by Debbie Young
I opened Hector’s sock drawer and selected a soft pale blue pair to borrow, wondering whether vicars always had to wear black socks.
“It’s all very well for vicars. They don’t have to worry about what to wear. It’s like being a policeman or a fireman. Their outfits are like a uniform, same as God. I mean, always the long white robe.”
Hector opened his eyes, sat up, punched his pillow into shape and positioned it behind his back for comfort. “You want a bookshop uniform? I could have fun choosing one for you.”
Now I thought about it, Hector did have his own uniform for the shop: jeans, t-shirt and fleece or sweater. I gave him a playful thump.
“I don’t know why I’m asking you for fashion advice, anyway, seeing you always wear the same thing. I’ll call for you on my way back up to church at half past nine.”
As I walked up my garden path, trying to decide between my businesslike navy blue interview dress and a softer rose pink tunic, Joshua was trying to put something into the wheelie bin outside his front door. He was juggling his walking stick in one hand, the rubbish bag in the other. I leaned over the low lavender hedge between our front paths to hold the lid open to make it easier for him.
Relieved of his burden, he raised his tweed cap to me. No-one had ever raised their hat to me before I met Joshua, and I found it charming.
“Good morning, my dear. Have you been up early to fetch the Sunday paper?” From the twinkle in his eye, I suspected he was teasing me, as I clearly didn’t have a Sunday newspaper in my possession. I quickly changed the subject.
“Joshua! The very person! I was just wondering what to wear to church this morning. I thought I’d go and meet the Reverend Murray, but as I never go to church, I wasn’t sure of the etiquette. Do you think I should wear a dress?”
He looked down at my jeans with amusement. “Always. Besides, it would be courteous to Mr Murray to dress up a little to welcome him back this morning.”
“Honestly, I know embarrassingly little about church form. I didn’t even know the first Sunday in Advent could fall in November. I thought that would be like having August Bank Holiday in July.” I sighed. “I’ve still so much to learn about village life.”
Joshua leaned on his stick with both hands. “Give it a year, my dear. When you’ve seen the whole cycle of village life once through, you’ll feel much better. Go and change into your best frock now, and we can walk up to church together presently.”
Going at his pace would mean leaving ten minutes earlier than I’d planned, so I dashed inside, grabbed the first respectable dress I could find in the wardrobe, swapped Hector’s socks for tights, and slicked on a quick touch of make-up. Then I pulled my phone from the pocket of my discarded jeans and sent Hector a quick text of warning.
“Walking up to church with Joshua. Pretend we haven’t spent the night together. Sx.”
The reply came just as I was about to head out of the door.
“OK, you and Joshua haven’t spent the night together. I should hope not indeed. Hx.”
When I left the house, slipping into my winter coat as I closed the front door, Joshua was already on the path, leaning on his stick waiting for me. We chatted as we walked up the High Street at his leisurely pace.
“So if today’s the first Sunday in Advent, should I be putting up the Christmas decorations in my cottage?” I had got into the habit of consulting Joshua as if he were the Siri of village life.
“Dear me, no.” He sounded shocked. “If you want to do things traditionally, you should be doing that on Christmas Eve. And taking them down on Twelfth Night. You don’t want to have evergreens in the house too long, it’s bad luck.”
I didn’t like to tell him that I’d been thinking more along the lines of tinsel and fairy lights. He pointed his stick at the undecorated window of the village shop as we passed. “You see? Carol shows the correct decorum, unlike the big stores down in Slate Green.”
“Then I shan’t feel very Christmassy for ages yet, unless I’m at work.”
“But what about your nativity play?”
How foolish of me not to have counted that as festive.
“Of course, not everyone in the village shares my views about decorations,” Joshua said, as we approached Hector’s House. Hector emerged from his flat, feigning a look of surprise.
“Good morning, Sophie, Joshua. Heading my way?” he asked innocently, and quickly fell into step with us.
