Christmas at the Vicarage

by Rebecca Boxall

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2015 Rebecca Boxall

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Lake Union Publishing, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Lake Union Publishing are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781503948402

  ISBN-10: 1503948404

  Cover design by bürosüdo München, www.buerosued.de

  In memory of Dad (Diddle)

  And for my girls, Ruby and Iris

  CONTENTS

  PROLOGUE

  PART ONE

  1.

  2.

  3.

  4.

  5.

  6.

  7.

  8.

  9.

  10.

  11.

  12.

  13.

  14.

  15.

  16.

  17.

  18.

  PART TWO

  19.

  20.

  21.

  22.

  23.

  24.

  25.

  26.

  27.

  28.

  29.

  30.

  31.

  32.

  33.

  34.

  PART THREE

  35.

  36.

  37.

  38.

  39.

  40.

  41.

  42.

  43.

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  PROLOGUE

  OCTOBER 2014

  ‘He speaks in dreams, in visions of the night, when deep sleep falls on people as they lie in their beds.’

  Job 33:15 (NLT)

  Rosamunde stood calmly at the shoreline. She watched the seals bob up and down in the distance and, for this moment, everything seemed right with the world. So still. So peaceful. Until suddenly it wasn’t.

  In an instant she realised the figures weren’t seals at all – they were people. She knew them at once: there was her father and, next to him, her mother, Marguerite. Circling them like seagulls were Rachel, Kizzie, Stephen, Mrs Garfield and Benedict.

  It was a bright summer’s day; there hadn’t been a single blemish in the sky and yet somehow an enormous black cloud had emerged from nowhere and the swimmers had almost simultaneously begun to panic. Rosamunde started to strip off her clothes; she simply had to help them, but her limbs felt heavy and as she lumbered into the sea she felt weighed down by an almighty force of gravity. As she swam into the deep waters she knew there was one person she must save first – someone who would drown if she didn’t get there soon.

  Suddenly, Rosamunde was awake, sweating, her heart pounding with adrenalin. It was the same dream she’d had all week and she was never closer to knowing the answer to the critical question: who was the person she needed to save?

  PART ONE

  1.

  SUNDAY 16TH NOVEMBER 2014

  She’d been gone for fifteen years and was now in her forties. But the dreams, recurring night after night, had finally drawn her home. They’d been like an invisible lasso, pulling her tighter and harder until Rosamunde had inevitably found herself first at Perth International Airport, then at Heathrow, Paddington, Totnes and, finally, the small station of Thatchley, just ten minutes from Potter’s Cove.

  Thatchley was so quaint it was the kind of place used by the BBC when it required a suitably old-fashioned station for a period drama. However dishevelled and travel-weary you felt, it was impossible not to feel the antique glamour of the place on arriving. Rosamunde, who by now looked decidedly unglamorous, lugged her various bags onto the platform and breathed slowly and deeply. Dark, crisp November air. With one breath she was filled with memories of bonfire nights past – fingerless gloves, sticky toffee apples, fizzing sparklers and piping hot jacket potatoes. Already her memory had been stirred and she hadn’t even reached Potter’s Cove.

  She heaved her bags along the platform and bypassed the ticket office, taking the side gate towards the main road. As hoped, her shortcut won her the only waiting taxi and, rather gleefully, she opened the boot and had stowed her luggage before the driver – a funny-looking man with an enormous nose and (it turned out) dreadful halitosis – managed to hoist himself from his seat to help her. As she clambered into the back seat she spotted a couple of other train passengers emerging from the ticket office and looking hopefully about them. Rosamunde knew they would have a long wait for another taxi but she refused to feel guilty. After all, no one else could possibly have endured as lengthy a journey as her.

  The drive took no time at all and yet seemed never-ending. As the taxi wound through the tiny Devon roads that squiggled down into the village and back up the small hill to the Vicarage, the driver slowed to an agonising snail’s pace. Rosamunde found herself willing the man to drive faster. She could hardly bear to wait a moment longer.

