This meant that Rosamunde needed to leave the Vicarage mid-morning. She dressed with care – a summery cream halter-neck dress, delicate tan sandals and a pale green cashmere cardigan in case it should cloud over. She had a small satchel she wore across her body (she’d never been a huge fan of handbags). Her dark red hair was freshly washed and dried and the bright sun brought out its natural coppery highlights. She had on a little make-up – some powder, mascara and pink lip gloss to enhance her full lips.
During the long journey Rosamunde found her heart fluttering with nerves. She felt like a sixteen-year-old about to meet her first date rather than a grown woman of twenty-eight. Finally, she arrived at Paddington station. It was a quarter to three. She spotted a small newsagent’s on the platform where she was due to meet Stephen and decided to buy a magazine. It was a bit pointless, since she would hardly be able to concentrate on it, but it took a few minutes to select Marie Claire, hand over a note, wait for the change and finally flick through the pages as she sat on a bench and watched the platform clock. She wished they’d agreed that Stephen should simply telephone her rather than meeting at the station in this old-fashioned way, but he’d explained it would be difficult to call her from home and Rosamunde didn’t have a mobile so they’d had to set a place.
As the clock hands reached three Rosamunde’s heart was in her throat as she began to panic that he had changed his mind. Perhaps Jodie had begged him to stay and he’d caved in, or, worse, decided he loved her more than Rosamunde after all. But then, suddenly, she saw him rushing down the platform steps and she felt quite lightheaded with relief. He was here and she’d been a fool to doubt him for a second.
‘Rosamunde!’ Stephen exclaimed as he grabbed her to him and they embraced, quite unaware of the curious glances they were receiving from passers-by. He pulled away from her and as she looked up at him she saw tears pouring from his turquoise eyes.
‘What’s wrong?’ she asked. ‘Why tears?’ She rubbed them with her hands. ‘It’s okay,’ she reassured him. ‘It’s done now.’
Stephen gulped, his face all crumpled. ‘But it’s not,’ he said. ‘Rosamunde, Jodie’s pregnant. She just told me. We’re having a baby. I’m sorry, babe. I’m so sorry. But I can’t leave her now. I simply can’t.’
As the words sank in, time seemed to stand still. Rosamunde thought it quite strange that the shattering of her heart wasn’t audible.
33.
SATURDAY 20TH DECEMBER 2014
Rosamunde was no longer happily single – such a state of affairs was only possible when you weren’t suffering from unrequited love. Her emotions ran from elated – Benedict wasn’t gay so perhaps he might have feelings for her too? – to hopeless. After all, he’d made no attempts to disillusion her about the fact that she (and everyone else) thought he was gay, and he hadn’t made a single gesture or comment that she could construe as remotely romantic.
But there was little time to dwell, for early on this icy Saturday morning the Vicarage had been invaded by Rachel and her family, who’d left London at five o’clock to avoid the pre-Christmas traffic and arrive before the snow that was forecast to fall in the afternoon. Rachel had emerged from the car in a cloud of Chanel No. 5, wrapped in a deep red belted winter coat that matched her lips. She looked like a film star, not a mother of two arrived in Potter’s Cove for a family Christmas.
It was now ten o’clock and Simon had taken two very excited bundled-up children down to the beach to allow Rosamunde and Rachel time to finalise plans for the party. Bernie was at the church hall where he was closeted away in a makeshift grotto playing the part of Father Christmas at the annual Christmas market.
Once satisfied everything had been thought of for the party, Rachel, nibbling on a mince pie, took a good look at her sister.
‘Are you okay?’ she asked. ‘You’re looking very pale.’
‘Fine,’ Rosamunde replied. She didn’t want to get into her relationship troubles with Rachel right now. ‘Come on,’ she said, scraping back the pine kitchen chair and grabbing her coat. ‘Let’s find Simon and the kids and head over to the market. Do you think Lily will suss on that Father Christmas is her grandfather?’
‘I do hope not. That would be embarrassing! Imagine if my daughter was responsible for revealing the myth of Father Christmas to all the children of Potter’s Cove!’ hooted Rachel.
