by JL Merrow
I wasn’t prepared to meet Sean here, when I was tired, hungry and even more off-balance than I had been at the top of that wretched ladder.
“Oh,” I said intelligently.
“Yeah,” he replied. He looked…he looked even better than I remembered him, although there was tiredness in his eyes. Maybe he’d been busy at work.
Maybe he’d had trouble sleeping last night. Like me.
Maybe…maybe he’d had time to have second thoughts?
“I just came to…” I waved in the general direction of the Chinese lady at the counter, who was watching us with interest.
“Yeah. Me too.” Sean shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Are you, um, eating alone?” I asked. It was almost eight o’clock, and I couldn’t imagine Debs making the twins wait that long for their tea.
“Yeah. You?”
“Yes.” I took a deep breath and stepped off the metaphorical ladder, adrenaline fizzing through me almost painfully. “Maybe we could, well, share?”
Sean looked away. “Prob’ly not a good idea,” he said.
“Oh.”
“Order for Grant,” the lady interrupted, holding up a plastic carrier bag.
“Cheers,” he said and took it. He sort of shrugged in my direction. “I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Watching him go was every bit as painful as it had been when he’d walked out on me last night. Worse, even, as this time he took every shred of hope with him.
“You want to order?” the Chinese lady demanded, not unkindly.
I turned back to her. “I—I’m sorry. I’m not hungry anymore.”
I fled.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Whoever had decided it was appropriate to make the St Saviour’s School end-of-term carol service a candlelit one had, I felt, not been quite right in the head. Or possibly they just didn’t like children very much. Two hundred and fifty excited children, each holding a naked flame, were just the sort of thing I thought Health and Safety regulations existed to prevent, but apparently not. Every child in the school had been issued with a six-inch red candle, with a rough-cut disc of cardboard pushed onto the bottom to keep wax from dribbling onto little fingers. And then some idiot had gone around and lit the wretched things.
True, Mrs. Ormley had been stationed at the entrance to the church, forcibly handing out elastic bands to any child with long hair that wasn’t tied back, but it was a little like applying a sticking plaster to a severed head.
“It’s beautiful, innit?” Rose whispered in my ear. “I love the carol service. Makes you think they’re not all that bad, really, the kids. And the church looks lovely, all candlelit.”
Et tu, Rose? “Have there been many fatalities over the years?”
She gave me a pitying look. “They’re only candles, you know, not flamethrowers. The kids know they’ve got to be careful.”
“They know they’re supposed to wipe their feet when they come in from outside too, but that doesn’t stop the classroom from being knee-deep in mud by lunchtime.”
“Stop being an old humbug. Everyone else thinks it’s lovely. And it’s only an hour. What can go wrong in an hour?”
“You just had to jinx it, didn’t you?” I muttered.
“Stop being a worrywart and get up there and strut your stuff, all right? The eyes of the village are upon you. So, you know, no pressure.” She grinned.
I was really rather proud of the way the children had shaped up as a choir, over the last couple of weeks. The Head had even been seen to smile at the last rehearsal, or so I’d been told. “All right, wish me luck.”
“Break a leg. Or an arm, whatever.”
I stepped up to the ranked children and frowned. Wills and Harry had shuffled their way out of class order and into the front row, which did not, I felt, bode well. The fact that they had somehow got hold of a brace of candles apiece boded so far from well that world health authorities should probably start getting concerned.
“Wills, Harry, have you got somebody else’s candles?” I asked sternly.
“They gave them to us.”
“We’re just looking after them.”
I frowned, hoping there would be an innocent explanation, such as an urgent toilet break. “Who gave them to you, and why?”
“Destinee and Charlie.”
“Charlie’s crying.”
Oh dear. I looked around quickly and found the two of them sitting on the stone surround of one of the pillars. Charlie was, indeed, in tears.
This was not, in itself, unusual, sad to say. What was slightly more alarming was that Destinee had her arms around him and was glaring fiercely at anyone who dared approach.
