Aunt Dimity's Christmas

by Nancy Atherton

  Emma eyed me suspiciously. “Depends on what it is.”

  “I promised William that I’d stand in for him at tonight’s rehearsal,” I informed her. “And I was hoping you’d be an absolute angel and babysit for me. It’ll just be for a couple of hours, and I’ll have the boys bathed and in their pajamas by the time you get here.”

  “You want me to look after the twins?” Emma gaped in disbelief. Emma’s stepchildren had come to her fully weaned and potty-trained. She claimed to have no discernible maternal instinct.

  “Either that or spend the evening in Finch with Peggy Kitchen,” I said, fluttering my eyelashes.

  “I’d love to look after the twins,” Emma declared. “If things get too desperate, Derek can always bail me out.”

  I heaved a sigh of relief and gave her a hug. Emma’s husband knew all there was to know about babies. With Derek as backup, Emma would have a peaceful, trouble-free evening.

  I somehow doubted that the same would hold true for me.

  Finch sparkled like a cheap dime-store bracelet that evening. Each building on the square had been outlined in fairy lights, in imitation of the annual display at Harrods, and garish garlands had been wound around each tree. The pub’s plastic choirboys swayed drunkenly in the icy breeze and Sally Pyne’s Santa heads leered from the tearoom’s shadowy windows. The darkness softened the features of Peggy Kitchen’s mad-eyed, mechanical Father Christmas, however, and made him appear marginally less hostile.

  Every business on the square seemed to be closed for the evening, but the schoolhouse had come alive. Light shone from the gothic windows, and smoke rose from the narrow chimney. The succession of frigid days following the blizzard had left a glaze of ice across the schoolyard, but the show was going on regardless, thanks to a thick layer of sand spread across the treacherous surface by Mr. Barlow. The retired mechanic stood in the doorway admiring his handiwork, and Buster, his yappy terrier, barked a greeting as I approached.

  I bent to scratch Buster’s chin, then straightened and cocked an ear toward the sound of voices coming from within the schoolhouse. “I guess everyone’s shut up shop to come to the rehearsal, huh?”

  “You guess right,” Mr. Barlow answered, ushering me into the cloakroom. “Won’t be a business open in Finch from now until the ruddy thing’s done with.” He set his sand bucket on a wooden stool and closed the door behind us. “William feeling better, I hope? And how’s that chap you found in your driveway? Hasn’t packed it in, has he?”

  I thanked Mr. Barlow for his interest and gave him a general health report: Willis, Sr., had stopped sneezing, but another day or two in bed wouldn’t do him any harm; Kit Smith remained unconscious.

  “Poor chap.” Mr. Barlow shook his head, then motioned toward the former classroom that now served as an all-purpose meetingplace. “Best get inside and do your bit. If you ask me, Mrs. Bunting’s in over her head. She’s got Sally Pyne, Christine Peacock, and Peggy Kitchen playing the three wise men—in false beards!”

  “She didn’t have much luck finding male volunteers,” I reminded him. “Are you in the play?”

  “I’m on lights,” Mr. Barlow stated flatly. “You wouldn’t catch me parading—” He broke off abruptly and colored to his roots. “Not that there’s anything wrong with it, mind. I’m sure we’re all grateful to William for pitching in.”

  “Who’s playing Herod?” I asked, easing him off the hook.

  “Jasper Taxman,” Mr. Barlow replied, grinning broadly. “Don’t know what Mrs. Bunting was thinking.”

  Nor did I. It would be difficult to find a more self-effacing man than Jasper Taxman. The audience would have to summon up a superhuman suspension of disbelief to accept him as a paranoid megalomaniac plotting a search-and-destroy mission against a newborn.

  “Able Farnham and George Wetherhead’ll do as the shepherds,” Mr. Barlow allowed, “so long as they don’t have to move.”

  I nodded my understanding. An old hip injury forced George Wetherhead to walk with the aid of a three-pronged cane, and ancient Mr. Farnham was so frail that he could scarcely cross the square without toppling over. I trembled to think what might happen if either man got too close to the edge of the stage.

  “And then there’s Miranda Morrow,” Mr. Barlow said thoughtfully. “She’s a comely lass, no doubt about it, but I’m not convinced she’s right for the angel of the Lord.”

