The Silken Strings

The village had its customs, some of which were harder than others for the outsider to understand, and accept. There was the business with the frogs and the full moon which, to be quite honest, was only comprehended by two or three of the eldest villagers. More commonly understood were the Beating of the Parish Bounds, May Day, the Pram Race and the Birthday Bell. This latter, for reasons that will soon be quite obvious, was particularly popular amongst the village children. 

For the outsider to find their way to the village - this was towards the end of the nineteenth century - was the first challenge. It was situated in an area of southern England where maps seemed to go awry. The turning-off the High Road, doubling back on itself so extremely, was almost impossible for anyone travelling by horse to spy out. The villagers seemed to like it that way. It was even rumoured that those of them who lived up the narrower hawthorn paths had never in their lives paid taxes. In fact, that they knew of them as a myth - which they chose to disbelieve.

Now, it so happened that the Birthday Bell was to be rung one Summer’s day. The children, about three dozen of them, of all ages from one year to sixteen years-old, were assembled in the Waiting Room of the Village Hall. They were talking loudly, out of impatience. Those who had been to a Birthday before were lording it over those that hadn’t. The ceremony was very rare - and so children could grow from nothing to five without ever having attended one. (And this despite the pleading and wheedling that they all put in.) They were dressed in their best party clothes, frocks and tunics, pinafores and sailor suits. The gilding of the room and the authoritative paintings did not overawe them.

One of the most lordly of the lording-overs was a boy of eight called George. He was telling his little sister, Ophelia, all about what was going to happen. Although Ophelia had been old enough - that is, able to walk - to attend the previous Birthday, she had been suffering from the chicken pox, and so, amid all the excitement, had been doubly-miserable and doubly-deprived. (The slice of cake brought back had not made up for anything.) George was mainly going over the details again as a way of passing the long time. It was almost twelve o’clock, and the Mayor would be coming in almost any minute with the silken strings.

Ophelia, like most of the younger children, had been told all about the Birthdays - with a greater or lesser degree of exaggeration.

“And then,” said George, “you can eat as much of everything you want as you like. Just remember - don’t let go of - ”

 “O yea! O yea! O yea!” the Town Crier began shouting before he entered the room. “Hear-ye! Hear-ye! Hear-ye!”

One of the things that most delighted the children was that their parents were all forbidden to come inside, before all the food had been eaten. Yet still they behaved themselves better than might have been expected - for the place overawed them, and the older children kept the younger to a certain extent in check.

“It has been decreed by His Lordship that a celebration shall take place of the Birthday of Jessica Spiggot.”

The children clapped and hallooed as Jessica went to stand next to His Lordship.

His Lordship had, by this time, walked in. The young boys bowed and the girls curtseyed. One, hardly more than a tot, fell over - and took her elder sister with her. Everyone laughed; even His Lordship.

 “Look,” whispered George, “he’s holding the silken strings.”

 And indeed he was - they alway across his hands like the fairytale hair of the Princess in the tower, Rapunzel.

In the afternoon light, they glowed gold and bright.

Behind His Lordship, the silken strings ran towards the wall and then disappeared into a hole in the middle of a big screen covered in elegant pink and grey silk. Upon this was painted a picture of a huge tower with a bell inside. This was the birthday bell which was to be rung that very day.