“Destinee?” I said cautiously, crouching down to their level. “What’s the matter?”
“It was her. Mrs. Ormley.”
I blinked. “What on earth did she do?”
“She said I had to tie my hair back.” Destinee, ever the rebel, had complied with the spirit if not the letter by scraping her long hair back into what was, for a seven-year-old, a disturbingly sophisticated Essex updo. “Then she gave Charlie a band and said he should too, ’cos he was just a big girl anyway.”
I felt a brief and, given that we were in God’s house, wholly inappropriate urge to introduce Mrs. Ormley to the sharp end of my baton. How dare she upset a child like that? I swallowed my rage—the vicar was starting to cast anxious glances in our direction—and considered my words.
“Charlie, do you think being a girl is a bad thing? Destinee’s a girl, and she’s, ah, really quite a strong character.”
Destinee preened.
“But I’m not a girl,” Charlie sobbed. “I’m a boy.”
“Quite right, young Charlie. And do you know what difference anything Mrs. Ormley or anyone else might say makes to that?” I leaned closer. “Not a thing. Charlie, I’m sure you’ve sometimes said silly things. I know I have. Quite a lot of them, probably. But just because someone says a silly thing, it doesn’t make it true, does it?”
“I told him,” Destinee said proudly. “I told him she’s a stupid fat old cow who dun’t know nuffing.”
I winced but decided now was really not the time to deal with that seething tangle of issues. “We all think you’re a fine young man, don’t we?”
I stared the children down until a halfhearted chorus of “Yes, Mr. Enemy” ensued.
I handed Charlie my handkerchief. “Come on, you have a good blow. Er, gently, mind, we don’t want any nosebleeds. Now, why don’t you take your candle back from Wills or Harry—no, no, keep the handkerchief, you can put it in your pocket just in case—and get back into line, and show everyone what a marvellous singing voice you’ve got?”
He nodded bravely, and the twins, thank goodness, handed over their borrowed booty without complaint.
I looked around. Mrs. Nunn and the tennis coach were taking their seats—just a few rows away from Sean, not that I’d been looking out for him, obviously—so it was definitely past time to start. I nodded to the vicar, and he stepped into the apse with visible relief, clasped his hands and welcomed us to the church in ringing tones that effectively silenced the parental chatter. “And without further ado,” he finished, “I’ll hand you over to the St Saviour’s School musical director, Mr. En—er, Mr. Emeny.”
I took a deep breath, planted my reindeer antlers firmly on my head, affixed my red nose to the appropriate organ and stepped forward, baton raised.
The children were magnificent. Their little voices filled the huge church building with a joyful sound, and together with the candlelight, the effect was both reverent and magical. I was sure there couldn’t be a dry eye in the house. I was particularly pleased with “It was on a Starry Night”, which had some awkward timing that had puzzled them at first, and they managed to sustain their enthusiasm all the way through the c
arols, interspersed with readings, to “Calypso Carol”. As the last chords died away, there was tumultuous applause. I gave the children an emphatic thumbs-up, then turned and bowed to the congregation. There was a smattering of laughter as most of them noticed my red nose for the first time.
At least, I presumed that was what they were laughing at. I’d checked to make sure my flies weren’t undone before the service commenced; that’s the sort of mistake one doesn’t tend to make twice.
The Head was very definitely smiling now. And, I realised with some amazement, not a single person had begun to smoulder. If that wasn’t a Christmas miracle, I didn’t know what was.
As the vicar said a few words to close the service—including the pointed suggestion that it might be nice to see a few of those assembled at some of the other Christmas services this year—I pushed down any thoughts of other Christmas miracles my foolish heart was hoping for.
Rose joined me to help take charge of the children as they filed out of the church, still clutching their candles. Mrs. Ormley stood guard by the door to retrieve her elastic hair bands, though why she wanted them back was beyond me. Did she save them and bring them out again next year? Was that really hygienic?
