King of Misrule

Thursday 6^th January, 1870  - night

What a nuisance Freddie is.  Truly, he has caused me to smudge ink on my book and ruin it!  It’s not fair, he ruins everything!  I hate him! 

Freddie came prancing into our room this evening as I was writing my earlier entry and announced that he was King of Misrule and then started jumping around the room, flinging his arms around and shouting “Misrule! Misrule! Misrule!”  He grabbed the cloth Mamma had placed on the table for dinner, knocked over the little vase of flowers Mamma had put there only five minutes earlier, and then tried to pull me from my chair just as I lifted my pen from the inkwell, causing me to smudge the  entry. 

  

Dad quickly came in from his office when he heard the commotion and promptly led Freddie back there by his ear. We heard dad give Freddie five whacks with the cane, “To teach him to have more respect and discipline”.  I don’t think Fred will ever learn that lesson; he’s more interested in games and pranks.

Anyway, now Dad has sought permission for me to write in the Barracks Library, where my brothers and sisters cannot interfere.  Annie is quite jealous; she says Dad has never favoured her with such a privilege and as the eldest, she should also be granted a similar privilege.  Can you believe it?  Annie is only marginally better than Fred, in that all she ever reads are stories about love and romance.  She never reads the newspaper, except for the serial, nor books about natural history, nor Shakespeare, nor Dickens.

Anyway, I am only allowed to use the Library if there is a responsible person present to supervise me.  Tonight Colonel Fittock is in here.  Dad explained to Colonel Fittock that I am keeping a diary and that Fred was making it difficult for me to concentrate on my writing. He asked if it would be  permissible for me to use the table in the library.  Colonel Fittock looked me in the eye as though he were staring into my soul, whilst he considered the request  and then replied "that it would be alright - under supervision".  As he was present (relaxing in a big leather chair) reading a report of the Crimean War, he would supervise me tonight.    

A British Colonel circa 1860s. Col Fittock is a fictional character.

Colonel Fittock has a gruff voice and scares me when he speaks. He asked me what I wrote about and I told him that I mainly wrote about things that happened that day.  For instance I was writing about how boring today was with no Twelfth Night celebrations, but now I have written about Freddie misbehaving and my being allowed to use the Library. Colonel Fittock asked if he could have a look at my penmanship.  I was too scared to tell him no, so I had to let him look.  I was terrified!  My hand was shaking as I passed my diary to him. I thought he would criticise my writing, which would not be fair – I have written this for myself, not for him to peruse as though it were a writing lesson with Miss Drury! 

But I was so wrong.  He complemented me on my “neat hand”.  He said that I obviously “took after my father”.  He asked me if I enjoyed school; I told him that I enjoyed reading and geography lessons, but I was not very good at needlework.  Colonel Fittock nodded his head and told me “To keep on with the good work.”  He then suggested that I should include some description of where I lived and some more detail about my family.  I was too scared to ask him why?  I mean, the diary is supposed to be for me, my secret thoughts.  Why would I need to describe where I live, when I know that?  It makes no sense to me.  He probably thinks I’m writing about those things now, but I’m not.

Twelfth Night

6^th January

I digressed; I meant to write about Twelfth Night yesterday but I felt too sad to write about fun after I wrote about Da.  

50th Regiment - "The Queen's Own" on parade in Victoria Barracks Sydney 1869. 
Photo held by the State Library of NSW

We’ve had such fun these past years when The Queen’s Own was here.  Usually on the 5^th of January a large fruitcake is cooked and shared out amongst all the privates, and the one who finds the musket-ball cooked into the cake, becomes the King of Misrule.  Dad tells me that usually, in just a family situation, there is a bean and a pea in the cake, the bean for the King of  Twelfth Night and the pea for the Queen, and that the youngest member of the family cuts the cake. But we live on a military post, so the tradition is different. 

We only have a King of Misrule and he gets to sit at the head of the table on the 6^th of January and the CO of the Regiment has to personally serve him his dinner, whilst the other officers place the platters of food around the tables.  They then wish us all a good night and return to the Officer’s Mess for their own party.   Everyone dresses in their best and we all wear masks and the families are allowed to eat with the men, even the Sergeant’s families.

