Christmas at the Vicarage Read online

But as the days passed, Rosamunde realised that life carried on. They were all a little quieter and a little sadder, but the sun still shone and Bernie still had to work. September came and the girls were required to return to school. Nothing would ever be quite the same without the loving arms of their mother to comfort them, but they got on with their lives. There didn’t seem to be any alternative.

  Three years later, in July 1981, the whole country was in a state of mass celebration. It was the day of Prince Charles and Lady Diana’s wedding.

  ‘Please will you play Sindys with me,’ Rosamunde begged her sister. She loved playing Sindys with Rachel. Whilst the families Rosamunde created were unfailingly conventional, Rachel always invented thrilling characters and thought her sister exceedingly boring.

  Rosamunde could feel tears of frustration starting to prickle at her eyes and tried to blink them away. Rachel hated tears. In fact Rosamunde hadn’t seen Rachel cry since the day of their mother’s funeral. Since then Rachel had been so determinedly cheerful Rosamunde sometimes thought she might strain her face through smiling and laughing. Rosamunde felt dreadfully feeble by comparison.

  ‘I’ve already told you,’ Rachel said in her newly acquired, patronising tone, ‘I’m way too old for Sindys. Jeepers, Rosamunde, I’m thirteen now! Anyway, this is the most important day of the year. I can’t believe you’re even considering playing Sindys when Prince Charles and Lady Di are getting married today.’ Rachel glared at her sister and noticed Rosamunde’s watering eyes.

  ‘Oh for goodness’ sake!’ she exclaimed. ‘Rosamunde, if you don’t stop crying I’ll tell Granny Dupont.’ This managed to stop the tears in their tracks as they slithered down Rosamunde’s cheeks. Granny Dupont’s name made her sound like some sort of cosy French grandmother with rosy cheeks and hair pulled back into a practical bun. In fact Rosamunde’s maternal grandmother was very English and very fierce, the hoodwinking French name coming from her late husband. Granny Dupont taught French in a boarding school and often came to visit in the holidays. She was required to be addressed as ‘Granny Dupont’ at all times – Rachel had once experimented with ‘Nanny’ and her grandmother had barked at her that she was neither a goat nor a professional child minder. Needless to say, she was a firm believer in ‘a stiff upper lip’.

  After delivering this cruel blow and marvelling at its success (the tears had stopped entirely), Rachel flounced off to pollute the atmosphere with her Elnett hairspray as she tried to style her red curls into something approaching Diana Spencer’s yuppyish blonde hairdo. She was entering the Potter’s Cove Lady Di Lookalike Competition, which was taking place later that day. Even Rosamunde’s best friend Kizzie, a resolute tomboy, was entering the competition, the feverish excitement of the female population of Potter’s Cove having managed to seduce even her. Only Rosamunde, it seemed, was failing to be charmed by the fairy-tale wedding. She was also fairly sure entering the competition would be pointless since her father was judging the contest and was bound to avoid any criticisms of favouritism.

  Rosamunde abandoned her Sindy dolls, which Bernie had allowed to encroach on the entire landing of the Vicarage – he was a very soft touch: Granny Dupont was the fierce one. She sat herself down on the little seat tucked into the landing’s bay window. It was her favourite place to sit in the whole house, with its view of Outer Cove below. She could also be nosy and see who was walking past the cottage along the path into the village. Usually she recognised every single person who walked by, but it was the height of summer and there were lots of new faces. It was thus, spying out of the landing window with her thumb firmly in her mouth, that she spotted a boy of around her own age wandering along on his own, kicking at the gravel on the path. A boy who looked bored and like he might not be too interested in the Royal Wedding either. Abandoning the window seat, Sindys forgotten, Rosamunde ran downstairs, pulled on her jelly shoes and jogged down the hilly pathway.

  ‘Wait!’ Rosamunde shouted as she approached him down the hill, unusually brave. Startled, the boy turned round and, as it became clear this strange girl with long red hair wasn’t going to stop before flying into the gorse bushes ahead, he held out his arms and she tumbled into them. She looked up, then, into his eyes and saw immediately, in a way she couldn’t entirely comprehend at the age of ten, that he was someone. His name was Stephen Jameson.

  3.

  MONDAY 17TH NOVEMBER 2014

  Rosie! Rosamunde darling!’

