‘I’m sure we’re all very glad to hear that,’ Marian said warmly.
‘Oh, there’s Annie,’ I exclaimed, spotting her walking in. ‘I thought she’d be going to the other rehearsals on Thursdays?’
‘She’s very kindly going to assist the vicar, too, since he hasn’t done this before,’ Clive said, then clapped his hands and announced into the resultant silence, ‘To your places, please!’
Everyone separated to his or her group. Mine was small, since I was in charge of only the Fall of Satan, the Creation and my own scene in the Garden of Eden.
We began with the Fall of Satan, which is basically just the Voice of God (which I read, in Roly’s absence) and Lucifer, plus nine entirely silent angels.
As always, God has the last word: ‘I am reet disappointed in thee, Lucifer, thou art too sharp for thine own good. I loved thee like a son, yet thou art naught but a foul fiend, fit only for t’pit of damnation. Get thee gone!’
After this, Lucifer vanishes in a puff of yellow smoke, signifying the sulphurous fumes of Hell, with a receding wail — or in some years a shriek, depending on the interpretation of the role. At any rate, he vanishes. We ran through it a couple of times, then I released the angels to go over to the vicar’s corner, where they were required during the Nativity to join with the shepherds and Three Wise Men in a stirring rendition of ‘Silent Neet, ’Oly Neet’ around the manger.
The Creation is a monologue by the Voice of God, with sound effects off, and after I’d read through that I handed over the directing to Lucifer while I put Nick through his paces as Adam. He refused a script and had evidently been studying the video of last year’s Mystery, because he was word perfect and you couldn’t fault his Lancashire accent.
It went smoothly right up to the point where he asked, ‘What are thou eating, Eve?’
I replied: ‘’Tis a fruit the snake told me were reet tasty — and see, yonder birds peck at it and come to no ill. Dost thou want a bite, flower?’
I offered him an imaginary apple and he said warmly, ‘From you, darling, anything!’
‘That’s not in the script,’ Lucifer objected.
‘I thought we could change the script if we liked?’ Nick said innocently.
‘Only if it’s an improvement — this is serious,’ I said severely. ‘Stop messing about.’
‘I was serious,’ he protested, and Lucifer grinned. I was just glad I’d sent the angels away, reducing the audience by nine in one stroke.
‘And don’t think me coy, but on the night, how do we preserve our modesty, Lizzy? I’ve forgotten.’
‘In my case, with a very long wig and a bodystocking. The last Adam wore a pair of beige swimming trunks and carried a strategically placed leather bucket. Apparently, in the old days Adam and Eve used to speak their lines standing behind boards painted to look like bushes.’
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ he said gravely. ‘Is it a big bucket?’
I gave him a stern look: we seemed to be rapidly reverting to the innuendo and sparring of our teenage years, and this was a Nick I’d pretty well forgotten ever existed. Perhaps the euphoria of pending divorce had brought it out in him again?
‘Thou hath tasted t’fruit of knowledge that wor forbidden thee and found it sweet — yet shall it be bitter henceforth on thy tongue!’ read Lucifer, in his temporary role as Voice of God, though still grinning. We stopped for refreshments after that, before I ran everyone through their lines again: I would work on the movements and check the props and costumes during later rehearsals.
‘That’ll do for tonight,’ I said finally, and went to see how Annie and Gareth were getting on with the Nativity cycle.
Dave Naylor from the garage, as Joseph, was wheeling Mary to Bethlehem on the back of an old-fashioned butcher’s boy bike. On the night of the performance a star lantern is hauled slowly across the stage on a wire, a very pretty effect.
‘Not far to go now, luv. Bethlehem’s on t’horizon, ower yonder.’
Mary, who was inspecting her fuchsia-painted fingernails, replied absently, ‘The sooner the better, chuck, for my time’s close — but will we find a place t’lay our heads?’
‘I’ll find thee a roof ower thy head this night, flower,’ Joseph promised, ‘no matter what, don’t thee worry thi’sen.’
‘So,’ the vicar said to Annie, ‘the bike represents the donkey. But there is a real donkey on the night, is there?’
‘Not any more. We stick to the bike for the performance, too.’
