by Debbie Young
“Please may I ’ave one too, ’ector?”
Hector bent down and held it out kindly. “Of course you can, Ethan. But let Mummy unwrap it before you put it in your mouth.” He grabbed another two chocolate coins and took them over to the Very Hungry Caterpillar fan and the sugar lump conjuror. “Here you go, you’d better have one each, so it’s fair. Is that OK, Mummies?” He stood up straight and smiled winningly at the mums. “Left over from Halloween the other night. I’d over-catered for the callers, so I thought I’d bring the leftovers down for good children in the shop.”
He’ll make a lovely daddy one day, I thought, forgetting for a blissful moment that he already had.
Returning to the counter, Hector smiled coolly at Damian.
“OK, I get the message,” he said crossly. “I’ll pay tomorrow. How much?”
“To you, fifteen quid.”
Flinching, Damian was about to leave when he remembered his audience. He turned back to give a little wave in the direction of the tearoom. “Bye, ladies. See you at my show, perhaps?”
His show? I’d forgotten just how arrogant he was. As the door closed behind him, one of the mums gave a low whistle.
“He’s a handsome devil, isn’t he?” The others nodded, gazing in silence at the door.
Hector, meanwhile, was chatting to the chocolatey toddlers about their board books. He probably appreciated their superior manners.
11 The Playwright’s Audition
Having supplied Damian with the promised second-hand edition of the York Mystery Plays the next day, Hector said no more about their exchange. But he did invite me to come up to his flat for a nightcap after the Players’ meeting that evening. At first I assumed his prime reason was to get the lowdown on the Players’ response to Damian’s suggested script change, but then I wondered whether “nightcap” might also be a euphemism for a sleepover. I stashed a toothbrush and a change of underwear at the bottom of my handbag before setting off for the Village Hall, just in case.
I’d meant to get to the Players’ meeting early to upstage Damian, but spent too long getting ready. Having changed my clothes twice in the hope of looking more like an experienced playwright, I was the last to arrive. By the time I reached the hall, Damian was already holding court, regaling the other seven with some winning theatrical anecdote, no doubt having cast himself as its leading man.
Seven? I counted again. Since Linda’s murder back in the summer, the company had been down to six. Then I realised the seventh person was Carol.
As wardrobe mistress, Carol didn’t usually attend early rehearsals, and given her aversion to Christmas, I hadn’t expected her to be there tonight. Damian’s presence must have been an irresistible draw.
Mary spotted me and waved me over.
“Hi, Sophie, good to see you. We can’t wait to start rehearsing your new play.”
Before I sat down, I pulled their photocopies of my script out of my bag. My knickers, caught up on one of the bulldog clips holding the scripts together, fell out on to the floor. I hoped no-one saw.
I distributed the scripts to their eagerly outstretched hands. Damian’s remained clasped around the small blue hardback book on his lap. I gave his copy to Carol instead.
“Of course, you’ve already seen it,” I said to him pointedly.
He shot me a challenging stare, and moved his chair a couple of inches closer to Carol’s. “That’s OK, Sophie, I’ll share Carol’s.” Carol squealed with pleasure.
“I wrote each part specifically with one of you in mind,” I explained. “Mary, you’re Mary. I thought that would be less confusing for the children.”
“How lovely. I’ve always wanted to be Mary.”
Damian looked at her as if she was simple.
“Ian, you’re Joseph. I know you were hoping for a title role in the next production, but just think of this part as God’s handyman, and that’s pretty important.”
Ian looked pleased. Pulling a highlighter pen out of his pocket, he started to search for his lines.
“Sally, I thought you’d be a terrific head shepherd, as I know the children will follow you anywhere.” I’d seen Sally in action at the school as playground supervisor. “By process of elimination, the rest of you are the wise men. I’m sure Carol will run up some wonderful costumes for you.”
To my relief, Carol nodded eagerly. “I’m thinking lots of brocade, shiny chintz and thick velvet, to hang well and rustle as you move. I’ve got some great materials in my trunk of old curtains. They’ll be a fabulous contrast to the simple cottons and linens of the other characters.”
“Don’t forget the tea-towels on their heads.” Although Damian’s tone was sarcastic, Carol noted it on her script.
“The school staff playing the other parts won’t be joining us till next week’s meeting,” I said, taking charge. “But shall we have a read-through of your parts now?”
Damian held up his hand to intervene. “Just a moment, folks. Before we go any further, I propose we step back to consider whether we’ve got the right script.”
Ian flipped back to the title page. “Yes, it’s definitely Sophie’s nativity play.”
Damian held up his little blue book. “Ah, but have you ever considered a more traditional approach?”
“A more traditional approach? You can’t get much more traditional than a nativity play. I hope you’re not going to suggest a pantomime.” Mary was ready to defend her longed-for chance to play the Blessed Virgin against any competition.
Damian tapped his book. “Same story, but with a more poetic script. The ancient medieval mystery plays have been staged for vast audiences all over the country for centuries. Filled with beautiful language, they provide the perfect vehicle to bring the traditional Christmas story to the masses.”
“Vehicles? We don’t want to perform our play in the street,” said Sally, frowning. “And at this time of year, we want to be indoors in the warm.”
