‘You menacing little kids!’ the man shouted at them. Rosamunde’s legs began to wobble with fear and a trickle of rain ran down her forehead into her left eye. She rubbed at it.
‘And a vicar’s daughter too!’ remarked the man, recognising Rosamunde from the village. ‘I’ll be having words with your father,’ he told her. ‘But not until I’ve called the police,’ he added threateningly, and with that he released his grip on the girls’ hair and they staggered off, lightheaded with shock.
‘Why did Benedict have to knock so many times?’ muttered Kizzie as they sought safety in Rosamunde’s bedroom back at the Vicarage.
‘Typical,’ said Rosamunde. It was perhaps a little unfair on Benedict, but this wasn’t the first time he’d ruined one of their games. Nor, they suspected, would it be the last.
For the next few days the girls – and to a lesser degree Benedict – lived in fear of the police turning up at their houses, and of the scolding they’d receive when their parents found out. In the end Rosamunde confessed all to Bernie, who gave her a cursory telling-off whilst looking vaguely amused, but it seemed the man had decided against reporting the girls, though he’d certainly made them sweat and – in Rosamunde’s case – confess. Tough Club had now slightly lost its appeal. But soon enough Rosamunde had a new distraction: the arrival of Stephen in Potter’s Cove for the rest of the summer holidays. He was arriving later than normal this year, having been in Portugal with his parents.
It was the end of July and Stephen had thankfully brought summer with him. Finally the rain had stopped and the sun cheered everyone. Not only that, but on the same day Stephen arrived, the annual travelling fair had also pitched up in Thatchley. Rosamunde looked forward to the arrival of the fair every year, and this one was no exception. She was terrified by most of the rides but there was an atmosphere to the whole event that made her feel wonderfully alive.
On the first night, Bernie dropped Rachel and Rosamunde off, and as soon as they entered the fairground Rosamunde inhaled the distinctive scents of candyfloss and danger that mingled with the coconut aroma of sun lotion still lingering on her skin.
Rachel immediately began to flirt with one of the fairground workers whilst Rosamunde went in search of her friends. She located them by the dodgems: Kizzie, Benedict, Stephen and Clara Johnson. They were bound to be joined by other friends later, making it even harder to compete for Stephen’s interest, but for now Rosamunde hoped she would be able to bask in a little of his attention. She had new competition, however. It seemed Clara, one of Benedict’s contemporaries, was also taken with Stephen, who was looking more gorgeous than ever with his Portuguese suntan and sun-bleached hair. Clara was only eleven but seemed much older than that physically – she was a big, tall girl. Emotionally, however, she could be immature and spiteful. She was also fearless, bold enough to pick a fight with any older kids who might stand in her way.
‘Hi, Rosamunde,’ Stephen said, untangling himself from Clara who was stuck to him like glue. ‘How’s it going?’ he asked.
‘Fine, thanks,’ was Rosamunde’s uninspired reply as she blushed deeply.
‘Anyone up for a go on the dodgems while we wait for the others to turn up?’ suggested Stephen.
They all agreed – of course – and clambered up onto the podium. The music was deafening but as soon as the last ride had come to a standstill the group claimed their cars. Clara cleverly managed to hop into a dodgem with Stephen and Rachel re-emerged and grabbed hold of Kizzie, which left Rosamunde to share a dodgem with Benedict, much to her annoyance. The next thing she knew they were being battered about all over the place as the music blared. Rosamunde thought her head might fall off but she was soon screaming with delight. As soon as the ride stopped they weaved their way out and Benedict promptly threw up all over Rosamunde’s new pumps.
‘Oh dear!’ said Rachel, inadequately, before swiftly suggesting heading to the candyfloss stand. Benedict looked quite green at the prospect. Kizzie put an arm around him and led him to the kiosk, where Stephen offered to place the order while the others hung around waiting. Rosamunde looked down at the sick on her shoes and started to feel queasy herself. Rachel could have her candyfloss.
‘You do realise you have no chance with Stephen, don’t you?’ Clara was suddenly standing directly in front of Rosamunde.
‘What . . . what do you mean?’ stammered Rosamunde.
