer Grieves?”

“Aye. And the name’s Mark. Come aboard, Ellen, lass. You and I are away to the Yuletide market. Up you come.”

Seated beside him, she indicated the basket on her lap.

“Aunt Rachel sent this. There’s a plum pudding and some cooked ham. She said you’re welcome to join us at the forge tomorrow. This food will keep till another day.

“Please do come. There’s goose, and four round the table would be perfect. Oh, how’s Flora?”

“Well, now, what do I answer first? Flora’s back to her normal self.

“And yes, I’d be pleased to accept Mistress Briggs’s invite. Now can we go, do you think?”

“Oh, yes. I can’t wait to see the market. This is rather special, don’t you agree? I’m so happy I want to sing!” Ellen declared.

“Green grows the holly and bright are the berries,

Though winter winds blow cold and drear.

Take heart says the holly take heart says the berries,

For Christmas brings hope to all men and good cheer.”

Their voices rose in harmony, echoing over the snow-clad countryside.

Smiling into Ellen’s rosy face, Mark thought that no song had ever carried a truer meaning. ■