Christmas at the Vicarage

by Rebecca Boxall

  She looked up at the enormous stained glass window above the altar and as she did so a strange thing happened. She felt herself going into a sort of trance and then, all of a sudden, there was a pressure on her head. It reminded her of the sensation she’d experienced when, at the age of twelve, she’d been confirmed. The bishop had blessed her and pressed down on her head as he did so. Right now it was that same feeling – a heaviness bearing down on her scalp and a soporific sensation reminiscent of that moment in Harrods when she felt her mother’s presence with her. But this wasn’t her mother. Rosamunde wasn’t sure what this was, but she was certain there was a greater power to this feeling. Eventually, when she began to feel more normal again, she got up, with heavy legs, and found herself dropping to the tiled floor of the aisle, just in front of the altar. She allowed her forehead to rest on the cool tiles and as she did so a loud sob shot out of her mouth. But there were no tears. She emerged from the church, blinking at the strong sunlight, feeling shaken and yet strangely stronger. She must have been in there for less than half an hour but the experience felt momentous.

  When she arrived back at the Vicarage, having forgotten entirely about going to the shop, she saw a blue Fiesta outside. Inside, at the kitchen table, was Granny Dupont. She didn’t waste any time. As soon as Rosamunde entered the sunny kitchen she got straight to the point.

  ‘I think you need to get away, dear,’ she said. ‘I have a nephew in France – Pierre Lacroix. He and his wife would be happy to have you to stay.’

  Granny Dupont had a knack, Rosamunde decided, for arriving at the critical moment. The very next day, after handing in her notice at work (and wangling an almost immediate departure), Rosamunde booked herself a flight, and a few days later she arrived in the late summer heat of the Dordogne. She’d left Potter’s Cove with a large suitcase after a tearful embrace with her father, who’d sweetly agreed to arrange for Rosamunde’s flat to be let. She had no idea when she’d return but for now Granny Dupont had been right – she needed to get away.

  And France, she decided, was as good a place as anywhere to start her journey.

  PART THREE

  35.

  TUESDAY 23RD DECEMBER 2014

  The 23rd December was, of course, one of the most wonderful days of Christmas – full of excitement and bustle. Rosamunde awoke feeling quite bright. She’d successfully parcelled away her yearnings for Benedict and was gradually coming to accept the idea of remaining on her own again. She’d wrapped all her presents and the Vicarage was full of life and festivities. She was sitting at the kitchen table helping herself to breakfast while Lily told her about the various problems associated with having a younger brother and how it was such a shame her mother hadn’t managed to provide her with a sister. Poor Art sat there as good as gold listening to his sister’s complaints. As she listened to her young niece she felt full of anticipation for the days of Christmas ahead.

  Then the telephone rang. It was Kizzie, in floods of tears.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Rosamunde, immediately full of concern, but her friend was unintelligible. In the end she told her to sit tight and that she’d be right round. Rosamunde quickly squared it with her father that she could take his car, grabbed her coat and headed out to find thick snow on the ground. It was clear she wasn’t going to get anywhere in the Citroën. There was only one thing to do. She retrieved her mobile phone from her bag.

  ‘I need to ask you a favour,’ she said a moment later.

  Benedict immediately dropped everything and was at the Vicarage within ten minutes in his Land Rover.

  ‘What on earth can be wrong?’ he asked Rosamunde. She was torn. She didn’t want to betray Kizzie’s confidence (it was clear Benedict had no idea about his sister’s suspicions) but she equally didn’t want Benedict to worry unduly.

  ‘I’m sorry, Benedict, but I can’t say. It’s nothing life threatening,’ she assured him. ‘I’ll explain to Kizzie that you’re outside and she may well suggest you come in. Are you happy to wait until I give you the go-ahead?’ she asked.

  ‘Of course. I’ll take Humphrey for a walk around the estate. She obviously needs you. Call me on my mobile.’

  When Rosamunde rang on the bell she was astonished to find Gerard opening the front door. She’d rather expected he would have been hoofed out by now.

  ‘You look surprised to see me,’ he remarked. ‘Kizzie’s in a bit of a state, I’m afraid. She’s up in her bedroom. See what you can do?’ he asked, his eyes pleading. Despite herself, Rosamunde felt a little bit of sympathy for him.

