‘You’re very welcome,’ said Bernie with a smile. ‘And I don’t mind how long you want to keep plying me with free drinks,’ he told her. She giggled at this and looked coyly away. She’d always had a soft spot for Bernie, with his sparkly eyes and his beautiful red hair. He wasn’t like your average vicar at all. Much more personable. Even her other half, Jim, said as much and he wasn’t so keen on the Church.
Bernie settled back on the bar stool and tucked into a bag of pork scratchings. Every so often another friend or parishioner entered the bar and he received a clap on the back and another drink. He was perched at the end of the bar nearest the fire and felt warm and toasty. He was finally thinking he must make a move in order to be back in time for supper when his closest friend, farmer Buster Marden, arrived.
‘Bernie,’ he nodded. He was the most undemonstrative of men but solid as a rock and loyal as a Labrador. ‘Another pint?’ he asked, nodding again towards Bernie’s glass. Bernie couldn’t leave now; Buster would be offended.
‘I’d love one,’ he said. ‘But I shall drown if I drink another pint of ale. Could you get me a whisky on the rocks instead?’ he asked. Buster placed the order and soon the men were chatting about local matters, with no embarrassment when pauses fell in their conversation. At such a moment they would look around the pub, surveying the other punters until someone might be remarked upon. By now Bernie was beginning to feel a little hazy and was thinking he really should take his leave when a gaggle of young men wearing drainpipe jeans tripped into the pub. Bernie recognised one of them as Dom Shelton. Bernie had buried his grandmother, Ethel, a couple of weeks ago.
‘Reverend!’ Dom shouted. ‘You must let me get you a drink.’ And so it continued until ten o’clock when Bernie found himself unable to speak. A moment later he fell loudly and heavily off his bar stool.
Granny Dupont, who had been summoned by Shirley, was furious. She marched into the pub and, with Rosamunde’s assistance, managed to drag Bernie home where he was deposited on the sofa and force-fed black coffee until he was sober enough to talk. At which point he told Granny Dupont in no uncertain terms that he’d had enough of the standoff between her and Rosamunde and that he would decide who could and couldn’t be invited to stay at his house. It was the only time Rosamunde had witnessed Bernie raise his voice to Granny Dupont; indeed, the only time she had seen him put his foot down with her.
Stephen Jameson arrived at the Vicarage on the 22nd December carrying a rucksack and a large red poinsettia.
11.
MONDAY 1ST DECEMBER 2014
Richard Thacker’s funeral took place just over a week after his death. It was a typical funeral in that it was both deeply sad and surprisingly uplifting. Tears poured from most of the family, friends and acquaintances in attendance during the service, especially during The Day Thou Gavest, but the volume of attendees was wonderfully heartening and later, at the wake, there was laughter as memories of Richard were bandied about and most of the guests were quickly drunk on sherry and relief. Rosamunde had only met Richard once but had been immediately charmed by him and she’d decided to attend to give moral support to Bernie.
She had asked her father once which services he preferred to conduct – weddings, christenings or funerals – and she’d been astonished when he’d told her he achieved the most job satisfaction from the last. When quizzed he’d explained that, although it was the one service the client knew nothing about, it was the most important of their life and an honour for him to have conduct of that final farewell. Today she thought she could understand that. Richard had been taken from the world far too early in life but Bernie had seen to it that his funeral was dignified and yet, like Richard, humorous. He’d made sure his wife and friends had the opportunity to begin their journey through grief and make it to the other side.
The next day Rosamunde was looking for a bit of light relief and decided to stroll down to the church hall to see how Benedict’s prop building was getting on. She entered the hall, her nose pink with cold, and was amazed by the quality of the craftsmanship.
‘I’m impressed,’ she announced.
Benedict looked up from the wooden cradle he was polishing proudly, having created the piece from scratch. He grinned.
‘Why, thank you! But you sound a little surprised. I’m offended.’
Rosamunde blushed and apologised. ‘It’s just that for someone so clumsy you’re actually rather talented.’
Benedict stood up. ‘You’re making it worse,’ he teased her. ‘Come on, you, let’s grab a coffee from The Kiln and try to warm ourselves up a bit. Bloody freezing in here.’
