Feature

Bean and Gone

© LUCIA FOSTER-FOUND 2020 WWW.LUCIAFOSTERFOUND.COM

“Guess what I’m bringing back!” She looked up from a fruitless search for a green triangle; purple ones had reached extinction on Boxing Day. Unwrapping a strawberry delight, she hazarded a guess. “Hanging?” At his shocked look she had another stab. “Flogging?” “Really Darling, sometimes I wonder if you know me at all…“ She raised an eyebrow. “Nooo. I’ve been watching a programme about Tudor Christmases.” Her stand out schoolgirl memory of Henry VIII (apart from the wife thing) was that he consumed 5,000 calories a day. How lovely.. But was probably why he looked as wide as he was tall in his portraits, her thoughts rambled on. And that ridiculous stance, like Lord Flashheart in Blackadder – hands on hips with his codpiece thrust out.

Oh no, surely not.. “The Codpiece?” she ventured, with trepidation. Couldn’t see that catching on. Certainly not amongst the young – would look ridiculous teamed up with drainpipe jeans hanging around their hips. Underpants on show at the back, bejewelled cup at the front? No. Just. No. “Stop guessing now, darling. You’re way off the mark. I’m referring to Twelfth Night!” He announced. Unaware that it had ever gone away, she was puzzled. “Well it’s not my favourite Shakespearean play, but I’m not sure it needs your help to revive it. Timon of Peres however, could probably do with a leg up.”

Exasperation in his tone “No, no, no. Can’t stand Shakespeare. I’m talking about Twelfth Night; great festival and feast of bygone times. Celebrates the visit of the Magi to the baby Jesus.” “I thought they came on Christmas Day? It doesn’t say anything about them being nearly a fortnight late in the ‘We Three Kings’ carol. Except maybe the one on a scooter, beeping his hooter – he’d probably be slower than the one in a taxi and the one in a car.” Finding herself hilarious, she sniggered. Himself went on with a vaguely pained expression “It was also marked, in pre-Christian times by the ancient ritual of Wassailing in the orchards, where people drank to the trees’ health.” “Are you sure the trees weren’t just an excuse for a booze-up – can’t imagine a Cox’s Pippin saying ‘Cheers’ back, like Treebeard the Ent.” Because that would be alarming – and not too good for Himself, what with his dicky heart. “It sounds like a pretext for a grand hurrah before January descends into doom and gloom.” “Precisely that. Especially this year when it’s going to doomier and gloomier than ever.” His smile was a little wan and she sympathised. It might be nice to have a jolly evening before taking down the decorations and turning the lights off Christmas.

Although for her, January brought its own reward in the form of a welcome respite from the relentless TV adverts. She was suffering from ETA – Excessive Television Advertising. And had exceeded her FAQ – Festive Advertising Quotient. She thought she might actually scream if she saw one more impossibly beautiful girl leaping inexplicably off a pier, wallowing about in gold paint or riding a horse whilst most inappropriately dressed. All for the sake of a perfume. And just who were these singers and musicians that resurfaced every December to flog their Christmas CD? You didn’t see them the rest of the year. Perhaps, she mused, they were cryogenically frozen from January to November and thawed out just in time to promote their Granny-safe offering.

However, Himself was still on-topic and looking at his tablet “It says here that bakeries would compete for the best shop window display of twelfth night cakes. There’s a recipe – apparently you have to hide a bean in it. The one who finds the bean is crowned Lord of Misrule. He gets to tell the others what to do.” Given that this year there would only be the two of them, it followed that the Lord of Misrule would just get to boss the other one around. Mmnn. With her evil genius expression hidden by a rummage for a toffee penny, she enthusiastically offered to make the cake. But, OH DEAR, she had a premonition that there would be no bean found and, ergo, no Lord of Misrule. SUCH A SHAME. NEVER MIND. Looked like one of them had been and gone and swallowed it.

They’d successfully made it through months of incarceration and no-one had ended up buried under the patio. Best not push it. Wouldn’t want their Twelfth Night to be their last night..