by Pat Herbert
Then there was Robbie. Robbie had a mother living somewhere, but apparently, he didn’t get on with her, so, hopefully, he would be able to join him for Christmas dinner. He wondered again what Dorothy would be doing. He knew that all he had to do was pick up the telephone and call her. He would think about it.
The carol service was arranged for the last Friday before Christmas itself. It had started to snow again, and Bernard stood at the church door, welcoming his parishioners as they arrived. Everyone looked happy, enjoying the festive season and looking forward to singing their hearts out.
He kept his eyes peeled for Dorothy, but it was well past three o’clock when the service was due to start, and she hadn’t appeared. Just as he was about to close the doors, however, she came running through the church gate.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she puffed, as he took her hand and led her into the church. “I thought the service would have started by now.”
“You’re just in time, Dorothy,” he smiled. “Can we have a chat afterwards?”
“Yes, I wanted to talk to you too,” she replied, smiling back at him. His heart gave a lurch.
“Ah, there’s Robbie,” she said, as she saw the doctor wave to her from the second pew from the front. “There’s an empty seat beside him. Good.”
Bernard watched her run down the aisle to join his friend. He felt so jealous, he could have screamed. But he kept the beatific smile firmly fixed on his face and made his way to the lectern.
“Good afternoon, everyone,” he said. “It’s good to see so many of you here today. Some of your faces are unfamiliar to me, but I hope to rectify that soon. We’ll begin with While Shepherds Watched, which is number five in your carol sheets. Please stand.”
There was a rustle and clatter as people found the words to the familiar carol and stood up. Old Mrs Wilberforce struck up the creaky organ, and the air was filled with the sound of human voices singing with gusto. Bernard, for the first time, felt like it was really Christmas as he joined in. The snow was falling heavily outside the windows, and all the candles were lit. It was a truly magical scene.
His eyes wandered over to Dorothy, who was singing heartily, sharing Robbie’s carol sheet. He tried not to mind this, but he did. He felt like handing her his own carol sheet so that she didn’t have to stand quite so close to him.
But the thought of their confidential chat after the service cheered him, and he conducted the rest of the service with enthusiasm, feeling a warm love that encompassed the whole congregation, not just Dorothy Plunkett.
When the church had emptied at the end of the service, Bernard saw that Dorothy and Robbie were waiting for him by the door. His heart sank. Why was Robbie still here? he wondered. He was expecting just Dorothy to remain for their promised chat.
“That was a wonderful service, Bernard,” said Dorothy. “I feel all warm and Christmassy now.”
“Me too,” said Robbie, smiling in agreement. “I think everyone enjoyed it. Thank you, Bernie.”
“My pleasure,” Bernard replied, collecting the last of the carol sheets into a neat pile. “Are you off to evening surgery now?” he asked, hopefully.
“Not yet, old boy,” Robbie replied. “It’s only half-past four. Anyway, Dorothy has asked me back to her place for afternoon tea. You’re invited too.”
This was even worse than he expected. He looked at Dorothy, who was avoiding eye contact with him. So it was a chat not just with him, but Robbie too. Now he wouldn’t get the opportunity to ask her out properly and put their relationship on a more romantic footing. Why had he waited?
“Yes, dear,” she said to Bernard. “I wanted to talk to both of you, so I’ve prepared a nice tea. There’s some homemade cakes too.”
“That’s nice,” said Bernard, glaring at Robbie, who was smiling back at him. The three of them left the church five minutes later and headed towards Dorothy’s home. They were soon led into a cosy maisonette where a fire was banked up in the parlour, giving off much welcome heat after their walk through the heavy snow.
Once they had removed their outer garments, the three of them sat down together in front of the fire, with Dorothy in charge of pouring the tea from an ornate silver teapot. Probably a family heirloom, thought Bernard distractedly.
“Help yourself to the cakes, please,” she said, as she passed round the cups.
