- Feb 3, 2024
- LitBits
- 0
New blog post by Pamela Jo
Christmas Eve in the Graveyard
Four-year-old Hugh wanted to be a villain. This puzzled my son Jack. If they played Star Wars, it was Luke vs Darth Vader, which made a convenient pairing since neither had to battle against an imaginary adversary. Nevertheless, Jack regularly argued with his friend on the merits of heroism. Hugh, chin set obstinately, refused to leave the dark side.
The Christmas Eve Hugh disappeared was the annual drinks after the All Saints carol service. The 5 and unders released like springs from the nursery played in the graveyard among the tombs and headstones. This included two Roman coffins on the side of the medieval, or even older some said, church. Its building stone came from the remains of nearby Londinium, now known as St Albans. No taller than today’s 12-year-old the rock coffins faced east awaiting resurrection, though the bodies they’d contained had long become dust. It was reckoned Boudicca’s final battle had been somewhere around our town of Leighton Buzzard. Or as the Normans had it, Layton Bossard.
Though we were blow-ins, the ancient church tied us to the village. On special occasions like this, a table, well-dressed with bottles and glasses, was set up in the chancery. Adults lingered in the candle lit church GT’s and sherries in hand incense, still heavy on the air.
The graveyard with its leaning headstones towering over playing children was starkly beautiful in bleak midwinter. As dusk fell a few little ones still carried lit candles from the service as they dodged around the graveyard’s sheltering yews. The flickering lights shone through the stained glass and shouts and shrieks let us know the next generation were running themselves tired. We all hoped they’d be ready for an early bed so we could get on with present wrapping, trifle building, new bike assembling.
Shadows had almost solidified into dark when glasses were drained and parents gathered hats, gloves and children. Hugh wasn’t discovered missing until half an hour later. The youngest of five boys, probably the source of his anti-hero obsession, the family was hanging coats in the foyer before the headcount fell short. We were just sitting down to boiled eggs for tea when we got the call.
Hugh was last seen with Jack. What did he remember? Our four year old shrugged and dipped a toast soldier into his runny yolk, “We were playing Hide n Seek, but I couldn’t find him. He vanished.” Jack liked words. Cavernous was one of his favourites at the time.
My husband immediately pulled his coat on and returned to the church for the search. He was back an hour later. No Hugh. The worried parents decided their youngest must have tried to walk home by himself and gotten lost. The family dog and brothers were out searching the town. We’d get a call as soon as he was found. Then there was silence. No word through excited Christmas Eve bedtime for our two sons. 6 pm. 7pm. 8pm.
We called again hoping there had been joyous a reunion and we’d been forgotten. No Hugh. The Thames Valley Police had been informed, but it was Christmas Eve. They’d been no use. At 10pm Hugh’s father phoned. Could my husband come for another search at the church? He was picking up Canon Anthony as well. No Santa playing tonight. The car that picked him up held grim faces and set jaws. The fathers had joined forces.
My husband and Hugh’s father volunteered as groundskeepers for the park-sized graveyard. They liked that the surrounding wall was knicked with bullet holes from Cromwell’s soldiers. Both men knew the tombs and crypts had to be treated gently lest they implode and crumble. That any bit of bone that came up while mowing had to be slipped quietly back underground. Canon Antony dreaded the long, tedious reburial rite. C of E had its own exorcism rituals.
That night the priest slipped on his gold robe to intone a blessing prayer before they began the search. Methodically dividing the grounds each man searched his section, calling the boy’s name repeatedly, then changed and the next man searched that space again. Only once did they hear a giggle carried on the wind. Nothing more.
Sometime after eleven, the missing boy’s father raised his head like a hunting dog catching a scent and his torch followed a path to one of the oldest crypts. He said later that maybe he heard a noise , but it felt more like following someone or thing. Flashing the torch light in through a crack by the broken door he reached in. It was met by a small ice-cold hand. “You found me, daddy.”
The opening had seemed too small for more than a fox, but the ingenuity of a small boy had been enough to get through. When asked why he hadn’t come out when he heard his name called, Hugh was indignant. “That’s not how you play Hide ‘n’ Seek.”
It was his next sentence that silenced us. “The man told me if I wasn’t found I’d go to heaven.” That was all he would ever say about that.