  Rosamunde found Kizzie under the duvet. She poked her head out when she heard the bedroom door open and her usually pretty face was a swollen red mess.

  ‘It’s true, then?’ Rosamunde asked. ‘He’s having an affair?’ This prompted Kizzie to burst into a flood of tears.

  ‘I almost wish he was,’ she said. ‘Rosamunde, he’s got cancer. He was never having an affair. He was going to appointments at the hospital in Totnes. He’s ill, Rosamunde. He might die!’

  Rosamunde felt her legs go quite weak. So it had been Gerard she’d seen in Totnes the other day after all. She plonked herself heavily on the side of the bed and wrapped Kizzie into a bear hug, trying to soothe her friend.

  ‘And now I’m the one freaking out and that makes it worse,’ sobbed Kizzie. ‘I should be supporting him, not collapsing in a heap.’

  ‘Give it time,’ said Rosamunde. ‘It’s the shock. Gerard’s had time to take it all in. You’ve only just found out.’

  Eventually, Kizzie calmed down. Rosamunde ran her a bath, pouring in some calming lavender bath oil, and took her friend through to the bathroom like an invalid. She undressed her and got her into the bath, then waited quietly whilst Kizzie lay still in the deep water, the only noise an occasional shudder left over from her sobbing. Once she’d helped dress her friend she led her downstairs.

  ‘We need to find out all the facts,’ Rosamunde said. Downstairs, a forlorn-looking Gerard was feeding Emma at the kitchen table. Rosamunde took over so he could concentrate on explaining everything properly to Kizzie, who had gone into meltdown as soon as she heard the word ‘cancer’ earlier that morning.

  It was extremely worrying, of course, but it transpired the cancer – prostate cancer – had been caught at an early stage and that Gerard would be able to have the tumour removed in an operation, followed by a short stint of radiotherapy. There was an excellent chance he would be back to good health in a matter of months.

  It was about an hour and a half into her visit that Rosamunde suddenly remembered Benedict. Poor Benedict – so discreet and who must by now have been absolutely freezing. She dashed out of the front door and found him huddled up in the Land Rover with Humphrey.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Explanations were made to him and then Rosamunde decided to make herself useful and prepare some lunch. Benedict went round to the neighbours’ to pick up Harriet, who’d been dispatched there by Gerard before his revelation this morning. She managed to lighten the atmosphere very swiftly.

  Nonetheless, it had been a very emotional morning and by the afternoon, when Rosamunde and Benedict decided it was time to leave the family to it (the older girls had been away overnight and now needed to be told the difficult news), the pair were feeling jangled. They drove in silence until Benedict turned the radio on briefly, but the jolly tune of The Most Wonderful Time of the Year didn’t match their moods and he turned it quickly off again.

  ‘I feel we should cancel the party,’ Rosamunde said eventually.

  ‘No, you mustn’t,’ Benedict replied, sensibly. ‘You heard Gerard – he wants to carry on as normal. He’d hate it if we cancelled.’

  ‘I know,’ Rosamunde sighed. ‘But who feels like celebrating?’

  ‘Tomorrow’s another day,’ said Benedict. ‘We’ll buoy ourselves up by then. Here we are,’ he said, turning into the Vicarage drive.

  ‘Thank you,’ Rosamun
de told him and kissed him goodbye.

  Inside Rosamunde was amazed to find that the atmosphere was just as festive as when she’d left this morning even though the world had turned on its axis as far as she was concerned. She hated to be the harbinger of doom but she explained everything briefly to Bernie and her sister then retreated to her bedroom for some peace and quiet. She resolved to perk herself up later but for now she felt shocked and devastated for her best friend and her family.

  At teatime there was a knock on the door. It was Bernie.

  ‘I’m exhausted,’ Rosamunde told him as she looked up from her bed.

  ‘It’s the shock,’ he replied, handing her a cup of tea. ‘I know it’s a terrible piece of news but it sounds to me as though all will be well. It’s useful to have faith, you know, Rosie. Not just because it’s a comfort to ourselves, but because it’s an enormous help to the person who’s ill.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Rosamunde smiled weakly at her father. ‘It’s so easy to imagine the worst. Much harder to have faith that it will work out all right.’

