He dragged his eyes from her, and addressed the group. ‘Well, we’re all here, plus a couple of – no, three new members from the vicarage. I hope we’re all in good voice tonight, and festive mood. This is the night when Christ was born, and we need to keep a balance between reverent awe and rejoicing, so we’ll start with “Good Christian Men, Rejoice” – and sing all three verses as we walk down to the square. Rebecca, you’ll give us the first note, best ladies at the front, followed by the rest of us – and one of you Bolt boys can carry the lantern – thanks, Mark. Mr Wetherby and Cyril will bring up the rear, and see that nobody gets left behind. Off we go!’
The market square was ablaze with Christmas lights. The Volunteer was packed, and some came out to cheer them and throw a few coins into the bucket carried by Philip Bolt. They sang ‘The Boar’s Head Carol’, and walked to the hospital singing ‘The First Nowell’, which they finished at the front entrance, near to Accident and Emergency.
‘We’ll need to keep out of the way of the ambulances bringing the sick and injured in from the pubs,’ Mark Bolt remarked with a grin.
A woman representative of the Everham Park Hospital Management Committee met them and said she would guide them to the designated areas where they had permission to sing, starting with the children’s ward, with a caution not to make too much noise, as some of the children would be asleep. The ward was quiet at first, and Cyril drew a few deep breaths, ready to sing ‘Patapan’; but Jeremy quickly decided against the too-ra-loo-ra-loos and pat-a-pat-pans as being too loud and too unfamiliar. He chose instead ‘The Rocking Carol’, two verses only, sung very softly. An older boy was fascinated and started to join in, as did a girl with a leg suspended in plaster. These two had no inhibitions, and belted out with gusto,
‘We will rock you, rock you, rock you,
We will ROCK you, ROCK you, ROCK you,
Coat of fur to keep you warm,
SNUGLY ROUND YOUR TINY FORM!’
The nurse in charge of the ward glared at the visitors who had sung so quietly that they had been drowned out by the rowdy boy and girl, and now hastily left the ward, followed by yells demanding their return. They were next led through men’s and women’s surgical wards, then men’s and women’s medical, where the older patients were mainly appreciative, some tearfully so, while others ignored them. Finally they climbed the stairs to Maternity, there being too many of them to crowd into the lift.
‘Now for “Patapan”,’ said Cyril confidently as they approached the unit with some trepidation; they were led first into the antenatal ward where the women greeted them with smiles. They sang ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and were applauded, so Jeremy ordered ‘While Shepherds Watched’, also applauded. There were only seven patients in postnatal, one recovering from a Caesarean section, but they smiled and listened to ‘Away in a Manger’, with a few accompaniments from the five cradles beside the beds, the other two babies being in the nursery. Their guide then led them to the annexe which served the Delivery Unit and Theatre.
‘I don’t expect they’ll want you in the Delivery Unit,’ she said, ‘but I’ll go and see what’s happening there. Wait here, please.’
She returned to say that a baby girl had been born ten minutes ago in Delivery Room Four. Dr Hammond had been sent for to put in stitches, and meanwhile the new mother had no objection at all to the carol singers, and asked for something nice and soothing for the baby. They moved up the annexe to the open door of Delivery Room Four, and Jeremy was about to begin ‘Silent Night’ when Dr Hammond breezed in.
‘Good heavens, what’s going on here?’ she asked. ‘What are you thinking of, Nurse Burns, letting these people into a sterile area? They must leave at once!’
By now the lady singers were at the door and smiling at the new mother, sitting up on the delivery bed, her baby in her arms. Mrs Coulter exclaimed, ‘Mrs Peacock! Mrs Peacock, the new Methodist minister’s wife! I knew you were expecting soon, but I didn’t realise it was today!’
Another, heavier footstep was heard entering the annexe, and Dr McDowall appeared.
‘I’ve heard a lot of disturbance going on here,’ he said with mock severity, ‘and I’ve come to make some arrests. Who are these intruders, Marie Burns?’
‘They’re the carol singers, doctor, and Dr Hammond says they’ve got to go,’ said Staff Midwife Burns clearly for all to hear. ‘Mrs Peacock wants them to sing a carol for the baby. They’re Methodists,’ she added.