  Awakened from a deep, dream-filled slumber, Rosamunde tried to summon up the energy to reply to her father, but found herself drifting back to sleep until she was stirred again by a rap at the door.

  ‘Here, I’ve brought you up a cup of tea. Strong and orange, just as you like it.’ Rosamunde shifted herself up onto the squashy goose-down pillows and took a grateful gulp. There was nothing like that first sip of tea in the morning. The tea she’d drunk in various corners of the globe over the last fifteen years had never tasted the same as a homely mug of Tetley.

  ‘I’m sorry to wake you but I’ve got to head over to the school to take assembly this morning and I’m afraid I may not be back exactly in time for the nativity auditions. The candidates are due to arrive at ten o’clock. Would you mind terribly letting them in and giving them a cup of something?’

  ‘Of course not, Dad,’ Rosamunde replied. She took another slurp. ‘But since when did you conduct auditions for the church nativity play?’

  ‘Oh, things have changed enormously. Nowadays everyone in the village fancies themselves as the next big thing. I think it might have something to do with all the talent shows on the television. Anyway, it’s become very competitive.’

  ‘So who are we auditioning for this morning?’

  ‘Joseph and Mary. Next week we’ve got the shepherds and kings. We do Jesus a little nearer the time for authenticity. Now, I must head off . . .’

  ‘Hang on, though,’ Rosamunde called as Bernie began to make his way out of the bedroom, ducking his head at the doorframe. ‘What are their names?’

  ‘Mick and Jensy – you know, they run the newsagent’s – and Alison and Richard Thacker. You don’t know them but they’re lovely. Live in the Dickensons’ old house. Must dash.’ A moment later Bernie’s head appeared again around the bedroom door. ‘Oh, one other couple. Florence and Anna. Super girls.’ And with that Bernie was gone. Rosamunde took another gulp of tea and smiled to herself. She’d forgotten what Vicarage life was like.

  Just over an hour later Rosamunde welcomed the three couples into the Vicarage. She immediately warmed to Richard Thacker, who seemed like enormous fun, and his wife Alison, who was very sweet and helped Rosamunde make the tea and coffee. In the larder was a newly baked coffee and walnut cake courtesy of Mrs Garfield, which Rosamunde deposited in the middle of the scrubbed kitchen table, around which the three couples now sat expectantly with what looked like scripts in front of them.

  Although she was adept at it, Rosamunde had never been entirely comfortable with the social side of being a vicar’s daughter – she was too shy at heart – and she was relieved when Bernie returned, his large figure and presence immediately making their small kitchen seem even more confined. Before he could rope her into the role of co-judge she grabbed her bag and keys to drive Bernie’s ancient Citroën to Kizzie’s house in the nearby town of Thatchley. It was time to catch up with her oldest friend.

  The house was in a modern estate but inside it was as cosy as Kizzie’s old family farmhouse in Potter’s Cove. There was no log fire – a gas one glowed instead – but there were books piled in every direction, small lamps burned in the corners of the sitting room, and there were Christmas carols on the CD player. Rosamunde smiled to herself as she remembered how Kizzie had always been eager to start the festivities of Christmas. To cap it all, the delicious scent of baking mince pies pervaded the small house, the familiar but exotic smell making Rosamunde’s mouth water as soon as she stepped inside.

  ‘Rosamunde, look at you! So bloody gorgeous! So blo
ody tanned! Oh, it’s so good to see you. Long distance phone calls just don’t cut it.’ Kizzie immediately clasped her friend to her ample bosom. It was a tearful reunion on both parts and Kizzie’s baby soon joined in.

  ‘Hello, little one,’ said Rosamunde as she ruffled the infant’s fluffy hair. ‘You must be Emma,’ she smiled, and the baby raised a plump hand to Rosamunde’s face, calmer now. ‘She’s adorable,’ Rosamunde told her friend.

  ‘Most of the time,’ grinned Kizzie. ‘But she needs her nap. Let me put her up and you make yourself at home. I’ll not be five minutes.’