Damian looked arch. “Ah, you may jest.” It was clear from Sally’s expression that she did not. “But I’m not proposing we perform the play on carts pulled around town, as they did in medieval times. We’ll give ours on stage, indoors, for the sake of convenience. That’s easy enough.”
“But a mystery play?” said Ian. “That’s hardly in keeping with the spirit of Christmas. I know they always put an Agatha Christie on telly, but I don’t think it’s appropriate to have a murder mystery as our first joint drama venture with the school. Does the audience have to guess whodunnit? Is it a shepherd or a king?”
“Not much mystery there,” said Mary. “It’s obvious the baddie is going to be Herod, ordering all the under-twos dead. That would give the children nightmares.”
“Especially the under-twos,” said Sally. “And their parents.”
“Not that sort of mystery,” said Damian sharply. “Of course there’s no murder in the Bible, is there?”
Ian raised his eyebrows. “Well, there’s the crucifixion, for a start.”
Damian waved his comment aside. “In this context, the word mystery is a corruption of maisterye, the old term for a tradesmen’s guild. Each guild would stage an episode of the story.” He opened his book at random. “So you see, here we’ve got the Chandlers’ Guild responsible for the shepherds, the Goldsmiths for the Kings and so on. Pass the book round, and you’ll see it’s perfect.”
He stood up, holding the open book at arm’s length, and declaimed a few lines, other arm flung out, channelling his inner Kenneth Branagh.
“‘Ego sum Alpha et O, Vita Via,
Veritas, Primus et Novissimus.
I am gracious and great, God without beginning;
I am maker unmade, and all might is in me.
I am life and way unto weal winning;
I am foremost and first; as I bid shall it be.
I am maker unmade, and most high in might,
And aye shall be endless, and nought is but I’.”
Always the egotist. Then he handed the book to
Mary, and sat down again. She flicked through to find some of her own potential lines and read them aloud woodenly.
“‘Alas, what ails that fiend,
That through wild ways makes us to went?
He does great sin;
From kith and kin
He makes us flee’.”
She bit her lip anxiously. “Oh my goodness, what a mouthful.”
“That’s alliteration,” explained Damian. “A poetic device. You probably don’t come across it much in your work.”
“No, I’m a nuclear physicist,” said Mary tersely. The others sniggered, except Carol.
As the book was passed round the circle, it emerged the Players were less than keen.
“‘Some marvel surely does it mean, that we shall see’,” read Ian. “That sounds like something Yoda might say. And this sounds like something out of a panto: ‘Ah sirs! Foresight what shall I say? Where is our sign? I see it not.’ We expressly didn’t want panto.” He continued:
“‘Hail! Food that they folk all fully may feed.
Hail! Flower fairest that never shall fade.
Hail! Son that is sent of this same seed.
That shall save us from sin that our sires made
And since thou shalt sit to be deeming,
To hell or to heaven to have us,
Incense to thy service is seeming.
Lord, see to thy servants and save us.’”
“Ooh no, tongue-twister alert,” said Sally reproachfully.
The others murmured their agreement.
When Damian, realising he was losing ground, turned to me with an appealing look, I saw my chance to seize the moral high ground.
“Well, Damian, thank you very much for your thoughtfulness and consideration in bringing your little book along, but I think the Players have made their choice clear. Still, I’m sure you’ll do a wonderful job with my script instead.”
Ian looked up from his copy, which he’d been studying while I was speaking. “Cracking job, Sophie. This dialogue is really natural. We’ll have no trouble learning these lines.”
The others nodded appreciatively.
“Plus of course your script will be free of charge, won’t it?” put in Mary, the group’s treasurer. “I mean, there won’t be any royalties or licence fee to pay, will there?”
Damian waved his book again in defiance. “Nor would there be copyright on a medieval play.”
“No, but that book looks expensive. How much did that set you back?”
“Fifteen quid.”
“Well, then, I rest my case. Now, let’s just all read Sophie’s script through in our heads first, then grab a nice cup of coffee, and then have a proper read-through of the whole thing.”
I beamed. “Thanks, folks. I’ll put the kettle on.” I passed my copy of my script to Damian. “Here, you can refresh your memory. Enjoy.”
Carol, with no lines to read, came out to the kitchen with me to help with the coffees. With the serving hatch still closed, our conversation could not be overheard by the others.
“Thanks for the introduction to Damian, Sophie,” she began, filling the kettle. I sensed she was bursting with the need to talk about him. “He’s been a godsend. He’s already fixed my back bedroom window and replaced all the spent light bulbs. And he got my wifi running faster. I forget how many millipedes per second he said it is now, but it’s very, very fast. Tomorrow he’s going to paint my bathroom.”
“I’m glad he’s making himself useful,” I said, which was true. I spooned coffee into nine mugs.
“He’s good company too. I feel I can really talk to him.” That surprised me. I’d always found Damian a terrible listener. She produced a pint of milk from the basket she’d brought with her from the shop, and opened the cardboard box of sugar lumps. “Even about the most sensitive of subjects. Things I find it difficult to talk about to other people.”