The market was alive with activity as all the villagers began to embrace the Christmas period. The large – usually freezing – hall was warm and bright, with a festive scent of pine emanating from a large tree in the corner, and there were trestle tables set up as stalls in a rectangular shape. Immediately on the left was the bottle stall where Simon had been tempted to stop, whereupon he immediately won a bottle of Dom Perignon. With such success under his belt he decided to loiter a little longer, so the female party moved on to scrutinise the other stalls with the children in tow. There was a stall selling homemade teddy bears, which grabbed Lily’s and Art’s attention. Rachel – who spoiled the children dreadfully – immediately caved in and bought them a bear each.
The next table showcased delicious-looking homemade cakes and buns and alongside that was the tombola, which enthralled the children as they spun the brightly coloured wooden barrel and selected tickets from within the cavity. Rosamunde managed to win a selection pack of chocolate, which she donated to her niece and nephew. There was a stall selling beautiful African jewellery (Rosamunde bought a striking silver bangle for Kizzie) and a sweet old lady who’d lived in the village all her life – genuinely called Lavender Hanky – was, appropriately, selling embroidered handkerchiefs. Neither Rosamunde nor Rachel used hankies but they couldn’t bear to disappoint dear Lavender so they stocked up.
There was a second-hand book seller that magnetised Rosamunde but there were other stalls that couldn’t tempt the women – a lascivious man they remembered of old was selling bric-à-brac and they steered well clear of him. As they pottered around, the sisters found themselves endlessly bumping into familiar old faces and exchanging small talk, though they both managed to avoid Clara, who was showing off her husband and baby as though she’d just won them in the raffle.
When Lily and Art began to drive them mad with their begging they took the children through to the grotto where they each sat on one of Father Christmas’s knees. A local reporter was at the market and he took a photograph of the scene, which would later appear in the Gazette with the caption: ‘Little Art and Lily had no idea that Father Christmas was actually their grandfather – the Reverend Bernie Pemberton of Potter’s Cove’.
The man with the long white beard asked the children what they’d like for Christmas and Lily told him in some detail the items on her list and where Father Christmas would be able to buy them. She was a very practical girl and wasn’t going to take any chances. They left satisfied customers, each with a small gift from Santa’s sack to tide them over until Christmas Day.
By lunchtime, feeling quite exhausted, the sisters, Simon and the children were about to head to the pub for some food when they bumped into Benedict and Ed at, predictably, the bottle stall. Rosamunde made the introductions and asked if they’d won anything.
‘Not a sausage,’ Ed replied, grinning broadly. Rosamunde was glad he didn’t seem to be holding her recent revelation against her.
‘We’re off to the pub for lunch now,’ Rosamunde told them. ‘Would you like to join us?’ She willed Benedict to say yes. He looked at her.
‘Why not?’ he replied.
They strolled across from the church hall to the pub – a large and merry gang. The children were enthralled by Humphrey – Art kept trying to ride him as though he were a horse, and Humphrey was obligingly long-suffering about this. Rachel and Rosamunde hung back slightly.
‘Bloody hell, Rosamunde, he’s gorgeous!’ declared Rachel, lighting up a cigarette.
‘Who?’ Rosamunde desperately hoped it wasn’t Benedict who’d caught her sister’s fancy. She couldn’t bear the thought o
f any further competition.
‘The guy with Benedict, of course. What’s his name again?’
‘Ed,’ Rosamunde replied. ‘But haven’t you got enough on your plate with Simon and the Spanish guy?’
‘I’m not saying I’m going to devour him,’ replied Rachel. ‘A girl’s allowed to look, after all.’
Yes, thought Rosamunde, as she observed Benedict with the children, his head tipped back in abandoned laughter at one of Lily’s remarks. A girl’s allowed to look.
During lunch Rosamunde and Benedict sat next to each other around the large oak table the group had commandeered and she revelled in the fact they were able to chat and fool around as they had before Ed had arrived in the village. There was one subject of conversation she was desperate to bring up, namely why on earth Benedict had pretended for the last three years to be gay. Ed had clammed up on the subject when asked, insisting that Rosamunde should speak to Benedict about it herself. But she recognised it wasn’t the right time.
