After pulling on wellies over her pink pyjamas, Rosamunde unzipped her way out of the tent and headed straight to the campfire, guided by her hungry belly. Rachel and Kizzie were reluctant to emerge from their sleeping bags and she was keen to find Stephen and make sure she was included in whatever plans he had for the day. She had now known Stephen for two years and had begun to develop something of a crush. She wasn’t the only one. Stephen had a sort of magnetism – partly due to his character and perhaps also to his transience, as he only came to Potter’s Cove for the summer holidays, to stay with his grandmother. He was always included in local events and was incredibly popular. Even Rachel failed to be disdainful about him. He was taller than most children his age and had cropped blond hair, amused turquoise eyes and a confident way about him that made him seem older than his peers.
‘Morning, trouble.’ He grinned his dimpled smile at Rosamunde as she perched down next to him on one of the logs arranged by Kizzie’s mother around the campfire. She quietly relished the prospect of a few moments alone with him, knowing that at any moment his other disciples would appear sleepily from the tents scattered around the dewy field.
‘What’s the plan today?’ Rosamunde asked, trying to sound nonchalant but suspecting she sounded too eager, as usual.
‘There’s activities on this afternoon. Swimming races and stuff down at the beach. But this morning we’re free to do whatever we want. Let’s have breakfast then head up to the cliffs,’ he announced.
‘Okay,’ Rosamunde agreed, helping herself to a deliciously burnt sausage and a mug of strong tea. After scoffing breakfast she told Stephen she’d get dressed and rally Kizzie and Rachel.
‘I thought we might head off just us two,’ he suggested, shrugging. Rosamunde couldn’t believe her luck, but was a little unsure.
‘But I’ll need to get dressed and then they’ll want to come.’
‘So come in your pyjamas. They look like a tracksuit anyway. Come on,’ he said, standing up. Stephen was already dressed in drainpipe jeans, plimsolls and a tight black t-shirt that made him look like John Travolta in Grease. Rosamunde only wished she looked more like Olivia Newton-John. She was still uncertain but then she spotted Benedict poking his head out of a nearby tent and the last thing she wanted was for him to join them, so she shrugged too in agreement. After quickly promising Kizzie’s mother to stick together and return by lunchtime, they left their comrades behind and began the steep climb to the cliffs.
It was a beautiful day: sunny but not too hot. There was a whispery breeze that lifted Rosamunde’s thick hair off her back as she trudged up the steps that led from Potter’s Cove to the cliffs, and the smell of coconut oozed from the bright yellow gorse bushes. Stephen walked quickly and seemed barely out of breath when they reached the top, whilst Rosamunde was fairly sure her face had turned an unattractive shade of beetroot. She was unsure why she had suddenly become so aware of her appearance, having barely given it a second thought until recently. Perhaps Rachel’s obsession with her looks (and, frankly, herself in general) was rubbing off on her. She hoped not.
At the top Stephen turned around and waited patiently for Rosamunde to catch up.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ Stephen asked as she approached. He didn’t wait for Rosamunde to answer one way or another. ‘How come you and your sister both have red hair and sort of yellow eyes but your sister has really pale skin and yours is suntanned?’
Rosamunde was taken aback. She’d never noticed the difference in their complexions, although now she thought about it, Rachel did have to be much more careful to stay out of the sun. Rosamunde was quiet for a moment, thinking. Stephen grinned.
‘What?’ Rosamunde asked, noticing his smile.
‘Oh, it’s just I love the way you never rush to answer a question. You really think about things before you answer. It’s unusual.’
Rosamunde was unsure if this was a good thing or not but she continued to consider quietly. They walked along side by side as she did so.
‘I think it’s because my mum was half French,’ she announced finally. ‘She had dark hair and skin that went really brown, like a nut. Rachel and I both inherited Dad’s hair and eyes but I guess I got Mum’s skin and Rachel got Dad’s.’
Stephen seemed satisfied with this answer. ‘What happened to your mum? Gran said she died but she didn’t know how.’
Rosamunde felt her chest begin to feel sore. It always happened when she thought too much about her mother. She hoped she wouldn’t start crying. She bit her lip and answered quickly.