Given that I’d never found Carol anything less than garrulous, I wondered what on earth she could be telling Damian that she’d never told me.
12 A Traditional Nightcap
“I’m pleased to see you too, Sophie.” Hector steadied himself against the door frame as I threw my arms round his neck. “Rehearsal go well, did it?”
When I released him, he closed the front door and followed me up the stairs to his flat.
“Yes! They hated Damian’s idea and loved my script. The read-through was brilliant. It’s going to be fantastic.”
I hung my coat and scarf on the wall pegs and arranged my boots neatly on the floor beneath them.
“Steady on, early days yet. You’ve still got those animals and children to factor in.”
I tutted. “Why does everyone keep saying that? It’s not as if you can have a nativity play without them.”
I sank down into one of the comfy leather wingback chairs that stood sentry either side of the blazing log fire.
“True,” said Hector. “But not all directors cast live animals. How did Damian take their decision?”
I gladly accepted the glass of brandy he put into my hand. Holding it up to the firelight, I admired the colour, as rich as amber but without the fossilised insects.
“He didn’t have much choice. They didn’t hold back any punches. Mary even took him to task for spending £15 on his book.”
Hector settled companionably into the armchair opposite, stretched his stockinged feet out to touch mine, and flashed me a mischievous smile. “Ah, about that book. I’ve got a confession to make. It cost me 50p at a flea market years ago.”
I swirled the brandy round the glass, watching it form a little whirlpool. I wondered whether it would go in the other direction in Australia.
“Gosh, what are the chances of you just happening to have a copy of an obscure drama book like that lying about your flat?”
Hector chuckled. “Quite high, actually. I’ve never told you this before, but I pick up vintage books at car boot sales on Sundays, and sell them at a profit on the internet. I’ve got shelves and shelves of them in my spare bedroom.” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder towards the room behind him. “You can have a browse if you like.”
So that’s what he did with his parents on Sundays.
I did a quick bit of mental arithmetic. “So that’s a 1,500% mark-up then?”
“Which probably makes him my most profitable customer of the year.”
I paused to savour the thought. “By the way, is Mary really a nuclear physicist?”
“What? No, she works in a pet shop in Slate Green.” He laughed when I told him my reason for asking. “Stop it, you’re starting to make me feel sorry for Damian, and I don’t want to.”
“Can I look at your second-hand book collection now?” I thought it might give me more insight into his life outside of work.
“Of course.”
All four walls were covered, floor to ceiling, with crowded bookshelves, the rows of vintage volumes only occasionally broken up by family photos and curios.
I pounced on a silver frame with two oval pictures showing a baby, thinking it must be Hector’s and Celeste’s. In one, the baby was gazing adoringly into the eyes of a beautiful young woman. Was this Celeste? If so, she must be into vintage clothes.
When I observed that the man cuddling the baby in the second photo looked very much like Hector, but with straight hair, I realised the couple must be Hector’s parents, and the baby was Hector himself. No wonder the colours were a bit faded. False alarm.
For a moment, I felt sorry for Celeste’s baby, growing up on the other side of the world from his father. I hoped Kate had spoiled him while she was there. Or was he a her? I didn’t know.
A low cough alerted me to Hector leaning against the door frame, arms folded, head on one side.
“None of the books to your taste, Sophie?” Hastily I shoved the photos back where I’d found them.
“There’s quite a selection here,” I said, pulling the nearest book off the shelf at random. It fell open at a grisly diagram
of a dissected eyeball. I snapped it shut and returned it to the shelf.
“Well, if there are any you want to borrow, help yourself. Or if you’d like recommendations, just say.”
“Have you got a copy of Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol”, please?”
Knowing that was his favourite Christmas book, I thought that request would please him.
He went straight to the slim red volume, its spine tooled in faded gold. “With the original illustrations by John Leech,” he said proudly, offering it to me.
I took the book back to my comfortable fireside chair and cradled the warm brandy glass in my hand.
“I do appreciate your encouraging me to read more widely. I’ve read so many books since I started working at Hector’s House. Most of them have been outside my comfort zone, but I have enjoyed them. I’m sure it’s been good for me.”
“I know. And I also know what you mean about appreciating encouragement.”
With a twinkle in his eye, he nodded towards my handbag, which I’d slung on the floor beside my chair. I looked down to discover that my bag had fallen over, spilling its contents across his shag-pile rug. Nestling down on my white lace knickers, my toothbrush was glinting in the flickering firelight.
“Well, when you said nightcap, I wasn’t sure—”
“My turn to thank you, I think,” he said softly, raising his glass to me.
13 We Will Remember Them
“Before you do anything else this morning, you’d better go home and get a less brightly coloured sweater.”
Sitting at a high stool at the breakfast bar in the small kitchen of Hector’s flat, I was swinging my legs as if I didn’t have a care in the world. I looked down quickly.
“Why, have I dropped yoghurt on it?” I couldn’t see any. “I might get away with it. It’s pretty much the same colour, raspberry.”
Hector’s mouth twitched. “No, you twit, what’s today’s date?” He pointed to a beautifully illustrated wall calendar from the Literally Gifted selection. The poem of the month was by Keats. I read the first stanza.