  ‘Come on,’ Bernie said, pulling Rosamunde up off the bed. ‘Come and have high tea with us all.’

  Feeling mildly guilty for returning to the festivities, Rosamunde joined in the tea, which was a comforting mix of crustless sandwiches and scones with jam and Devon cream. Then, later in the afternoon, she shook off any lingering feelings of guilt and sadness so that she could be businesslike about party preparations.

  Benedict and her father were right – the party must go on.

  36.

  AUGUST 1999

  FRANCE

  It was seven in the evening and still bright as noontime. Rosamunde had unpacked and showered and she made her way downstairs out onto the terrace, where she found Pierre and Cecile enjoying an aperitif.

  ‘Come and join us,’ Pierre said as soon as he spotted Rosamunde. She’d been amazed at how fluent his English was when he met her at the airport earlier in the day, though Cecile couldn’t speak much at all. It transpired Pierre had been sent to an English boarding school, hence his almost accent-less English, which put Rosamunde to shame as she spoke very little French despite her heritage.

  Rosamunde sat down at the wooden table, which was as rustic as the rest of the villa. It was all very grand in scale – the house would cost a fortune in England – but there was an absolute simplicity to it in terms of décor and ambience. Rustic was the word. However, Rosamunde had been pleased to spot the luxury of a swimming pool beside the terrace.

  ‘You’ve unpacked? You’re feeling at home?’ asked Pierre as he handed Rosamunde a glass of champagne, which was delicious and immediately began to relax her. When she’d arrived at the airport earlier she’d suddenly found herself wondering what on earth she was doing, coming here with no plan whatsoever as the guest of two unwitting hosts who probably had no idea why this young woman had been foisted upon them. But they were certainly kindly and welcoming so far.

  ‘Yes, I’m all unpacked thank you, Pierre,’ she replied, closing her eyes and feeling the warmth of the sunshine on her eyelids.

  ‘You’re tired?’ he asked, endlessly solicitous.

  ‘No, relaxed,’ smiled Rosamunde, opening her eyes again and squinting into the sun. She’d forgotten sunglasses – she would need to buy some.

  ‘Your grandmother said you’d had a difficult time recently,’ Pierre said. ‘I don’t wish to pry but I suspect it was a love affair?’ he asked.

  Rosamunde looked at him. Everything about Pierre was round – large, round eyes as dark as treacle, a ruddy round face, a large round belly. Cecile was almost exactly the same but with long dark hair that had started to grey, which she plaited in a twist so that the plait rested over the front of her right shoulder. Despite Cecile’s lack of English, she seemed to have grasped the expression ‘love affair’, as her interest had perked up. She looked at Rosamunde inquisitively.

  ‘Yes, it’s a long story, I’m afraid,’ Rosamunde said. ‘How long have you got?’

  ‘We have all evening,’ said Pierre, and so Rosamunde began to explain all about Stephen and Giles and the cancelled wedding and Jodie’s pregnancy. She felt it only fair to explain the whole story to the couple since they had been kind enough to put her up and were obviously interested to know what had led her to them.

  Here and there Pierre translated for Cecile, who would gasp and shake her head. Eventually, the story told, the woman heaved herself up from her chair and planted two fierce kisses on Rosamunde’s cheeks before wiping tears away from her large dark eyes. Rosamunde was touched. She also felt lighter – as if by telling the story she had lifted a part of the weight of it from her body.

  ‘Now we eat,’ said Cecile, and she bustled off to prepare some food. For the first time in over a month Rosamunde felt genuinely hungry.

  A long, surprisingly pleasurable evening ensued. The couple didn’t ask any more questions of a personal nature. They were very interested in England, however, and Pierre in particular was keen to enquire how the country had changed since he was there at school many years ago. During pudding – peaches and fresh cream – Rosamunde asked Pierre to explain the family connection. She was embarrassed to admit she knew little about the maternal side of her family. After Marguerite died, her father had found it painful to speak about her, and Granny Dupont had always been so unapproachable.