However, as luck would have it, an opportunity presented itself later in the day. The lunch had turned out to be rather liquid and Rachel suggested everyone troop back to the Vicarage for tea and mince pies. They had just rehydrated and further filled themselves with food by the log fire when Art spotted something.
‘’no, ’no, ’no!’ he chanted. No one understood what he meant apart from his older sister. She looked out of the window.
‘Yes, Arty! Snow!’ she interpreted. Everyone was suddenly alive with excitement and soon the party was wrapping themselves up in coats and scarves and rushing outside to lark around in the thick snowflakes that were falling heavily from the dark sky. As if by unspoken agreement Rosamunde and Benedict held back, remaining by the fire with Humphrey (for such an athletic dog he was surprisingly idle) and helping themselves to more tea from the pot.
‘I hear you’ve found out my little secret,’ said Benedict. He’d decided to be direct and Rosamunde was grateful. This was a conversation they needed to have whilst they had the room to themselves.
‘Ed told me,’ Rosamunde admitted, trusting that Ed hadn’t divulged her own little secret to Benedict. ‘I’m confused,’ she added. Benedict sighed.
‘I should have explained before,’ he said, looking suitably contrite. ‘You remember we had that chat in Thatchley in the graveyard? About Clara?’ he asked. Rosamunde nodded.
‘Well, there was a part of the story I didn’t explain. You know how Clara reacted when I tried to end the relationship the first time? Well, I was absolutely desperate to find a reason to finish with her that would end things once and for all. Then one day, suddenly, it occurred to me that if I told her I was gay she would have to move on. It was risky, of course. I didn’t want to provoke another overdose. But eventually I did it and it worked beautifully. I think Clara felt better for knowing it wasn’t her that was the issue, if you can call it that, but me.’
Benedict rubbed at the knots in his broad shoulders.
‘But I didn’t want there to be any risk she’d find out I’d lied to her so I decided to spin the same yarn to everyone – my family and friends. The only person I didn’t bother pretending to was Ed as he wasn’t in the area and didn’t know anyone round here. It’s only in the last year he’s been to stay a few times – I usually visit him. And I needed at least one person I could be completely normal with. As time went by and Clara found a new man, I could of course have easily confessed my tall story to everyone, but by then I’d discovered the benefits of being gay.’ Benedict grinned ruefully.
‘Such as?’ asked Rosamunde.
‘Better relationships with my female family members and friends; not being continually set up with supposedly eligible single women I couldn’t have been less interested in after my disastrous relationship with Clara. So I kept up the pretence. And then, of course, you returned to Potter’s Cove and I couldn’t possibly tell you the truth when my own sister didn’t know it. I never actually lied to you, though. You just made assumptions and I didn’t disabuse you. I hope you don’t feel I’ve betrayed you.’ Benedict’s large dark eyes met Rosamunde’s and she felt herself softening. She could understand his reasons, however misguided.
‘But are you sure you’re not gay?’ asked Rosamunde. ‘Because I was utterly convinced. I mean, for a start, you like shopping!’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Benedict replied, a smile playing on his lips. ‘I can’t stand it, actually. I do most of my Christmas shopping in November to get the wretched task out of the way, but you seemed to like it so much on our trips to Thatchley and I was happy to play along. And anyway, I’m sure there are some straight men who like shopping and some gay men who hate it. You mustn’t be so sweeping in your generalisations,’ he teased.
‘So have you had any relationships since you started this pretence?’ asked Rosamunde. ‘It can’t have been easy.’ Benedict shook his head.
‘Clara put me off relationships for life, to be honest,’ he said. ‘I’m quite happy to be on my own. That’s why the pretence was so convenient. But listen, you won’t tell Kizzie yet, will you? I’ll explain everything to her – and my parents – when I find the right moment.’
‘Of course I won’t,’ replied Rosamunde, and before their discussion could continue further, they heard the over-excited chatter of the rest of the group returning to the warmth of the cottage. Benedict got up and reached over to Rosamunde. He landed a kiss on her forehead.