  “Miranda Morrow’s playing the angel of the Lord?” I said, astonished. Since Miranda Morrow was Finch’s resident witch and a practicing pagan, her casting gave new meaning to the word “ecumenical.”

  “She was the only one willing to make the wings,” Mr. Barlow explained. “Best get inside,” he added, nodding toward the schoolroom. “They’ll be getting under way soon.”

  I gave Buster’s ears a cuddle, passed through the cloakroom, and entered the schoolhouse proper.

  An impressive amount of work had already been done to turn the room into a serviceable theater. Folding chairs were piled to one side of the room, ready to be deployed on the big night; a stage had been erected over the dais which had once held the schoolmaster’s desk; and heavy green drapes cut off the far corners of the room, creating what I assumed to be men’s and women’s dressing areas.

  The noise level was close to deafening as cast and crew went about their assorted tasks. Sally Pyne hunched over her sewing machine, Christine and Dick Peacock dispensed tea from a massive urn, and Jasper Taxman, Peggy Kitchen’s erstwhile fiancé, knelt beside a canvas flat, painting scenes allegedly depicting the Holy Land. Mr. Taxman’s eye for color was all that one would expect from a retired accountant: the hills surrounding Bethlehem were a lurid shade of green reminiscent of a badly cleaned aquarium.

  Peggy Kitchen stood over Mr. Taxman, offering helpful advice. Finch’s undisputed empress had cloaked her mature figure in a remarkable red velvet garment that would have suggested a burnoose more convincingly had she remembered to remove the drapery rings from the hem. Her head was crowned with a spangled turban straight out of a 1940s melodrama, and the lower half of her face was covered by a woolly black false beard. The exotic effect was heightened by her trademark rhinestone-studded eyeglasses.

  Burt Hodge, a local farmer, knelt in front of the stage, hammering on an oversized manger, while his wife sat nearby, nursing Piero, their four-month-old son. Piero had been awarded the coveted role of Our Lord and Savior by virtue of the fact that he was still too young to climb out of the manger.

  Lilian Bunting sat on a folding chair midway down the room, with a pencil in her hand and an open script perched on her knee. Nell Harris was nowhere in sight, but Bertie, her chocolate-brown teddy bear, sat on a chair beside Lilian’s, dressed in a black beret, a white turtle-neck, and tiny jodhpurs, a diminutive assistant director.

  Lilian looked up as Nell emerged from behind the green drapes at the front of the schoolroom. Nell’s golden curls gleamed like an aureole around her flawless oval face, and her costume was superb—an unadorned white shift beneath the blue velvet cape she’d worn when she’d come to the cottage in her sleigh. She looked innocent, vulnerable, ethereally beautiful—and about thirteen months pregnant.

  “Lady Eleanor,” Lilian said meekly, “what have you got under your shift?”

  Nell placed her hands on her bulging abdomen. “A bolster.”

  “Kindly replace it with a smaller cushion,” pleaded Lilian. “The Virgin did not give birth to quadruplets.” The vicar’s wife caught sight of me and motioned for me to join her.

  “Where’s the vicar?” I asked, pulling over a folding chair. “Isn’t he doing the narration?”

  “Teddy’s at the vicarage,” Lilian said mournfully, “nursing a sore throat.”

  I gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sure he’ll be better by Christmas Eve.”

  “The play won’t,” Lilian fretted. “It’s a complete shambles, Lori. Mr. Farnham keeps falling off the stage, Peggy Kitchen jingles with every step, and Lady Eleanor insists on sicking u
p and fainting. If the play goes ahead as planned, we’ll be prosecuted for heresy.”

  I murmured encouraging words about bad dress rehearsals making for wonderful performances, and she eventually regained her composure.

  “Listen to me,” she said, shamefaced, “having my little moan while the poor gentleman you found in your drive is fighting for his life. How is he, Lori?”

  As I filled Lilian in on Kit Smith’s progress, the sound of the sewing machine ceased, Jasper Taxman set aside his paintbrush, and a small knot of villagers gathered around to listen in.

  “He’s still unconscious,” I concluded, “but he’s stable, so I guess there’s room for hope.”

  “There’s always room for hope,” Lilian said. “Teddy has been praying for him and will continue to do so.”