Gareth looked baffled.
‘We used to have a donkey,’ I chipped in, ‘but it was more trouble than it was worth, and when it died of old age someone suggested the bike. The rack on the front is really handy for carrying baby Jesus on the flight into Egypt later, too.’
‘Er … yes,’ he agreed. ‘I suppose it would be.’
I looked critically at Mary, who worked at the hairdresser’s in Mossedge. ‘I hope Kylie’s going to lose the false fingernails and not chew gum on the actual night.’
‘Yes, she’s really taking it very seriously,’ Annie assured me. ‘She said she was going to put that cushion up her T-shirt tonight even though it’s not a costume rehearsal, so she’d get the right posture for sitting on the bike.’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Nick said, having followed me over.
Clive clapped his hands again, thanked everyone for coming and said he would see them every Tuesday until Christmas.
‘Now we all go and unwind in the pub,’ Annie informed Gareth.
‘Oh, do we?’ He was looking a little dazed, as well he might, but his eyes when they rested on Annie were almost dog-like in their devotion, which was bound to appeal to her.
‘Where’s Jasper tonight?’ Nick asked me as we left.
‘At home. One of his friends is staying over and I left them pizza ready to heat up, and some strawberries dipped in chocolate as a treat.’
‘You’re a good — if weird — mother,’ he commented, as we all trooped out of the door onto the green, where Ritch Rainford stood leaning against a tree, smoking.
Marlboro man.
Until that moment I’d entirely forgotten what he’d said about turning up — not that I’d really thought he’d meant it in the first place. I stopped dead and Nick practically fell over me.
Ritch ground the cigarette out under his heel and walked over rather beautifully, as if the cameras were on him. ‘Hi Lizzy, good rehearsal?’
He glanced around at the others, smiling generally, like warm sunshine. ‘Lizzy said she thought you wouldn’t mind if I tagged on tonight to the pub?’
‘No, I didn’t!’ I muttered half under my breath, though clearly Nick thought it was an assignation because he gave me a dirty look. I couldn’t see what it’d got to do with him anyway, though, even if I had been making assignations with Ritch, except, I suppose, that it was a bit early for his cousin’s widow to be involved with another man.
But I wasn’t involved, and I was sure Ritch couldn’t be seriously interested in me, so perhaps he just wanted to get out and meet the locals.
‘I’m Ritch Rainford, you know,’ he told everyone. ‘I’ve just moved into the village.’
Fortunately, most of them did know who he was and swept him along with us. Some of the locals were certainly glad to meet him: Kylie was hanging on to his every word, and she’s terribly pretty despite two nose rings and shocking pink hair, so I might well be worrying needlessly.
At the pub, which was rather full, I managed to slide onto a bench seat next to Annie. She had Gareth on her other side and he was looking about him as if he’d never been in such a place before, which for all I know he hadn’t, an innocent abroad. But he was in safe hands.
Ritch’s arrival had caused a minor sensation and, even if he’d wanted to sit by me, which I dare say he didn’t, by the time he’d disentangled himself from his admirers Nick had got there first.
He rang the bell on the wall behind my head. ‘This has got to be one of the few
pubs left where you can ring for service and have your drinks brought over,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘That way, you don’t lose your seat when you get up.’
Ritch pulled up a chair opposite and, leaning over, said in his warm, intimate, liquid-chocolate voice, ‘So … rehearsals go well, Lizzy? What part are you playing?’
‘Eve, and yes, we made a good start.’
‘And Nick is playing Adam, Annie tells me, now the original actor has had to drop out,’ Gareth said. ‘Keeping it in the Pharamond family!’ He smiled around genially.
‘Really? I wish I’d known about it because I’d have loved to have played Adam to Lizzy’s Eve!’ Ritch said. ‘She could tempt me to anything!’
‘I’m sure you’d have been brilliant, but the actors need to be local people, because of the commitment,’ Annie explained diplomatically. ‘I expect you’re much too busy to give up all that time!’
When our drinks came, the barmaid also apologetically handed me a folded paper. ‘Landlord says he’s sorry to bother you, Mrs Pharamond, but if you could see your way to settling up this bill, he’d be very grateful.’