‘Well, then they must stay, we’ve heard nothing detrimental about Methodists, have we?’ he said, moving through the singers to the Delivery Room, where Dr Hammond stood waiting impatiently.
‘Dr Shelagh, what a lovely surprise! A baby on Christmas Eve!’
‘I’m simply waiting to suture an episiotomy,’ she answered, trying not to show her irritation. ‘And I’ve asked them to leave the department at once. Mr Kydd would be furious.’
‘Oh, come off it, Shelagh, it’s Christmas and these good people have come a-wassailing. We can’t let them go without a carol.’
‘Oh, please, let them sing ‘Silent Night’!’ begged Mrs Peacock.
McDowall nodded to Jeremy North, and they began to sing the carol. Iris Oates’s voice rose up sweet and clear on the high note of sleep in heavenly peace, and Rebecca’s bell-like contralto descended to the bottom note in the repeat of the line. No other sound was heard until all three verses were sung, and Shelagh saw that she had to capitulate. She formally thanked them for coming, but added that they must leave now because Mrs Peacock needed treatment. Ignoring McDowall who had overridden her authority, she beckoned to Nurse Marie Burns to prepare the patient for suturing.
‘Thank you all, it was heavenly,’ McDowall told the singers. ‘Good night and a happy Christmas to you all – and a welcome to our new arrival!’
‘Amen,’ they repeated as they left and descended the stairs. Not much was said as they walked back to the church, apart from Cyril voicing his regret that they had not sung ‘Patapan’. Jeremy whispered ‘Thank you, my dear,’ into Iris’s ear, to which she could make no reply. She seemed to be floating somewhere between earth and heaven. All right, so Jeremy North was a married man with a family and was not for her – could never be hers – but that did not stop her from adoring him over the distance between them, and surely she would remember this glorious Christmas Eve until her dying day!
It was Christmas Day in the morning. The Reverend Derek Bolt did not expect the turnout for the 10.30 service to be large, because the church had been packed on the previous evening, swelled by a number of non-churchgoers who had thought it a nice idea to slip back to a time when they had believed without doubting, when there was still a chance that legends could come true, before the clamour of the world drowned out the angels’ song. Daphne and his sons were sitting beneath the pulpit, and he hoped the boys would listen to him. He got nothing but good-natured teasing when he tried to talk to them as a father – as a Dad. He wanted to express his pride in them, the happiness they brought to their mother – oh, hell, there was that woman again, sitting two pews back from his own family. Now her presence would intrude on all the thoughts he tried to convey in his sermon on this special day of the year. For the next hour there she would be, gazing at him soulfully: she would completely spoil it for him.
Asking for forgiveness and God’s help, the vicar proceeded with Morning Prayer. Seated at the organ, Jeremy North too had his unspoken thoughts. His eyes searched the sea of faces, but he knew there would be no sign of Fiona, Denise or little Peter. Somebody whispered, ‘It’s a pity none of his family are here,’ followed by a whispered reply, ‘They say there’s trouble with all three. Poor Mr North!’
Jeremy had in fact almost pleaded with Denise to come, but she had tearfully apologised, saying that she felt very ill, and Fiona had refused to leave her.
‘Poor girl, just as she’s found a decent boyfriend, and now this,’ Fiona had sighed. ‘And I’ll get no help at all with the turkey and trimmin
gs.’
‘The turkey’s in the oven on a low gas, and when I get back I’ll take over in the kitchen, and you can take a couple of hours off,’ he had reassured her.
‘Somebody’s got to stay around here in case the phone rings and it’s Roy,’ she said with a worried frown.
‘As long as it’s only Roy and not the police. Sorry, Peter-poppet, you won’t hear Granddad making a joyful noise on the organ this morning.’
The Christmas service began; the hymns were lustily sung, the collection taken and Derek made the due preparation for Communion. The wafers and the wine, symbolising the body and blood, were taken from the altar; a queue of communicants formed, and Derek placed a wafer on the hand of each, then Mrs Whittaker offered them the chalice. Jeremy North went first, so as to get back to the organ and play softly while Communion proceeded.
