By the end of the evening – with the odd helpful suggestion from Benedict (and some less than helpful: Rosamunde thought any waitresses they might employ were unlikely to be persuaded to dress as Christmas elves) – Rosamunde and Kizzie had settled on some provisional ideas about the food and drink and decided on both the decorations they would need and the music (the obligatory Christmas carols and the usual cheesy Christmas songs). The three were feeling very festive by closing time and Benedict agreed to help Rosamunde collect the alcohol from Oddbins in Thatchley the next afternoon.
Thatchley the following day was alive with the anticipation of Christmas, which unfortunately meant there were very few parking spaces. Benedict drove round and round the small town in his old Land Rover, had a near collision with a van as he fought with another car for the van’s space (and lost) and finally – with nerves frayed – found a space almost a mile out of town.
It wasn’t the most auspicious of starts and Rosamunde wondered how on earth they would manage to haul the alcohol back to the car. They argued about this for some time until agreeing that they would walk to Oddbins together, deal with payment and any other shopping and then Benedict would fetch the Land Rover and drive it round to the shop so that they could load up.
In fact the walk into town was quite beautiful. The weak winter sun bathed everything in a veil of opaque light, the air was crisp and every building seemed to sparkle and gleam. As they approached the shops they found the bustle of busy shoppers contagious and soon they were drawn into every little store along the street, Benedict seemingly as keen as Rosamunde on searching the treasure troves for Christmas gifts.
Rosamunde hadn’t intended to do any Christmas shopping – she’d thought she would leave it until the week before as per her tradition – but she found herself spotting perfect gifts for Rachel, Mrs Garfield and Bernie. For Rachel she found a beautiful grey cashmere wrap, for Mrs Garfield some exotic-smelling bath oil and for her father she pushed the boat out and bought a collector’s book on butterflies from the antique bookstore and an expensive bottle of Rémy Martin XO brandy – his favourite. Benedict, meanwhile, bought a beautiful necklace for Kizzie and an antique perfume bottle for their mother (he had good taste, Rosamunde had to give him that).
With these purchases under their arms they were about to make their way to Oddbins when their noses were distracted by the mouth-watering scent of fish and chips.
‘Are you hungry?’ Benedict asked. Rosamunde agreed she was and they decided to delay the real business of the day a little longer. They took their bundles of hot, tightly wrapped food to a bench in the nearby churchyard. If in doubt Rosamunde always chose to sit in graveyards, rather than in parks or busy shopping streets. She loved their peace and timelessness.
As they sat companionably side by side, tucking into their chips, Rosamunde noticed that the grave opposite belonged to a lady who had died in 1901 and whose name was Clara.
‘Do you ever see Clara now?’ she asked. Benedict looked up, surprised.
‘Never. No, no, no. She would quite possibly murder me if she ever saw me again.’
‘Was the end of the relationship so bad?’
Benedict looked grave. He put his chips to one side, his appetite apparently lost.
‘You know, Clara pursued me from when we were just kids and in all truth I don’t think I ever loved her. I just gave in. You know we split up when we went off to different colleges at eighteen?’ Rosamunde nodded. ‘Well, I’d never in my life felt such a sense of freedom and relief. I moved on so quickly I almost frightened myself. But Clara didn’t. A few years later, in our early twenties, she decided I was “The One” and I didn’t stand a chance, especially after I had that car crash. She looked after me so well and I was grateful. I suppose that makes me very weak. I certainly didn’t do her any favours by caving in. I wasted years and years of both our lives. But I sort of thought it would all be fine. That we’d get married and have children and be like everyone else.’ Benedict paused and sighed.
‘Well, then things got very tricky. By our early thirties – when Clara held her breath every time I knelt down to tie up my shoelaces – I realised it was never going to work. I would never love her enough to marry her. So I ended it. I left with a small rucksack and moved back to Mum and Dad’s. The night I left Clara took an overdose.’
Rosamunde found herself gasping in disbelief. She’d never heard this part of the story. Why hadn’t Kizzie told her?
