Christmas at the Vicarage

by Rebecca Boxall

‘Oh no! Dad, you could do without this! Sit down. I’ll make you a hot toddy too.’

  ‘Thanks, Rosie. Not too strong. Lots to do today. Bloody throat always seems to go at Christmas.’

  ‘I know; it’s the damnedest time of year for it.’

  They were sitting at the table nursing their drinks and croaking at one another when Mrs Garfield bustled in, taking off her coat whilst trilling Silent Night.

  ‘Best day of Christmas!’ she announced and then took one look at Bernie and Rosamunde and sent them back to bed. ‘No need for you to be up yet, feeling so poorly. Back to bed, both of you, and I’ll wake you in time for some hearty soup at lunch. Now, you’re not to worry about all the arrangements. Rachel and I will get everything organised and the play doesn’t start until four o’clock.’

  As ordered, Bernie and Rosamunde retreated to their rooms. As Rosamunde propped herself up in bed and dozed, she enjoyed the sounds of daily life going on downstairs. It reminded her of being off school as a young child and listening to her mother set about homely chores such as vacuuming and washing, while she was tucked snugly in bed with a hot drink and some books. Now she could hear Simon shouting at the children to get their coats on and then the slam of the back door as he doubtless took them off on a walk down to the beach. Then, like old times, the hum of the Hoover began.

  Rosamunde settled down to her book. But then, as the Hoover noise subsided, her ears pricked up again. There was a whistling noise and a thud as the post was delivered. Lots more cards by the sounds of it. She could hear Rachel and Mrs Garfield screaming with laughter over something or other. After that the noises drifted to the back of her subconscious and Rosamunde fell asleep. By the time she was awakened by Mrs Garfield at one o’clock she felt much better.

  Her father, too, had more colour to his cheeks and they joined everyone around the table in the kitchen for thick vegetable soup with hunks of granary loaf. There wasn’t enough room for the children and so they’d already eaten and had been permitted to play in the garden while the adults ate their lunch.

  ‘More snow in the air by the looks of it,’ remarked Simon as he wolfed down Mrs Garfield’s delicious soup.

  ‘Always a tricky one – so lovely for us but dreadful for anyone having to travel,’ Rosamunde replied.

  ‘You think far too much about other people,’ laughed Rachel. ‘It’s about time we enjoyed a white Christmas! Our first family Christmas in fifteen years and I think snow would be the icing on the cake,’ she declared.

  Rosamunde smiled, then, moving on to practicalities, she asked, ‘Now tell me, what still needs to be done this afternoon?’

  ‘The sitting room’s all ready, thanks to your sister – she’s done a marvellous job decorating it – and once we’ve had lunch we can get the kitchen all spruce,’ Mrs Garfield explained. ‘Then we’ll need to get down to the church hall for about three to start getting everything ready for the play. I’m leaving the back door open for the caterers to get started while we’re out. Benedict has already set up the lighting and the stage is set so it’s more a question of helping to get everyone ready. Simon, Benedict and Ed are in charge of bringing in the animals with Benedict’s father’s help. So kind of him to lend them to us.’

  Everyone agreed it was and soon they were all up and about, clearing the kitchen. Rosamunde took a moment to inspect the sitting room and gasped with delight when she saw how Rachel had transformed it into a magical, festive grotto. White fairy lights were festooned in every conceivable nook and dozens of candles were scattered around, ready to be lit before the party began. The tree stood handsomely in the corner of the room, giving off a beautiful scent of pine, and the presents were scattered enticingly at the bottom of the tree. A table had been dragged in from the hallway and had gleaming, polished glasses arranged on it. The scene was set.

  But for now the family gathered coats, hats and scarves and walked the short distance to the church hall, which was mayhem with children cavorting around playing tag and actors practising their lines. Rosamunde, Rachel and Kizzie were in charge of helping the children to get ready and soon the angels were suitably attired and the side room could be made available for the adult shepherds, kings and innkeeper to change. One of the kings couldn’t find his frankincense but Benedict managed to locate it in the crib. Then the Baby Jesus arrived; thankfully, he was asleep.