‘The body of Christ.’
‘Amen.’
‘The blood of Christ.’
‘Amen.’
Derek braced himself as Beryl Johnson moved forward, and held out the wafer to her.
‘The body of Christ.’
He waited for her ‘Amen,’ but instead she made a grab at his hand, pressing it to her lips, and moaning, ‘Oh, my God, take pity!’ The wafer fell to the floor, and he snatched his hand free, drawing back from her as if from a poisonous snake.
‘Stop—be quiet—’ Words deserted him as she stood before him weeping, but Mrs Whittaker, practical as ever, nodded to Phyllis Maynard who was next in the line of communicants, and a silent message passed between them. Phyllis stepped forward, took Miss Johnson by the arm, and led her down the aisle to a seat at the back.
‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’ Beryl repeated on a rising note.
‘Stop that, stop it at once,’ ordered Phyllis. ‘Listen, I’ll take you home after the service, my car’s just around the corner in the car park. Only you must be sensible.’
Phyllis got Beryl out of the church before the singing of the last hymn, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, led by the Christmas choir. They got into the car, and little was said on the journey to Angel Close and Beryl’s little semi. Phyllis got out and walked arm-in-arm with her passenger to the front door. Beryl had quietened, but Phyllis went indoors with her and brewed a pot of tea which they shared.
‘I know how you must miss your mother, Beryl, and I’m truly sorry, we all are, but it’s really time to move on now. People will only give you so long to grieve, and then you must make the effort. I lost my husband less than three months ago, and I know how—’
Beryl Johnson turned and looked at her with streaming eyes. ‘He was so kind and good to me when she died, but now he turns away, and I can’t bear it.’
Phyllis stared at her. ‘What do you mean? Who are you talking about?’
‘Him. The love of my life, Derek Bolt. I can’t live without a word from him.’
‘Good heavens! You’ll have to get over that, Beryl, or you could cause the vicar awful embarrassment, and besides, you’d make such a fool of yourself, people wouldn’t sympathise. It’s ridiculous.’
There was a pause, and Phyllis said, ‘Look, I’ve got family coming for lunch, and I’d ask you to join us, but not if you’re going to talk like this.’
‘I don’t want any company except his.’
‘You’re being extremely foolish, you know – what on earth would his wife think? Listen, I shall be at home for the rest of today, so here’s my phone number if you need to—er, need help of any kind.’
Even so, Phyllis felt that if this poor woman ‘did something silly’, she would feel at least partly responsible, and it troubled her throughout the rest of the day. She said nothing to Jenny or Tim: they had other matters to discuss, arising from the newspaper cutting.
Thoroughly disconcerted, Derek completed the Communion; he saw Phyllis Maynard lead Miss Johnson out during the singing of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, and also saw his sons having a giggle over Mr Pritchard’s disappointment at not singing ‘Patapan’.
‘That was a bit of bad luck,’ said Jeremy as they disrobed in the vestry.
‘God knows what I’m going do,’ the vicar replied grimly.
‘That makes two of us, then. Anyway, enjoy your dinner.’
‘They won’t be short of something to say over all the dinners in Everham today. Oh, bloody hell.’
Poor old Bolt, thought Jeremy on his way home. He’s right, this’ll spread for miles around.
Fiona was reproachful. ‘Where on earth have you been? I’ve been half out of my mind. Roy’s come home – that is to say he was brought home by two of his so-called friends who’d plied him with drink. I’ve put him to bed, but Denise is in an awful state, poor girl, I think she’s picked up a tummy bug – and what on earth’s the matter with Peter?’
For Peter had burst into tears, and was clinging to his grandfather’s left leg. ‘Wha’s a matter, G’andad? Me naughty?’
Jeremy bent down and picked him up. ‘No, no, my little man, you’re a good boy. Granddad will see to the turkey, and then we’ll all have a good Christmas dinner – won’t that be nice?’
He turned back to Fiona. ‘So you think Denise needs a doctor? It will be one from the emergency service, whoever’s on call.’