The Kiln was remarkably busy but they managed to find themselves a small table by the window, looking out on to Outer Cove. The tide was high and the sea raged, waves threatening to leap over the wall at any moment. Rosamunde blew at her coffee before taking a comforting sip. Benedict chuckled.
‘What?’ Rosamunde hadn’t quite got used to the fact that they’d embarked on a friendship of sorts since their meeting on the train the previous week. It was so unexpected. Benedict reached out and wiped some cappuccino froth from Rosamunde’s top lip. The wonderful thing about Benedict being gay was that he could touch her in what might otherwise be considered a flirtatious manner and there was no question of the action being anything other than platonic.
‘So is the set almost finished?’ Rosamunde asked.
‘Nearly. A few finishing touches and then we’re good to start rehearsals. Has Bernie finished the auditions?’
‘Yes, apart from the angels, although there’s an issue over Baby Jesus. Kizzie is determined Emma should play the part, but she’s quite obviously not newborn, and Sarah Little is equally adamant her new baby Henry should be Jesus. Henry’s the obvious choice . . .’
‘Well, yes, he’s a boy, for a start,’ Benedict remarked, raising one dark eyebrow.
‘But Dad’s in turmoil. He doesn’t want to upset Kizzie. He thinks she still hasn’t forgiven him for the Lady Di Lookalike Competition all those years ago.’
‘Ah yes. Well, she should have won. Aside from her hair colour, she was a dead ringer. The hairstyle, the round eyes, the coy look . . .’
‘I know. Of course she should have won, but Dad thought it would look like favouritism to let my best friend win. Anyway, it’s ridiculous. Of course she doesn’t hold that against him.’
‘She does.’
‘She doesn’t!’
‘Does.’
‘I cannot believe we’re having this conversation. Benedict, you are so bloody annoying.’
‘I’ve always wound you up, haven’t I? Always known what buttons to press.’
Rosamunde’s cheeks were pink with irritation. It was amazing how they could get on so well one minute and revert to a pair of bickering children the next.
‘I’m sorry.’ Benedict stroked Rosamunde’s hand. ‘I’ve just never been able to resist. It’s so easy. Like taking candy from a baby. Look, I’d better get back to finish off the set. Will you meet me in the pub tonight? Kizzie and Gerard are coming. I’ll buy you supper and I promise not to annoy you.’
‘Are you sure you’ll manage?’ Rosamunde smiled, irritation subsiding.
‘Scout’s honour,’ he promised. ‘And you remember how saucy I looked as a Scout,’ he added. As Benedict headed off, Rosamunde’s eyes were drawn to his pert behind as she tried to recall what he’d looked like in a Scout’s uniform.
‘You weren’t even in the Scouts!’ Rosamunde admonished later when they met at The Dragon’s Head.
‘I know! They wouldn’t have me. Must have been after I was thrown out of the Cubs for pushing David Swann in the stinging nettles.’
‘It was!’ Rosamunde agreed, remembering. ‘You beast!’
‘He was calling me gay!’
‘Well, he certainly knew earlier than the rest of us did.’
Benedict gave Rosamunde a long look and ordered their drinks. ‘Keep an eye out for a table while I get these.’
> Rosamunde searched around. The pub was busy tonight. It was the weekly quiz evening. Kizzie and her husband would be turning up soon and the four would have supper together before forming a quiz team. Kizzie was thrilled that Rosamunde and Benedict had embarked on a tentative new friendship. Rosamunde wondered now if she had perhaps been a little harsh in her opinion of Benedict. Or maybe it was just that he’d changed. Either way, it was a positive thing all round that they could enjoy a civilised evening at The Dragon’s Head together.
Spotting a table near the fire, Rosamunde dashed over and claimed it, dragging an extra stool from another table. Benedict joined her with the drinks (he’d managed to spill his pint on his jeans but a leopard couldn’t be expected to change its spots entirely) and soon Kizzie and Gerard arrived. The girls immediately began gabbling while Benedict did his best to get a few words out of Gerard. Then Bernie and Mrs Garfield turned up unexpectedly and dragged stools up to their table to join in with a hearty pub supper and boost their team for the quiz. Tonight’s theme was the 1980s, which had them all laughing merrily as they remembered pop stars and films of the era. Even a question about the Zeebrugge disaster couldn’t quell the cheery atmosphere of the evening.
