by Debbie Young
“Good Lord, Sophie, you’ve very nearly sold out. Well done. Let’s leave the rest of them by the till, and I’m sure they’ll all go by Christmas.”
I abandoned Damian and went over to join him. “Thanks for everything, Hector. We couldn’t have done it without you.”
He switched off the music player.
“I know. But you know the Writers couldn’t have done it without you either.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, just listen to yourselves,” said Damian bitterly, stalking out of the shop without even saying goodbye.
38 Girls on Film
“I’ve very nearly run out of disk space.”
Having come straight to the shop from school the Monday after the dress rehearsal, Tommy pressed the play button on his camera to show me the footage. It was exciting to see the cast in costume. Suddenly the whole play started to feel real.
“If you want to keep all of this, I’m going to have to download it somewhere, so that I’ve got enough space to record the performance.”
“That’s OK, Tommy,” I said. “I’m sure Hector won’t mind if you dump it on to the shop’s computer drive.”
“Oh, won’t he?” said Hector, emerging from the stockroom with a heavy box of books. “Let’s watch it first, then we can decide whether it’s worth keeping. I’ve just got to drop these text books up to the school office. You can show me the film when I get back.”
I held the shop door open for him, then went to join Tommy in the tearoom, where he sat bent over the small screen.
This time, it seemed the rehearsal had gone so well that Tommy had got bored. I suppose it was hardly surprising when he’d seen the play so often that he knew most of the lines off by heart. Now he was trying to liven the proceedings up for himself by providing a running commentary.
“Oh God, what does she think she looks like?” he muttered, as the Angel Gabriel assumed a dramatic pose.
“He’s much too old to be a baby’s dad,” was his verdict on Joseph, as Ian lifted the Baby Annabell doll from the manger to show to the shepherds.
Half way through the wise men’s journey, Tommy wandered down the aisle and out of the church to stand on the gravel path, panning along the High Street. I’m not sure what he was expecting to see there – three parked camels, perhaps.
What he found on the road by the lych gate surprised us both: the side door of Damian’s van sliding open, and a young woman stepping down, cradling a baby in her arms. The camera angle didn’t allow us to see the face beneath her raised hood, and I couldn’t be sure in the daylight, but I was almost certain that she was the mother who had stood at the edge of the crowd at the lights ceremony, before disappearing at the moment of the explosion.
Any chance of further inspection was thwarted by Tommy cutting away to the bus stop across the street. He zoomed in on a pair of teenagers canoodling in a corner of the bus shelter.
“Hold on, Tommy – can you rewind a bit please?” I asked.
“What, just when we’re getting to the good bit? Don’t waste the battery, it’s nearly flat.”
Despite the red low-power warning flashing in the corner of the screen, I reached across to press the back arrow. Damian’s mysterious passenger descended from the van once more.
“Who’s that girl, Tommy? Do you know her? Is she from the village?” I assumed he’d know more villagers than I did, having lived here all his life.
“I dunno. Damian’s girlfriend?”
I frowned. “Damian told me he didn’t have a girlfriend the day he arrived. Even if he had brought one with him, surely he wouldn’t have left her in the van while he’s lodging at Carol’s? What sort of girl would put up with that treatment? Especially one with a baby.”
Tommy shrugged. “Maybe he has to keep her locked up to stop her escaping. Maybe he doesn’t want a noisy baby in Carol’s house with him. Or maybe he doesn’t know she’s there.”
“Don’t be daft, Tommy. Even Damian couldn’t fail to notice two stowaways in a van that size. And whose baby is it anyway?”
Tommy looked at me as if I was stupid. “Hers, of course. Unless she’s some kind of travelling babysitter.”
“No, no, I mean who’s its father? If it’s Damian’s—”
I cut myself short, remembering I was speaking to a child. Too much information. And in any case, it was too humiliating to say aloud the fact that if Damian was the baby’s father, he must have been two-timing me before we split up. How could I have been so naïve?
I pressed the freeze-frame button and peered more closely at the baby’s face, to check for any resemblance to Damian. That wasn’t easy in one so young or so blurry. Then to my annoyance, the camera screen went blank.
“I told you so, you’ve worn the battery out,” said Tommy bitterly. “And I didn’t bring the charger lead with me.”
But I’d seen enough. As I leaned back in my chair, I closed my eyes, picturing the baby’s thick blond hair. A baby Viking. I paid no attention to the shop door creaking open. Any customers would have to wait.
“Tommy, do you know what? I am certain the baby must be Damian’s.”
That was all I could bear to admit.
A gust of cold air made me turn towards the open door. Hector, just returned from the village school, was standing in the threshold, stony faced. Then he turned on his heel and marched off round the side of the shop. A moment later, I heard him start the engine of his Land Rover and drive off.
39 Father, Dear Father
“What’s wrong with him?” asked Tommy petulantly, stuffing the camera back into his parka pocket. He hadn’t forgiven me for wasting the last of his camera battery.
“I really don’t know. But I need a cup of tea.”
While waiting for the kettle to come to the boil, I made Tommy a chocolate milkshake with trembling hands. Then a text alert pinged on my phone, and I pulled it from my pocket to read it.