‘I never told anyone,’ Benedict said, as if reading her mind. ‘Clara survived and swore me to secrecy. I moved back in. I just couldn’t handle the guilt. I proposed a couple of weeks later and things improved for a while. But as the years went by and I kept finding reasons to put off our wedding day, I realised I couldn’t keep up the pretence. Anyway, you know how things ended eventually, three years ago. Clara had just turned thirty-eight. It wasn’t a pretty ending, but at least she knew it had to be final this time. She moved on, at last. She’s married with a baby. Now it’s me that seems stuck and unable to get on with my life.’
For a brief moment Rosamunde could feel Benedict’s pain, like a living being, sitting between them on the bench. Then, as if someone had snapped their fingers, he sat up straight and smiled.
‘So that’s my sorry life story, Rosamunde Pemberton. Now let’s get that booze before the shop closes and our trip will have been for nothing.’
Rosamunde allowed herself to be pulled up off the bench and, with arms linked, they made their way up the high street. As she watched the normal, happy-looking families all around them, Rosamunde felt an enormous sense of comfort in knowing Benedict was her fellow soldier – life had not followed the paths either of them had imagined it would, but there was a solidarity in their past battles and future hopes. They had each found someone who understood them and, despite the odd clash of character, Rosamunde knew this new friendship was one to hang on to.
14.
FEBRUARY 1987
Say cheese!’ shouted Stephen, and Rosamunde turned around and grinned at him, the sea air on deck making her hair fly up on end. Stephen put his camera back in his pocket and joined Rosamunde, putting an arm around her as they watched the looming island of Jersey become larger as the ferry made its steady progress.
‘Nearly there!’ he remarked, his eyes alive with the anticipation of their romantic trip away.
Rosamunde had been staggered when Stephen suggested they take a ferry to Jersey for a few days during half term. He’d saved up his Christmas money and had enough to purchase two ferry tickets and three nights in a bed and breakfast, with some spare for spending. Rosamunde was touched he wanted to spend his money on a trip away together instead of on a new stereo or something equally likely to appeal to a sixteen-year-old boy. Thankfully when Stephen had suggested the trip a month ago Granny Dupont hadn’t been staying, and therefore didn’t need to be consulted, and Bernie had agreed even though he must have realised this would mean the pair sharing a room. For the last month Rosamunde had been in a state of excited anticipation and now, finally, the day for the crossing had arrived.
‘Look at that beach!’ exclaimed Rosamunde as they neared the harbour. The island might have been only a few hours away by ferry from the mainland but the beaches were like something from a tropical hideaway – white sand spreading for miles and palm trees emerging proudly from behind the sea walls.
On disembarking the ferry they made their way to the Weighbridge bus station, lugging their bags along behind them, where they found the right bus for St Aubin, the harbour village where their bed and breakfast was located. Even though it was only February the winter sunshine was generously exuding some warmth and Rosamunde soon felt too hot in her winter jacket, so she took it off and tied it round her waist.
After a short journey they arrived in St Aubin’s village and it took them no time at all to track down their accommodation, which was just above an Italian restaurant on the bulwarks. They checked in, feeling terribly grown up, and we
re shown their room, which was very old-fashioned but clean and perfectly adequate. Rosamunde tested the bed. It was a bit lumpy but it would do. There was an en-suite that had only a shower – no bath – and was tiny, but it was better than having to share a bathroom with other guests. Then Stephen opened the windows and a blast of cool sea air wafted into the room. Rosamunde joined him and they looked out at the nautical scene outside. The tide was high and the boats directly opposite them in the harbour bobbed merrily around, making clinking bell-like noises as the lanyards on the sailing vessels hit the masts in the wind. A couple of geese teased each other on the slipway, as if daring each other to get their webbed feet wet.
‘Is it okay?’ Stephen asked, turning to Rosamunde.
‘It’s perfect,’ she replied. ‘I already feel sad at the prospect of leaving.’