‘Thank you,’ he said. If Rosamunde had been twenty-five years younger she’d have resolved never to wash her forehead again. As it was, she took a deep breath and smiled. He’d now told her the truth, but there was a part of it she hadn’t wanted to hear. ‘Clara put me off relationships for life,’ he’d said. ‘I’m quite happy to be on my own.’ Rosamunde had known those sentiments herself, but now things had changed. Suddenly she felt she couldn’t be in the same room as Benedict a moment longer and, in order to escape, announced she was going upstairs to wrap presents.
When she’d closed the wooden door of her bedroom Rosamunde sat on the edge of the bed and looked at herself in the dressing table mirror. She looked frazzled. She had to get her head around the situation and quickly. She needed to accept the fact that, although Benedict wasn’t gay after all, he had no interest in her. She should just enjoy their friendship. Rosamunde, she said to herself silently, you have to get over this. Be happy alone. Be content with Benedict as a friend. She sat still for a moment until she heard the taps of the bath being turned on next door. Rachel must be bathing the children. She took a deep breath. Then she found her gifts, some wrapping paper, scissors and Sellotape. It was time to wrap.
34.
AUGUST 1999
When she looked back at the aftermath of that fateful day in July she supposed she’d had a minor breakdown. Initially she was strangely calm and accepting. It was as if, in her deepest subconscious, she’d known Stephen would never really be hers but she’d so much enjoyed the possibility that he might be. Now reality had come crashing down, quashing all her hopes and dreams.
She made the journey home, alone, where she told her father the situation.
‘Will you go back to Giles?’ he asked, then – seeing her face – added quickly, ‘No, of course not. Silly question.’
Days passed. She didn’t cry. She was frozen in a strange paralysis that seemed to be preventing any facial expression, action or movement.
Eventually she agreed to see Kizzie, who’d been trying to come round since she’d heard the news from Bernie. It was the trigger Rosamunde feared it would be and the floodgates were opened to tears, anger and despair. She began to develop an irrational fear of stepping outside the Vicarage or of seeing anyone. The only solace she found was at the bottom of a bottle of wine and when Bernie began to find an unusually large number of bottles by the bin he tried to break through Rosamunde’s defensive wall and talk to her. But his words and suggestions had little effect. The only advice she took was to ring her employers to explain her
absence and take the month’s leave she’d planned to use for her honeymoon.
A month after the Saturday of Stephen’s news Rosamunde found herself looking out of her bedroom window at the village below. It was a busy, sunny day in Potter’s Cove and she didn’t want to venture out, but she’d drunk the Vicarage dry and desperately needed to buy some wine from the local shop. She went to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror above the sink. She looked like someone she didn’t recognise: gaunt, pale, her hair lank, enormous bags under her eyes, which no longer glittered with life but instead looked as though the light in them had been extinguished. She splashed her face with water, cleaned her teeth and dressed in the nearest pair of jeans and t-shirt she could find. Her father was nowhere to be found so she crept out of the back door, leaving it unlocked as they tended to.
She was about to enter the shop when she spotted Benedict coming out with newspapers and a pint of milk. He must be home visiting his family. She wondered if Clara was with him. Rosamunde didn’t want to see either of them so she quickly walked by until she found herself suddenly at the path leading up to the church. As she stood there, looking up at the imposing building, the clock struck three. She looked back at the shop and saw Benedict had stopped just outside it, chatting to a friend he’d bumped into. She decided to take refuge just for a moment in the porch of the church but, once there, she found herself drawn in.
Despite – or perhaps because of – being a vicar’s daughter, Rosamunde had never been a deeply religious person but she’d always enjoyed the rituals of a Sunday service and the soothing, peaceful comfort a church could provide. She pushed the heavy oak door open and poked her head around to check there were no helpful flower arrangers or even her father inside. She found it empty and cool. Rosamunde walked tentatively towards the altar and perched on a pew at the front of the church.
Christmas at the Vicarage Page 15