‘It’s at the Ambassadors Theatre, Joseph,’ said Vera, ‘and it sounds really good.’
‘What does?’ asked her brother through a mouthful of toast.
‘The stage play of Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap has opened in London. We could book tickets in the new year after your busy Christmas schedule.’ Vera was clearly excited at the prospect.
‘What’s it about?’ asked Joseph with affected interest as he reached for a third slice and wondered if Vera had noticed.
‘Well, a group of people gather in a remote part of the countryside and discover there’s a murderer in their midst.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Joseph. ‘Not very Christmassy.’
‘But it’s a cultural experience,’ insisted Vera, ‘and we could visit the museums as well.’
‘Very well,’ Joseph murmured through a mouthful of crumbs.
Vera got up to clear the table. ‘And by the way, Joseph … that’s your third slice.’
It was a quarter past eight and John and Lily had met in the staff-room to discuss the forthcoming Nativity play while Vera made a pot of tea. On the table was Vera’s newspaper with a photograph of the Duke of Edinburgh, who had opened a £1.25 million extension to the Raleigh bicycle factory in Nottingham. Vera sipped her tea and read the article as she admired the handsome features of her perfect man, the Duke. ‘It says here that bicycles are the transport of the future,’ she remarked.
‘We just need some cycle lanes,’ said John, ‘particularly with Stan Coe driving like he does.’
Lily looked up sharply. ‘So was it Mr Coe who ran me off the road?’
John pursed his lips. ‘Not proven, Lily … but very likely. I had a word with Tom and he said that Deirdre Coe would insist her brother was elsewhere on that morning.’
‘I suppose she would,’ said Lily.
‘Well, they weren’t riding their bicycles in London earlier this week,’ said Vera. ‘All those poor people under that blanket of thick smog.’
A week ago a killing combination of smoke and fog had descended on the capital, lasting for five days and causing thousands of deaths, while ambulance men and firemen had to walk in front of their vehicles.
‘We need cleaner air,’ said Lily. ‘The government ought to control the way we pollute it. It’s bad enough here, but in a city the size of London it’s catastrophic.’
‘I agree,’ said John, ‘but how do people keep warm in winter? What’s the alternative?’
There was silence as they pondered the question.
Finally, Vera said, ‘Well, regardless of the dreadful weather, I’ve brought in a small cake to share after lunch to celebrate Lily’s birthday.’
John Pruett smiled. ‘Well done, Vera, we’ll certainly need it after the rehearsal.’ Vera and Lily looked puzzled. However, they had yet to experience Billy Icklethwaite’s contribution as the innkeeper.
At lunchtime John put on his coat, scarf and trilby hat and walked across the road to the General Stores, where Prudence Golightly was always pleased to see the local headteacher.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Pruett. I imagine the children are pleased to see the first snowfall.’
‘Yes, Prudence,’ said John, ‘they’re loving it.’
‘How can I help?’
‘I should like to buy some flowers.’
‘Of course,’ said Prudence.
‘Nothing too ostentatious,’ he added nervously.
‘I presume your sister is coming to visit?’
‘Well, er … not until nearer Christmas.’
Prudence was rarely surprised by the requests of her customers, but this was the first time John Pruett had asked for flowers. She assumed they were intended as a gift for a relation, or perhaps a friend in hospital, but she didn’t wish to intrude. ‘Yes, while this is not the best time of the year for flowers, I may have the perfect solution. I order a delivery of these each December from the market in Easington and was just about to put them in the window.’ She went into the back room and returned with a bushy plant in a pot. ‘Here we are – it’s a poinsettia.’
‘Perfect,’ said John.
Prudence smiled. ‘It’s a Mexican shrub and the ideal houseplant for Christmas. It should last into the New Year if it’s looked after.’
‘I’ll take it, please.’
The tiny shopkeeper put it in a tall cardboard box and covered the leaves carefully with brown paper. ‘There – that should keep it safe until you get it home.’
When John returned to school he put the plant on the passenger seat of his car to keep it away from prying eyes. He would give it to Lily at the end of school.
In the village hairdresser’s Sylvia Icklethwaite was having her weekly shampoo and set and Diane Wigglesworth puffed on a cigarette while she sorted her box of rollers.