  Rosamunde was instantly drawn to the photos displayed on a small table behind the sofa. There was a picture of Kizzie and Gerard on their wedding day twenty years ago, at which Rosamunde had been bridesmaid. Her small friend had looked so beautiful – despite the enormous meringue-like dress – with her dark hair cascading down her back and her warm eyes gazing at Gerard. He was the strong silent type, a man whom Rosamunde had rarely witnessed utter a word but who’d clearly held an enormous appeal for Kizzie since they were in their first year of secondary school. Gerard was possibly a little too silent in Rosamunde’s view, but the relationship certainly seemed to work, perhaps assisted by his long absences at sea as a fisherman.

  There was also a photo of Rosamunde and Kizzie in their twenties wearing scanty summer clothes, the pair a study in contrasts with Rosamunde’s dark red hair, amber eyes and tanned skin next to Kizzie with her dark-as-tar hair, fair skin and those soulful, deep brown eyes. In the photo they were laughing at something someone – the photographer, probably – had said and their eyes glittered with joy. Next to this photo was a picture of Kizzie’s five children: the twins, Georgiana and Elizabeth, at nineteen, Lydia, who was sixteen, and the little ones – Harriet, who was four, and nine-month-old Emma. Kizzie had always been a huge devotee of Jane Austen.

  Kizzie’s life was completely alien to Rosamunde and a part of her ached at what might have been if things had turned out differently. But they hadn’t, so Rosamunde, ever pragmatic, parcelled away any latent pangs.

  When Kizzie returned downstairs she prepared an impromptu lunch for them both and the friends sat at the kitchen counter with a bottle of wine, trying to cram the last fifteen years into a few short hours. In tacit agreement neither referred to the events before Rosamunde had made her departure, but they eagerly discussed the news they hadn’t managed to pack into their emails. Rosamunde discovered Kizzie had taken a year’s maternity leave from teaching at the local primary school to focus on baby Emma, but that she’d be returning in three months’ time, much to the pupils’ delight – Kizzie was by far the most popular teacher, having introduced extreme sports to the PE curriculum.

  ‘But enough about me,’ she announced. ‘Tell me about your travels properly,’ Kizzie told her friend. ‘I’ve been so jealous,’ she added, popping an olive into her mouth. ‘Where was your favourite place?’

  ‘Oh gosh.’ Rosamunde rested her chin in her hand and thought about her travels. She’d gone from country to country like a nomad, finding work or voluntary posts as she went – always ready to move on, always hoping to forget.

  ‘Australia. Western Australia. Which is why I ended up spending my last two years there.’

  ‘Oh, I can imagine – the beaches, the weather . . .’

  ‘. . . the men,’ finished Rosamunde, and the two women began to giggle as they’d always done at the smallest of prompts, tears running down their cheeks as they mopped hopelessly at their faces with kitchen roll, screeching until Emma woke up and put a stop to the hilarity.

  ‘But seriously,’ Kizzie continued, after Emma had been calmed and soothed. ‘Has there been anyone serious since, you know . . .’ She left his name hanging. Her sweetly featured face was etched with concern. Rosamunde told her about Troy, a toy boy she’d had a fling with in Perth.

  ‘But I’ve enjoyed quite a few dalliances. I take lovers nowadays, you know,’ Rosamunde laughed. She checked her watch before downing a black coffee and starting to gather her belongings. ‘Well, I did, at least. I’m not expecting a lot of Potter’s Cove.’

  ‘Well, you’re right there,’ Kizzie smiled. ‘I’m glad I bagged the only decent man produced by the village when I did,’ she laughed. ‘You’ll visit again soon?’ she asked as she hugged Rosamunde goodbye.

  ‘Of course. Oh, and tell me before I go, how are your family? I haven’t asked.’

  ‘Mum and Dad are well, thanks, and Benedict is Benedict! Hopeless!’ Kizzie rolled her eyes at the thought of her younger brother, who’d been the source of much irritation to her and Rosamunde throughout their childhood. ‘And still gay,’ she added, with a wry smile. Benedict had emerged from the closet only relatively recently. ‘He’s working at The Dragon’s Head at the moment,’ Kizzie continued. ‘Drop in there sometime. He’d like to see you.’

  Rosamunde nodded, though she was fairly sure she wouldn’t. And for now, she needed to return to the Vicarage and find out how the auditions had gone.