29 Sunday Service
Hector and I weren’t the only heathens heading to church to welcome the Reverend Murray back to the village – or to meet him for the first time, in my case. The High Street was as busy as during the school run.
“He won’t get this big a congregation every Sunday,” said Joshua, sadly.
The moment I saw the Reverend Murray, I liked him. He had clearly mastered the art of the charm offensive, putting newcomers like me at our ease. A dapper, slightly paunchy man in his mid-sixties, he had a generous air about him, and gave the impression of one who enjoyed all that life had to offer. As we left the church after the service, his wife stood beside him, smiling gently and making confident eye contact with all comers. She was a gently rounded woman in a neat skirt suit and plain dove grey velvet beret, with a large mauve woollen shawl arranged about her shoulders for draughtproofing. They made a tidy pair, reminding me of the little people in a weather house, only both allowed out at the same time.
As we lined up to shake their hands, Billy, in his churchwarden’s robe, pottered about in the background, stacking the hymn books and service sheets. He looked unusually tidy himself, as if some of the Murrays’ neatness had rubbed off on him already.
Kate queue-jumped to join us. “Vicar, you haven’t yet met Hector’s partner Sophie. She’s May Sayers’s great-niece and now works in his bookshop.”
Mr Murray clasped my hand with both of his in a warm welcome, reminding me that although I’d lived here six months now, I was still regarded as a newcomer.
“You must come and have a glass of sherry with us one evening,” he invited.
“Or coffee, Gerard,” said his wife gently. “There’s always coffee.”
I suppressed a smile.
“Are you free this afternoon?” asked Hector. “We’re opening Sunday afternoons during Advent, as usual, just for a couple of hours.”
“That’s right, keep Sunday special,” said the vicar cheerfully. I realised he was admonishing Hector for trading on the Sabbath, but in the gentlest possible manner.
“I’m afraid we can’t join you this afternoon, Hector,” said Mrs Murray, lingering over her handshake with him. “We have guests for Sunday lunch. But we will come and visit you in the shop as soon as we can. I’ve missed you, you know. There’s no proper bookshop within miles of our retirement cottage.”
Hector leaned in towards her, his arms perhaps aching as she’d been holding on to him for so long. “I can always do mail order, you know.”
“I don’t think my husband would approve of me ordering a male,” she said, winking shamelessly.
Hector chuckled as he withdrew his hands.
“It’s good to have you both back in Wendlebury, though of course under circumstances none of us would have chosen.”
Mr Murray’s planned replacement had gone on long-term sick leave.
Mr Murray beamed at me, oblivious to his wife’s flirtatious behaviour. “I do love a good book. And not just The Good Book, ha ha.”
As we walked down the path through the lychgate and regained the High Street, I recalled our own plans for the afternoon.
“Maybe it’s just as well they’re not coming, or they’d see their churchwarden playing Santa.”
Hector took my hand. “No problem there. Billy’s got no secrets from the vicar that I know of. Besides, Santa Claus was originally a Christian figure – Sinterklaas or Saint Nicholas.”
“Yes, accompanied by a demonic sidekick, Zwarte Piet,” I said, remembering the legend still popular in the Netherlands,
where I spent a year during my peripatetic teaching career.
I glanced back at the vicar and his wife, still standing in the church porch chatting to the parishioners. “Still, given a choice, I think I’d rather have the vicar down my chimney than Billy.”
30 Santa Baby
“Why didn’t Santa’s reindeer bring him?” asked a small boy as the pony trap turned into the High Street from the lane down to Stanley’s farm.
Hector had his answers already prepared.
“He only uses them on Christmas Eve when his sleigh’s really heavy, laden with presents for the whole world. The donkey’s plenty big enough to bring special pre-Christmas presents just for Wendlebury children today.”
“But that’s not a sleigh,” persisted the child. “It’s got wheels.”
Hector tutted. “Have you ever heard of Chitty Chitty Bang Bang? You know, the car that can float like a boat or fly in the sky?”
The little boy nodded, wide-eyed.
“It was modelled on Santa’s sleigh.”