After dinner, the women clear the tables and whilst they are gone, the men change chairs, so that when the women return, they have to find their husbands and sit on their lap, except that because all the men are dressed in their best uniforms and wearing masks, they all look the same and often the women end up sitting on the wrong lap; everyone watches to see how long it will be before the woman knows she’s on the wrong person’s lap.  The last woman to find her husband’s lap then has to pay a forfeit and sing the “Twelve Days of Christmas”.  If she makes a mistake, she then has to give the King of Misrule a kiss.

Then all we children are given a mince tart and the older children have to put the younger children to bed and watch after them whilst our parents finish at the adult’s party.  So once the babies and toddlers are in bed, the older children usually gather on the balcony outside the rooms.  The elder boys draw straws to select a King of Misrule and then all the girls take turns to sing the Twelve Days of Christmas; if we make a mistake we have to give the King a kiss.

Re-enactment of Twelfth Night celebrations in Colonial Willamsburg

I’ve noticed that some of the elder girls deliberately forget lines and make mistakes so they can kiss the King.  I know this, because Annie knows that carol by heart; but last year she pretended to forget words and mixed up the verses, so that she could kiss Robin Bull, who was the children’s King of Misrule.  Annie said he was very handsome with his dark curly hair and strong forehead, like the hero in a Jane Austen novel.  I have trouble understanding Annie these days, she no longer wants to play games but spends her time primping and preening in front of our mirror and sighing over some character called Mr Darcy.  Mamma tells her to be careful or she’ll wear out the mirror.

My Da

 Wednesday, 5^th January 1870

I was playing very happily with Janet today , we were rolling down the hill at the back of the barracks and playing around near the gaol and the bore hut.  I was telling Janet all about our celebrations for Twelfth Night, which is tomorrow, and Janet asked if she could come.  So, we ran to dad's office to ask him if Janet could join us for dinner tomorrow, only to be told that there is no Twelfth Night dinner tomorrow! Nothing is going to happen!  There’s no party! Dad said we can read from Mr Shakespeare’s play by that name, if we are desperate for something to do on the day and to ask mamma if Janet may join us for a family meal.  But there is to be no Lord of Misrule and we have eaten all the mince tarts already and there will be no King cake.

We had so much fun in the last few years when the Queen’s Own Regiment was here.  Mamma’s Da had once been a member of that regiment when it was here before, earlier in the century, but he transferred to the 11^th and stayed in New South Wales when it returned to Britain.  I remember Da coming to the Barracks one day a few years ago, just after Arthur was born, to see Mamma and also to see if there was any of his old mates in the Barracks, but they had all either left or died. 

adapted from "Old Man and his dog" by Landseer (1800-1873)

My Da.  He wasn’t much taller than Mamma, and had a few teeth missing, so that when he smiled at me and said “Hello me darling!” there were these dark spots between his other teeth.  His greeting always made me laugh for joy and I loved his Irish accent.  But he walked stiffly, using a stick with his left hand to balance, as his right leg used to drag behind him when he walked.  His right arm also hung uselessly at his side; he couldn’t even carry his stick in it. 

I asked Mamma why his right side didn’t work properly?  She just shrugged and said he had had a fit years ago and nearly died. “Would have served him right if he had - the old, good for nothing drunk,” she said. 

Mamma was always hard on her Pa.  I don’t think she ever forgave him for walking out on her and Ma, and her brothers and sisters.  Left them destitute and then her Ma died.  Mamma doesn’t like to talk much about it though.

But whatever he did, he’s still my Da and I love it when he comes to visit and brings his little dog, Bella.  She’s such a sweet little thing, the colour of caramel with a smooth , short coat.  She would walk ahead of him sniffing at things and would stop and wait for him to catch up.  He gave us each a penny that day; I remember he smelt and his clothes were dirty and torn, and Mamma said he should have used the money to buy himself a new pair of pants. But Da said if he wanted to spend his money on his grandchildren, he would. 

adapted from the painting "Man and Donkey" on Flickr

“Why didn’t you ever spend it on us, Da?   Maybe then my brother and sister would still be alive! Maybe Ma would still be alive!” Mamma cried and ran off.  I heard Da mutter “maybe you’re right Jane, but it’s too late now.”Then he patted my head with his dirty hand, caressed my curls and left.   We haven’t seen him since.