  Peggy Kitchen grunted. “He won’t need too many prayers, not with the medical attention he’s getting. Flew him to the Radcliffe, didn’t you, Lori?”

  “The lane was blocked with snow. It was the only way to get him to the hospital,” I repeated patiently.

  “I wouldn’t have taken such trouble over a man like that,” croaked Able Farnham. “I would’ve run him off.”

  “How?” I said. “He couldn’t even walk.”

  “Might’ve been playing possum,” Able Farnham said wisely.

  “Didn’t he frighten you?” asked George Wetherhead, leaning on his cane.

  “No,” I lied. “Why should he—”

  “You’re too trusting, Lori,” chided Sally Pyne.

  “He might’ve been an escaped convict,” Christine Peacock pointed out.

  “You never know, these days,” her husband chimed in.

  “He isn’t—” I began, but Sally Pyne cut me off.

  “It’s the germs I’d worry about,” she declared, peering at her own plump, spotless hands. “Everyone knows that tramps are a filthy lot.”

  “That’s right,” said Peggy Kitchen. “You might’ve exposed your sons to any number of diseases. Or nits. Didn’t think of that, did you?”

  “He’s not—” I tried again, but this time Jasper Taxman jumped in.

  “You were taking a great risk,” he said judiciously. “Men of his sort are notoriously unstable.”

  “Thieves, the lot of them,” quavered Able Farnham. “I had one pinch tomatoes from my bins once. In broad daylight.”

  “He must’ve been starving, to thieve your tomatoes,” said a voice from the back of the room.

  We all swung around to see who had issued the insult. Mr. Barlow stood in the doorway, his usually good-natured eyes smoldering. Buster crouched at his heels, growling softly.

  “Listen to yourselves,” said Mr. Barlow, his lip curling in disgust. “Tearing someone down when you don’t know the first thing about him.” He stepped into the room. “My dad was on the tramp back in the thirties, when times were hard, and he wasn’t filthy, crazy, or a thief.”

  “It’s not the thirties anymore,” Jasper Taxman pointed out.

  “Times are still hard, for some,” retorted Mr. Barlow. He shook a finger at the group. “I wish the poor bugger’d come to my door. I’d’ve given him more than a kick in the backside and the sharp edge of my tongue, which is all he would’ve gotten from you lot.” He looked defiantly from face to face, but his next words were addressed to me. “You give Kit Smith my best when he wakes up, Lori. You tell him if he needs a job, there’s one waiting for him here in Finch.”

  “I will, Mr. Barlow,” I said.

  “As for the rest of you …” Mr. Barlow folded his arms, then turned on his heel. “C’mon, Buster. We’re going home. There’s a bad smell in here.”

  “Well, really,” murmured Peggy Kitchen, when Mr. Barlow was safely out of earshot. “There was no need for that.”

  Lilian Bunting stood. “You’re wrong, Mrs. Kitchen. There was a great need.” I saw no sign of meekness in her manner as she squared off against the empress of Finch. “Since Teddy can’t be here to run through the narration, I have decided to cancel tonight’s rehearsal.”

  Peggy’s false beard twitched ominously. “You can’t—”

  “I believe you’ll find I can,” Lilian declared.

  There was a moment of shocked silence, followed by the sound of shuffling feet as the villagers edged away from Peggy Kitchen.

  Lilian seemed to take no notice. “We will meet again on Monday night, as scheduled,” she continued. “In the meantime, I would like each of you to study the narration carefully. Ask yourselves what kind of person would refuse shelter on a cold winter’s night to a young, impoverished couple expecting their first child.” The mild-mannered, scholarly woman folded her script and smacked it sharply against the palm of her hand. “And I shall expect to see all of you at church tomorrow.”

  Peggy Kitchen gathered up her red velvet gown and jingled indignantly to the women’s dressing area. The others dispersed more quietly, but they favored Lilian with resentful glances as they went.

  The last thing I heard before leaving the schoolhouse was Lilian saying, with steely determination, “And there will be no sicking up!”