Bernard had found he’d lost his appetite; he didn’t care if he ever saw another cake. Robbie, on the other hand, was tucking into a squelchy cream bun with obvious delight. “Hmm,” he said, “this is delicious. Did you make them yourself?”
“No, I have to confess I didn’t,” laughed Dorothy. “I’ve got a part-time cook-cum-cleaner who does all that. She even made the tea before she left. I told her roughly what time I’d be back, so it’s just brewed.”
“That’s very handy,” said Robbie, helping himself to another cake. “Come on Bernie, they’ll all be gone at this rate.”
Bernard selected a Chelsea bun and started to nibble on it without much enthusiasm.
“Well, boys,” said Dorothy, when the tea and cakes had been more or less despatched, “the reason I asked you both here today was to tell you that I’m leaving Wandsworth.”
“You’re leaving?” uttered Bernard, putting his half-eaten bun back on the plate. “But, why?”
“Yes, why, Dorothy, dear?” echoed Robbie.
“Well, it’s partly to do with the situation here – with you two,” she explained, “but it’s not the main reason.” She said this quickly as she saw both men were about to protest. “It’s my mother. She hasn’t been too well lately, and my father rang me last night to tell me that the doctors have said she might have only a few weeks.”
“I’m sorry,” said Bernard. “But that’s no reason to leave here altogether, is it?”
Dorothy gave him a look he couldn’t quite interpret. He only knew it made him feel uncomfortable. Shut up Bernard, he said to himself, realising how insensitive he was being.
“Well, it does, really,” she continued. “I need to go back home to look after her. My sister has a family, so it’s down to me, as a single woman, to bear the brunt of it. Then, when my mother goes, my father will need looking after, too. He’s quite frail, himself. Emphysema, so the doctors say.”
Bernard felt like saying that, when they’re both dead, you can come back then. But he wisely didn’t.
Robbie reached out for her hand. “Oh, Dorothy, dear, I’m so sorry,” he said, looking genuinely moved. “Where do your parents live?”
“Exeter,” she replied.
“Oh, yes, I believe you mentioned that you came from there,” said Robbie, still holding her hand.
Meanwhile, Bernard’s heart had sunk even further. Exeter was a long way from London. Not easy for a casual visit. He feared he might never see Dorothy again, and realised he couldn’t bear the thought of that. “Are you going soon?” he asked.
“Tomorrow, actually,” she said, giving him a sad smile. “It’s all happened rather fast. But I wanted to give you your Christmas presents before I go.” Saying this, she got up and left the room.
The two friends stared at each other. Neither of them had thought of Christmas presents. It was all too much. Losing their beloved Dorothy, and not even giving her something she could remember them by.
She returned with two gaily wrapped parcels, passing one to each of them. “Now, don’t open them until Christmas day,” she instructed.
“But we haven’t got you anything, Dorothy,” said Bernard, turning his parcel over with interest. What could it be? he wondered. He hoped it wasn’t something as unromantic as socks.
“Don’t be silly,” she admonished. “You didn’t know I was leaving, did you?”
“But we’ll see you again soon, won’t we?” asked Bernard, tears starting to prick his eyes.
“Of course, Bernard, dear,” she said. “I’ll come and see you sometime.”
Sometime, thought
Bernard. That meant – what? He must try to see her alone before she went. “Can I see you off?” he asked. “Come with you to the station?”
“No, Bernard,” she said, firmly. “I’d rather go alone.”
He knew when he was beaten. He had to let her go.
“Now,” she said cheerfully. “I have a rather superior brandy somewhere. How about we drink a farewell toast to each other?”
Bergen, December 1948
Gunda and Baldur were sitting in the local bar, enjoying the festive atmosphere and drinking their third pint of lager. It was very busy, full of happy crowds, and they sat together, watching them. Baldur had always avoided joining in with crowds, and Gunda was also used to her own company. They were outsiders, but they didn’t care. They had each other now.
