The Half Open Door and The Rhymers

I found the image for this post  (see below) – an abandoned cottage door  –   on the ABANDONED  NI SITE. My thanks to them for allowing me to use it.

I began to wondered how long the old cottage had lain  abandoned. Where had the family/s gone who had lived there? I wondered in bygone days at Christmas time  had the ‘Mummers’ come a-calling?

Back un the day, during December schoolchildren learned rhymes and in the weeks prior to Christmas they went from door-to-door ‘putting on a play’ about good overcoming evil. They were usually invited in and given money and even a wee cup of tae ‘in their hands.’ Many of them played  musical instruments and so the house dwellers and the rhymers would sing and dance. before a fond farewell was bade and the rhymers moved on to the next house.

As a child I remember being awe struck and scared witless all at the same time  by their outlandish costumes and painted masks. Our dog used to run at them and then run under the table and hide.

And so this story took root in my head. And like all good  stories it had to be told.

Go on – It’s Christmas –  Enjoy a bit of nostalgia from bygone times.

 

A Happy and Peaceful Christmas to all my Readers. Thank you so much  for your support  in 2015

Keep  logging in to writeyouwriteme.com in 2016

Guest writers always wanted – poems and short stories. The more local  the better:

email: gemhill@gmail.com

 

THE HALF OPEN DOOR AND THE RHYMERS

It was the week before Christmas. The mummers – a group of travelling Rhymers, seven in all – Prince George, The Doctor, Jack Straw, Buck Sweep, Devil Dout, Little Wit and Jack Frost; all dressed in ragged costumes and wearing painted masks made from cardboard and straw, came to a house with a half open door.

As was their custom they banged on the door and began their rhyming.

“Room, room,” Prince George shouted out, “Gives us room to rhyme. Give me some action around this Christmas time!”

He and his rhymers waited impatiently to be invited in through the half open door. But inside all was silent. No sound breached the frosty air cloudy with the steam from their breath.

Buck Sweep boldly stepped forward and rapped soundly on the door of the old cottage.

“Here comes I Buck Sweep, Money I love. Money I crave. All the money I get I keep. Call out a welcome, maiden fair and bid us enter in for fun and merriment.”

No sound breached the half open door.

Buck shivered and stepped away.

A horned figured with a three pronged fork stepped forward and poked the rotting door, once, twice, three times. “Here comes I Divil Dout, Answer my knock woman o’ the house. Or, in I’ll come and poke ye to and early grave.” Satisfied he’d made his point he stood a while, expectantly.

No sound of steps could he fathom. He moved aside a-huffin’ and spittin’

Jack Frost tried his hand. “Och, missus dear take pity on me an oul man with a frozen beard and icicles for fingernails. Let us in, please. It’s Christmas time.”

No sound of tears his pleas did awaken

A short period of confusion ensued. The Rhymers milled around blowing on their hands to keep warm.

Elbowing his way to the front of the band Johnny Funny took up the challenge. “I’m the man who collects the money,” he whispered through the  keyhole dirty . “All silver, no brass. Bad monies don’t pass.”

He rattled his tin at the silent dwelling

A fat little man bag in hand bustled his way to the lichen doorframe “Here comes I wee Doctor Brown –the best wee doctor in the town. Ten guineas I charge. But tonight it’s Christmas time. My services are free to all inside.”

Silently the house replied, “Too late, too late dear Doctor Brown. “

Then up stepped Little Wit. He placed a Tin Whistle to his lips and serenaded the slumbering cottage.

“Here am I, big head an’ little wit. But I’ll play you a tune – if you’ll let me in. Pick the instrument of your choice, violin or melodeon. Round the floor and mind the dresser – Christmas Carols sweet as angels’ blessings.”

The house gazed out at the Christmas stars and hugged the lingering notes of Little Wit’s tin whistle as it floated back on the stillness of the night. It reminded the old cottage of the times gone by when there was a fire in the grate, Christmas stockings on the chimney brace and the neighbours at the door…

 

In loneliness the house cried out as the Rhyming Mummer’s music faded away and died.