Winter Solstice
Page 54
“Elfrida!”
They stopped and saw Tabitha, Rory and Clodagh behind them, having walked down the steep lane from the Manse.
“Hello! I thought we were early, but it seems we’re not. I’ve never seen so many people….”
“I know, it’s fun, isn’t it?” Tabitha wore a tartan coat and had wound a red muffler around her neck.
“It’s always like this. People come for miles…. The only thing is, we’ve had a bit of a setback. Alistair Heggie, the organist, has got flu, so we won’t have any proper music.”
Elfrida was horrified.
“You mean, we’ve got to sing carols unaccompanied? I can’t bear it….”
“Not quite. Peter rang Bill Croft, the television man, and he’s come to the rescue and set up a ghetto blaster, and we’re going to use taped music. It’s a bit of a come-down, but better than nothing.”
“Oh, that is disappointing … poor Peter.”
“Oh, it can’t be helped. Come on, with a bit of luck we’ll get a pew to ourselves.”
They crossed the street to the wide gates and the path beyond, which led to the wide flight of stone steps and the double doors of the church. Tonight, these had been flung wide open. Light from inside streamed out onto the cobbles, and Elfrida could hear the taped music from within the church. A choir. Singing carols.
“God rest you, merry gentlemen. Let nothing you dismay.”
It sounded a bit mechanical and tinny. A bit, thought Elfrida, like a portable gramophone played on a picnic. Inappropriate and somehow inadequate.
“For Jesus Christ our”
Silence. Either the tape player had broken down, or some person had inadvertently switched off the electricity.
“Oh, no!” said Rory.
“Don’t say the ghetto blaster’s got flu.”
And then it started. A great surge of sound from the organ. Huge chords and waves of music filled the church, overflowed out through the open doors, resounded up and out into the night.
Elfrida stopped dead. She looked at Tabitha, and Tabitha’s eyes were wide and innocent. For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Then Elfrida said, “Did Peter ring Oscar? About a quarter past eleven?”
Tabitha shrugged.
“No idea. Come on, kids, see if we can find somewhere to sit.”
And she turned and ran up the steps, with her two children and Lucy at her heels.
After a moment, Elfrida followed. A nice man with a beard was waiting for her. He said, “Good evening, Mrs. Phipps,” and handed her a hymn-book. She took it automatically, neither looking at him nor thanking him. She walked into the church and saw that it was already nearly filled, the congregation shuffling into their places, leaning to chat to neighbours or to others sitting behind them. The music thundered all about her, filling the huge void of the soaring arched ceiling, echoing down the long nave. She began to walk down the centre aisle, which was paved in red and blue. Walking in to the music was like stepping into a pounding sea of sound.
A hand touched her arm. She stopped.
“Elfrida. Here.” It was Lucy.
“We’re keeping seats for you and Sam and Carrie.”
She took no notice. Did not move.
The Christmas tree, lavishly decorated and twinkling with lights, stood in the middle of the transept, between the pulpit and the lectern. Beyond this, against the north wall of the church, the organ pipes soared. The organist’s seat was enclosed by an oaken stall, so that he was not visible to the seated assembly. But Elfrida was standing. And she was tall. An overhead spotlight shone down upon him, and she could clearly see his head, his profile, and the thick white hair, rendered unruly by the unselfconscious exuberance of his own performance.
Beethoven.
“Ode to Joy.”
And Oscar Blundell, playing his heart out. Reconciled. Returned. Back where he belonged.