‘You’re daft,’ Stephen grinned and he pulled Rosamunde towards him. ‘Shall we go and explore?’ he added, but before any exploration outdoors was conducted they started with each other. The bed squeaked noisily and made them giggle but they didn’t care. They didn’t know anyone here. They were free as birds. For the first time in Rosamunde’s life she felt like a real adult – yet without any of the weight and responsibility that comes with adulthood. This was utter freedom.
By the time Rosamunde and Stephen were ready to venture out it was almost dark and so they decided to save their adventures for tomorrow and find somewhere to enjoy an early supper instead. They showered and Rosamunde pulled on her best jeans and her thick navy and white Norwegian jumper. She was about to put some make-up on but Stephen stopped her.
‘You’re so pretty, you don’t need it,’ he said, so Rosamunde happily put her blusher and mascara away.
They found a pub at the end of the bulwarks and nabbed a table by the fire, where they ordered scampi and chips in a basket and drank lager shandies. They chattered away and it felt as if, for the first time, they were able to speak without interruptions from family or friends.
‘Chips or crisps?’ asked Stephen, starting up a game as they tucked in.
‘Chips, definitely,’ replied Rosamunde, scoffing her fries down. ‘Cheese or chocolate?’ she asked, getting into the swing of the game.
‘Cheese,’ he replied.
‘Yes, you are quite cheesy,’ laughed Rosamunde and Stephen threw a chip at her in reply before pulling her into an embrace.
‘Why did you choose Jersey?’ Rosamunde asked, then, and Stephen’s smile disappeared. He drew himself away from her and took a pensive sip from his drink.
‘We used to come here on holiday as a family, every summer until my sister died, and then we never came here again. So I guess it kind of holds good memories for me. My parents thought it would be too sad to come back but I knew it would just make me feel closer to Claire and, I know this sounds a bit naff, but I wanted to share the place with you too, like somehow you’ll get to know Claire a little bit by being somewhere she loved.’ Stephen looked at Rosamunde, sheepish.
‘That’s not naff at all. It’s lovely. What kind of stuff did you do here?’
‘Swimming in the sea, mainly, but it was summer so I don’t suppose we’ll be able to do that on this trip.’
‘Rubbish. I, Rosamunde Pemberton, am no longer a wimp and I pledge that tomorrow we will swim, however cold it might be,’ she laughed.
‘I’ll hold you to that, you nutcase,’ replied Stephen, pulling her into his arms again.
As she leant back Rosamunde surveyed the other patrons of the pub and realised she’d not even looked around her until then. She saw a couple in their thirties opposite them, giving each other dark, sultry looks. Were they married, she mused, or having a wild affair? Then she wondered what the other people in the pub might speculate about her and Stephen. Would they think they were runaways? she wondered, her imagination running amok. She would run away with him if she could, she thought. But she wasn’t brave enough and she couldn’t do it to Bernie anyway. And in any event, they would soon be in the lower sixth and before they knew it their A Levels would be under their belts. Finally they could make a plan that allowed them to be with each other.
When they fell asleep that night Rosamunde prayed the next couple of days would go slowly – she didn’t want this time to end.
‘I love you,’ she whispered, thinking Stephen was asleep.
‘I love you too, babe,’ he replied, squeezing her even closer to him.
The next day the pair rediscovered their more childish sides. They explored St Aubin and found a tiny deserted beach hidden behind some rocks where, as Rosamunde had promised, they plunged themselves into the freezing sea. Once they’d dried off they took a bus into St Helier where they mooched around the shops, then found a swimming pool at an enormous building called Fort Regent and took it in turns to dive off the highest diving board.
By the end of the day they were exhausted and decided to venture no farther than the Italian restaurant beneath their room. The scents of cooking food alone were enough to make Rosamunde’s mouth water – an inviting combination of garlic, frying onions and fresh prawns. The charming Italian waiter assured them all the fish had been caught that morning by local fishermen so they dined on delicious sea bass served with local vegetables. Both were suitably impressed with the food and rounded the meal off with some ice cream.
By the end of their brief trip away Rosamunde was certain she’d met the man she would one day marry. It seemed ridiculous, she realised, to be able to make such a claim at sixteen but she simply couldn’t imagine a more perfect relationship ever existing. When they arrived in Weymouth and were required to say their goodbyes Rosamunde found herself longing for the day when they would no longer need to be apart.
