by Miss Read
The two children scrambled up onto the end of the bed, and Annie wriggled her way towards her mother. ‘Are you awake, Mum?’ and she shook a shoulder under the bedclothes.
‘Yes, I’m awake. Now get off me so I can go and fetch our Billy.’
Their youngest had pulled himself up on the bars of his cot in the little single room next door, and was shaking the side vigorously.
‘Just as well you’re the last,’ said Molly, lifting the child out. ‘That cot won’t last much longer.’ She took him off to the bathroom to change his nappy.
Five minutes later, everyone was squeezed onto and into the double bed, and Ben called, ‘Ready, everyone? Right, one, two, three, go!’ And the two elder Curdle children delved into their stockings - long green woollen stockings that had been in the Curdle family for years - and the room was soon filled with cries of delight and the bed covered with pieces of discarded wrapping paper.
Molly stretched out a hand to her husband. ‘Happy Christmas, Ben.’
‘Happy Christmas, darlin’,’ he replied, and gave her a hug.
Winnie Bailey stood at her bedroom window in her dressing-gown. The sky was beginning to lighten, and was softly streaked. A well-wrapped-up figure was bicycling slowly past and Winnie wondered where on earth anyone would be cycling to at this hour on Christmas morning. A blackbird’s alarm call brought her gaze into her own garden. The grass was white with frost and the bushes round the bird table were already a-twitter with expectant sparrows and finches. She resolved to put out an extra large helping of bread as soon as she’d had her breakfast. She could already hear Jenny downstairs in the kitchen, and remembered that scrambled eggs were on the menu. Winnie had to admit that Jenny’s scrambled eggs were the best in the world.
When her nephew Richard had telephoned one day a few weeks earlier to say that he, Fenella and the children were going to stay in London for Christmas, Winnie had felt immense relief. She was too old, she decided, to have a house full of over-excited youngsters. They had all come to stay a few years before and she had been exhausted even before lunchtime. On top of which she found it very difficult not to show her disapproval of the way the children opened their presents with abandon, hardly glancing at one before tearing the paper off the next. Richard had done his best to keep a list of who had given what, but she doubted many bread-and-butter letters were written.
Isobel Shoosmith had been with her when Richard had rung. She had popped over to get a recipe for a sherry trifle that had been handed down to Winnie by her mother, and which Harold had declared ‘the most delicious ever’ when they’d been having lunch there one day.
‘That was Richard,’ Winnie had said, putting down the telephone. ‘Not coming for Christmas, thank goodness. It will be nice to be on our own.’
‘You must come and have Christmas lunch with us,’ Isobel had said immediately. ‘There’s no point the four of us sitting down to huge lunches on separate sides of the green.’
When Winnie had demurred that it would be too much trouble, Isobel had insisted. ‘We tend to eat at about two o’clock,’ she’d said, ‘so have a good breakfast to last you through.’
And so, the evening before, Winnie and Jenny had planned their breakfast of scrambled eggs on toast, with grilled bacon. Afterwards, they would open their presents before getting ready for church at eleven-fifteen.
She turned away from the window and crossed the room towards the bathroom. She paused by the chest of drawers on top of which stood her favourite photograph of Donald. He’d been asleep in a deck-chair under a shady tree in the garden, and the book he had been reading had fallen sideways in his lap. She loved the peaceful look on his face, and she had never regretted creeping up on him and taking the photograph.
‘Happy Christmas, dearest Donald,’ she said now, and gently touched his face in the photograph. ‘It’s scrambled eggs for breakfast!’
‘Are you awake?’ called Connie, pushing open her aunt’s door. She was still in her dressing-gown and was carrying a tray carefully in front of her.
‘Yes, been awake for ages,’ replied Dotty.
Connie set the tray down on the bedside table, and went to close the window. ‘There’s been a hard frost. Perfect for Christmas Day. Happy Christmas, Aunt Dot.’
‘If there’s a frost, I must get out quickly to see that the goats have got plenty of hay, and we must give extra to the ducks,’ cried Dotty, ignoring the niceties of seasonal greetings in her concern for her beloved animals and birds and, pushing the bedclothes aside, started to get out of bed.
