Haunted Christmas

by Pat Herbert

  “You saw a child? Oh God,” said Bernard. “I’m sure there are no children at the dance. We specifically stated it was an adults only do. What did this child look like?”

  “Well, I think it had blond hair, for a start. I only caught a glimpse, though, so I didn’t even see if it was a boy or a girl.”

  “Where did you see this child?”

  “Just pushing through the crowd that was around the buffet table. It was literally just for a second.”

  “Do you think that this child was one of the Norwegian children, then?”

  Robbie looked straight into Bernard’s eyes. “Yes, Bernie, I do, and I believe you do, too.”

  

  Dorothy sat on in the vicarage study, rubbing her temples. The throbbing in her head was beginning to ease now, and she felt more comfortable. She also started to feel sleepy. She snuggled down further into the big leather armchair and imagined the charming vicar seated there of an evening, sucking his pipe, and thinking up his sermons. There was something about the brown-eyed priest that she really liked. He seemed so gentle. She had recently seen Bambi and, apart from crying buckets like everyone else at the death of the baby deer’s mother, the look in the pretty fawn’s soulful eyes reminded her of the look in Bernard’s. She smiled to herself as she realised that dear Robbie reminded her of Thumper in the same film. Just as she was wandering off on this train of thought, Robbie was at her side. She looked up at him, smiling, her headache completely gone.

  “Ah,” he smiled. “I can see you must be feeling better.” He took her half-stifled laugh as a sign she was happy to see him and was beginning to recover.

  “Yes, Robbie, thank you, I am. Thanks to your friend. He’s a lamb.”

  “Did you get another one of your headaches, dear?” he asked, gently stroking her hot brow.

  “Yes, it was very bad this time. I told Bernard I thought it was to do with that Christmas tree. No, don’t look at me like that. I know you think I’m mad, both of you. But there’s something wrong in the hall, I know there is.”

  “I do believe you, Dorothy,” said Robbie, sitting in the chair opposite, and banking up the fire which was in danger of sputtering out. “I think I owe it to you to tell you what happened to me some time ago, in the spring, when Bernie and I were in Norway.”

  

  A while later, Robbie escorted Dorothy back to the hall, just in time for the raffle. They stood close to the door and as far away from the Christmas tree as possible to make sure her headache didn’t return. Bernard had just won the Christmas cake, and was looking very pleased with himself.

  “’Ere!” called out one of the guests, a stroppy looking individual with a florid complexion and egg on his dinner jacket.

  Bernard looked up from his prize in astonishment. “Who said that?” he asked.

  The man in question stood up. He was swaying slightly and was clearly the worse for drink. “It’s me, Ernie Platt,” he replied. “The local shoe mender. Your Mrs ‘arper knows me.” Mrs Harper was standing behind the now empty buffet tables, arms folded.

  “Sit down, Ernie,” she said firmly. “You’re drunk.”

  “It’s a fix!” persisted Ernie, undeterred by the thunderous look on Nancy Harper’s face. “You made sure your darling vicar won the cake, didn’t yer!”

  There was a muttering among the crowd, some no doubt agreeing with this version of events. Bernard looked very embarrassed but continued to hold onto the precious cake.

  “Don’t be daft,” said Mrs Harper, coming round the table to face him. “I can’t ’elp it if ’e got the winning ticket.”

  Some of the onlookers began to laugh, as Bernard grew redder and redder. “Look, Mr Platt,” he said, putting down the cake and going over to his table. “I won it, it’s true. It was totally fair and above board, and I intend to donate it to the local children’s home.”

  “I’d rather you give it to me and my family,” said Ernie, sitting down with a crash, knocking over a couple of wine glasses on the table as he did so. “We’ve got eleven kids, never mind the bleedin’ children’s ’ome. We ’aven’t even got a turkey for Christmas dinner. It’ll be corned beef sandwiches as usual in our ’ouse.”

  His wife, sitting beside him, whispered urgently in his ear. “Sit down, Ernie. Don’t make a spectacle of yourself! And don’t tell everyone our business.”