The little boy turned to his father. “Dad, can I have a sleigh like that for Christmas?”
Hector slipped away into the shop before he could hear the answer.
As Billy got closer, the crowd started cheering. When he drew to a halt outside the shop, they clamoured around him eagerly.
“Whoa, Janet,” Billy called out, one of the few lines he was allowed as part of his act. Hector had been drilling him all week to stick to innocuous comments such as: “What would you like for Christmas?”, “Make sure you tell your mummy and daddy too,” “Have you been good this year?”, “And how old are you?”, “Good boy”, “Good girl”, and “Well done”.
I had to admire Hector’s format for the afternoon. While most stores tuck their Father Christmas away in a grotto, Hector said he liked to keep him out in the open for all to enjoy the spectacle. This meant he could keep an eye on him.
So Billy sat in state in a corner of the shop on a wooden throne borrowed from the church, while the children queued through the shop for their turn to meet him. On no account were any children allowed to sit on his knee. Not that Hector believed Billy would do anything inappropriate. He just wanted to guard against complaints. Instead, a low wooden stool from the stockroom was placed at Santa’s side to serve as a child-sized seat.
Some of the parents sat out the wait in the tearoom, while others browsed the bookshelves. Those in the tearoom bought refreshments to justify their seats, so I was kept busy serving drinks and cakes all afternoon. Meanwhile Hector served a steady stream of customers at the trade counter, selling tickets to see Santa at two pounds apiece, as well as a sizeable quantity of books.
Billy sat with his back to the tearoom, a pile of Advent calendars on a low table beside him. I could see the children’s faces as they took their turn on the footstool, mostly rapt with wonder at the apparition in red. Even the most boisterous became subdued, their voices breathy, as they reported on their behaviour. Visiting Santa must have felt like a job interview to them, or a viva in which the price of failure was high.
31 She’s A Believer
Towards closing time, as the queue was starting to wane, the shop door swung open and Tommy Crowe walked in, accompanied by a sandy-haired girl of about ten. I recognised her from the fireworks party. Bright-eyed, she presented a two-pound coin to Hector, before heading straight to Santa’s corner, jigging about excitedly as she awaited her turn.
“I’ll be talking to my friend, Sina,” Tommy called after her, heading for the tearoom. I glanced around the tables for any customers of his own age and found none.
“My little sister,” he said to me grimly, jabbing his thumb over his shoulder towards her, before leaning on the cake counter, as if settling down for a chat with me.
“What’s her name again?” I asked. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
Tommy tutted and rolled his eyes, leaving Hector to answer on his behalf. “Sina, short for Thomasina.”
“Like my name, only more of it,” said Tommy bitterly. “She got three more letters than I did.”
I avoided Hector’s eye, too intrigued not to pursue this line of questioning. “So Tommy is short for Thomas?”
Tommy nodded. “Yeah. My mum called both of us after my dad. But he still left.”
Embarrassed to have probed a sensitive spot of his unfortunate family history, I tried to make light of it. “Gosh, good thing there weren’t three of you, or she’d have run out of names.”
I hadn’t realised Thomasina had tuned into our conversation from her place at the front of the queue.
“But there might be,” she called across the shop. “Mum’s going to have another baby.”
“No, she’s not,” said Tommy quickly.
“She’ll have to if I ask Santa to give her one for Christmas,” retorted Sina in clear, high tones. “But I don’t know what she’ll call it.”
The whole shop had fallen quiet.
“How about Tomato?” said Santa, dispatching a little boy in a Spiderman t-shirt.
A few shoppers sniggered.
“Or Tombola?” Santa was playing to the gallery now.
“Or Tomintoul.” A note of warning in his voice, Hector cited the brand name of the bottle of Scotch hidden under the counter, Billy’s reward for his Santa performance, on the condition that it went off without adverse incident. Billy immediately reverted to his agreed dialogue.
Tommy moved on to his favourite topic of the moment. Strolling over to the trade counter, he pulled his video camera out of his parka pocket.