‘No, you don’t!’ Connie said, gently pushing her back. ‘Kit will see to the feeding as soon as he’s dressed. We don’t want you slipping on the icy ground.’
Once Dotty was back under the bedclothes, Connie plumped up the pillows behind her aunt and then laid the tray across her knees. ‘Boiled egg and toast this morning.’ She perched herself at the end of the bed. ‘Do you feel like coming to church with us today?’
Dotty looked towards the window. The rising sun had flushed the sky a gentle peach colour.
‘Yes, I think I’d like that. So long as the animals have been fed, of course,’ she said firmly.
‘Excellent!’ said Connie. ‘I know Charles will be delighted to see you. The service is at nine and we must leave ten minutes before that. I’ll go and get dressed now, and then come back and help you.’
‘I must wear a hat,’ Dottie declared. ‘That nice straw one with ribbons will do nicely.’
‘Of course,’ Connie said. Come summer or winter, rain or shine, Dotty invariably wore no other hat. She smiled lovingly at her ancient aunt, and left to get dressed.
When Harold Shoosmith pushed open the door of St Andrew’s at ten forty-five, he rubbed his cold hands together in pleasure. Albert had done his job; the church was nice and warm. He switched on the lights, and looked around. The flowers on the altar, on the font and by the rector’s chair were lovely. It was not the most beautiful church in the county, he admitted, but it had such a good atmosphere.
He picked up the three collection bags from the vestry, and laid them on the table with the hymn books. He and Frank Hurst would take the collection in the main body of the church, and he hoped Ben Curdle would climb up into the gallery to collect from the congregation that invariably overflowed up there at the Christmas morning service.
He was standing at the lectern, checking the ribbons were in the right places for the two lessons, when the first people arrived, those who had walked the short distance from Rectory Cottages. He went forward to greet them, and show them to their seats. Frank and Phyllida with Jeremy were the next to arrive: Phil and her son went to sit down while Frank took a pile of hymn books to hand out at the door.
Harold was greeting Winnie Bailey and Jenny when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned to find Derek and Jean Burwell behind him.
‘Well, have you talked to that Cooke family, then?’ demanded Derek.
Harold bridled. ‘And a happy Christmas to you, too,’ he said. He wasn’t going to be pushed around by this unpleasant man. He had had Derek Burwell on the telephone for half an hour two days earlier, demanding that - as chairman of the Parochial Church Council - he had to bring to justice whoever it was had damaged his Christmas decorations at Blenheim Lodge.
‘Well?’ said Derek, thrusting his face closer to Harold’s.
Harold took a step back. ‘I don’t think this is the time or the place for having this conversation. I suggest we leave it until after the Christmas holiday.’
‘We’ve had to spend a great deal of money replacing the lights,’ cut in Jean Burwell, her face pink with indignation.
‘Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. Now, if you will excuse me, I must get ready to begin the service. Perhaps you would like to find yourselves somewhere to sit.’
Derek gave him a look that said he didn’t think much of the chairman of the PCC, and moved off down the aisle.
‘Sit somewhere,’ said his wife in a stage whis
per, ‘where we don’t have to look at that tatty crib.’
Very soon, the nave and side aisle were full, and families clumped upstairs to the gallery. There was a general hubbub of chatter as friends wished each other ‘Happy Christmas’ and children excitedly described what presents they had had. No one seemed to be paying attention to what the organist was playing but when he saw that Harold was ready to leave the vestry, he pulled out the stops, the music swelled to fill the church and the talking soon died away.
Harold walked down towards the reader’s chair and turned at the chancel steps to face the congregation, which was now standing.
‘Good morning to everyone, to all the families from Thrush Green and around, and especially to all the visitors here in St Andrew’s today. As you know, our good rector Charles Henstock will be with us as soon as he can get away from the service in St John’s and, in the meantime, I will start this morning’s service. And the first hymn on this beautiful Christmas morning is “Christians Awake, Salute the Happy Morn”.’