‘Oh, come on,’ replied Clara, her voice as whiney as always. ‘It’s so obvious you fancy him, but he’s way out of your league. Look at you. Chubby, spotty and – even worse – ginger. He wouldn’t go out with you if you were the last girl on the planet,’ Clara finished triumphantly. Rosamunde felt her face redden and tears spring to her eyes. She was mortified. If Clara realised she fancied Stephen, it must be clear to everyone – including him. She couldn’t bear the thought of them all laughing at her behind her back. She turned and ran off to the portaloos, where she locked herself in and, after rinsing her shoes, sat down on the latrine and tried to compose herself. After five minutes there was a knock on the door.
‘Rosamunde? Are you in there?’ It was Kizzie.
‘Just coming,’ Rosamunde replied, rubbing her eyes.
‘Hurry up! Everyone’s waiting. We’re going on the ghost train. You okay?’ she asked with concern when she saw Rosamunde’s watery eyes.
‘Just something in my eye, a piece of grit or something,’ Rosamunde lied. She didn’t want to put a damper on things for everyone else, even if she was churning up inside.
This time, as chance would have it, Rosamunde was next to Stephen on the ride. Admittedly she had Benedict on her left again and hoped he’d got over his nausea, but she was prepared to put up with him for the opportunity of having Stephen nestled so closely on her right. The ride began and soon the trio were being freaked out by spooky noises and creepy hands crawling through their hair and down their backs. Here and there they came face to face with a skeleton or a bat but just as the ride had almost reached its big-fright ending, Rosamunde felt another sensation: a sweet, dry kiss on her right cheek.
Stephen didn’t say a word and he didn’t look at her when they emerged into the evening sunlight, but Rosamunde found her downcast mood lifting at once, her spirits rising high. She looked over at Clara, who’d been wedged between David and Paul Pendrick – two very unappealing brothers – and noticed she was giving her daggers. It was so tempting to march over to Clara and tell her what had just happened, but Rosamunde decided to be silently triumphant. And in any case, it was her secret. Hers and Stephen’s. As she left the fairground with Rachel to meet their father she looked back over her shoulder at Stephen. He looked straight back at her and winked.
7.
SUNDAY 23RD NOVEMBER 2014
It was a busy day for Bernie. He’d had his normal communion service in the morning and in the afternoon was required to conduct a carol service at the old people’s home in Thatchley. It was still November but the old folk liked to get into the spirit of Christmas nice and early. Rosamunde remembered attending with her father years ago and chattering to the pensioners, so she decided to go along with him again today, much to Bernie’s delight. He had no problem with the whole event but he was a little terrified of Matron and, as soon as they arrived, Rosamunde could see why.
‘Hello, Vicar,’ drawled a glamour-puss lady of a certain age as she made to straighten Bernie’s dog collar with her scarlet-painted talons. Matron was tall and slim with a very pert bosom that she thrust towards Bernie in an exceedingly inviting fashion. He looked scared stiff.
‘It’s such a joy to see you, Vicar,’ Matron continued, coquettishly flapping her false eyelashes. Her lips were painted a juicy red and her dyed dark hair had been coiffed into a very stiff-looking bouffant. She’d clearly made some effort.
‘Thank you,’ Bernie mumbled. ‘Now, is everything set up for the service?’ he asked, trying desperately to be businesslike in the face of her obvious flirtation. Rosamunde was highly amused.
‘The tea’s all ready for after the service,’ she told Rosamunde briskly. ‘You can offer it round,’ she ordered before clapping her hands loudly.
They had arrived in the day room, which was like a hothouse but without the pleasant scent of exotic flowers. Instead it smelt sadly of old age and institutional dinners. Rosamunde took off her jacket and cardigan and still felt too hot. Bernie – in his cassock – had gone rather puce, though Rosamunde wasn’t sure if this was from the heat or his embarrassment.
‘Quieten down, everyone,’ ordered Matron, though the dear old ladies and gents seated around the room had hardly been making a sound. Somebody switched off the television.
‘I was watching that,’ complained an old man with no teeth.
‘Well, we have a lovely treat for you, Arthur,’ Matron told him. ‘The vicar is here to conduct a Christmas carol service for you all. Now isn’t that super?’ A couple of the old dears nodded.