  ‘Could you possibly go a little faster?’ she called out to the front.

  ‘Sorry, love,’ said the man, though he didn’t sound very sorry. ‘More than my job’s worth.’

  Rosamunde was not argumentative by nature, but even she had to bite her tongue, quite literally, to prevent herself from replying to this unhelpful response.

  And then, suddenly, they were there. With the driver paid and the bags man-handled from the boot, Rosamunde hurried to the back door (‘family and tradesmen,’ her mother had always said, mocking her own aristocratic heritage). She was here. Her back ached and her eyes were gritty but, finally, she was here.

  The thatched cottage glowed in the moonlight. It was unusually picturesque for a vicarage – an ancient cottage that had been spared being sold off by the Church when the more usual Victorian vicarages were considered too expensive to upkeep and had been replaced with modern bungalows. It had thick walls that kept the sea damp at bay and, while cosy, it had everything a growing family could require: an eat-in kitchen with Aga, a larder, a small utility and a downstairs loo; a well-proportioned sitting room with a working fireplace; a small study; and a creaky staircase leading upstairs to four reasonably sized bedrooms, though there was only one bathroom – which had caused a few squabbles over the years. The best thing of all, though, was the position of the cottage – perched above the village, suitably close to the little church, and with a sweeping view of Inner and Outer Cove – the magnificent beach below that divided into two as the tide drew in.

  Rosamunde smiled and took a deep breath of sea air. She opened the back door. And there in the kitchen, studying the dishwasher, was the Reverend Bernie Pemberton.

  ‘Rosamunde?’ he asked, peering short-sightedly at her. Then, satisfied she wasn’t a figment of his imagination, he yelped with delight.

  ‘I wasn’t sure what time you’d be home!’ Bernie exclaimed as he pulled his daughter into a bear hug. He smelt utterly comforting. Of washing powder and Polo mints and, most of all, just her dad. Stepping back to appraise him, she felt a lump of sadness rise suddenly to her throat as she realised how much older he looked, with his shock of white hair that had once been so red. Like a physical weight it hit her just how much of his life she’d missed over the last fifteen years. The brief visits she’d made in tha
t time hadn’t been enough.

  ‘But you’re back, dear girl, you’re back,’ Bernie said, as though reading her mind. ‘Now tell me, have you looked at the crossword yet? It’s a beast today and I need your help.’

  A marvellously decadent hour followed. The pair toasted themselves by the crackling log fire as they sipped scalding tea, with their heads in the Telegraph and Gladys the cat at their feet. After a while Rosamunde stretched her arms and surveyed the cosy surroundings of the home she’d escaped from, bursting as it had been with bittersweet memories. After many years away she’d finally begun to wonder if the geography was irrelevant. The memories could never really disappear. The best you could hope for was that they would fade, and lose their power, with time.

  The sitting room was exactly as it had always been – a room as bright and sunny in the summer months as it was snug and welcoming in winter. Two squashy gold sofas faced each other on either side of the fireplace and a low coffee table – usually heaving with newspapers and mugs – occupied the space between the two. Directly opposite the fireplace were the French windows, leading to the walled garden at the back of the cottage, which were dressed with pretty crimson curtains.

  To the left of the French windows was a corner shelf crammed with books as diverse as the Holy Bible, Delia’s Christmas and the poetry of Byron, and an array of well-thumbed novels. A low, beautifully upholstered chair was placed beside the bookshelf for the convenience of anyone who might wish to perch and scrutinise the blurbs on the back covers, deciding whether to borrow this novel or that.

  In another corner, affixed to two walls, was a dark oak corner cupboard containing ancient glasses – sherry, champagne, port and wine – all gifts Rosamunde’s parents had received for their wedding. Beneath the cupboard was a shining chestnut table, lovingly polished over the years, upon which a tray lay invitingly, housing a selection of bottles to suit varying tastes – as long as they were alcoholic.