‘She died of a brain tumour five years ago. It all happened really suddenly. She used to say our eyes were a colour called amber, not yellow. It’s hard . . .’ She faltered.
‘I know,’ Stephen said quietly and he seemed all at once less self-assured.
‘You do?’ asked Rosamunde, tentatively. An atmosphere of sadness seemed to crackle between them.
‘I had a sister, only a year older than me. We were as close as twins. She died too. Of meningitis. It happened five years ago, the same as you,’ he explained, his skin reddening with emotion.
‘That’s so awful,’ Rosamunde told him.
‘No worse than what happened to you,’ replied Stephen. ‘And in some strange way it’s made me stronger. I feel older, somehow, and like I’ve got to be brave for my mum and dad. I used to shelter behind Claire a lot, but now I have to be strong. Confident, like Claire always was.’
‘You’re like my sister,’ said Rosamunde. ‘She’s been so amazing since Mum died. I wish I could be like that. I just feel sad and pathetic.’
‘You’re not that. You’re braver than you think. Sometimes, you know, it’s braver to cry,’ he said, noticing suddenly the tears in Rosamunde’s eyes. He said nothing more but slowly, tentatively, he took her hand. As they continued along the cliff path they remained hand in hand until the path began to narrow and it became difficult to walk together any longer. When Stephen let go Rosamunde could still feel a comforting, buzzing warmth in the palm of that hand.
5.
SATURDAY 22ND NOVEMBER 2014
Rosamunde woke with a start, her heart hammering. She checked her watch. It was two o’clock in the morning and yet the house telephone was ringing, shrill and persistent. She clambered out of bed and found her dressing gown, tying the satin belt around her waist whilst poking her feet into her slippers. By the time she reached the downstairs hallway she found her father, bleary-eyed in striped pyjamas, picking up the receiver.
‘Vicarage,’ he said, in automatic fashion. Rosamunde settled on the stairs, inquisitive. She could only hear her father’s side of the conversation but it was clear the news was not good.
‘Oh my dear,’ he said. ‘You did well to ring me. Now, have you called the doctor? Yes. Deep breaths now. Okay, now listen, my dear. I’m coming right round. Make sure the door’s unlocked and I’ll let myself in. I’ll be there in just a tick.’
Having replaced the receiver, Bernie looked up at Rosamunde. He appeared both calm and sad, she thought.
‘What’s happened?’ she asked. By now she was wide awake, adrenalin coursing through her veins.
‘That was poor Alison Thacker. It sounds as though Richard’s had a heart attack. Alison went to bed while he watched the golf but when she woke up to find he hadn’t come to bed she went downstairs and found him slumped in the armchair, dead as a dodo. So terribly, terribly young. He can’t have been a day over forty-five,’ he mused, rubbing his white head. ‘I must get over there now,’ he added, moving swiftly past Rosamunde up the stairs.
‘Can I help at all?’ called Rosamunde after him. She felt rather useless.
‘No, my darling. You go back to bed. Just feed Gladys for me if I’m not back for a while.’
He left a few minutes later, having dressed haphazardly and brushed his teeth. Rosamunde returned to bed but couldn’t sleep. She kept thinking about the couple, who’d been auditioning for the roles of Joseph and Mary in this very house just a
few days ago. She tossed and turned until the sky turned from black to dark blue and she decided to give in and head downstairs to put the kettle on.
Later that morning Bernie ushered Alison into the house and straight to his study. Rosamunde brought them tea and biscuits, which she discreetly deposited on Bernie’s desk, pausing for a moment before shutting the door. She could hear her father’s soothing tones as he calmed the woman who’d lost her husband and who had no children to console or distract her. Rosamunde was reminded of the serious side of her father’s job and how good he was at it. Eccentric and full of fun he might be, but in times of crisis Bernie was the perfect combination of soothing and comforting, practical and pragmatic.
It was now the afternoon and, having delivered Alison into the capable hands of her mother, Bernie was off duty. He and Rosamunde sprawled themselves on a sofa each in the sitting room to watch the afternoon’s rugby match on the television while Gladys, with her large, graceful body and distinctly ginger hue, stretched smugly across the hearth-rug. She knew she had the best position in the room.