  Ernie slurped the rest of the wine in his glass. “You stay out of this, Janet,” he grumbled, but it was obvious he felt ashamed of his outburst now.

  Mrs Harper was looking at the couple with something bordering on sympathy as Bernard returned to the buffet table and the controversial cake. A look passed between them. He picked up the cake again and walked over to Ernie’s table, putting it down ceremoniously in front of him. “It’s yours,” he said. “I’m sorry, Ernie. I hope you and your family enjoy it.”

  Ernie muttered his thanks and Janet burst into tears. She jumped up and kissed Bernard on both cheeks. “Thank you, thank you!” she cried.

  “There, there,” he replied, stumbling back to the buffet table as the whole room erupted into applause.

  “Three cheers for the vicar!” came a voice from the back of the hall. “Hip hip!”

  “Hooray!” was the happy response.

  Bernard’s heart was full and, as he looked around the room, his eyes picked out Dorothy and Robbie still standing by the door. His friend was giving him a thumbs up sign, while Dorothy was looking at him with something more than just mere approval in her smile.

  

  Later that evening, after most people had left the hall, Bernard, Robbie, Dorothy and Mrs Harper surveyed the debris left behind. It looked daunting, but it was clear that everybody had enjoyed themselves thoroughly.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mrs Harper. “Me and the girls’ll clear it all up in the morning.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Harper,” said Bernard. “You’ve done us proud. It all went off splendidly.”

  “I was ’oping there’d be a bit of food left over,” she said, “to take to the kiddles in ’ospital, like.”

  “It’s a shame, but your cooking’s much too good. Even the mice will have to look elsewhere tonight.”

  “Pesky mice!” she grumbled. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m off to my bed, if there’s nothing else you’ll be wanting tonight?”

  “No, thank you, Mrs Aitch,” said Bernard. “You go to bed. I’ll lock up.”

  After Mrs Harper had gone, Dorothy turned to Robbie. “Can you see me home, dear? My headache’s coming back. I need to get out of here.”

  “Of course,” said Robbie, taking her arm at once. “Did you see if Lucy had found someone to take her home?” he asked Bernard over his shoulder.

  “No, I didn’t see her go,” said Bernard. “But I’m sure she must have found some young man or other to escort her. Don’t worry. You see to Dorothy. Good night both of you. Hope you feel better,” he added, addressing the lady, who again looked very ashen and unwell. The less time she spent near the Christmas tree, the better, he thought.

  After they had left, Bernard strolled around the hall, picking up bits of litter here and there as he went. He surveyed the scene and smiled contentedly. His parishioners had had a great evening and he was glad. Maybe he should make it an annual event. Just as he was about to switch out the light he heard a nervous cough coming from the back of the stage.

  “Who’s that?” he called out, fully expecting to see a Norwegian child himself. But it was someone far earthlier. Lucy Carter, looking flushed and obviously very much the worse for drink, came forward and smiled at him.

  “Hello, Vicar,” she said sweetly. “I waited for them to go. I wanted to have a private word with you.” She stumbled down the stage steps and sidled up to him, none too steadily. He noticed that the heel on one of her satin shoes had broken off, causing her to limp.

  “Please, Mrs Carter, come and see me tomorrow morning. It’s much too late now. I’m very tired.”

  She looked
crestfallen as he said this. He sighed and wondered what on earth she wanted to talk to him about that couldn’t wait a few more hours.

  “Look, Mrs Carter, I’m sorry. If it’s urgent, of course, I’ll listen. But, if it can wait ...”

  “No, it can’t ... wait,” she slurred. “I’ve drunk enough to get up the courage, you see.”

  “Yes, you do seem rather tipsy,” he observed, slightly understating the situation, as she was practically falling into his arms. “Come and sit down,” he said brusquely, “I’ll see if Mrs Harper can make you some coffee before she goes to bed.”

  “No, don’t bother her,” she said, “I’m fine, really. Come and sit beside me for a minute.”

  Bernard sighed, seeing no way out. “Very well,” he acquiesced. “But, just for a minute, mind.”