After the four church services he had taken that morning, Charles Henstock was still not really able to relax, but after the service in Thrush Green he’d gone, with Dimity and Ella, across the green for a glass of sherry with Harold and Isobel.
Later, having dropped Dimity and Ella off at the vicarage, Charles drove to the local hospital to see his parishioners there who had not been able to go home for Christmas. He returned to the vicarage for a late lunch of cold ham and salad and after the Queen’s speech, which they watched on television, they opened their Christmas presents.
Instead of the usual hand-made present, Ella had bought Dimity a beautiful screen-printed silk scarf.
‘Oh, Ella, it’s lovely. And just the right colour - it will go with my coat perfectly. How clever of you!’
‘You’ve got a pair of gloves that colour, and when I saw you wear them with the coat, it gave me the idea. So I popped a glove into my pocket when we went shopping the other day, and the nice assistant helped me choose the right colour. I couldn’t risk my dratted eyes getting the colour wrong.’
‘So that’s where my glove went to! I lost it - and then it appeared again.’
Ella laughed. ‘And for you, Charles, a bottle of your favourite port!’
Dimity then handed quite a bulky present to Ella. ‘From both of us.’
‘I don’t need a present from you,’ said Ella rather ungraciously, and then added, ‘Being here with you both is present enough. But thank you.’
She unwrapped a box containing a cassette recorder and, separately, two plastic boxes containing audio tapes. She looked at them then put them on the sofa beside her. ‘Thank you. Very useful.’ After a moment’s silence, she said, ‘Shouldn’t you be going over to the Lovelocks’? It’s nearly four.’
On their way to the traditional Christmas tea with the elderly sisters, Dimity was worried that they had upset Ella with their present.
‘The cassette player is sort of ramming home that she’s going blind,’ she said. ‘I wasn’t sure if she was more upset or cross.’
‘She can’t bury her head in the sand,’ said Charles. ‘According to the optician, her eyesight is deteriorating fast. And for someone who has been as active as she has, that’s a bitter blow. She’s got to face up to things, and it’ll be so much better if she can do that in the company of true friends.’
‘You’re so right, dear,’ said Dimity. ‘How wise you are.’
Together, they climbed up the steps of the Lovelock residence and Charles banged the knocker on the front door, not failing to notice the cracked and flaking paint.
‘Come in, come in,’ cried Miss Ada as she opened the door.
‘Happy Christmas, dear Charles,’ called Miss Violet from the drawing-room door.
The third sister, Miss Bertha, was already seated at the tea-table. She was wearing a paper hat from a cracker, and it was sitting rather lop-sidedly on her silver-grey head.
Dimity was concerned at the trouble the three sisters had obviously gone to. There was thinly cut bread, spread with the faintest amount of butter possible. There were scones that bore Nelly Piggott’s hallmark, and - considering their usual parsimoniousness - a quite sizeable Christmas cake. That too, Dimity was sure, came from next door at The Fuchsia Bush. And why not? she thought. She doubted any of the Lovelock sisters had ever baked a cake in their life.
To have tea with the Lovelocks was a tradition that Charles had inherited from his predecessor, Anthony Bull. In normal circumstances, Charles wouldn’t have minded having tea with them one little bit - but he was very tired. It had been a long day. Thankfully, Dimity knew just how tired he was and chattered away, leaving Charles to smile benignly and enjoy a slice of Nelly Piggott’s absolutely sublime fruit cake.
‘We must be going!’ Dimity said quite soon, springing to her feet. Charles looked at her in some surprise; he thought they’d have to be there for at least another half-hour. ‘We must get back to Ella,’ Dimity explained.
The Lovelocks knew all about Ella’s accident and that she was staying at the vicarage with them. They twittered their best wishes, and begged Dimity to bring Ella to morning coffee quite soon.
‘And you, my darling,’ said Dimity, tucking her arm through Charles’s as they walked down the High Street towards the vicarage, ‘are going to bed when we get home.’