  “Why were the villagers so vicious?” I asked Aunt Dimity. The cottage was still and silent. Emma had left three hours ago, and Willis, Sr., was sleeping fitfully in the master bedroom. I’d bunked down on the rollaway bed in the nursery, but the memory of the villagers’ attack on Kit had made sleep impossible. I was upset, and I’d come downstairs to the study, hoping that Dimity would help untie the knots in my stomach. “I mean, I wasn’t wild about finding Kit in the drive, but I didn’t wish him any harm. It’s as if the villagers feel threatened by him.”

  They do. Aunt Dimity’s handwriting spun across the page in a soothingly familiar rhythm. He reminds them of what they fear most.

  “Crime?” I said.

  Poverty. You must remember, Lori, that most of your neighbors lived through the Great Depression. They know what it is to have only one pair of shoes, to be cold without hope of warmth, to go to bed hungry. They resent Kit for reminding them of a time they’d rather forget.

  My gaze drifted from the page as the sound returned, the howl of a bitter wind driving sleet and snow before it like a scourge. I shuddered, pressed my fingers to my forehead, as if to push the sound away, and forced myself to look back at the journal.

  Apart from that, Dimity had written, your neighbors are getting on in years. It’s all too easy for the elderly to imagine themselves slipping through the cracks and sliding into an impoverished old age. They fear what they once were, and they fear what they might become.

  “And fear makes them suspicious and cruel,” I said slowly.

  You mustn’t judge them too harshly, Lori. They’re good people, at heart. Once they overcome their fears, they’ll do what’s right, you’ll see. Now, tell me what you’ve learned about Kit Smith since we last spoke.

  I looked toward the hallway. “Sorry, Dimity,” I said, with forced nonchalance, “but I’ve got to go. William’s out of bed again. I may have to tie him down this time.”

  Go, look after your father-in-law. But come back soon.

  I closed the blue journal and stared into the middle distance, recalling the resentment I’d felt at Kit’s intrusion into my carefully planned holiday. I was the last person on earth qualified to judge my neighbors.

  I had too much in common with them.

  On Sunday morning I made sure that Willis, Sr., was resting comfortably, then strapped the twins into the Mercedes and took off for Saint George’s. It had been nearly a week since Kit Smith had slipped silently into my life, and I felt the need for spiritual sustenance.

  The church was unusually crowded. Peggy Kitchen and Jasper Taxman sat in the front row, Mr. Barlow sat in the back, and the Peacocks took up half a pew near the baptismal font. Sally Pyne helped Able Farnham to a place on the center aisle, and Lilian Bunting sat before the pulpit, where her husband could look to her for encouragement during his less than inspiring sermons.

  The moment I
spotted Lilian, I knew that something strange was afoot. She should have been greeting the parishioners, who were still streaming through the side door, but instead she was already seated, with her back to the congregation, speaking to no one. I wondered fleetingly if she was still upset over the villagers’ mean-spirited remarks about Kit, then let the thought go, distracted by Will’s interest in my hymnal.

  Saint George’s was resplendent. An imposing arrangement of silvery ferns rose from the Norman font, and Christmas roses set off by sprigs of holly decorated the altar. Evergreen garlands climbed the stone pillars, and the air was filled with the aromatic fragrance of yew and cypress.

  The Victorian crèche, with the manger as yet empty, sat on a bed of sweet-smelling straw in the chancel, and as the organist played the first notes of the voluntary, I felt a glimmer of the contentment I’d hoped the season would bring. When the vicar mounted the pulpit to give his sermon, the twins and I settled back, with the rest of the congregation, to enjoy a pleasant doze. Theodore Bunting had come to Finch from a tough London parish and had never displayed the slightest inclination to re-create the fraught atmosphere he’d left behind. His sermons were, as a rule, low-key enough to serve as lullabies.

  “On this, the fourth Sunday in Advent,” he began, “I would like to speak to you of a certain visitor who recently passed through our community.”

  Heads that had begun to droop rose instantly. Everyone knew what the vicar was talking about—news of Kit’s passage had spread to the farthest reaches of the parish—but no one had expected to hear a sermon on the subject. Then, too, there was an odd note in the vicar’s voice, a sharpness that would, in anyone else, have signified anger.

  “He was a stranger to our village,” the vicar continued, “a poor man dressed in ragged clothes. He was hungry, yet he asked no one for food. He was ill, yet he asked for no one’s help. Had he done so, I fear, he would have been hard-pressed to find so much as a crumb of kindness among us.”