The Miner’s Tale – A Christmas Story

When was it? It was Christmas Eve, I can tell you that much. But as to the year? Well, it was before the war agin the Nazis and long before nationalisation, but that doesn’t really help, does it?

It were uncommon harsh, with more snow than I can ever remember before or since, save perhaps February ’47. Did the cold affect Harris’ thinkin’? We’ll ne’er ken, for he managed to kill ‘issel when his badly positioned shot – black powder, if you’re not a miner – took out two of the uprights and the roof came down. The pit would be closed until the New Year, so no money, just when we needed it most.

Bob Walker, they call me, so I took after me name and walked home slowly, unsure how I was goin’ to tell Cissie and the bairns that there’d be nowt in the Toby Jug next week. The night were black as… well, it were as black as coal, I suppose, but the stars were clear.  The flurries of snow circled thick and fast, so I drew me coat tighter around meself, but the wind whistled fiercely through it.

When I first heard the sound, I thought it was the wind which were screechin’, wailin’ like I don’t know what. If the Lambton Worm made a noise, I’d ha’ feared ‘twere that dread creature, moaning across the fields rather than just the wind. It gradually dawned on me that there was another sound, not as piercin’ and strangely softer. In fact, it weren’t natural at all. Guided by the noise, I turned around and found a bairn, barely clothed, shiverin’ and sobbin’ by itself in the snow.

“Why, little’un, have they left thee here all by thy tod to face this winter blast?”

The poor mite never said a word, but those brown eyes looked through mine into me soul.

“Well, I cannae leave thee here. Death would claim thee in no time.”

I picked the wee child up and wrapped it in me coat. The mite was barely any weight at all. When I arrived at the familiar red door, without puttin’ the child down, I tapped on the door. Cissie’s worried face appeared as the door swung ope, but the bairns were less restrained, rushin’ out like a hoard of beasts, so boisterous that I feared for the mite in me arms.

“Howay, Ma,” I said. “I’ve brought a surprise guest to our Christmas Eve supper. After we’ve fed, I’ll try and find Constable Hall. But I cudnae leave him in the snow – he’d be deed afore I found the polis.”

Hush, Bob, the bairn is welcome,” said Cissie. “Let’s have ‘im by the fire to warm ‘issel.” She fussed over the newcomer, rubbin’ the small hands carefully “to prevent chilblains.”

“There’s always enough to go round, and none of us will starve by seeing reet by this little’un.” There’s a reason I love her as much as the day we met when I found her tendin’ to a cat that had been hit by the dray cart, and there it was. All comers—cats, sixteen-year-old miners, and foundlings—none were too lowly for her to care for.

The bairns gathered round, their faces gleamin’ with excitement as they welcomed the little’un. With wide eyes, they pointed out what, to them, was a grand Christmas tree, standin’ tall in the corner, festooned with popcorn strings, paper chains, pinecones, and other handmade bits. For Christmas Eve, Cissie had turned their home into a magical wonderland, makin’ the festive season truly special for her little ‘uns. The air was thick with joy and anticipation, the tree standin’ proud in its bright decorations, bringin’ a strange warmth to the room.

We sat down to supper, each of us takin’ a little from our plate to place before the guest, who we could now see as a dark-skinned, curly-haired bairn. The child still said nowt but devoured like a hungry wolf the fare set before it.

Henry, the third of our brood, tugged at Cissie’s sleeve. “There’s scarce a scrap of material on ‘im. D’ye think he’d like to have me spare shirt?” Cissie smiled and nodded. “Aye, why not? We can always get another.”

I kept silent, not knowin’ where the money for that was goin’ to be found. I thought, with a touch of guilt, that I hadn’t told Cissie yet about poor Tom Harris, or what the mine bein’ shut for a week was goin’ to mean. An’ I knew she wouldn’t have cared about the money – it would all be about Mary Harris and how she was goin’ to cope.

Bob Junior, James, Beth, and Joyce all wanted to provide as well, and in no time at all, the foundlin’ was better clothed than our own bairns. The face showed no expression, but the child nodded gratefully and then sidled over to be near the fire, before curlin’ up and fallin’ asleep.

It took me seventy minutes to find George Hall, the village bobby. If I’d used the brains God gave me, I could ha’ done it in ten – I found him where any sensible copper would be on a cold Christmas Eve – by the fire inside the Seam and Shovel Inn. I finally got ‘im to understand that I wasnae makin’ it up. “Reet, Bob, I’ll come. But this better not be another one o’ tha wild tales,” he cautioned, and he came with me back to Boldon Lane and the familiar red door.

“ ‘Ow do, Mrs. Walker,” said George on crossin’ the threshold. “Now, where’s yon bairn? I must tell thee, there’s nae reports of a missin’ bairn, so this is a reet mystery.”

Cissie pointed to the bundle near the fire. “The poor mite hasn’t made a sound nor stirred at all,” she volunteered.

PC Hall poked at the material on the floor, then turned to me unhappily. “Bob Walker, you’ve been pullin’ my leg! Missin’ bairn, by ‘eck!” and he stomped out without so much a fare-thee-well.

Confuddled, I examined the pile of clothes and saw what he meant – for there was indeed no small child therein. Cissie and I just stared at one another, unable to find words to account for what had happened.

The next day, I remember, we all of us went to church as normal, for as well as bein’ Christmas Day, ‘twas a Sunday. An’ the lessons were all about “unto us a child is given” an’ reluctant Innkeepers an’ enthusiastic shepherds.

But as we were about to leave, old Mrs. White stopped us. Hardly anyone spoke to Mrs. White, except Cissie. Since her William had died down the mine in the last week of the Great War, she had always been a bit strange, intense in her faith, takin’ it all very seriously. She walked oftentimes through the village, quotin’ from the Psalms and every order in the shop was illustrated by an appropriate verse of Scripture.

“Aye, they all think that it’s about angels and stars and babbies in mangers. But we know it’s not, don’t we lad?” she muttered. “Hmm. Hmm.” She jibber-jabbered some gobbledegook for several seconds before, clear as a bell, she exclaimed, “Matthew 25.40 is what the Reverend should have read, that’s for sure.”

Her words were so out of place for Christmas morn that on arrival home, safe and warm behind the red door, I got down the old family Bible, where I discovered what it all meant.

“Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these little ones, ye have done it unto me.”

This is my retelling of “A Christmas Legend”. I had to set in in 1932 because a contemporary setting with mobile phones and the NHS just wouldn’t have worked.