‘No need for a doctor,’ said Fiona quickly. ‘She just needs a little love and care, that’s all, and I’m here to give it, fortunately.’
Jeremy felt himself tensing in every muscle, a sensation of warding off something he could not name. He could not quieten an awful suspicion forming at the back of his mind.
‘This decent boyfriend you mentioned, is she upset because he hasn’t been around lately?’
‘What’s that to do with anything?’
‘Put it another way, has she had her monthly on time? We’d better find out before we call out a doctor on Christmas Day, just to diagnose something she could diagnose herself, don’t you agree?’
Fiona’s face showed shock and disbelief. ‘How – how on earth could you say a thing like that? How could you be so heartless and cynical? Oh, Jeremy, what’s happened, you used to be so good to the children!’ She burst into tears, and in spite of her words, he guessed that he had only confirmed her own suspicion. He began to tremble, and knew that he had to get away as quickly as he could, before he completely lost control of his tongue. He was still clasping his grandson to his chest.
‘Come on, Peter-poppet, let’s get your coat and scarf – mustn’t forget your gloves – we’ll go and see if the Indian restaurant’s open on Christmas Day.’
His wife was now weeping piteously. ‘Is this all the sympathy your own daughter gets? And your son? When the vicar drops in at Everham Primary and says what a wonderful school it is, how happy the children are, don’t you ever feel shame? If only people could see what you’re like in your own home – cruel, cruel!’
He did not answer but dressed Peter against the cold wind, and then marched straight out of the house, passing a curious neighbour at the gate. She stared at them.
‘Happy Christmas, Mr North! And little Peter too, isn’t it your dinner time?’
‘Happy Christmas back to you, Mrs – er – sorry, can’t remember your name. You’d better go in and comfort my wife, because I can’t. I’m escaping.’
CHAPTER FIVE
‘Was she the poor old soul who’s lost her mother and her faith, the one you’ve been counselling, the one who writes the letters?’ asked Daphne Bolt. They were seated at the table for Christmas dinner, and Derek was carving the turkey.
‘Yes, what have you been up to, Dad?’ asked Philip with a grin.
The Reverend Derek Bolt was glad that the boys were home, treating the unfortunate scene in the church with light-hearted irreverence.
‘Think of all the talk going on as we speak, over the Christmas dinners in Everham,’ said Mark. ‘They’ll be wagging their tongues right up to the Queen’s speech!’
Daphne said nothing, but Derek knew that she would return to the subje
ct. Her expression boded no good to him; she clearly suspected that there must have been some encouragement on his part, for the woman to behave in such a way, and in public. When each of them had been served with a generous helping of turkey breast and stuffing, she started handing round the vegetable and gravy.
‘Wow! This good, Mum! Nobody can roast a spud like you do,’ said Philip.
‘And so say all of us,’ added Mark, in unspoken agreement with his brother to let the subject drop, remembering the despair in the woman’s eyes.
After the huge meal, the family sat down to watch a programme on the newly acquired black and white television set, looking back over the past year, especially to the fear and anxiety of the Cuban crisis, thankfully ended by the courage of young President Kennedy, advised, so many British believed, by the more mature wisdom of Prime Minister Harold Macmillan. Prayers had been offered up in thanksgiving for the mutual friendship between the two men.
When the doorbell rang, Derek stiffened. What now, he thought, bracing himself for another scene.
‘I’ll get it, Dad,’ said Mark hastily, intent on getting rid of any embarrassing visitors for his father.
A man and a small boy stood on the step. Mark recognised the choirmaster, and at first thought he was drunk, but then saw that he was in a desperate state of mind.
‘Mark? Or is it Philip?’ asked Jeremy North. ‘May I speak with your father – please?’
Mark had been about to say that his father was resting, but quickly realised that this was something serious.
‘Yes, come in,’ he said, holding the door open and guiding them into the study, where he pointed to an armchair, and switched on the one-bar electric fire.
‘It’s the organist, Dad, and he’s got a little nipper with him. He doesn’t look too good, I’ve put him in the study, and – er – I’ll hang around if you want to send the kid in here.’
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