After celebrating England’s win over Samoa, Rosamunde and her father were debating over what to watch. Bernie liked the look of The X Factor and, although Rosamunde thought she’d prefer Strictly Come Dancing, when she saw Bernie’s tired face she decided graciously to concede defeat.
She thought it would be easier to eat dinner from trays on their laps and so, as Bernie sipped red wine and chuckled at The X Factor, Rosamunde went through to the kitchen to prepare a simple supper of soup with hunks of farmhouse loaf.
She loved the kitchen in winter with its homely red Aga, oozing warmth and comfort, and the ancient pine table tucked into the corner, around which there was just enough room for six chairs. Bernie’s large chair sat at the head of the table and behind this could be found the walk-in larder. Rosamunde drew the red and white gingham curtains, shutting out the dark night. She’d always hated the thought that snoopers might easily observe her from outside as she pottered about, though she recognised this was somewhat fanciful as Potter’s Cove wasn’t known for its crime rate.
To the other side of the Aga was a droopy old chair, covered in cat hair, which was mainly used for depositing coats, hats and scarves, since it was near the back door, and to the left of this door were the kitchen units, which were made of wood and painted cream. Rosamunde liked how unfussy they were. She also loved the fact that the sink was just beneath the window and enjoyed far-reaching sea views, with the result that any washing-up that needed to be done was hardly a chore.
She found a dark blue pan, reassuringly housed in the cupboard that had always contained saucepans, and set about heating the soup. While it simmered, she found a breadboard and knife and cut the loaf, and when all was ready she carefully loaded the food onto a tray and took it through to the sitting room.
After the viewing and eating were over, Rosamunde and Bernie chatted as they polished off the remainder of the wine. It was their usual sort of conversation – general chit-chat, nothing too serious. But then Bernie shuffled on the sofa a little. He cleared his throat. Rosamunde knew what was coming.
‘We haven’t really talked about things, have we?’ he asked, topping up both glasses. He always kept the bottle within arm’s reach.
‘What things?’ Rosamunde asked, deliberately obstructive, buying herself time.
‘Oh, Rosie,’ he said sadly. ‘You were such an open little girl. So emotional and sensitive. I always knew what you were feeling. You were quiet as you are now – well, compared to your sister – and always considered, but so honest about your feelings. Now you’re such a closed book. If somebody asked me if you were happy, I wouldn’t know. I really wouldn’t.’ He raised his kindly eyes to her, pleading for something. He paused. ‘Are you happy?’
Rosamunde considered the question. She wasn’t unhappy. Not like she was before. As time had passed she’d become accepting.
‘I’m contented,’ she told her father eventually. ‘I was dreadfully unhappy back then, with everything that happened. But it was good for me to get away. I was able to see the world, to put my own problems into perspective, to meet people without establishing any lasting connections. I needed it. But in the end I missed it here terribly and I started to have these dreams . . .’ She tailed off. ‘I suddenly realised it was time to return home for good. Anyway, there was this man. Troy. The relationship had run its course,’ Rosamunde explained.
‘And now? Have you thought about the future? You’re only just forty-four, Rosie. You’re young. You can’t hole yourself up with me in this tiny village for the rest of your life.’
‘I just want to be peaceful, Dad. No dramas, no love affairs. I’m quite content to be on my own now, with no one to please but myself. I’ll find a little job, nothing too demanding. Thankfully I managed to make a bit of money working for that mining company towards the end of my time in Australia so I’m in no major hurry. And I’m not going to think about the future right now. If there’s one thing I learnt when I was away it was to live in the present.’
Bernie was sad for his daughter but understood. And he seemed to know she’d opened up enough for one evening.
‘Well, I know you’re not thinking ahead but have you decided when you’re going to visit Rachel? She’s absolutely itching to see you.’
Rosamunde drained her glass and smiled at the thought of seeing her sister.
‘Monday,’ she decided aloud. ‘On Monday I shall take a train to London . . .’