“I need time to think. Please lock up at closing time.”
No signature. No love. No kisses. I was bewildered.
“What’s up?” asked Tommy, peering across the tearoom counter to inspect my phone screen. I turned it away from him. I wanted to protect Tommy from any more bad relationship role models. He got enough of that at home.
I waited till he’d slurped up his milkshake and left the shop before deciding what to do. To my annoyance, a series of customers trickled in and out for the next half hour, and I served them as best I could, although my head was spinning. I dropped one person’s change all over the floor, and when another paid by card, I hit the buttons in the wrong order three times, issuing a series of void receipts with growing embarrassment at my ineptitude.
Only when all the customers had gone, and I was setting the security alarm, did the pieces fit together. I didn’t know whether to be sad, hurt, offended or outraged at Hector’s assumption.
Wary of conversation for fear of making things worse, I composed a careful text to set him straight. Only after hitting “send” did it occur to me that his mother or father might see it – or whoever else he had fled to. Then I locked the front door and went home.
I’d barely had time to light the woodburner before there was a knock on the door. On the doorstep stood Hector with a bunch of service station flowers in his arms, so he must have got at least as far as the motorway before he got my text.
“I feel so stupid,” he said glumly.
I’d planned not to rush to forgive him, but he looked so wretched that I took his hand, rather than the flowers, and pulled him across the threshold into my arms. The bouquet fell to the floor.
“Whatever made you think it was my baby we were talking about?” I said gently into his hair. “How could I possibly be pregnant? Not with Damian’s baby, anyway.”
Hector pulled back and covered his face with his hands.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking straight. It’s just that it seemed as if Damian had been trying to reclaim you, and I thought—”
“Well, don’t thi
nk. Please. How could it have been Damian’s when I hadn’t seen him since June? Did you think he’d been hiding somewhere nearby for secret liaisons with me in the meantime? Honestly, Hector! You’re usually so sensible, too.”
Hector dropped his hands from his face and reached out for mine.
“I’m sorry, Sophie. It was like – like a flashback to Celeste, when she deserted me for someone else, just when I least expected it. I suppose I just panicked.”
I bent to rescue the bouquet, which had landed, flowers down, on the rug.
“And even if I was pregnant, do you think I’d be asking Tommy’s advice about fathers? How tactless do you think I am?”
Hector slouched over to the sofa, but brightened as the news sunk in that Tommy and I had been talking about someone else.
“So whose baby has Damian fathered? Please God, don’t tell me Carol’s expecting.”
I laughed a little sadly. “No, Carol’s already told me that ship has sailed.” I laid the flowers gently on my desk, and went down to sit close beside him. “I really don’t know whose baby Tommy captured on film, nor who its mother or father is.”
I was about to fill him in on the mysterious figure in the van, but then Hector put his arms about me, and all conversation petered out.
40 On with the Show
“You’re not getting cold feet, are you, Sophie?” Hector and I stood at the back of the empty church, surveying the manger scene in the nave. In less than half an hour, at six o’clock, the church doors were due to open to admit the public.
“No, I’ve got my thermal socks on.”
“Not that sort of cold feet, silly. I mean, about seeing your play performed in public.”
I sighed. I didn’t know really.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said briskly. “The costumes look terrific, for a start. I’m sure the audience will make allowances for the preponderance of cats and dogs.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I’m not so sure about the tiger, the polar bear and the penguin, though.”
“Don’t worry, they’ll blend in. Even the unicorn. Ian’s done a marvellous job with the set.”
It was true, Ian had surpassed himself. He’d persuaded John, the school caretaker, to wrestle a wooden garden gazebo from the playground into the church, and somehow they’d managed to thatch it. In a farming village, there’s never any shortage of hay.
“I know. But aren’t you familiar with the theatrical superstition that if the dress rehearsal goes well, the first night will be a disaster? Well, the dress rehearsal couldn’t have gone better. No-one forgot a single line. And our first night is our only night. We have now or never to get it right.”
Hector put his arm around me, and I leaned into him for comfort. “I think you’re just tired, Sophie. It’s not as if it’s Broadway. The New York Broadway, I mean, not the Cotswolds one.”
I laughed. “But it’s important to me. The cast have worked so hard at rehearsals, and all their friends and family will be coming along to support us. They mean much more to me than an audience of hundreds of strangers in a proper theatre. I don’t want to let anyone down.”
Or to humiliate myself in front of Damian, but I didn’t say that to Hector.
“It’s not as if you’ve had to make it up from scratch. You’ve just rearranged the traditional story. That strategy never did Shakespeare any harm.”
“Yes, but Shakespeare I ain’t.”
I thought that would make my point clear.
“You’re on to a winner, no matter what. No-one can complain that the plot is flawed, or that they can’t work out which character is which, or what their motivation is. Your audience will be determined to enjoy it, come what may. They’ll mostly be related to someone in the cast, so they’ll be willing the production to succeed. You don’t have to worry about technical hitches, because you’re not using any technology – no lights, no microphones, no recordings. What could possibly go wrong?”