  Letting herself in through the back door she found the kitchen pristine, with only a small lamp beside the Aga shedding any light on the room. She heard laughter coming from the sitting room. After helping a seemingly hungry Gladys to some food (the cat was a convincing liar, having been fed by Bernie only half an hour before), Rosamunde made her way to the sitting room where she found her father and Mrs Garfield chattering away beside the fire, drinking gin and tonics. It was only late afternoon but Bernie generally took the view that the sun was always over the yardarm in some part of the world, and Mrs G was not one to worry about drinking on the job.

  ‘Rosie! There you are! I was just filling Mrs Garfield in on today’s auditions. Mrs G is doubting my choice.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Rosamunde as she crouched by the fireplace, warming her cold hands in front of the blazing fire.

  ‘Tell her who you’ve chosen,’ Mrs Garfield ordered Bernie.

  ‘Well, I went for Florence and Anna in the end. It was a tough call but I decided, all things being equal, that they were the best for the job,’ he announced. ‘You have to change with the times, Rosamunde,’ he added.

  ‘But, Dad, Joseph and Mary were clearly male and female! You can’t just make them the same sex all these centuries later!’ Rosamunde giggled.

  ‘Well, I don’t see that it matters,’ he said. ‘After all, it was an immaculate conception.’ Bernie’s lips twitched and a moment later the three of them were collapsed in hysteria. It was the second time that day that Rosamunde had needed to mop her eyes from tears of laughter, and she couldn’t help but think how different it was to fifteen years ago.

  4.

  AUGUST 1983

  All set?’

  Rosamunde looked up from her backpack to see her dad in the doorway to her bedroom. She nodded, stuffing the final item into her bag – her oldest teddy, Nibbles.

  ‘Sure you’re not missing anything? A bedtime story, perhaps?’

  Rosamunde grinned up at her father. She was far too old for bedtime stories at the age of twelve and both she and her dad knew it, yet neither was ready to give them up just yet.

  ‘Yes, I’m definitely missing that,’ she said, hopping up onto her bed and patting the garishly pink duvet. Bernie squashed up next to her.

  ‘Thought you might be. Well, it’s only three o’clock in the afternoon but you’ll just have to have it early, before you set off. Then you’ll sleep well in the tent tonight. Budge over a little – that’s right. So, what’s it to be?’ he asked, though he knew what she would say.

  ‘Tell me the story about the man with the red hair and the beautiful lady.’

  ‘All right then. Well, let me see. Once upon a time there was a young man. He was very plain in every way apart from his hair, which was brilliantly red and made him stand out even when he didn’t want to. He wasn’t sure what to do with his life but he was good with numbers so he decided to work in a bank. It was a good job and the money was excellent but every day was the s
ame and he felt as though he were living in a world where everything was grey.’

  Rosamunde leant against her father’s shoulder, thumb in mouth, relishing every word.

  ‘Then one day he was sitting on the lavatory when he was visited by God. He wasn’t a religious man and so he was astonished. But he soon realised he was being told by God to work for him instead of the bank. So he decided to leave his sensible, well-paid job and train as a vicar. Colour began to emerge at last and yet, still, everything was a dark, muted kind of shade. Then one day the man was enjoying a pint of ale in a pub near his college when the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen walked in. He couldn’t keep his eyes off her, which was not surprising. But what was astounding was that she couldn’t keep her eyes off him. It wasn’t long until the man married the beautiful lady and on that day, suddenly, the man’s world was filled with every colour in the rainbow, the most brilliant and sparkling colours the man had ever seen.’

  ‘He didn’t ever love anyone else, did he, even when the lady died?’ asked Rosamunde, as she always did.

  ‘Only their beautiful children,’ came the expected reply. ‘He couldn’t ever love another woman because a man can only hope to experience love like that once in a lifetime,’ Bernie finished. ‘Now, my darling girl,’ he said, ruffling Rosamunde’s hair. ‘It’s time you were off.’

  ‘I love that story,’ sighed Rosamunde.

  ‘I know you do.’

  Safely ensconced in a cosy sleeping bag in the tent she was sharing with Kizzie and Rachel, Rosamunde awoke the next day to the delicious scents of dew-drenched canvas and cooking sausages. It was the annual weekend camp laid on for local children by Kizzie’s parents in one of the fields on their farm and without a doubt the highlight of Rosamunde’s year. There was something so pleasingly simple about camping and it always gave her the giggles, especially late at night when they were meant to be going to sleep. Rachel had resorted to stuffing tissues in her mouth last night, which had only prolonged her hysteria.