  ‘Long may that continue,’ whispered Rachel, though not particularly quietly so that the baby’s mother gave her a sharp look.

  By half past three parishioners started to arrive. Benedict and Simon had just brought in a couple of reasonably biddable sheep and a cow and led them onto the stage (the donkey was staying outside for now) when Bernie emerged from the hall office looking flustered.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he complained. ‘I’ve just had a call from Florence,’ he told his daughters. ‘She and Anna have had the most dreadful row and they’ve pulled out of the nativity play at the last minute. What on earth can we do at this late stage?’

  ‘We’ll just have to find a couple to replace them,’ said Rosamunde as she craned her neck to see if there were any suitable people in the hall. The only couples who’d arrived so far looked far too old to pass for a young Mary and Joseph.

  ‘Rachel?’ she suggested. ‘How about you and Simon?’

  ‘I would, darling, but Simon wouldn’t dream of it. You know he has that slight stutter? Well, it comes out dreadfully when he’s nervous. He’d never forgive me if I made him do it. I do have an idea, though. Give me a minute.’

  Rachel was off, down to the back of the hall in a whirl of red coat and cashmere hat and scarf. Two minutes later she was back, with Benedict in tow.

  ‘Looks like we’re a couple.’ Benedict grinned at Rosamunde and winked cheekily.

  ‘Oh no, no, no,’ Rosamunde replied, but she was bundled off into the side room and promptly given a script to learn in twenty minutes flat. As she and Benedict rehearsed their lines, Kizzie and Rachel busily attired them in their outfits before disappearing to take their seats.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ asked Bernie as he poked his head around the door ten minutes later. ‘It’s a full house!’ He glowed proudly.

  ‘Great,’ groaned Rosamunde. She’d never enjoyed being the centre of attention and here she was about to play Mary in front of a full house. She was still feeling quite put out when she peeked round the side of the stage and saw Kizzie, Gerard and the girls at the back of the hall looking brave and cheerful. It was the boot up the backside Rosamunde needed, and she decided to be gracious about her plight.

  ‘You look beautiful as Mary,’ Benedict whispered as he stroked her hand tenderly, and Rosamunde felt all the speedily learnt lines vanishing from her mind. Perhaps she wasn’t quite over him after all. Rosamunde’s heart began to pound with nerves mingled with her feelings for Benedict.

  The couple then made their way down to the side door of the hall, where the donkey was waiting patiently for them in the darkening afternoon. Simon and Ed helped Rosamunde on and Benedict slowly led them into the hall. As the door slammed behind them the whole audience turned around to see Rosamunde, Benedict and the donkey gradually make their way up to the stage to the tune of Little Donkey. Although she still felt a bit of a fool Rosamunde had to admit to herself that there was a certain magic to the scene.

  The play proceeded to go smoothly, with only the odd line forgotten by Mary and Joseph. One of the angels burst into tears when she saw her parents in the audience and Baby Jesus was a little restless, but all in all it was deemed a huge success. Or at least it was until the very end when one of the sheep started to make strange noises before collapsing noisily. Ed immediately dashed to the stage where he found the sheep had already died.

  ‘What’s wrong with the poor sheepy?’ asked the tearful angel.

  ‘Oh nothing, nothing, she’s just having a little sleep,’ Ed told her and the audience as they became restless in their seats. Bernie intervened, standing in front of the sheep, and told the crowd he
thought the nativity play had been the best to date and that he was sure everyone would agree Benedict and Rosamunde had fulfilled the roles of Joseph and Mary beautifully at the last minute, to which there was enormous applause.

  After the audience had bundled out of the hall and most of the actors had sloped off, Bernie returned to the sheep and Ed.

  ‘Dead?’ he asked.

  ‘Afraid so,’ replied Ed. ‘And I think I might know the cause.’ He lifted up some branches of yew tree that the flower arrangers had decorated the stage with to make it festive. ‘Yew is poisonous to sheep, I’m afraid. I think this one may have got a little greedy. The ewe killed by the yew,’ he smiled wryly.