“I’m looking forward to Christmas,” said Gunda, smiling and holding Baldur’s hand under the table. “Waking up with you on Christmas morning and everything. It will feel almost magical, like it was when I was a child. Although the toy I’ll be unwrapping will be you!” She laughed happily.
Since she had met Baldur, her life had changed considerably. Within two weeks of their meeting, he had moved in with her. She rented a well-furnished apartment in the city centre, and he was enjoying all the home comforts missing so long from his lonely life. Being with him had given her a new lease on life too and had radically improved her looks. She seemed less haggard and the extra weight she had since gained had softened her appearance. Baldur’s dark looks had also improved. He was still a ‘big brute of a man’ but, somehow, he didn’t seem quite so menacing now.
But, despite the positive aspects of their burgeoning relationship, it wasn’t all plain sailing. Gunda, for the most part, was well pleased with her new lover. But, occasionally, he showed her a side of his nature she didn’t entirely approve of or trust. It wasn’t that he was cruel to her, but sometimes a frown would appear that seemed to knit his hairy eyebrows together, and he would start picking an argument for no apparent reason. And, once, he had even clenched his fist at her, as if he was about to strike her. She tried not to dwell on these moments, though, as the rest of the time they were perfectly happy together. After all, she reasoned to herself, no relationship is hearts and flowers all the way. And she thought of her late husband. He had been a wonderful man, but he, too, had had his off-days. Life was like that.
Baldur, for his part, liked her well enough, but sometimes couldn’t help comparing her to Marianne Dahl, hankering after what he knew he could never have. It gave him no comfort to know he had been the one to irrevocably cut off that route to his happiness by killing her. Was it true that, according to the song, “you always hurt the one you love”? he wondered. He supposed that’s what had happened between him and Marianne, except the lyric had been slightly amended in their case to “you always kill the one you love”.
But he had met Gunda and, although she wasn’t anywhere near as pretty as Marianne, he liked her well enough and she obviously liked him too. He had even begun to think he might marry her one day. After all, it was time he settled down, he wasn’t getting any younger. And it would give him some status in the neighbourhood, an air of respectability that would help remove him even further from the events of last March.
He still had sleepless nights about the children, but no amount of remorse could bring them back. He would never be free of what he had done, he knew that. Retribution would catch up with him one day, and he was constantly looking over his shoulder at some shadow that only he could see. For now, though, he was safe. There was no more talk about the murder of the farm widow, and virtually nobody mentioned the missing children anymore.
They left the inn as the clock struck midnight, surrounded by other happy customers, many of them the worse for drink. They called ‘goodnight’ as they passed them, and Gunda put her arm in his as they slowly walked together the few blocks to her apartment.
“I’m glad we found each other,” she said, stopping to give him a kiss. She looked at the hulking brute beside her and smiled up into his eyes. “I never thought I’d be happy again but, thanks to you, I am. I don’t deserve you, I really don’t.”
Which was true, thought Baldur wryly, as he gripped her tightly in an urgent embrace. She didn’t deserve him at all; she deserved someone much better.
London, December 1948
Christmas day was to prove a less than happy time for Bernard and Robbie following Dorothy’s departure to Devon. She had promised to write to them and let them know how things were going, which was something, they supposed.
When it was time for Mrs Harper to serve them their Christmas dinner (Lucy had gone home to her parents in Chichester), both men sat down at the table, looking miserable and barely uttering a word. Bernard’s long-suffering housekeeper served it up as cheerfully as she could under the circumstances, even wearing a paper hat from a Christmas cracker she had pulled with the milkman that morning. There were crackers beside the two diners’ plates, but neither man had even noticed them. They just lay there looking less and less festive as the meal went on.
Knowing the reason for the pair’s depression, she tried her best to chivvy them up, but to no avail. Even her flaming brandy pudding did little to lift their gloom.
“Come on, the pair of you,” she said with impatience, as the rich pudding sat uneaten on their plates. “I’ve ’ad more fun at a funeral. It’s supposed to be Christmas!”