  ‘My mother was called Delphine Dupont and she married Fabien Lacroix – my father,’ he began. ‘I’m afraid both my parents are now dead. But my mother had a brother called Laurent Dupont – your grandfather. He was in the French Air Force but was injured in a farming incident and had a false leg. He and his elderly parents moved to England when they saw the danger France was in – he was worried about caring for them if France became occupied. While he was there, in England, he discovered the Air Transport Auxiliary were desperate for pilots, tin leg or not. This was where he met your grandmother, Penelope, who was also in the ATA. Laurent was a wonderful uncle and he and your grandmother visited us all in France often after the war, even though they made their home in England. It was very tough for them, of course,’ he added.

  ‘Why?’ asked Rosamunde.

  ‘Well, your grandmother was from aristocracy. Her family owned a place called Hartley Hall in Dorset. When she met Laurent they fell madly in love, but her parents didn’t approve. Then there was a scandal. Before they married, Penelope discovered she was pregnant. Of course she and Laurent married very quickly – a shotgun wedding, I think you call it. But her parents disinherited Penelope and all their wealth was left to her brother Charles, a very unpleasant man who refused to help his sister.’

  Rosamunde took a sip of coffee. She was staggered – fancy her grandmother getting pregnant out of wedlock. But now she thought about it, perhaps that explained how kind she’d been to Rosamunde, in a most out-of-character fashion, when she’d found herself pregnant as a teenager.

  ‘Laurent was not a man of wealth – we are not an especially rich family – and of course Penelope was used to a different way of living. But she was sufficiently in love with Laurent not to resent the loss of wealth and they were very happy together. I remember they would stay with us and all you could hear was their laughter, wherever you were in the house.’

  Rosamunde frowned. This didn’t sound like her grandmother at all. She’d barely seen her laugh over the years. When she’d hugged her grandmother goodbye Rosamunde remembered feeling sad that her life had been so devoid of joy. Pierre noticed Rosamunde’s confusion.

  ‘In later years she has not been so happy. But believe me, back then she was full of laughter and joy.’ He smiled at the memories. ‘She was so good with children. I was a small boy and she was always embracing me and trying to teach me English. It was Penelope who suggested I attend school in England, and even though it was very expensive my parents scrimped and saved to do so – to give me an excellent education for which I’ve always been most grateful. Without it I would not have my decent job
as a wine merchant or this house and most certainly not a swimming pool!’ he laughed.

  ‘What happened, then, to my grandmother to change her so much?’ asked Rosamunde as she stifled a yawn. It was dark now and the cicadas were chirruping their nighttime chorus. It had been a long day.

  ‘There’s so much more to tell,’ Pierre told her. ‘I think perhaps you should get some rest. We have all the time in the world. I’ll continue with the story tomorrow evening. I have to work tomorrow but Cecile will look after you. You must make yourself at home, enjoy the pool.’

  Rosamunde stood up. ‘Thank you,’ she said and it was a thank you that needed to cover so much.

  ‘It is our pleasure,’ he told her earnestly. ‘You must stay here as long as you want. Sleep well.’

  As she lay in the foreign bed in the guest room, under old-fashioned sheets, Rosamunde felt exhausted but her mind was awhirl with unanswered questions. As she began eventually to nod off, she wondered if her grandmother had sent Rosamunde to her nephew not just to heal her broken heart but perhaps finally to learn about her mysterious family history. Or perhaps her grandmother, wise though austere, believed the former could somehow partly be achieved by the latter.

  37.

  CHRISTMAS EVE 2014

  At five o’clock in the morning on Christmas Eve Rosamunde woke up with a dreadful sore throat and a high fever. She took some paracetamol and went back to sleep, but when she woke again a few hours later she felt little better although her fever was down. She groaned. Why did colds always strike at Christmas? But she refused to be defeated. In her mind Christmas Eve had always been the best bit of Christmas and there was a lot going on today. So she dosed herself up, took a steaming bath and dressed warmly. After applying a bit of make-up and drinking a hot toddy for breakfast, she began to feel more human.

  Bernie was the next to appear in the kitchen and he sounded even croakier than Rosamunde.