‘’Ow about a nice cuppa tea?’ she suggested.
Soon two steaming mugs of tea were placed on the shelf beneath the big mirror and next to Diane’s ash tray.
‘So, any news, Di?’
‘Well, ah’ve got Miss Briggs, t’new teacher, comin’ in as m’last appointment t’day.’
‘She’s good,’ said Sylvia. ‘She sorted out my Arnold an’ didn’t ’ave t’use a cane.’
‘Ah wonder what she does instead.’
‘Keeps ’em interested wi’ drawin’ an’ plays an’ suchlike. In fac’, my Billy’s gorra big part in t’Nativity.’
‘What’s ’e like at actin’?’
Sylvia shook her head. ‘Jus’ like ’is dad.’
‘As bad as that?’ Diane looked in the mirror. ‘So what’s it t’be this week?’
Sylvia had picked up an old copy of Woman’s Own from the pile of magazines and newspapers on the shelf next to the big mirror. It was the October edition and here a woman was having a luxurious facial involving creams and massage. ‘What’s a facial, Di?’ she asked.
‘Dunno,’ said Diane. ‘Sounds summat medical. Anyway, what d’you fancy?’
Around the edge of the mirror was a collection of front covers from Picturegoer magazine. They had been stuck on the wall with strips of brown sticky tape. Sylvia pointed to a photo of the shapely Joan Collins. ‘Like ’er, please, Diane.’
A little while later Diane had sprayed Yorkshire Pale Ale as a setting lotion on Sylvia’s hair and stood back to admire her creation. ‘There y’are,’ she said as she lit up another cigarette. ‘Joan Collins.’
Sylvia nodded with obvious satisfaction. ‘Ah saw t’eadmaster buyin’ a fancy plant in the Stores,’ she revealed.
‘That’s not like ’im,’ said Diane.
‘Ah got t’thinkin’ it were probably ’is sister comin’ t’stay. She often does nearer Christmas an’ gives ’is ’ouse a proper tidy-up.’
Diane nodded. ‘That mus’ be it.’
Half an hour later Diane’s next customer arrived. Mrs Violet Fawnswater was a newcomer to the village. She had arrived from Leeds with her husband and seven-year-old daughter, Phoebe, an overindulged little girl with a passion for pretty dresses. Violet believed in turning out her daughter every morning to look like the child film star Shirley Temple. In fact, she had made the tuneless Phoebe practise singing ‘The Good Ship Lollipop’ until she was word-perfect.
Violet had moved from the Quarry Hill Flats development in Leeds city centre, where the Victorian slums had been replaced with a modern housing development including a shopping centre, nursery school and even a built-in refuse-disposal system. In consequence, she thought she was a cut above the country yokels in Ragley. Her husband had secured a management position, or so she described it, at the Rowntree’s chocolate factory in York. She was also convinced Phoebe would be the obvious choice for the part of Mary in the school Nativity play.
‘So, what’s it t’be, Violet?’
Violet gave an extravagant sigh. ‘Something different … something unique … something just me,’ she said, almost bursting into song.
Bloody ’ell, thought Diane, I’ve got a right one ’er
e.
The rehearsal for the Nativity play went surprisingly well. Lily had made sure all the children had a part, including five-year-old Lizzie Buttershaw, who was, literally, the star.
Phoebe Fawnswater had arrived with a beautiful blue dress and headscarf in order to be the perfect Mary. Billy Icklethwaite was delighted to be demoted from innkeeper to third shepherd and enjoyed giving Bertie Stubbs as fifth sheep an occasional thwack with his crook. Veronica Poole’s rag doll was the stand-in baby Jesus and Reggie Bamforth, wearing a tea towel on his head and one of his mother’s old dresses, made a sincere and convincing Joseph. Although a nervous Malcolm Robinson as the back half of the cow had to keep going to the toilet, it mattered little as only the front half, namely Big Dave, had to speak – or, to be more precise, moo.
‘Thank you, Lily,’ said John as the children returned to their classrooms. ‘It looks like being the best yet,’ and Lily wondered what previous performances must have been like.