Bernard tried a smile, but it wasn’t a success. Robbie’s was a little more convincing, but not much.
“Sorry, Mrs Aitch,” said the doctor, “your food’s delicious, as always. It’s just that we haven’t got much appetite today.”
“What a day to lose it,” she said, gathering up the plates. “I’m sorry your Miss Plunkett’s gone off, but that ain’t no reason not to be cheerful on Our Lord’s birthday, is it?”
“Isn’t it?” asked Bernard. He’d conducted the service that morning like a robot. The congregation must have noticed he wasn’t getting into the spirit, but he hadn’t cared. He wished them all a merry Christmas as they left, but not one of them had believed he’d meant it.
“Are you going to listen to the King on the wireless?” Mrs Harper asked them.
“Suppose so,” said Robbie, switching it on.
Later on, they opened Dorothy’s presents together. They were both the same: thick, woolly scarves: red for Bernard, blue for Robbie. Not so bad as socks, but very nearly, thought Bernard miserably.
London, January 1949
As December turned into January, Bernard went about his daily routine on automatic pilot. Robbie, too, had lost all his zest for life, causing several of his patients to ask ironically after his health.
The Christmas tree remained in the church hall into the New Year, as Robbie wanted to extend its life until Gilbert returned in the second week of January. “I want to make sure they’ve been found and been given a Christian burial before it’s destroyed,” he said.
The weather continued bitterly cold. More snow fell, covering everything in a blanket of white, much to the delight of the neighbourhood children who could be seen dragging toboggans behind them, when not hitting each other with snowballs or building snowmen. Bernard, watching from his study window, saw their happy glowing faces and wished he was a boy again, able to take delight in such innocent pleasures.
But, although he was happy for the children, nothing really helped his mood. Every time Mrs Harper brought him the post, he scanned the envelopes eagerly for a Devon postmark, only to be continually disappointed. He sighed, as he riffled through the post several times to make sure he hadn’t missed anything. It didn’t occur to him to initiate a letter to Dorothy himself, even though she had furnished him with her address for that very purpose. Robbie, too, looked forward in vain to a letter. He, like Bernard, didn’t think about writing to her first. So, all they could do was drown their sorrows and bemoan their lot. Mrs Harper, finally, had had enough of it.
“What’s the matter, Vicar
?” she asked one morning, after Bernard had searched the post in vain for the umpteenth time. “Are you expecting a special letter or something?” As if she didn’t know.
Bernard reddened with embarrassment. “Er, not exactly, Mrs Harper,” he said.
“What does that mean?” She put her hands on her ample hips and looked at him quizzically.
“It’s sort of, well, complicated.”
“Hmm,” she muttered, “it must be. Can I ’elp at all? Do you want me to chase Charlie for you? ’E may ’ave some letters buried at the bottom of ’is sack. ’E’s not all that thorough, you know. I got a postcard from Ada nearly three months after she sent it to me. ’E’d ’ad it in ’is sack all the time, but ’adn’t found it until ’e ’ad to turn it out because someone else complained that they ’adn’t received a letter they was expecting.”
Bernard perked up slightly at this. Was it possible that there was a letter from Dorothy buried in the seemingly ‘not all that thorough’ Charlie’s sack?
“Er, well, maybe you could just check with him for me?” he said. “I mean, it’s not that I’m expecting a letter definitely, but I think there’s a strong possibility that there may be one.”
Mrs Harper wasn’t in any doubt who he was expecting a letter from. She would have to be deaf, dumb and blind not to know which way the wind was blowing in that quarter. “Right you are,” she said. “Leave it to me.”
She was about to leave the study when she remembered. “Oh, Gilbert’s back, by the way. I met Marjorie in Woolworths yesterday. She said they’d ’ad a nice time, although Gilbert was worried about ’is mother ’aving to look after his aunt. She’s very ’ard work, apparently. Lost ’er marbles, so she said. It’s a shame when they get like that, ain’t it?”