  He sat down beside her and looked at her blandly. He saw a rather plump, pretty woman of around his own age, not unlike Dorothy Plunkett in some ways, but there was a knowing look in her eyes which made him slightly nervous.

  “I’m sorry to be a nuisance,” she said, picking at a piece of fruit cake that had stuck to her dress. “But I wanted to say that I very much admired what you did earlier.”

  “What I did?”

  “You know – giving the cake to that Ernie Platt,” she explained.

  “Oh, it was nothing,” he said. “It was the least I could do.”

  “You’re a lovely man,” she continued, stroking his arm. He began to feel very ill at ease. Never the sharpest knife in the box, Bernard was beginning to wonder if she was making some sort of pass at him.

  “Look, what is it you wanted to talk to me about, Mrs Carter?” he said with firmness. Where was Robbie when he needed him? He wished Mrs Harper hadn’t gone to bed, she would have known what to do in this situation.

  “Oh, just that, really. I think a lot of you, you know?” she said, in no way daunted by his frosty manner. “You need a good woman to look after you, you do.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Carter,” he said, unsure whether she was offering her own services in that direction, but fearing she probably was. “It’s very nice of you to say so, but I’m very happy as I am with Mrs Harper to look after me.”

  “But you need a wife,” she whined, putting her hand on his. He swiftly removed it and abruptly stood up.

  “One day, maybe, if the right woman comes along,” making it as clear as he could that she wasn’t that woman.

  “How do you know the right woman hasn’t come along already?” she wheedled, tottering to her feet and picking at the collar of his jacket.

  “Please, Mrs Carter, you must go home now. It’s very late.”

  “You don’t want me, either, do you?” She started to cry.

  That’s all he needed now, he thought. “Come on, Mrs Carter. I’m sure there are lots of likely lads who would feel privileged to be going out with you. I bet you’ve got your pick of them.”

  “What? Just after a world war? You’re joking, of course. What men there are, are either incapacitated or living on their nerves.”

  “Don’t be silly, Mrs Carter. I know for a fact that the postman has a soft spot for you,” he told her, fingers crossed behind his back. He knew nothing of the sort, but what he knew of Charlie, he had a soft spot for anything in a skirt that had a pulse.

  “Oh, him! I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot barge pole.” She looked as indignant as it was possible to look in her drunken condition. “He’s always chasing after the girls. Married or single, makes no difference to him.”

  “Well, I’m sure Charlie isn’t the only possibility,” Bernard tried. “You’ll find someone soon, I’m sure.” He ran out of steam. There was nothing more he could think of to say as, in his heart, he knew Lucy was right. There weren’t many eligible males around.

  At that moment, to his great relief, Robbie came back into the hall. “I’ve seen Dorothy home, but I can’t find Lucy anywhere. I said I’d escort her ...” He stopped when he saw his housekeeper snuggling up to Bernard.

  “Oh, sorry, have I interrupted something?” he asked, looking amused.

  “No, not at all,” said Bernard, extricating himself from Mrs Carter’s clutches and giving him a stony stare. “Thank God you’re here,” he said through the corner of his mouth. “She seems to be – er – a little drunk.”

  Robbie grinned mischievously. “Don’t worry, I’ll take her off your hands. I bet she’ll regret this in the morning – if she remembers it, that is.”

  So saying, Robbie took his housekeeper by the arm and led her limping out of the hall. He returned a few seconds later.

  “What have you done with her?” asked Bernard, puzzled.

  “I’ve propped her up in the cloakroom for a minute,” he said. “Will you be here for a bit longer?”

  “Not much. Why?”

  “I wanted to come back and see if – you know – I could get in touch with those children again.”

  “What, tonight? Why not come back tomorrow?”

  “All right. I will. Straight after morning surgery. Will there be anybody here then? I think it would be best if I was alone.”

  “Well, Mrs Harper and some of her friends will be here first thing to clear up, but I expect they’ll be finished by the time you come. Do you want me to be here?”

  Robbie thought for a moment. “No, Bernie. I think the children will be more likely to appear if I’m alone.”

  “Okay,” said Bernard. “Come and collect the key tomorrow.”

