Today was Oliver’s end of term and carol service.
We had to get up practically in the middle of the night to get there, because lots of bridges are closed around Kendal, and there is an awful lot of traffic on the roads that are open, especially first thing in the morning, it was still dark when we got up. We had a hasty cup of coffee and left Lucy to empty the dogs, then dashed off for the journey over the fells into Yorkshire.
It is a nice journey, over the fell tops and through Catterick Garrison, the road which goes to Oliver’s school is the road along which they teach inexperienced soldiers to drive tanks, you can tell because all of the kerb stones are deeply pitted with caterpillar-track scars, and there are special Tank Speed Limit signs up everywhere. We have never yet seen a tank on one but I am always hopeful, there are some parked at the side of the road and they look very thrilling.
Oliver’s school chapel is not at all like Lucy’s: which is a huge modern affair with lots of windows and scrubbed pine. The Aysgarth chapel is tiny, with stained glass windows, and crammed with oak pews and memorials to Old Boys and teachers, underneath a beautiful vaulted roof. The parents are ushered into the back pews by a determined teacher whose job it is to squeeze at least six parents into every pew. This is not as easy as it sounds, because of parents who flap about changing places and spotting their friends on the other side of the chapel and wanting to sit near the front, or near the hot pipes, or near the organ, and it seemed to take ages before everybody was finally rustling about settling down and the tower bell started to toll to summon the boys.
It was so exciting to watch them file in, a line of small boys smart and polished in their ties and tweed jackets, and we all craned forwards to catch the first glimpses of the sons we have not seen for three weeks. Then the choir sang, an arrangement composed by the music master: and it was glorious: shiveringly, heartbreakingly lovely.
Aysgarth choir sing in the cathedral, and they are ace, the loveliest of boys’ voices coaxed into soaring harmony by the music master, who is, in my opinion, an unheralded genius, pale and quiet and slim and who makes music with a passion that leaves you shocked and quiet inside.
It was the Festival of Nine Lessons, read in strict hierarchy, starting with a small boy from Form One, then a member of each form in the school, then the Head Boy, and the newest teacher, and the Head Boy’s father, then a member of the Governors, and finishing with the Headmaster: the safe, familiar pattern of everything being In Its Right Place in the world.
We all sang, loudly and enthusiastically, filling the chapel with joyful, end-of-term voices, and then it was over, and we had got our boy back again, and hugged him excitedly, until he started to point out in a muffled voice that he was being squished.
We piled his luggage into that car and went for a trip to MacDonalds on the way home. This was his chosen reward for determined hard work this term. I have only been to MacDonalds once before, and think it would be better if they served wine, but was pleasantly surprised by the economical nature of it all, lunch out for three people for a tenner was ridiculously cheap, although there were no knives and forks so we had to eat with our fingers, and the burgers were not improved by the inexplicable addition of some vinegary cucumber: but it was lovely to have a chance to talk and laugh and be together again.
We drove home then, and Lucy, Oliver and Mark went for haircuts so that they would be smart and tidy for Christmas, and Mark’s mother suddenly called in for a very brief flying visit, which was an enormous surprise, because we hardly ever see her, she lives miles away: and it made us feel as though Christmas was really starting to happen.
After she had gone we decided that we wouldn’t go to work, because it is so very quiet, so Mark made creamy pasta for dinner, with cheese and eggs and olives: and we sat on the sofa, much to the astonishment of the dogs, who are usually the sole sofa occupants and were disconcerted to find that they had company: and we spent the entire evening doing nothing whatsoever at all, except eating home-made chocolates and drinking gorgeous French wine, in front of a DVD called Wolf Hall. I have read and loved the book, and the DVD was splendid, not as rich as the book but quite marvellous enough to keep us enthralled for four episodes one after another, before we decided that we ought to go to bed.
It has been a fabulous, lazy, splendid day, wealthy to the point of overflowing with good things. Term is over. We are on holiday.
It is Christmas…