‘Bernie will be starting with some prayers and a reading, and then we’ll have a couple of carols. Mavis, you’ve been practising them on the piano, haven’t you, dear? Can you remember the ones we’re going to sing?’
Mavis nodded obligingly.
Without further ado, Bernie started the service with prayers and a reading and, soon enough, Mavis struck up the familiar tune of Hark the Herald Angels Sing followed by The Holly and the Ivy. The residents’ spirits seemed to be lifted by the sing-along and as Rosamunde offered around tea and biscuits the atmosphere had become really quite jolly. But all of a sudden, as she served another cup of tea to an elderly lady, she found herself being pinched on the bottom. She squeaked and looked round to find an old gent smiling at her lasciviously. She could barely believe it.
Having witnessed this incident with some surprise, Bernie made his excuses to Matron and, after some speedy goodbyes, he and Rosamunde dashed out of the old people’s home. They scurried down the hill to The Three Bells, leaving the car parked outside the home, and only when they’d entered the pub did they let rip the laughter that had been bubbling up within them.
‘I can’t believe he pinched my bum!’ exclaimed Rosamunde. ‘He was at least eighty!’
‘That’s old Charlie Meadle!’ laughed Bernie, mopping at his face with a dotty hanky. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’ he asked, as he managed to stop chortling long enough to order them their drinks.
‘Who?’ asked Rosamunde.
‘He was the victim of your “knock knock ginger!” game all those years ago. Do you remember? You were so worried he was going to report you and Kizzie to the police. You confessed everything to me! I was very amused; you’d managed to pick the house of the grumpiest man in the village.’
‘I can’t believe it!’ chuckled Rosamunde. ‘Well, he finally got his revenge on me,’ she marvelled. ‘And you were lucky not to get your bottom pinched by Matron,’ she giggled to her father.
‘Don’t!’ he replied. ‘I’ve never been so terrified in my life!’
Still wiping their eyes, Bernie and Rosamunde made their way to the fireside where they sat back with relief and enjoyed a well-earned drink.
‘There’s one thing you can say for Vicarage life,’ remarked Rosamunde. ‘It’s never dull. I’ve spent the last fifteen years travelling the globe and yet somehow life at the Vicarage in Potter’s Cove is still more interesting.’
‘I can’t tell you how lovely it is to have you home,’ said Bernie, seriously, covering Rosamunde’s hand with his own paper-dry paw, now gnarled with arthritis. As she felt his old hand on hers, Rosamunde felt her eyes watering again – this time with sadness. Old age comes to us all in the end, she thought, and her dear old dad had been robbed of his chance to grow old disgracefully with the love of his life. Rosamunde felt suddenly weighed down by the unfairness of it. Bernie looked at his daughter.
‘Don’t be sad,’ he said gently, perceptive as always. ‘It’s all okay.’ He raised his gin and tonic to her proudly.
8.
JULY 1986
It was the most promising day of the year – the start of the summer holidays – and Rosamunde grinned with anticipation as A-ha burst onto the radio beside her bed. She was completely in love with Morten Harket and had a poster of him stuck with Blu-tack to the ceiling above her bed.
Rosamunde was beyond excited, but this wasn’t just down to the sense of freedom that comes at the prospect of six whole weeks without teachers breathing down your neck. Today was the day she would finally see Stephen again and this summer she was determined they would kiss. Last summer their relationship had still been very much platonic, despite Rosamunde’s deepening crush, but this year would be different, she was certain. For a start, she was fifteen now and looked far more grown up. She wasn’t quite in the same league as Rachel, who’d adopted the lace-gloved, peroxide-tinged persona of Madonna, which was a little full-on for Potter’s Cove in Rosamunde’s opinion (it was embarrassing, actually, especially in church on Sundays), but she’d lost her puppy fat entirely and was definitely developing proper cheekbones, which she highlighted with some bright pink blusher of Rachel’s. Yes, all in all she was feeling much more confident.
‘Rosamunde!’ She was dragged harshly out of her daydreaming by the familiar bark of her grandmother. ‘Rosamunde! Breakfast. Now!’ Granny Dupont was a stickler for routine, even in the school holidays, so Rosamunde was rarely permitted a lie-in when her grandmother was staying with them, which was all too frequently in everyone’s opinion. Rachel was eighteen and decamped to her boyfriend’s house whenever Granny Dupont came to stay, but if her grandmother noticed the snub she didn’t remark on it.