  Explanations had to follow, with Benedict’s father being very patient and understanding. Meanwhile Rachel, Rosamunde and Benedict, after offering their condolences about the sheep, dashed back to the house to get changed and deal with last-minute preparations for the party, which was due to start in half an hour. Rosamunde spotted most of the party guests filtering into the pub and she guessed they would arrive already merry. It should be an interesting evening.

  After checking that everything was in order with the caterers and asking Benedict to start lighting the candles, Rosamunde dashed upstairs where Rachel applied her make-up for her and expertly styled her hair. Then, as Rachel hurried off to get herself ready, Rosamunde pulled on black tights, high heels and her never-been-worn midnight blue strapless dress. It fitted like a dream. She wondered if there was any chance of beguiling Benedict tonight and, as she checked herself again in the mirror, Rosamunde decided it was now or never. If Benedict didn’t fall for her tonight – with her hair and make-up beautifully crafted by Rachel and adorned in the most beautiful dress she’d ever worn – then it would never happen. As she started to descend the stairs she found herself needing to grab on to the banister. Her knees were trembling with anticipation.

  38.

  AUGUST 1999

  FRANCE

  The next day dawned and upon opening the shutters in her room Rosamunde discovered a flawless blue sky. She listened at the open window. The only sound was the chitter-chatter of bird song. She looked at her watch and was astonished to discover it was eleven o’clock.

  ‘I’m sorry I slept so late,’ she apologised to Cecile, who was scrubbing the kitchen floor. Cecile clearly didn’t understand but she ushered Rosamunde through to the terrace where the table was laid for one, with a jug of orange juice and a basket of fresh bread. Rosamunde was touched. She sat down to tuck in and soon Cecile hurried out again with coffee.

  ‘Relax! Enjoy!’ she said before returning to her household tasks. Rosamunde felt guilty at being so idle when her hostess clearly took her job as housewife extremely seriously, so after breakfast she cleared the table and washed her plate and glass, then managed to locate Cecile dusting in the enormous salon. Rosamunde could imagine that the size of the villa must make the keeping of it a full-time job.

  ‘Can I help at all?’ asked Rosamunde, putting on a charade of vacuuming in an attempt to get her point across. Cecile looked astonished.

  ‘No, no, no. Guest. You here as guest. You relax. Enjoy!’ she said, smiling, before turning her back on Rosamunde to continue with her dusting. Rosamunde stayed where she was, unsure how to explain that she really would like to help, but a moment later Cecile was shooing her out of the room. Clearly she thought Rosamunde would be more of a hindrance than a help, so Rosamunde returned to her room, changed into a bikini, found her book and made her way down to the swimming pool.

  By the end of the day Rosamunde had turned a shade darker, despite sitting mainly under a parasol, and her body and mind had well and truly wound down. She’d been keen not to allow herself too much time to think, so she’d almost finished the riveting novel she’d brought with her. She would have to locate a bookstore selling English books, as well as a place that sold sunglasses. Perhaps a trip to the nearest town in the next day or two was in order.

  As Rosamunde showered in the early evening, the cool water heavenly on her sun-kissed skin, she marvelled at what a difference the change in location had made. She was still feeling bruised and hurt, but her desperation had been replaced with the beginnings of a sense of peace. Perhaps a place such as this made it impossible to feel too full of angst. She felt so grateful in that moment to her grandmother – that sharp, buttoned-up woman who she was now discovering had once been someone so different.

  After supper she was desperate to find out more. Pierre handed her a coffee as Cecile cleared the plates and disappeared off to the kitchen.

  ‘You would like to hear more about your grandmother, I think?’ he asked.

  ‘Please,’ said Rosamunde. ‘It’s all so astonishing. You’ll think it strange I don’t know this history but I’m afraid my father doesn’t like to talk about the past – he was so devastated by my mother’s death. And Granny Dupont is nothing like the person you describe. She’s always been very austere, so unapproachable.’

  ‘It is a shame how life can change us,’ Pierre remarked. ‘I’m so glad I can fill in the gaps for you, anyway. It is important, is it not, to know our history?’ Rosamunde agreed and sat back in her chair to listen.