---
Christmas Eve in the Graveyard
Four-year-old Hugh wanted to be a villain. This puzzled my son Jack. If they played Star Wars, it was Luke vs Darth Vader, which made a convenient pairing since neither had to battle against an imaginary adversary. Nevertheless, Jack regularly argued with his friend on the merits of heroism. Hugh, chin set obstinately, refused to leave the dark side.
The Christmas Eve Hugh disappeared was the annual drinks after the All Saints carol service. The 5 and unders released like springs from the nursery played in the graveyard among the tombs and headstones. This included two Roman coffins on the side of the medieval, or even older some said, church. Its building stone came from the remains of nearby Londinium, now known as St Albans. No taller than today’s 12-year-old the rock coffins faced east awaiting resurrection, though the bodies they’d contained had long become dust. It was reckoned Boudicca’s final battle had been somewhere around our town of Leighton Buzzard. Or as the Normans had it, Layton Bossard.
Though we were blow-ins, the ancient church tied us to the village. On special occasions like this, a table, well-dressed with bottles and glasses, was set up in the chancery. Adults lingered in the candle lit church GT’s and sherries in hand incense, still heavy on the air.
The graveyard with its leaning headstones towering over playing children was starkly beautiful in bleak midwinter. As dusk fell a few little ones still carried lit candles from the service as they dodged around the graveyard’s sheltering yews. The flickering lights shone through the stained glass and shouts and shrieks let us know the next generation were running themselves tired. We all hoped they’d be ready for an early bed so we could get on with present wrapping, trifle building, new bike assembling.
Shadows had almost solidified into dark when glasses were drained and parents gathered hats, gloves and children. Hugh wasn’t discovered missing until half an hour later. The youngest of five boys, probably the source of his anti-hero obsession, the family was hanging coats in the foyer before the headcount fell short. We were just sitting down to boiled eggs for tea when we got the call.
Hugh was last seen with Jack. What did he remember? Our four year old shrugged and dipped a toast soldier into his runny yolk, “We were playing Hide n Seek, but I couldn’t find him. He vanished.” Jack liked words. Cavernous was one of his favourites at the time.
My husband immediately pulled his coat on and returned to the church for the search. He was back an hour later. No Hugh. The worried parents decided their youngest must have tried to walk home by himself and gotten lost. The family dog and brothers were out searching the town. We’d get a call as soon as he was found. Then there was silence. No word through excited Christmas Eve bedtime for our two sons. 6 pm. 7pm. 8pm.
We called again hoping there had been joyous a reunion and we’d been forgotten. No Hugh. The Thames Valley Police had been informed, but it was Christmas Eve. They’d been no use. At 10pm Hugh’s father phoned. Could my husband come for another search at the church? He was picking up Canon Anthony as well. No Santa playing tonight. The car that picked him up held grim faces and set jaws. The fathers had joined forces.
My husband and Hugh’s father volunteered as groundskeepers for the park-sized graveyard. They liked that the surrounding wall was knicked with bullet holes from Cromwell’s soldiers. Both men knew the tombs and crypts had to be treated gently lest they implode and crumble. That any bit of bone that came up while mowing had to be slipped quietly back underground. Canon Antony dreaded the long, tedious reburial rite. C of E had its own exorcism rituals.
That night the priest slipped on his gold robe to intone a blessing prayer before they began the search. Methodically dividing the grounds each man searched his section, calling the boy’s name repeatedly, then changed and the next man searched that space again. Only once did they hear a giggle carried on the wind. Nothing more.
Sometime after eleven, the missing boy’s father raised his head like a hunting dog catching a scent and his torch followed a path to one of the oldest crypts. He said later that maybe he heard a noise , but it felt more like following someone or thing. Flashing the torch light in through a crack by the broken door he reached in. It was met by a small ice-cold hand. “You found me, daddy.”
The opening had seemed too small for more than a fox, but the ingenuity of a small boy had been enough to get through. When asked why he hadn’t come out when he heard his name called, Hugh was indignant. “That’s not how you play Hide ‘n’ Seek.”
It was his next sentence that silenced us. “The man told me if I wasn’t found I’d go to heaven.” That was all he would ever say about that.
---
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