By the end of the night Kizzie had graciously agreed that Emma was perhaps not the best choice for Baby Jesus and Mrs Garfield had diplomatically suggested she could be Henry’s understudy in case he was struck down by a bout of colic.
As Rosamunde and Bernie staggered up the hill towards home, she squeezed her father’s hand. It had been the sort of evening Rosamunde had longed for when she’d been travelling around the world. Like an old, worn pair of slippers, there was nowhere as comforting as home. They approached the back door and were greeted by Gladys, who was feeling put out that she’d had to spend the evening on her own. They hadn’t even lit a fire for her. Rosamunde helped herself to a mug of warm milk and headed up to bed with Gladys under her arm. The cat purred appreciatively at the thought of snuggling up with Rosamunde. It would make up for her lonely evening.
‘Night, Dad,’ Rosamunde called.
That night she dreamt of a grown-up Benedict, dressed as a Scout, playing the part of Baby Jesus in the nativity play. She woke up giggling.
12.
DECEMBER 1986
Rachel had decided they would have a party on Christmas Eve. This was perfect timing as Granny Dupont had decided to spend Christmas with a cousin in Cornwall and was leaving on Christmas Eve morning. Bernie, meanwhile, would be busy working and had agreed to spend the evening until Midnight Mass having dinner at Mr and Mrs Garfield’s. He wouldn’t be home until long past midnight and the girls had promised everyone would be gone by then. The excitement in the Vicarage on Christmas Eve afternoon was palpable.
Rosamunde and Stephen had spent the morning entwined on the sofa watching a video of Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, which Stephen had given Rosamunde for her sixteenth birthday and which had them in stitches. Stephen was a complete film buff and planned to be a film director. Rosamunde absolutely knew he would be. Stephen wasn’t the sort of person to give up on his dreams.
Now they were charged with the task of decoration while Rachel mixed a creative punch concoction in the kitchen.
‘Mistletoe!’ Stephen announced suddenly. ‘We need mistletoe!’
‘Of course! I can’t believe we haven’t got any! Let’s run down to the greengrocers and see if Mr Petherick has any left.’
As they wandered down to the shops Rosamunde thought life really couldn’t be any more perfect, when suddenly she felt a tickle on her nose.
‘Oh my goodness! Stephen, look! It’s snowing! It never snows here! Look!’ Rosamunde danced around, grabbing at the flakes as they began to descend thickly. Stephen watched, laughing at her childish glee, then joining in as they pranced down to the village, their hair soon covered with flecks of snow, their cheeks pink with exertion. Every child in the village seemed to emerge from the warmth of their houses to the exciting chill of the snow shower outside.
Later, with the house duly decorated and the sky dark and full of snow clouds, the three took it in turns to bathe and change. Rosamunde was wearing a pink and white polka dot skirt with a lacy black top and her hair was backcombed, framing her angular face and large amber eyes, which she’d lined with black kohl.
A little while before the party was due to start she went into the spare room – currently Stephen’s – where she found him rifling through LPs. He was going to be the DJ for part of the evening and then Gerard would take over for the second half of the night. As Rosamunde knocked on the open door he looked up.
‘Wow, you look amazing!’ Stephen told her and their eyes locked. He dropped the LPs and immediately they began to kiss. And, as they did, Rosamunde could feel a new intensity envelop them. A fierceness that was raw and fuelled with passion. All thought of the party was forgotten as they began to shed their clothes, kissing urgently. After being restrained with each other for so long they were overcome with a sense of abandonment, exploring each other inexpertly but fully for the first time.
As they lay in bed afterwards, it felt as though they were cocooned in their own world. Rosamunde had never felt so adult or complete. She wondered if life would ever be ordinary again. Then they heard the doorbell, followed by Rachel shouting.
‘Rosamunde! Where the hell are you? Can you get the door? I’m still doing my make-up!’