  ‘I explained to you how happy your grandmother was, married to Laurent. They married in October 1945 and your mother was born that December. After the war they remained in England. Laurent found a job as a farmhand, and they lived in the country in a tiny little cottage. Any money they saved they used to visit us in France. Your mother was a beautiful baby, thriving in the country air. To earn a few pennies Penelope helped local children with their schoolwork and when Marguerite started school Penelope began work as a teacher at the same place. They were a happy family. Simple, but happy. And then one day, there was a terrible accident. You must know that Laurent was run over by a tractor?’ Rosamunde nodded. This much her father had told her and it had always struck her as the most abysmal way to die.

  ‘They say lightning never strikes twice but for Laurent it did – first the accident with his leg; then the fatal incident with the tractor. After that, it was very hard for Penelope. She and your mother had to move out of their cottage – it came with Laurent’s job. She appealed to her parents for help, but they were stubborn and refused to let their daughter back into their life or even to meet little Marguerite. Penelope had a job at the school now and so she had a little money, but without Laurent’s wage it was very tough. She and Marguerite moved in with another teacher from the school for a while, but it was barely ideal as the house was already cramped with her colleague’s family.

  ‘Penelope continued to write to my parents with her news and, though she tried to sound cheerful, it was clear to them she was heartbroken and very poor. So my parents saved up and sent across the money for Penelope and Marguerite to travel to France. I remember they arrived with so few possessions in September 1951. The first thing I noticed was that Penelope no longer laughed. Even when my father cracked jokes – and they were good jokes – she never laughed.

  ‘But she was a strong lady and she made a life for herself over here. Marguerite attended school and was soon bilingual, and Penelope found work teaching English. They lived with us for some time until Penelope found a small place to rent and they moved out, but they were always nearby. Although Penelope was not the same person she had been, she always had time for me, and Marguerite was as cute as a button.’

  Pierre paused to take a sip of espresso. Rosamunde was engrossed in the story. It was so precious to hear about her mother’s life, to be able to build a picture of the young girl who became such a wonderful mother for seven years of Rosamunde’s life. It was like watching an enormous jigsaw puzzle start to take shape – pictures that had once been so hazy suddenly becoming clear.

  ‘So they made their home here and at one point Penelope did have the opportunity to move on from her grief. There was a man in the village – Yves – a lovely man. He pursued your grandmother for some time, but she had closed her heart. Even
tually he gave up and married a local girl. At around this time Penelope decided she was missing England too much and they moved back to the West Country. I don’t know if she regretted her decision about Yves. Penelope took a job in a private school teaching French and working as a housemistress and Marguerite had a free place at the school. And so Penelope devoted the rest of her life to teaching and, of course, later on to helping raise you and your sister. Unfortunately I believe she has never been truly happy since those days with Laurent, especially after Marguerite died as well. How can a person be fully happy without love?’

  At this Rosamunde felt a sharp stab of pain. Did the death of love have to mean a lonely, embittered life? The thought was terrifying. She didn’t want to end up like her grandmother. But then she thought of Bernie – he’d never found anyone to replace Marguerite but it hadn’t changed him. He was so soft and full of love and gentleness. Rosamunde sighed and focused again on Pierre.

  ‘So we didn’t see them again for some time. The next time I saw my cousin – Marguerite – she was sixteen!’ Pierre paused. ‘But look, your mother is a whole other story. It’s late. Let’s get to bed. I’ll tell you all about darling Marguerite tomorrow.’

  39.

  CHRISTMAS EVE 2014

  The sound of a champagne cork popping always sets the scene for the start of a party and, upon hearing that delicious pop, Rosamunde entered the sitting room where she found the popper himself – Benedict – standing over the table of gleaming glasses. He looked at her and paused in his pouring.

  ‘Bloody hell, Rosamunde!’ he exclaimed. ‘I hardly recognised you,’ he teased. Rosamunde pulled a face and helped herself to a glass of fizz, all the better to embolden her.

  Next to join them was Rachel who was already adorned in her burlesque outfit and looked very saucy indeed, with her milky white cleavage on display and the rest of her body encased in a tight emerald green outfit that was little more than a swimming costume with tassels.