‘One of these days I’m going to marry you, Rosamunde Pemberton,’ Stephen mumbled into her ear as they hugged one last time. Rosamunde wondered for hours afterwards if she’d imagined those words. On the train journey to Thatchley, as she listened to her Walkman, she played his words over and over again in her head. She was sad to have said goodbye until Easter but she was gloriously happy too. Rosamunde Jameson, she tried out in her head, and then laughed to herself. There was no doubt about it – the future looked bright. So very, very bright.
15.
SATURDAY 6TH DECEMBER 2014
Bugger!’ exclaimed Bernie, as he poured himself a cup of tea from the cheerful red teapot at the centre of the kitchen table. Rosamunde looked up from the pile of Christmas cards she was reading nosily.
‘What?’ she asked, her mouth half full of croissant.
‘You know it’s the Tiny Tots’ Christmas party today? Well, Richard Thacker was due to play Father Christmas. I’ve completely forgotten to arrange for someone else to do it,’ he explained, rubbing his bushy white eyebrows.
Tiny Tots was a weekly event devised by Marguerite years ago as a way of introducing pre-school children to the Church, with the added benefit of helping local mothers get to know one another. A brief service took place in the church hall, Bernie chatted to the children about a particular story or other from the Bible – in years gone by often using Rosamunde’s teddies as props – and the event ended with tea, cakes and gossip for the parents while the children drank orange squash and ran wildly around the hall. The Christmas party involved a short service followed by a surprise visit from Father Christmas and a festive spread of cake and sandwiches eaten at the tiny wooden tables and chairs – as if made for midgets – spread around the hall.
‘There must be someone who could fill in at short notice,’ mused Rosamunde. ‘How about Benedict?’
‘Of course! A great idea. He seems at a loose end these days, when he’s not working at the pub. Would you mind ringing him?’
And so it was arranged that Benedict would play the part of Father Christmas. Not only that but he even offered to make some buns for the party, which was a great help as Mrs Garfield had under-catered, not realising quite how many children would be attending.
Unable to resist seeing
Benedict in his new role, Rosamunde accompanied Bernie down to the hall that afternoon and helped get the tables and chairs set up. Then Mrs Garfield arrived and they busily arranged all the paper plates and cups around the tables. Mrs G had even thought of festive napkins and party poppers.
Benedict arrived soon afterwards with a tin of buns, which he added to Mrs Garfield’s fare in the hall kitchen. They were decorated with garish lime green and bright pink icing and Rosamunde supposed the children would be immediately attracted to them, even though they looked remarkably disgusting. The final piece of the jigsaw then arrived in the form of the children’s entertainer. This had been Rosamunde’s idea – she knew from Kizzie how children’s parties had become these days and thought an entertainer would be just the ticket.
‘Hi, I’m Petey, the entertainer from Party Pandemonium,’ explained the man as he strutted into the hall and shook Rosamunde’s hand. He was absolutely gorgeous and gay without a doubt. She noticed the man immediately clock Benedict, who looked away shyly.
‘I’d better get my outfit on,’ Benedict told the group as he made his way into the side room with the ancient Father Christmas outfit and beard that had been used annually for about the last thirty years.
‘Who is that?’ asked Petey, his round blue eyes nearly popping out of his head.
‘He’s called Benedict,’ grinned Rosamunde. ‘I’ll introduce you later.’
‘Make sure you do,’ replied Petey as he parked himself close to the side room, clearly hoping to get a sneaky view of Benedict changing.
Pandemonium was the right word for it, thought Rosamunde, as the children then arrived with garrulous parents and began racing round the room like a pack of hounds let loose at the Boxing Day meet.
‘Today is a very special day,’ Bernie began shortly, after Mrs Garfield managed to get everyone to quieten down. ‘Because it’s our Christmas party. Now I expect you all go to lots of birthday parties, but does anyone know whose birthday it is at Christmas?’ he asked.
Christmas at the Vicarage Page 7