The Beggar’s Curse. Ann Pilling

      “But I thought mumming meant miming?” Oliver said cleverly.

      “Oh it does, and you’d expect it to be performed in silence, I know. Pity it’s not; I wouldn’t have quite so many problems then.”

      “So who’s in the play?”

      “Just the three old village families, the Wrights, the Bovers and the Edges, worst luck, and only the men. Women can’t take part. Porky’s always in it, he does the women. Oh, he doesn’t mind, he’s one of the more sensible members of the cast. Pity the others don’t copy.”

      “I’d quite like to read it,” Oliver said. His father hadn’t told him much about this, and it sounded interesting. “Have you got a copy of the words?”

      Winnie Webster hesitated. “Ye-es,” she said slowly. “But I can’t let you borrow it, I’m afraid.”

      “Why not?”

      A dark pink flush was creeping slowly over her cheeks. She looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Well, it’s silly really, but there are a lot of funny customs connected with this play. It’s been done for so many years, you see. Certain families always take certain parts, and everything’s got to happen in exactly the same way. One of the things they insist on is that only the players have the words. They think it’s bad luck if an outsider sees them, or a woman.”

      “But you’re a woman,” Oliver said rudely. He was now determined to get his hands on it.

      She laughed. “True, but I’m the producer, dear. If I wasn’t around they’d end up fighting. Anything that involves the Edge family is always impossible to organize. They’re so difficult, I just can’t tell you. And this year we’ve got another problem, we’ve no King George.”

      She took a framed photograph down from the mantelpiece. “Dear Noel,” she murmured. “This is my nephew, Noel Wright. He’s a very distant cousin of yours, Oliver. Noel usually plays George, and he’s a splendid actor. But this year his company decided to send him to America for six months. Well, of course he couldn’t turn that down, not even for Stang Mummers, so I’ve asked young Mr Massey to do it.”

      They all looked dutifully at the photograph. “Dear Noel” was a chinless wonder, with piggy little eyes, a spotted bow tie, and sleek hair parted down the middle. George Massey, a TV producer, who’d recently moved into a brand-new house opposite Elphins, just had to be an improvement. He’d waved to the children that morning as they came out of Molly’s gate, a big man, with a bushy blond beard, and a red T-shirt that said “Ranswick Thespians”. He was a very keen amateur actor.

      “It should be a Wright really,” Winnie explained. “That’s what they’re all grumbling about. But no one will allow me to swap the parts round, or anything. They say it will ‘break the luck’, or some nonsense. Codswallop. So I said, ‘Look, it’s George Massey or nothing’. And they took it, would you believe? His name’s George, fortunately, and that seemed to persuade them. Oh, they are dense. I did point out that the man’s paying for the new costumes this year, so they can’t afford to offend him. He’s dying to be in it, and he’s very good.”

      Prill wasn’t at all sure she liked the sound of this play, with all this secrecy about the words, all this talk about “bad luck”, the fact that women couldn’t be in it, and all the squabbling. “It doesn’t sound very Christian to me,” she said suddenly.

      “Oh well, it’s not dear, anything but. All the religious bits have been stuck on, over the years. It’s not really supposed to be done at Easter either, but you wouldn’t expect Stang people to get a thing like that right, would you? Yes, the whole thing’s pagan really, and when you think how they make the horse’s head. . .”

      “Yes, tell us about that,” Oliver said excitedly. It was in his book.

      Winnie Webster looked at the three young faces, and paused. It was a bit gruesome, but today’s children seemed to like grisly things. “Well,” she began. “In the play the horse is called Old Hob, and they carry it round on a pole. It’s very important, the one thing they always keep. All the other props and costumes are replaced every seven years. Very wasteful I call it, but there you are. The old things are burned on a bonfire – just an excuse for a knees-up, in my opinion. It’s tonight actually. Did Molly mention it?”

      “No,” Colin said. It sounded rather interesting. Perhaps they could go.

      “Anyway, everything’s burned except this horse’s head. It’s a real one, boiled down and skinned. They fix wires to its jawbone and someone hides under a cloth and goes round snapping at the audience. The children adore it. Now that really is pre-Christian,” she said, looking at the girl. “It goes right back to horse worship, that does.”

      Prill was feeling quite sick. She had just refused to think about a crowd of drunken villagers boiling a poor horse’s head in a great pot. Horses were marvellous creatures, there was a great dignity and peace about them. She could quite understand why, in ancient times, men had bowed down and worshipped them like gods.

      “In the old days villages used to steal each other’s heads, apparently,” Winnie said dryly. “It was like robbing them of their magic power, you see. Just the kind of thing the Edge family would adore, I’ve no doubt,” she added, with a queer little laugh. But Prill had gone green.

      “Fresh air,” Winnie announced briskly, realizing she’d said too much. “I’ll just put the spinach on, then we’ll go round the garden for five minutes.”

      Spinach. Prill felt even worse.

      The real inspection of the garden was postponed till after lunch. The meal was such a strange mixture of flavours, and involved so much hard chewing, that they all felt relieved to be out of the stuffy dining room and walking about in the fresh air. Porky Bover was still having trouble with his lawn mower, and he kept stopping to adjust it. The steeply sloping lawns didn’t make the grass very easy to cut, and Oliver couldn’t understand why he was doing it anyway. The turf hadn’t started to grow again yet, it was obviously taking its time. But then, it was so cold in Stang.

      “Can’t seem to get the hang of this new mower, Miss Webster,” the fat boy shouted good-naturedly, as she led an expedition up the hill to look at the view. “It keeps stopping.”

      “Well, it was you who complained about the old one, dear,” she called rather heartlessly. “Thought this was our answer. All these bits of lawn. All these slopes. Now, would your mother like some bedding plants when they’re ready? I’ll have plenty of spares.”

      “You’ve got a good view of the lake, Miss Webster,” Oliver said politely. “As good as Miss Brierley’s.”

      “A wee bit better if anything,” she said proudly. “No trees in the way on my side. Some people find it a bit depressing – Molly, for example. Now she wouldn’t give tuppence for this view. I just can’t persuade her to live down here. She doesn’t really like Blake’s Pit.”

      “Why not?” Prill asked.

      “Oh, that’s Molly; she’s a bit of a Romantic, you know. There’s supposed to be quite a big town at the bottom of it. Well, a city really. Someone did something terribly wicked once, and someone else put a curse on them, and in the middle of the night a flood rose up from nowhere and drowned everybody.”

      “What a fantastic story,” thought Prill.

      “Of course, if dear Molly knew her geography and her geology,” Winnie went on, a little peevishly, “she’d know that it couldn’t possibly be true.” And she delivered a short lecture about earth-mass, glaciers, and rock formations. She was almost as boring as Uncle Stanley.

      Tea was threatened, but they were saved from it by Violet Edge who came wandering up the garden with some books under her arm. “Our Vi,” Winnie muttered under her breath. “Heavens, it’s nearly four o’clock. I’m supposed to be giving her an English lesson. O Level.