They hurried back into their clothes and rushed down to open the door to the first of the revellers. Rosamunde’s make-up might have rubbed off entirely but she was glowing so much she thought her recent actions were embarrassingly obvious. But no one seemed to notice and soon the party was in full swing. While Stephen was in charge of the music, Rosamunde acted as the perfect hostess, taking their guests’ coats and handing out the punch. Kizzie and Gerard arrived with Benedict, who – predictably – was the first person to spill a drink on the carpet.
Unfortunately, Clara Johnson had wangled an invitation, but she and Benedict were now going out with each other and spent most of the evening smooching under the mistletoe so they weren’t too much trouble. In fact, nothing could ruin the evening for Rosamunde and she was itching to tell Kizzie what had happened.
‘Kizzie, come with me to the loo quickly,’ she said and obediently her friend followed her into the downstairs lavatory.
‘What is it?’ she asked, searching Rosamunde’s face as though looking for clues. And then she smiled. ‘You haven’t, have you?’ she asked. Rosamunde nodded, her eyes bright and glowing.
‘Yep, we did it earlier on – just before the party!’
‘How was it?’ Kizzie asked eagerly. She and Gerard hadn’t gone that far yet and she was desperate for details. The two girls stayed whispering in the loo until someone started hammering on the door.
‘Come on,’ said Rosamunde. ‘Let’s go and dance. I can hear Like a Virgin!’ she said.
‘How appropriate!’ giggled Kizzie, and the pair jiggled through the throng of teenagers to the makeshift dance floor where they strutted their stuff with the abandonment of the youngsters they were.
Then, when Gerard took over the music, it meant Rosamunde and Stephen could spend the rest of the night dancing with each other, one tune after another. They pranced about to The Bangles and Wham! and then cosied up to each other with Holding Back the Years and Rosamunde’s favourite, Take My Breath Away.
Everyone lost track of time and so poor Bernie arrived home exhausted after a busy evening to find far too many drunk teenagers dancing, canoodling and – in one case – throwing up in his house. He remained unruffled, however, instructing Rachel and Tim to dispatch everyone into the snowy village and agreeing they could clean the house in the morning. He thanked the Lord Granny Dupont wasn’t around.
By one o’clock on Christmas morning Rosamunde was in bed, her head a little fuzzy. She was about to drop off when she felt Stephen climb in beside her and wrap his arms around her. He was the best Christmas present she could ever have
hoped for.
13.
THURSDAY 4TH DECEMBER 2014
I think Gerard’s having an affair.’
The prospect was so absurd Rosamunde nearly choked on her gin and tonic. She raised her eyebrows at her friend.
‘Kizzie, there are men who have affairs and there are men who wouldn’t even dream of it. Gerard definitely fits into the latter category. He’s always been so steady and loving. What on earth’s going on?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ Kizzie slumped on her bar stool and tucked into the open bag of crisps on the bar in front of them. She stole a furtive glance behind the bar to make sure Benedict couldn’t hear them. He was at the other end polishing glasses.
‘It’s just that he’s being all weird and secretive. We’ve been together for so long and, you know, we’re generally happy, but since we had Emma I’ve been so absorbed with her. I suppose I haven’t had much time for him. I think he might have looked elsewhere,’ she said gloomily.
Rosamunde considered this. Gerard was a quiet soul to begin with, so she’d have found it hard to notice that he was being odd and secretive, but she’d learnt over the years that you could never really know what went on in another person’s relationship, even a close friend’s.
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ she reassured Kizzie. ‘Maybe he’s just distracted about the job situation.’ Gerard’s work as a fisherman hadn’t been lucrative lately.
‘Maybe,’ Kizzie agreed but Rosamunde could see she was still anxious. Perhaps the best thing would be to distract her friend from her worries.
‘Listen, do you want a diversion from all this? Will you help me organise the party? Rachel’s on at me about it and I’ve done nothing other than send out invitations. I could really use a hand.’
Kizzie brightened immediately and took a notepad and fountain pen from her handbag. There was nothing she liked better than making lists with her beautifully neat handwriting. It was the teacher in her.
Christmas at the Vicarage Page 6