‘. . . to visit the Queen,’ Bernie finished, and they laughed at their old joke, first started by Marguerite when the girls were small and any visit to London involved a trip to Buckingham Palace.
An hour later, curled snugly in her bed, Rosamunde listened to the wind wrangling with the trees outside her window and wriggled her toes under the duvet with the sheer joy of being tucked up in bed on a winter’s night in her childhood home. Not exactly happy, she thought as she drifted into sleep. But definitely content. Gladys purred in agreement.
6.
JULY 1985
It was the summer holidays and it had done nothing but rain so far. Rosamunde was fourteen and at that horrible cusp between childhood and adolescence. Her body was galloping into adolescent territory – puppy fat, developing breasts and some angry red spots on her neck – but she was in no way ready to relinquish the benefits of childhood. Luckily for her Kizzie was in no hurry to grow up either and had recently devised a club that would satisfy her urge for adventure, appropriately named Tough Club.
Kizzie and Rosamunde were the only proper members, though other individuals were intermittently invited to join in – principally when a game required more than two people to be interesting – but the pair were very choosy, or as choosy as they could be: their ‘guest member’ was usually Benedict. Rosamunde wasn’t half as intrepid as Kizzie; in fact, she felt quite wimpy by comparison, but then Kizzie was remarkably fearless. The Club involved daily meetings, at which they began proceedings by singing their Tough Club anthem, followed by whatever game or assault course had been devised for the day. By the time they were two weeks into the summer holidays, Kizzie’s assault courses were bordering on lunacy and Rosamunde had ripped two pairs of jeans.
‘Can we do something other than an assault course today?’ Rosamunde asked her friend, as they sat at the landing window of the Vicarage watching the rain clattering down outside. Rosamunde was picking at the latest hole in her jeans and her whole body felt bruised and achy from the adventures of the last couple of weeks. Kizzie’s eyes were bright, her creative mind ready for a new challenge.
‘Okay,’ she agreed. ‘In fact, I have just the thing in mind. Come on,’ she beckoned bossily, and Rosamunde followed her downstairs where they pulled on their wellies and headed out into the village.
Kizzie, though adventurous, was naturally sweet-natured and generally a rule abider, so Rosamunde was stunned when her friend told her what game she had in mind – ‘knock knock ginger’!
Rosamunde had played the game before with Rachel, who was anything but rule abiding, and she had to admit it had been fun, if a little nerve-wracking. The girls decided to let Benedict join in with this particular game, so they found him down at Inner Cove and let him in on their plans.
There was a square of thatched cottages not far from the beach, with a little path leading away from them, and they decided on this for their venue. The first house they chose clearly had no one inside, so they started with this as a practice run. They took it in turns to knock loudly on the front door before scurrying, giggling, along the damp path that led back to the beach, then returning for another go.
Having mustered up more courage, the trio then decided on another cottage where they could see a man sitting on his sofa, watching television. He was perfectly positioned, his back to the rain-spattered window.
‘You go first,’ whispered Kizzie to Rosamunde, and she bravely crept up to the front door, knocked twice and scuttled back to Kizzie and Benedict. The three of them ran swiftly along the pathway until they were safely out of sight.
‘Do you think he answered the door?’ asked Rosamunde, out of breath, her cheeks rosy with exertion.
‘Next time we’ll stop behind that oak tree over there so we can see if he answers,’ ordered Kizzie and they all agreed. This time it was Kizzie’s turn. As soon as she’d knocked the three ran behind the tree and waited breathlessly. A grumpy-looking man of about fifty soon opened the door. He stepped outside and looked left and right before shaking his head, muttering and returning inside. Giggles came from behind the tree.
‘Your turn now, Benedict,’ said Kizzie. ‘And this time we’ll run down the path again.’ Looking nervous, Benedict approached the front door. He knocked loudly four times yet on the fourth, as he was poised to run away, the door opened. He froze for a brief moment before turning on his welly heel and sprinting down the path, with Rosamunde and Kizzie following behind. Benedict was speedy and soon sprinted out of reach, but before the girls knew it the man had hold of their ponytails and they were forced to come to an abrupt halt.
Christmas at the Vicarage Page 3