  It was a pleasing room, decided Rosamunde, as she sighed contentedly and sat back against the sofa.

  ‘But I’m a terrible host, even to my own daughter,’ Bernie piped up suddenly, dismayed. ‘You must be exhausted after your journey. Have a bath – there’s plenty of hot water – and come back down when you’re ready. There’s a bottle of champagne in the fridge with your name on it,’ he added, ruffling Rosamunde’s long red hair just as he’d always done. ‘My dear girl, I’m so glad you’re home.’

  ‘Me too, Dad,’ Rosamunde replied. ‘I really am,’ she added with a smile. And, as she said it, she realised just how much she meant it. How on earth had she stayed away so long?

  Yawning hugely, Rosamunde climbed the rickety stairs to her childhood bedroom, with Gladys following in hot pursuit. She opened the creaky wooden door and was taken aback to find the room had been refreshed.

  The curtains had been an old Laura Ashley pair but in their place were fresh white drapes with a discreet pattern of daisies embroidered along the hem. Her single bed had been replaced with a small double and was covered with starched white linen and a pretty coloured blanket for extra warmth. Opposite the bed, on the pine chest of drawers, was a terracotta jug filled with scarlet and purple anemones.

  It was warm and homely and had the definite feel of a woman’s touch, but if there was a new woman in her father’s life she was certainly sensitive, for beside the bed stood a freshly polished silver frame encasing a black and white photograph of Rosamunde’s mother. There she sat, gazing serenely with her enormous black eyes at the photographer, her dark hair cut into a gamine crop. It had been taken just before she died and captured Marguerite at the height of her beauty.

  Later on, warmed by a bath in the old-fashioned roll-top and emboldened by the delicious champagne, Rosamunde tentatively probed her father on the subject.

  ‘My bedroom’s looking very pretty,’ she remarked, taking a large mouthful of piping hot shepherd’s pie. They were sitting at the scrubbed kitchen table in the corner of the kitchen, tucked snugly beside the old red Aga.

  ‘Ah yes, as soon as we knew you were coming home we decided to freshen things up a little for you. I’m glad you like it.’

  ‘We?’ Rosamunde asked. She held her breath.

  ‘Yes, me and Mrs Garfield, of course. She still helps me in the house. She was here this afternoon, in fact. Left just before you arrived but sends you her love. Such a treasure. Who did you think I meant?’

  ‘Oh, no one,’ Rosamunde replied. She felt unaccountably disappointed. Since their mother had died Rosamunde and her sister had often wondered if their father would remarry. Initially the thought had horrified them and they’d made sure to be as unpleasant as possible whenever anyone remotely pretty was invited for tea. But as time went by they had begun to hope he might one day find someone to keep him company once they left home.

  Rosamunde had forgotten that, of course, Mrs Garfield was the only womanly touch in the Vicarage. Dear Mrs Garfield, the domestic help for as long as Rosamunde could remember. Indeed, more than just a help. A comfort. A shoulder to cry on. As round and squashy as a doughnut, sweet as the jam in the middle, but fiercely efficient and hard-working.

  Rosamunde opened the bathroom door the next morning and was surprised to stumble upon a Mrs Garfield who’d undergone an even more dramatic transformation than her childhood bedroom. Where her plain but cheerful face had previously been framed with a mass of grey, frizzy curls, a glossy chestnut bob was now tucked behind her ears, making her subtly made-up eyes gleam with life. Also long gone were the comforting curves Rosamunde remembered: Mrs Garfield’s svelte new figure was wrapped in indigo boot-cut jeans and a crimson jumper.

  ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost!’ shrieked Mrs Garfield, dropping the can of polish in her hands and gathering Rosamunde into a hug that was no less all-encompassing for her newly slender frame.

  ‘But Mrs G,’ gasped Rosamunde, stepping back to assess her old friend again. ‘You’re like a new woman!’