Outside the General Stores, Vera was pleased to see that Aloysius Pratt and Tommy Piercy had cleared the footpath of snow. Even so, after buying a packet of tea for the staff-room she stepped carefully on to the frosty forecourt, where a large black hearse had just drawn up.
‘May I ’elp you, Miss Evans?’
It was Septimus Bernard Flagstaff, the local funeral director, looking like a plump magpie in his black coat and gloves. Vera had always been intrigued by the name Septimus and had discovered he was the seventh child of a seventh child. Meanwhile, Septimus had made it clear that he worshipped the ground that Vera walked upon and Vera had politely rebuffed him at every turn.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ she replied.
‘Ah could give you a lift to t’vicarage, Miss Evans, if ah may be so bold.’
‘A lift?’
Septimus took out a large spotted handkerchief from his coat pocket and polished a chrome headlamp with an exaggerated flourish. ‘Isn’t she a beauty?’ he said with obvious satisfaction. ‘She’s the pride of our fleet, a nineteen thirty-seven Rolls-Royce Silver Wraith. Only the best for Flagstaff and Flagstaff.’
‘You have a fleet?’ asked Vera.
‘Well, er … we ’ave another ’earse, an old un.’
‘I see. Well I appreciate the offer, but the walk will do me good.’
‘You would be very comfortable. It ’as a beautiful bench seat. All t’coachwork were done by Alpe and Saunders down in London. Top quality.’
‘Well, I’m very pleased for you.’
Septimus saw his opportunity to impress. ‘Ah’m tekkin’ this business t’places it’s never been before. We packed in ’orse-drawn funerals after t’war an’ came up t’ date so t’speak an’ now ah’m a member o’ t’National Association o’ Funeral Directors and t’Cremation Society.’
Vera was singularly unimpressed.
‘M’busy time’s comin’ up,’ he added eagerly. ‘Winter months are our bread an’ butter when t’killin’ cold sets in. Old folk start droppin’ like flies.’
‘How very sad.’
‘Not many people know this, Miss Evans, but ah’ll tell you as a personal friend.’
Vera frowned. She did not consider herself to be a personal friend of this loquacious little man. Also, her feet were getting cold, but Septimus was on a roll. ‘Ah’m a member of t’Stag Beetle Society an’ one day ah may be president.’
‘Stag beetles?’
‘Yes, they’re wonderful creatures.’
‘I’m sure, like all God’s creatures, they are indeed a blessing.’
‘So would y’like t’see my collection?’
‘Your collection? Are they dead?’
Septimus looked puzzled. ‘Dead? Yes, o’ course they’re dead. Ah ’ave t’stick pins in ’em for m’display.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Vera, visibly shocked. ‘In that case, no thank you.’
‘Never mind, Miss Evans, ah know women can be a bit squeamish.’
Vera was beginning to feel unwell. ‘Anyway, I need to get back to school, so goodbye, Mr Flagstaff.’
Septimus stared at the woman of his dreams as she walked briskly across the High Street. ‘M’friends call me Bernie,’ he said quietly to himself. It was then that he looked in the window of the General Stores and had an idea.
In Doris Clutterbuck’s Tea Rooms Nora Pratt had returned from school and was in the kitchen polishing spoons. She had spent 3½d on a copy of Picturegoer magazine. The latest issue featured the film star Janet Leigh wearing nothing but a bath towel and Nora wondered if she could adopt the same pose.
Also, something new and exciting had happened in Nora’s young life. The publication of the first UK singles chart in mid-November had been every bit as good as Nora had hoped and she was pleased that the first number one, ‘Here In My Heart’ by the American jazz singer Al Martino, still held that position four weeks later. She was also happy that Vera Lynn had three records in the Top Ten, including Nora’s favourite, ‘Forget Me Not’.
She flicked through the pages and, after considering the various merits of Rock Hudson, or ‘Mr Beefcake’ as Mrs Clutterbuck preferred to call him, alongside David Niven, the debonair English actor, she decided the handsome American was her favourite. Nora still dreamed of acting stardom, though she knew her inability to pronounce the letter ‘R’ was a significant setback. However, Doris, as the president of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society, believed Nora’s enthusiasm deserved some reward so had put this apparent impediment to one side and given her a part in the annual village pantomime.