“Hector, do you want me to film Santa for you?” He uncapped the lens and pressed the on button. “Or is he like vampires and won’t show up in films?”
“You’re thinking of mirrors, Tommy,” said Hector. “I’m pretty sure you can safely capture Santa on film. But not with the children, unless you’ve got their parents’ permission.”
“I don’t know where my dad is to ask him, so I can’t film Sina.”
“Just your mum’s consent would do for Sina, Tommy.” Hector’s voice was gentle. “And if Sina doesn’t mind, of course.”
Tommy peered at Santa through the viewfinder, and the camera whirred into action. Sina immediately became louder and more animated, as if her ‘on’ button had also been pressed. Putting the camera to his eye, Tommy walked slowly over to Santa’s corner, impervious to the display table and rack of greeting cards that he bumped into on the way.
The tearoom orders had petered out now, so I went to help Hector, gift-wrapping the books he was putting through the till.
At four o’clock precisely, just as I was starting to think my fingers would be raw if I had to handle any more Sellotape, Hector switched off the Christmas music on the CD player to indicate closing time. The last few customers besides Tommy and Sina took the hint and left, and I started cleaning the tearoom tables. Santa got up, stretched, and helped himself to half a mince pie that some absent-minded customer had left on a bookshelf.
Tommy set up his camera on the trade counter to show Hector his recording, and Billy and I went to join them. Sina wriggled under Tommy’s arm to get a prime view of the action replay of her receiving Santa’s gift. Both Santa and Sina were smiling stiffly at the camera as she moved in to take her turn on the footstool. Billy was clearly doing his best to adhere to his agreed script while the evidence was being captured on film.
“So, Sina Crowe, what’s your name?”
“My name is Sina Crowe, Santa, what’s yours?”
Billy very nearly said, “Billy,” turning the initial B into our “bless you, my child”, as if reverting to Santa’s saintly origins. His follow-up was a welcome distraction. “And have you been a good girl?”
Sina’s exaggerated look of innocence made me suspect she had not. “Yes, and my brother has too, so can he have a present as well, please?”
“On Christmas Day he can. Unless he’s got two quid on him now.”
Santa put his hand protectively over his dim
inishing pile of Advent calendars. Sina scowled.
“Mum only had enough money for one. And she said Tommy is too old for one now anyway.”
“Rules is rules,” returned Billy. “I’m just doing my job, girlie.”
Sina was not one to be cowed by authority. “Yes, but surely you make the rules, Santa? I mean, you’re like the King of Christmas.”
I gathered Tommy’s household was not strictly religious.
“So why can’t you just give one to my brother anyway? He’d really like one for his bedroom.”
She stood up, bringing her own tousled head to the same height as Santa’s, her fists clenched before her chest.
“You’ve got loads left over. I’m last in the queue.” She cast an arm around the empty space behind her. “Surely it would be easier not to take them all back to the North Pole? So here’s the deal: give one to me, one to my brother, and the rest to Hector for his shop. After all, he’s been kind enough to let you in to his shop to shelter out of the cold for a couple of hours.”
It looked as if, in his head, Santa was running through his stock of acceptable replies.
“And Merry Christmas to you,” he came up with eventually. Taking two envelopes from the pile, he held them out to Sina at arm’s length, like a string of garlic before a vampire. With a satisfied smile that seemed to say, “My work here is done”, she took them both, hugged them close to her chest, and without more ado marched away from Santa towards the camera to rejoin her brother.
Tommy clicked the off button and looked anxiously at Hector, craving approval.
“Well done, Tommy, and thanks,” said Hector. “And you too, Sina.”
“And thanks to Billy, too,” said Tommy, which was thoughtful of him.
Billy looked startled at the sound of his real name, as if he thought his cover was blown. Sina tucked the calendars under one arm and slipped her hand into Tommy’s.
“Oh Tommy, you are funny. How could Billy possibly be Santa? Billy’s far too stupid and lazy. I mean, he can’t even fly. Come on, let’s go home and open all the doors on our calendars.”