  ‘Get away with you! I’m still the same underneath,’ Mrs Garfield smiled, clearly pleased with the compliment. ‘GHDs, you know,’ she added in her wonderfully confidential manner. Rosamunde looked lost.

  ‘You know! Hair straighteners! That frizzy mop of mine is a thing of the past. Mr Garfield passed away a couple of years ago now and your sister took me to one side after the funeral and told me it was “now or never”, and that if I took a train to London she’d give me a free makeover.’

  Rosamunde rolled her eyes and smiled at Rachel’s famous tactlessness and sense of timing. A flamboyant whirlwind of vitality, Rachel was a force to be reckoned with.

  ‘Rachel gave me all this information about what colours and styles suit me, how I should do my hair – she even gave me some old GHDs of hers. Then we went shopping for make-up. Next thing I did when I got back to Potter’s Cove was sign up for Weight Watchers at the church hall, and here I am, just turned sixty and never felt so good!’

  ‘I’m impressed,’ said Rosamunde. ‘But listen, why don’t we go downstairs and have a cup of tea and you can tell me what else has been going on in the last fifteen years?’

  A wonderfully gossip-fuelled breakfast followed with Bernie – who was multi-tasking by half-heartedly preparing a sermon with one eye, while fixing the other on the crossword – contributing to Mrs G’s debrief. Once satisfied she’d been brought fully up to date, Rosamunde decided to take a walk straight down to Outer Cove below.

  As she strolled along, she marvelled at the changes she’d already encountered, changes she somehow hadn’t expected. To her, Potter’s Cove and everyone in it had remained as they’d been fifteen years ago when she’d left at the age of twenty-eight, visiting only briefly and infrequently since.

  Rosamunde tucked her dark red hair into her velvet coat, so that it acted as a scarf in the absence of a woollen one, and braced herself for her first close-up of the cove. Here, standing at the edge of the slipway and peering down at the waves crashing angrily onto the shore below, she fin
ally gave herself over to her memories. It was like releasing a dam: the floodgates had opened.

  2.

  JULY 1978

  The summer of 1978 was the gloomiest summer Rosamunde and Rachel had ever known. The sun beat down oppressively but their hearts were cold and heavy. They wondered if life would ever be normal again. At the funeral they were as quiet as mice. They were so in awe of the enormous crowds that neither of them shed a tear. Rosamunde was naturally shy and could hardly bear to look at anyone, but if she glanced up for a moment she noticed the pitying, inquisitive looks on every single face. All she could hear were murmured whispers.

  ‘Poor little things. Look at them,’ and ‘Little Rosamunde, only seven years old,’ and ‘How will he cope, I wonder?’ They all whispered too loudly. Rosamunde wished she could stuff cotton wool in her ears. She started to hum until her dad told her, very gently, to be quiet. He had red, puffy eyes. She didn’t like it.

  At the burial, at least, the girls were surrounded only by close family. Standing by the side of the great hole in the ground Rosamunde felt hot and uncomfortable. The sun was unforgiving and the vicar kept mopping his brow with a spotty handkerchief. Normally her dad was the vicar but today someone else was. Dad said it was because he was too sad to speak. She didn’t think she was going to cry but then Rachel started tickling her. It was a strange thing to do; perhaps her sister was desperate to hear laughter. But instead Rosamunde started crying.

  She became inconsolable and, as the coffin was lowered, found herself becoming quite hysterical. This behaviour was so uncharacteristic (it was usually Rachel who was prone to histrionics) that her father and grandmother weren’t sure what to do with her. In the end Granny Dupont threatened to smack her bottom unless she was quiet. Rosamunde thought this was very mean in the circumstances but she began to quieten down. Tears still streamed down her face, though, and she noticed Rachel’s face was wet and blotchy too. She wondered if they would spend every day crying now instead of laughing and the thought made her tummy ache.