“Shouldn’t she wait until the children have blown their candles out?” I wondered aloud. “And shouldn’t they be doing that now, anyway?”
Rose looked at me as if I was a particularly dim reception-class child. “Don’t be daft. They look really sweet, going through the churchyard in their little lines, all lit up by candlelight. Sort of like a mini torchlit procession.”
“As long as nobody actually gets lit up like a torch,” I muttered.
“God, you’re wasted as a teacher, you know that? You could’ve had a glittering career in Health and Safety, going around making sure no one plays conkers without protective goggles and a suit of bloody armour. They’ve been doing this service for fifty years or more, probably even a hundred, and nobody’s ever—oh, bloody hell!” Her eyes widened, but my head was already turning at the panicked, matronly scream and the tumult it provoked.
“You just had to say it, didn’t you?” I cried, scrambling over the pews and one or two startled parents to get to Mrs. Ormley. She was shrieking like a banshee, which was an entirely sane and sensible reaction given that the bottom of her long woollen coat was on fire. The children who had been en route to the door pressed back the way they’d come, not so much frightened as ghoulishly fascinated. What with all the excitement, I could foresee the whole lot going up in flames like a box of matches. “Everyone blow out your candles!” I yelled, dropping to my knees at Mrs. Ormley’s feet. I tore off my jacket and flung it around her legs, beating out the flames that licked upwards from her coat hem.
A jet of water hit me in the face, and I spluttered and gasped, blinded. Hands helped me to my feet, and I wiped my eyes, dizzy with adrenaline. When I could see again, the first thing to meet my eyes was Rose, brandishing a fire extinguisher like an offensive weapon. I blinked, but the vision remained the same. She made an apologetic sort of face.
The vicar, meanwhile, had managed to make his way to us. He took hold of Mrs. Ormley’s arm. “Are you all right? Dear me. Still, accidents will happen.”
“Accidents? Accidents? They did it on purpose, those little monsters!”
Oh God. Had Destinee taken revenge on Charlie’s behalf?
“Are you accusing the children?” Rose said sharply.
“Surely not…” The vicar wrung his hands.
Mrs. Ormley might no longer be burning, but she was still seething. Spitting fire looked like it might be on the horizon too. “Children? Little devils, more like. And look at me! This coat is ruined!”
The scorched patch actually looked ridiculously small now the danger had passed, but the soaking hadn’t done the heavy garment any favours. I stood, dripping, and thought resentfully that at least she still had several layers to keep her warm. With my jacket on its way to the great jumble sale in the sky, the chill from the ancient stones was seeping into my bones with cheerful alacrity.
“Ah, which children?” the vicar asked most unhelpfully.
“Those Curtis twins. Little redheaded tearaways!”
“It wasn’t us!”
“We never!”
I looked around and saw the twins were, in fact, suspiciously close to the scene of the crime, wearing identical expressions of outraged innocence. Since I’d seen them wear those expressions before when I’d caught them in the very act of some misdemeanour or other, I wasn’t fooled.
“Boys,” I said, shaking my head sadly.
“Something ought to be done about those two,” Mrs. Ormley ranted on. “If it’s not one thing, it’s another. They shouldn’t even be in a mainstream school, with all their behavioural problems.”
“Oi.” Sean’s voice in my ear startled me, and I spun around to see him standing behind me, his face red.
I pulled myself together. “Mrs. Ormley,” I said firmly. “I understand you’re upset, but please refrain from making judgements about the children’s educational needs. You are a receptionist, not a medical professional.”
“I’ve been working in St Saviour’s school a lot longer than you have, young man, so don’t you dare tell me you know children better than I do. You come in here thinking you’re God’s gift, with your fancy education, your posh accent and your ridiculous outfits—”
“Oi!” Sean said again, which cheered me. I’d been a little hurt by that last remark.
Mrs. Ormley turned on him. “And you! You’re not even the boys’ father, so I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised you can’t control them. If you ask me, a bit of time in foster care would do them the world of good.”