I watched Billy making a circuit of the church with a flaming taper, lighting candles on the windowsills and in various alcoves.
“Supposing the stable catches fire? Or the sheep? I bet most of those onesies are made of nylon, so they’ll be inflammable.”
Hector sighed.
“Don’t go to meet trouble half way.”
“That’s what Joshua always says.”
“Well, he’s right. Now, have a medicinal glass of mint tea.”
He led us to the trestle tables at the back of the church, and helped us to two small glasses from the samovar, one of the few souvenirs from his parents’ antique shop. He’d filled it with mint tea, to go with the Middle-Eastern-themed buffet organised by the WI. The spread looked enticing, with stuffed pitta bread, samosas, bread sticks, mince pies and fingers of Christmas cake supplied by Carol’s new baker, and mini kebabs and hummus with vegetable sticks from the PTA. A vast cauldron of mulled wine had been donated by The Bluebird. I hoped such a sumptuous spread would soften the audience’s post-mortem on the play.
As the cooling herbal perfume began to clear my head, Carol came scuttling down the aisle towards us, blowing her taper out. She licked her fingers and pinched the tip to stop it smoking, then stuffed it in her apron pocket, already bulging with string, scissors, and bunches of safety pins. Two needles, one with white and the other with black sewing thread, were stuck through the bib of the apron, at the ready for last-minute costume repairs.
“I suggest you avoid the Christmas cake – and the mince pies may look good, but they’re solid as a doorstop,” she said cheerfully. “I’m going to have to cancel my trial order of that new baker chap’s cakes. I’ve had complaints from the few customers who have bought any. But I haven’t got the heart to do it till after Christmas, especially when he’s given us all this tasty pizza bread and pagodas for free. Oh well, maybe the robins in the churchyard will tuck into it later. All that dried fruit will be a good source of energy in this cold weather. Do you think we’ll have enough chairs?”
Hector raised his eyebrows. “I hope you’ve prepared a sign saying ‘Standing Room Only’? Shall I go and fetch the A-board from the shop?”
I punched his arm for teasing me.
“Do you think that many people will come?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised,” he said calmly. “Plenty of people come to church at Christmas who avoid it the rest of the year. Like me, for example: Exhibit A. You might think you know everyone in the village, but you meet all sorts at the Christmas services that you never see at any other time.”
“Yes, they all come crawling out of the woodworms,” said Carol.
“At least it proves they’re still alive from one year to the next,” said Ian cheerfully, emerging from the vestry in costume. His matter-of-fact approach to life and death was surprising in a village lollipop man.
“The more, the merrier,” said Carol, pink with excitement. “Nice for Mr and Mrs Murray, too. Now, please excuse me. I’d better go and check everyone’s all right with their costumes.”
We watched her almost skip down to the vestry and disappear through the door.
“Blimey, she’s a bit over-excited, even by her standards,” said Ian, cheerily. “Especially considering she doesn’t like Christmas.”
“I suppose it must be fun for her to see her costumes put to good use after all her hard work.”
I reached up to straighten Ian’s headdress.
“She’s been here all day on her own laying out the costumes, so maybe she’s missed lunch and is getting lightheaded. I’ll make her eat something before the show.”
Ian tugged at the lapels of his heavy striped robe to make sure it was hanging evenly. I’d never seen him look so smart.
“The role you were born to play,” said Hector, gallantly, and Ian grinned.
Then Mary, dressed as Mary, came to join us. “I hope you’re not nervous, Sophie.” Mary had been a constant source of reassurance to me ever since I first met her back in the summer. “It’ll go like clockwork,
you’ll see.”
I turned to check the time on the ancient clock above the vestry door. It was stuck at a quarter past two.
41 Like Clockwork
Carol was right. The church was packed. So many bodies provided a welcome warmth to the normally chilly building. Lit only by candles from altar to entrance, the whole church glowed with soft, flattering light, a detail cleverly dreamed up by Damian to create the feeling that we had gone back in time to ancient days.
Hector had tipped me off that the old box pews at the front of the church acted like human storage radiators, and he saved us seats in one. Other villagers made a beeline for the pews rather than the more comfortable chairs at the back. Just before the play was due to start, Hector and I took our seats, and were joined by the vicar’s wife.
At 6pm precisely, Mr Murray processed down the aisle, followed by the church choir, resplendent in red surplices overlaid with white ruff-necked smocks. Their gold medallions glinted in the candlelight.
As the vicar climbed the spiral wooden staircase to the carved oak pulpit, the choir took their usual places in the choir stalls, ready to bolster the children’s singing at strategic moments.
Mr Murray welcomed the audience and provided a brief introduction to the play, praising it as a unique coming together of so many organisations within the village. I felt very proud and not a little astonished to have been the catalyst.
When Hector squeezed my hand encouragingly, I gripped his hand with both of mine to calm my nerves.
The vicar remained in the pulpit, as if it were the Royal Box at the theatre. The cardboard hymn numbers on the board hanging beside him, ready for the Sunday service the next day, caught my eye. It was like a scoreboard. The numbers were worryingly low.