I unfolded it and glanced at the total, which was pretty huge. Nick leaned over and took it from my hand, though I tried to snatch it back. ‘Tom’s bar tab? I’ll take it back with me to add to the rest, for Roly to settle.’
‘I wish you’d give it back! I don’t see why Roly should have to settle all Tom’s bills — and for goodness’ sake, how many more are there?’ I added despairingly.
‘Oh, I should think that’s about the last,’ he said, tucking it into his jeans pocket, from where I certainly wasn’t going to try to retrieve it.
I glowered at him, but he smiled blandly and turned to talk to Marian Potter. Kylie had cornered Ritch’s attention again — he was either giving her his autograph or his phone number, or possibly both. On my other side, Annie and Gareth were totally engrossed in their own conversation.
The noise level in the packed bar was now so high it was hard to hear what anyone who wasn’t right next to you was saying, though I nodded and smiled at friends who seemed to be mouthing in my direction. After a while, feeling I’d had enough, I nudged Nick in the ribs with my elbow.
He grunted and turned.
‘Do you think you could let me out? I’d like to go home.’
Ritch caught my eye and, leaning forward until his golden head practically touched mine, said, ‘Are you going, Lizzy? I’ll walk you home.’
‘No need,’ Nick said, draining his pint and slamming down the empty tankard, ‘I’m going the same way.’
‘But I’d like to,’ Ritch said stubbornly, half-rising to his feet.
‘Do stay, Ritch!’ I said hastily. ‘Nick has to walk right past my cottage to get to the Hall anyway, so we might as well go together.’
Better the devil you know, after all.
Ritch looked at me, eyes bluer than cornflowers and, I’m sure, as sincere as a quagmire. ‘Right … well, I’ll ring you, then.’
‘Ring you about what?’ Nick demanded as soon as we were outside in the blessedly cool, quiet evening.
‘Pet-sitting Flo, his bull terrier — and I’m so sorry to drag you away from your long and clearly engrossing conversation with Marian.’
‘I wanted the secret ingredient in her Lancashire hotpot recipe,’ he said simply.
‘Oh.’
There was a silence as we walked up the quiet village street and along the lane. Then, as we turned through the stone gateposts of the Hall, I said, following my somewhat tortuous train of thought, ‘What do you think about drinking your own pee?’
He stopped dead, though it was a bit too dark to make out his expression. ‘What? You do say the damnedest things! Do you mean like on the Bounty, when they ran out of water and there was nothing else? At least, I think it was the Bounty.’
‘No, it’s some health thing — supposed to be good for you.’
‘I do vaguely remember reading about it, now I come to think about it,’ he said slowly, ‘but I don’t think it’s likely to take off, Lizzy! You aren’t thinking of trying it, are you?’
‘God no!’ I shuddered. ‘Horrible thought.’
‘Why are we talking about it, then?’ he asked reasonably.
‘I know someone who does it and I just wondered. It seems very odd to me.’
‘It seems very odd to me, too,’ he agreed. ‘Lizzy—’
‘What?’
‘Nothing!’ he snapped abruptly and, abandoning me outside the cottage, turned and strode off into the darkness, back towards the drive.
‘Hi, Mum, nice night?’ Jasper asked as I staggered wearily in. He was collecting Cokes and an indigestible assortment of snacks out of the fridge.
‘Don’t ask!’
He grinned. ‘We’re playing computer games in my room. OK if we drop Stu home on the way to the dig in the morning? It’s not far out of the way.’
‘If you can get him up that early,’ I agreed. ‘And me. I’m off to bed, I’m shattered!’
I did look for the chocolate strawberries first, though, but they’d all gone. I ate a slice of cold cheese and onion pizza instead, followed by a frozen banana dipped in maple syrup and chopped nuts.
It’s no wonder I had bad dreams.
Chapter 17: Tart
Most villages have a summer fête but in Middlemoss, for reasons long forgotten, we have ours in mid-September. Despite this, the weather is always Indian summer good, which is generally thought to be a reward from on high for performing our local Mystery Play so faithfully every year.