“OI!” This time, it was me. I cleared my throat. “I mean, Mrs. Ormley, this is not the time or place. I think you could do with a nice cup of tea back at school…” I took her arm.
She shook me off angrily. I was pleased to see I’d left a damp handprint on the sleeve of her kitten-print sweater. “I’m going home. And I shall be thinking very strongly about handing in my resignation in the morning.”
She stalked off.
I stood there, dripping, in the silence that ensued. Everyone, it seemed, was staring at me. Sean was staring at me. Then with a collective effort, the parents, staff and children remaining in the church seemed to rouse themselves. Noise levels rose quickly as raucous chatter struck up once more, and diminished with equal speed as the carollers followed Mrs. Ormley out through the heavy wooden door.
Sean and the twins were among them.
“That went well, then,” Rose said brightly, still holding the fire extinguisher. Catching my gaze, she propped it up against a pew, where it promptly fell over with a resounding clatter. She shot the rather dazed-looking vicar a guilty smile and scurried out.
I glanced at him, realising the usual excellent service, vicar! probably wasn’t appropriate in the circumstances. “Er, sorry about that,” I said, as I picked up the soggy remains of my jacket and squelched after Rose.
“Robert?” The voice had come from the shadows by the west door, from which I’d just emerged.
Sean was there. Alone. My steps faltered. “Are…are you waiting for me?”
He nodded. Shrugged. “Just wanted to say, you know, thanks. For sticking up for Wills and Harry. And I thought you might want to borrow this.”
He slid his leather jacket off, leaving him clad in a cosy-looking sweater that made my arms ache to embrace him. I had to be content with slipping the still-warm leather jacket around my shoulders and breathing in deeply. Despite myself, I smiled.
“I don’t like to speak ill of anyone, but she’s a dreadful old harridan. Made Charlie cry before the service out of pure spite. I don’t blame the twins for retaliating on his behalf.” I thought about what I’d said. “Only, for God’s sake, please don’t repeat that. Especi
ally anywhere Wills and Harry might hear you.”
“Yeah. Prob’ly best not to encourage ’em.” His face turned sombre. “They gonna get into trouble? She’s not going to get the police on them, is she?”
“Well, they’re below the age of criminal responsibility, and I think it’d be very hard to prove malicious intent in any case. I’d appreciate it if you gave them a good, stern talking-to on the dangers of fire, however.”
“Oh, they’ll be getting that all right. And then some.” Sean fell silent but made no move to go.
“I should—”
“You busy for Christmas?” he asked abruptly.
My heart clenched. Did he mean…? No. That was the sort of thing people said all the time, wasn’t it? Just to be polite. “Actually, I’m going down to stay with Mother and Peter. There’s a big family dinner planned. Well, Peter’s family. You know.” And the Fordhams’ Boxing Day Brunch, no doubt, but I didn’t think bringing up Fordy would be the best idea.
“Yeah?” Sean scuffed his feet. “Seeing that Oliver bloke too?”
“God, I hope not,” I said fervently, then flushed as I realised how it must sound to Sean. “Er, no. And you? Do you have, um, plans?”
“Just the usual. Be going out with the lads from work Christmas Eve. I’ll be home with Debs and the boys for Christmas Day.”
“How is Debs? Any news?” I desperately hoped it would be good, if so. I hadn’t dared ask her myself—I very much doubted she’d have thought it any of my business.
“Yeah, actually.” He smiled, looking suddenly younger. “’Course, sod’s law, she’s come down with a real stinker of a cold now. It’s why she’s not here today, but the chemo worked, they reckon. She’s gonna have to keep having checkups, of course, but no more treatment unless they find something new.”
Relief flooded through me. “That’s fantastic. I’m so glad.”
Sean nodded. “Yeah. Best Christmas present ever for Wills and Harry, not that they know it. Or deserve it, right now,” he added darkly.