  “Thanks. Great evening, by the way. See you later.”

  But, what if Robbie saw those children again? Bernard wondered as he took a last around the hall before switching off the light. What would it mean and where would it lead?

  

  Robbie rushed through his morning surgery the next day. He saw the usual line-up of coughs, colds, sore throats, and other winter ailments. Luckily there was nothing more complicated with which he had to deal, apart from old Mrs Tozer, a patient who turned up on average at least three times a week with some imaginary illness or other. He knew she just wanted a chat and some sympathy. He felt sorry for the old girl who had recently lost her husband of fifty-five years and was feeling bereft and lonely. He made sure she was put on the list for the old folks’ Christmas dinner and gave her a full fifteen minutes of his precious time.

  Finally, the last patient having been despatched with a prescription for cherry linctus for a tickly cough, he called up to Mrs Carter that he wouldn’t be requiring any dinner and rushed out immediately before she could complain that she had already put it in the oven, and what was she supposed to do with it?

  Lucy had obviously been hung over when she turned up to cook his breakfast, but he didn’t refer to it or to the events of the night before. Robbie had never been the most tactful of God’s creatures, but even he could see she didn’t need any snide comments this morning.

  He had been surprised when he caught her making a pass at Bernard, but he supposed his friend was attractive to some women. Not in his own league, of course, but vicars were often the target for lonely spinsters, especially the unmarried ones like Bernard. He could understand it, he supposed.

  He thought about Dorothy as he wandered up the road to the church hall. They had really hit it off, and he had already asked her out again. They had made a date to go to the pictures, and he was looking forward to it. But something was niggling at him. Although he didn’t think Bernard was as attractive as himself, it was obvious that Lucy liked him and, try as he might, he couldn’t forget the spark of something that seemed to pass from Dorothy to Bernard when they were introduced to each other. It was just his imagination, he told himself, but he couldn’t quite dismiss the suspicion that there had been an instant rapport between them. It wasn’t just that she obviously liked him, Bernard was easy to like. There was something deeper going on, and that was what was troubling him.

  He reached the church hall at about five minutes past twelve to find the door open. He entered tentative
ly and saw, with a sinking heart, several ladies bustling about, still in the process of clearing up the remains of the previous night’s festivities.

  “Hello,” he called. “How are you ladies doing?”

  Mrs Harper, who was briskly sweeping up the pine needles from under the Christmas tree, looked up as he came into the hall. “Hello, Doc. Nearly done. The vicar told me to expect you. Give us another ’alf an hour.”

  She carried on sweeping up the pine needles, and Robbie fervently hoped she wasn’t sweeping up the children with them.

  “Thank you, Mrs Harper. I’ll go and talk to Bernie for a bit, then. Is there any tea going?”

  Mrs Harper stopped sweeping and put her hand on her hip. “I can’t be in two places at once, now can I?” she said crossly. “I’ve just brewed a pot for ’is nibs, so there may be some left if you hurry. I can’t vouch for the biscuits, though.”

  “I’ll go and see him right away.”

  He found Bernard happily crunching his way through Mrs Harper’s home-made biscuits and was just in time to claim the last one. The tea was good, though, piping hot and well brewed.

  “How is Mrs Carter this morning?” Bernard asked, a trace of nervousness in his voice.

  “A little the worse for wear, I should say,” Robbie replied, smiling wryly. “I think she’s a bit ashamed of her behaviour last night. I reckon she owes you an apology, Bernie. I could see she was trying to flirt with you.”

  “Well, she was very intoxicated,” observed Bernard, sipping his tea thoughtfully. “I just hope that’s all it was.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it was. She must be lonely, having lost her fiancé in the war. We mustn’t be too hard on her.”

  “No, indeed,” said Bernard. “There are so many lonely women since the war. That’s why single, able-bodied men like you and me are prime targets, I suppose. We’d be safer if we were married.” He gave a laugh.

  “Well, I for one am glad I’m not,” said Robbie decisively. “I wouldn’t be able to take out Dorothy if I was. That’d leave the field open for you,” he added knowingly, carefully watching his friend’s reaction to this comment.