For Nora it was the first step to stardom.
At the end of school John Pruett was walking through the entrance hall on his way to collect his gift for Lily from his car. Through the open door of the staff-room he saw Lily and Vera looking at a familiar plant and discussing it. He walked in and stared. ‘It’s a poinsettia,’ he said in surprise.
‘Yes, an ideal plant for Christmas,’ said Vera with cautious enthusiasm. ‘Mr Flagstaff called in and gave this to me. I don’t wish to take it home … it wouldn’t be appropriate. So I thought it would brighten up the staff-room.’
‘I dread being given plants,’ said Lily.
‘Really?’ asked John, suddenly crestfallen.
‘Yes, I had one last Christmas and all the leaves fell off. I vowed never to have one again.’
‘Never mind,’ said Vera. ‘Perhaps you just haven’t got green fingers.’
John stared forlornly out of the window towards his car.
‘Anyway, must rush,’ said Lily. ‘I’m getting my hair done and then my mother is preparing a birthday tea.’
Lily was aware that John appeared as if there was something important he wished to say. On occasions during recent days she had noticed him looking at her, just a glance, never a stare. In her presence he spoke less and smiled often. Although he kept his distance, he was never far away. It occurred to her that John had become a reassuring presence, a trusted friend – but, of course, never more than that.
‘Enjoy your evening,’ said Vera.
‘Yes, happy birthday, Lily,’ said John quietly.
It was a hasty farewell and after Vera had departed the school was silent. John sat at his desk and took out the school logbook. He unscrewed the top of his fountain pen and began to record the events of the day. There was no mention of a poinsettia.
The hairdresser’s was empty apart from Diane when Lily walked in. Diane was sitting on a chair by the closed window smoking a cigarette. ‘Hello, Miss Briggs,’ she said. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘I get “Miss Briggs” all day at school,’ said Lily with a grin, ‘so please call me Lily.’
Diane stubbed out her cigarette and smiled in the mirror. ‘Right then, Lily, what’s it t’be?’
‘Nothing special – just a trim. It’s down to my shoulders now, so perhaps an inch or so.’
‘You’ve got lovely ’air,’ said Diane. ‘I could do with your picture up there.’ She gestured with her hairbrush towards the collect
ion of film stars.
‘Thanks,’ said Lily. ‘Fortunately I don’t have to bother with it much.’
‘You’re lucky. Most of my customers would pay a fortune for a ’ead of ’air like this.’
Lily settled back in the chair, enjoying the freedom from small children pulling at her skirt while she repaired kings’ crowns and shepherds’ crooks. Diane brushed her hair gently and then got to work with her comb and sharp scissors.
‘So, how’s Sergeant Feather these days?’
Lily knew the hairdresser’s was famous for its village gossip. ‘He’s certainly a good policeman – so I’ve heard.’
Diane smiled. ‘He’s still a man though, Lily, an’ they’re all alike.’
It was Lily’s turn to smile. Tom Feather was not like other men. He was different.
When Lily got off the bus in Kirkby Steepleton and walked home to Laurel Cottage a happy occasion was in store. Florence had worked hard with meagre rations to produce a fine party tea. Also, Freddie had made a card. It had a crayoned picture of himself holding hands with Florence and Lily.
‘I wanted to draw Dad, but I couldn’t remember what he looked like.’
Florence walked to the mantelpiece and took down a photograph in a frame. It was Arthur and Florence on their wedding day in 1924. ‘He was a wonderful man, but Jesus wanted him to go and live with the angels in heaven.’
‘Will Jesus send him back?’
‘No, dear,’ said Florence. ‘He’ll always be in heaven.’
‘Will I get to see him again?’ asked Freddie.
Suddenly there was a knock on the door.
Florence looked sharply at Lily. ‘I think I know who that might be.’ She glanced at the clock and shook her head. ‘Late for a visit.’
Lily opened the door and Tom stood there in his uniform. ‘Come in out of the cold,’ she said.
‘Only for a moment,’ he said. ‘Happy birthday.’ He handed over a sealed envelope. ‘Your card,’ he added with a smile.
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