The Perseverance Chronicles: A Life in Recipes
Annie and the vicar were also helping with the second Mystery Play rehearsal and I popped down under the pretext of dropping off the bags of candyfloss she’d asked me to make for the fete, though really I was simply curious to see how the other scenes were going.
I arrived just as Satan was tempting Jesus. ‘Si’thee, Jesus, tha’s been biding here in t’wilderness some time now,’ he said. ‘Art though not famished? Would thee not like a bite of Hovis and a sup of brew?’
‘Nay, gi’ower — there’s nowt thou can tempt me wi’, for thy beautiful face hides a foul heart,’ responded Dave Naylor’s son Gary, bringing an interesting touch of Goth gloom to the part. ‘Man can’t live b’bread alone and I want none of thy offerings — get thee gone!’
‘I don’t remember anyone mentioning Hovis before,’ I commented to Annie, handing her the bags of candyfloss.
‘No, I think that’s a touch of Gary’s own,’ she agreed. ‘I only hope he doesn’t turn the water into Alcopop during the Miracles!’
Then the actors were called for the Resurrection and I left before Marian could rope me in for anything.
Most of the indigent population spent the week before the fête polishing their marrows, arranging flowers, baking, or labelling jars of preserves and pickles, for the various prizes were always strongly contested. Annie and I were no exceptions: her cheese scones always swept the board and her fruit tea bread was legendary.
I enter only a few categories (but usually win them), among them Best Plate Apple Pie and Best Middlemoss Marchpane, the latter being a local delicacy consisting of an open mincemeat tart in an almond pastry case, the top water-iced and criss-crossed with marzipan strips. Yummy.
As expected, on Saturday morning the warm sun shone down on the small field next to the village hall where two marquees had been erected. They were the same ones used to keep the local sheep dry during lambing and they are also hired out for wedding receptions, so we’ve all come to associate the smell of damp wool with celebrations.
The fête is always run with military precision by Marian and Clive, who I’m sure would both spontaneously combust from sheer, pent-up excess energy if they did not have the entire management of every activity that goes on in the Mosses.
One or two of the minor celebrities now living amongst us had probably half-expected to be asked to open the fête, but Mimi alway
s does it, having assumed the role as of right on the death of Unks’ wife years ago. It would certainly be more than the Potters’ lives were worth to attempt to change something so fixed in her head.
Wearing a drab cotton safari skirt suit sporting many pockets, slightly muddy Gertrude Jekyll boots and incongruously lacy cotton gloves, Mimi briskly admonished the gathered throng to spend lots of money, because the church roof had seen better days and, with no more ado, declared the fête open.
Then she leaped from the podium with surprising agility and trotted over to the plant stall, which she appeared to think was some kind of free lucky dip for gardeners, snatching up anything that took her fancy and leaving poor Juno to pay for (and carry) it all, like a royal lady-in-waiting.
Ted, the old gardener who helps her up at the Hall, hovered at her elbow, offering unwanted advice in an agonised bleat: ‘You don’t want that, Miss Mimi! That won’t do well, Miss Mimi, not in our soil it won’t — and who’s going t’plant all of ’em, that’s wor I’d like t’know?’
He gloomed away unheeded until Juno suggested he help carry everything to the Daimler, at which point he switched to the subject of his bad back and melted away into the crowd, so I gave her a hand instead.
I thought I might as well, since I felt at rather a loose end: Jasper was at his dig, which meant that this was the first year I’d come here alone, and it felt odd … but it was something I was quickly going to have to get used to. In fact, he’d probably just been good-naturedly humouring me the last year or two by coming with me!
The sudden realisation that life wasn’t ever going to be the Lizzy and Jasper Show again was almost unbearably poignant. How thin and near-transparent the folds of time are! I could almost step through them into another dimension, where the child Jasper would put his hot, sticky small hand in mine, dragging me towards the swingboats, or to ride his favourite giraffe on the little roundabout … I could see him excitedly dipping into the bran tub, or clutching some cheap, hideous, furry toy I’d spent pounds winning for him.
I’m a sentimental idiot: even the smell of the toffee apples made the tears come to my eyes.
The Magic of Christmas Page 18