‘Bed? But I haven’t had my Christmas dinner yet!’ Charles said rather plaintively.
Dimity laughed. ‘And you shan’t go without it. We’ll eat at eight, which will give you at least two hours’ shut-eye. Either that, or you’ll fall asleep over your turkey.’
And Charles did just as he was told, and was asleep a moment after he had laid his head on the pillow.
At half-past seven that evening, the three friends gathered in the vicarage’s elegant drawing-room. Charles, much refreshed from his nap, had put on a dark blue smoking jacket and a blue and white spotted bow tie. Dimity was in a very pretty dove-grey chiffon dress, and even Ella had made an effort. She was wearing a long woollen tartan skirt, with a bright red jacket with black trimmings. It had wide sleeves - which is why she had brought it with her from the cottage - through which she had gently threaded her left arm. The white sling stood out startlingly across its front.
When she made her way into the drawing-room from upstairs, Charles jumped to his feet. ‘Ella, my dear, you look ravishing!’
Ella dutifully turned a little pink at the compliment.
As Dimity handed her a glass of sherry, she peered at her old friend. ‘Good heavens, Ella! You’re wearing lipstick! Well, I never!’ And that made Ella turn even pinker.
Dimity and Ella had laid the dining-room table together and it looked magnificent. The best silver was shining brightly, and the flickering of the candles reflected in the polished surface of the table. The turkey was cooked to perfection, and the roast potatoes that had been cooked in goose fat were wonderfully crispy.
The three of them had discussed whether or not to have a Christmas pudding since each admitted to not liking it very much. In the end, Dimity bought a small one from The Fuchsia Bush.
‘It’s not that I dislike it,’ Ella had declared, ‘but if I have too much, there’s no room left for the cheese and the nuts and bolts.’
‘Nuts and bolts?’ Charles had queried.
‘You know, walnuts, figs and dates, stem ginger - to my mind, the best part of Christmas dinner,’ said Ella, her troublesome eyes shining as brightly as a child’s.
‘Er, not sure about some of those, not very keen on figs and dates,’ Charles had said.
‘Typical of a man,’ Ella had grunted in response.
‘Just as well I didn’t buy the smallest pudding,’ remarked Dimity now as Charles gave himself a second helping. ‘Oh, I see - a little bit of Christmas pudding and a great big spoonful of brandy butter.’
Charles beamed with pleasure. ‘And when I’ve finished this, I shall have some of that fine Stilton with a glass of the port yo
u gave me, Ella, and will leave all the figs and dates for you two.’
Dimity looked at her husband sitting so contentedly at the head of the table. Then she looked across at her old friend sitting on Charles’s right. How well she and Ella had got on when they had shared Ella’s cottage before she had married Charles. On this Christmas night, it seemed as though fate had brought the three of them together.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Ella Does a Runner
Most households had a fairly quiet start to Boxing Day morning. The weather had changed again. Gone were the blue sky and crisp frosts, and back came leaden skies and a sharpish wind.
Percy Hodge, of course, had had to get up at his usual time because cows had to be milked whatever the day, whatever the weather. However, he whistled as he went about his work, knowing that when he went in for breakfast, there would be a slice of fried Christmas pudding with his usual fry-up.
‘Aren’t you havin’ any?’ he asked, as his wife carefully lifted the sizzling slice of pudding from the frying pan onto his plate.
Gladys Hodge gave a shudder. ‘Certainly not!’ she said. ‘What a dreadful mixture.’
‘Luverly,’ pronounced Percy, spearing open the fried egg that he had directed should be placed on top of the Christmas pudding. ‘What makes it so special is that I only gets this once a year.’
‘You can have it tomorrow, too,’ Gladys said. ‘There was that much left over from yesterday.’
There was silence in the farmhouse kitchen, broken only by Percy’s old sheepdog having a scratch in a corner, setting a tall rack of saucepans rattling as his backside bumped against it.
Gladys knew better than to disturb her husband at his breakfast, but once he had cleaned his plate with a piece of white bread, she poured more tea into his huge cup and asked what his plans were for the day.