As Rosamunde sat at the breakfast table eating her regimented soldiers and boiled egg, there was a loud rap at the back door.
‘Who on earth can it be at this hour?’ asked Granny Dupont, without expecting an answer. Rosamunde was mute at this hour of the day and Bernie had his head firmly in the Telegraph. They sat gormlessly for a moment longer before Granny Dupont made a song and dance about getting up from the table, brushing the crumbs off her dirndl skirt, stripping off her apron and opening the door. Rosamunde was in equal parts elated and mortified for there, at eight o’clock on the first day of the summer holidays, stood Stephen.
‘Sorry to call so early,’ he said, smiling his confident, dimply smile at Granny Dupont. He never failed to try to charm her, though he made little headway in thawing the ice.
‘I arrived late last night and Gran said the tide this morning would be perfect for taking the boat out. I just wondered if you might be interested, Rosamunde?’ he asked, peeping past the bulk of Granny Dupont to Rosamunde, who was still sitting frozen at the breakfast table calculating how hideous she must look with her crumpled hair, sleepy eyes and embarrassingly childish pyjamas.
‘Great!’ she managed, scraping back the pine chair and backing out of the kitchen towards the stairs. ‘Give me five minutes! Make yourself at home!’ She didn’t think there was much chance of that with Granny Dupont on the warpath, but what did he expect, turning up like this? What was wrong with the telephone? Rosamunde found herself feeling quite grumpy about being sprung upon like this when she’d planned in great detail the outfit and hairstyle she’d be sporting when she first saw Stephen this summer.
‘Lover boy here, is he?’
Rosamunde glanced up from the wardrobe where she was agonising over what to wear for a boat trip that would be appropriate yet still look enticing.
‘I thought you were at Tim’s,’ she snapped at her sister.
‘I was. Just got back. What’s with the attitude?’
‘I’ve got five minutes to get ready – no, make that three – and no idea what to wear. We’re going out on his boat. You’ve got to help me, Rachel! I need to make a goo
d impression!’ she pleaded.
Rachel might have opted for a dramatic style herself, but she was brilliant at choosing clothes for Rosamunde that suited her less flamboyant nature. She picked out some navy pumps, leggings and an oversized stripy t-shirt. After dabbing on a little make-up and blitzing her hair with a diffuser, Rosamunde had to admit she looked just right. Sort of nautical, yet funky.
‘You’re good to go!’ announced Rachel. ‘Have fun!’ she added with a nudge. Rosamunde blushed and bounded downstairs. She planned to.
The trip was not a disappointment. It was a sultry, hazy day and the sea was as calm and unruffled as Stephen was. He guided the speedboat expertly out of the bay and into the open expanse of water ahead of them, speeding up and making Rosamunde giggle with exhilaration as she was jiggled up and down in her seat, the cool splash of sea-spray permeating itself into her outfit and hair. By the time they approached Kipper’s Cove she was drenched but happy.
‘Not feeling too sick?’ Stephen called, as he guided the boat carefully between some rocks and hurled the anchor over the side.
‘No, I’m fine!’ yelled back Rosamunde.
‘Good.’
A moment later Stephen was there beside Rosamunde, his attention now entirely focused on her instead of the boat. She felt herself melting inside as he stroked her cheek. She was mute, barely breathing. For a small moment she felt anxious in case she would be a hopeless kisser but very quickly she realised her fears were unfounded. Their lips locked so instinctively, and their mouths seemed so hungry for each other, that their first proper kiss seemed completely and utterly intuitive.
Though Rosamunde was naïve she knew it was natural for a kiss to develop further, but Stephen seemed entirely happy to spend the morning with their lips entwined. She was glad, for she knew it was too soon for anything else, and if he’d expected more she feared it would have spoiled the day. Instead, it was the most perfect day of her life. When their lips were red and swollen from kissing and sea-spray, Stephen produced a picnic hamper he’d prepared, crammed with deliciously simple food and two small bottles of ginger beer. There were Marmite and lettuce sandwiches, packets of Discos and some half-melted Wagon Wheels.
Christmas at the Vicarage Page 4