by Debbie Young
I’d forgotten how fast news travelled in this village.
“Thank you, I’m sure he’d love it,” said Becky, with a tremor in her voice. “Perhaps you’d like to read it to him some time.”
“But it’s got no words in it,” said Tommy, puzzled.
“No, but you can make up a story about the pictures in it. Just sit him on your lap and show him the pictures. He’d like that.”
Tommy’s shy smile suggested he would too, and he sloped off back towards the buffet, looking pleased.
Next Kate came striding down the aisle to join us.
“Babies, eh, aren’t they great?” she cried cheerfully, tickling Arthur under the chin with a perfectly manicured finger. “I suppose you might call this one a proper godchild since he was left in a manger. Still, children, godchildren, they’re all great, aren’t they? I love babies. Becky, come and look at the font with me. Perhaps you’d like to have him christened here.”
“Ooh, Becky, what a lovely idea,” said Carol, following Kate and Becky down the aisle.
Something else suddenly made sense to me. “Hector, how many godchildren has Kate got?”
Hector looked surprised. “Just me, I think, and my cousin James in Australia.”
“And is there such a thing as a great-godchild?”
“No, not really. A child is either your godchild or they’re not. It’s all determined by who takes the vows at the child’s christening. It doesn’t pass down a line genetically like parenthood. And certainly not in Kate’s case, because neither James nor I have any children. Of course, James is only six, so he’d be a bit young for it, but he’s a great kid.”
A great godchild, in fact. Not Celeste and Hector’s child at all.
I slipped my hand into Hector’s. “I think I could do with another glass of mulled wine.”
50 A Change of Heart
As Hector and I stood by the font, sipping mulled wine from paper cups, watching Carol and her new-found family chatting away, Damian strolled down the aisle to collect Janet from the side chapel.
“You know, I think you might have been a bit harsh on old Damian, Sophie,” said Hector.
I spluttered into my cup. I wondered whether he’d have been so magnanimous if Damian hadn’t been about to leave the village.
“Aren’t you going to say goodbye to him?” added Hector. “I think perhaps you should.”
I gave Hector my cup to refill, then went over to catch Damian and Janet, just as they were about to head out through the porch door. Damian turned around at the sound of my footsteps on the flagstones.
“Sophie?”
I stopped a few paces short of him, aware that Hector might be watching, and not wanting to give him unnecessary cause for jealousy.
“Damian, I wanted to say thank you for all you’ve done. Not just for directing the play – which was brilliant, by the way – but for being so kind to Carol. What you’ve done, bringing Becky and Arthur to the village, will be life-changing for her and for them all. She’s been so lonely since her parents died.”
Damian stroked Janet’s mane. “She was very kind to me too. She needn’t have been. She didn’t know me from Adam. Now I’m just a cuckoo in their nest.”
“Yes, but at least you tarted the nest up while you were there. You did a good job, Damian. You earned your keep. But I’m so glad to hear Becky’s staying. How wonderful!”
“Well, let’s see how they get on long term. It’s early days yet. But you know what? I’ve got a good feeling about this. They both need it to work.”
I knew he was right, but I so wanted Carol to find a happy ending. I gazed at him in silence for a moment.
“You’ve changed, Damian,” I said.
“I know,” he said gently. “Thanks to you and Wendlebury Barrow. Still, that’s what village life is all about, isn’t it? Community? Family? All that slushy stuff? Now, back to reality for me. I’d better hit the road. I told my folks I’d be at theirs by bedtime, and I’ve got to get this donkey parked up first.”
I reached out to stroke Janet’s mane. She really had been no trouble at all.
“I suppose you’ll be spending your Christmas with Hector, then?” Damian asked lightly.
I shook my head. “No, we’re both off to our respective parents. I’m catching a plane to Inverness last thing tonight, and he’ll be driving down to Clevedon on Christmas Eve after he’s closed the shop for the holidays.”
He looked down at Janet’s gentle face for a moment, then tugged at the donkey’s reins to make her walk on. She didn’t move.
“Children and animals, eh? There’ll be none of either in my next production. Apart from a pantomime horse, maybe.”
“Thanks, Damian, for all you’ve done. Take care and have fun in Spain.”
He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Don’t worry, I will.”
Recognising the old Damian once more, I felt a sudden pang of loss. I realised I might never see him again. After all, we had history. I’d spent most of my adult life in league with him.
In the darkness of the church porch, I reached up to give him a gentle farewell kiss on the cheek. My senses jolted at the familiar brush of stiff Viking hair against my brow.
Then with a clip-clop across the flagstones, Janet followed him out into the night.
I dashed back to the font, worried that Hector might be upset if he’d seen me kiss Damian. He hadn’t even noticed. Deep in conversation with the baker, he was waving a stuffed pitta bread in one hand.
“This is fabulous,” he was saying. “You ought to get Carol to stock these in the shop.”
I wondered whether I was the only one to notice the baker’s eyes brighten at this point.
“I’m afraid we don’t do savouries in my bookshop tearoom, only cakes, but if we ever diversify into lunches – make a mental note of that thought, Sophie – I’d definitely like to include some of these in the menu. What do you think, sweetheart?”
He held out his pitta for me to take a bite. I chewed thoughtfully and waited till I’d swallowed before giving my verdict. “Very good, really light and fluffy. Not like a supermarket pitta at all.”
The baker was gazing across the church at Carol.
“Thanks, but I’m thinking that cakes are my best bet financially. There’s more potential profit in fancy cakes, which is why I’ve made them the lynchpin of my new business. I have taken some samples into the village shop, but I’m not sure Carol wants to stock them in the new year.”
My heart melted at his anxious look. I quickly made some excuses for her to spare his feelings. “She has been a bit preoccupied lately, getting all the costumes ready for the play. Why don’t you pop back next week before Christmas to ask her?”
With his hands in his pockets resignedly, he continued to stare at Carol, now engrossed in watching the baby play with a breadstick. “Is that her daughter and grandson?” His voice wavered.
“Yes.” I smiled. “I expect you can see the family likeness.”
“Yes, her daughter’s beautiful too,” he said.
I looked at him in surprise. I’d never thought of Carol as being beautiful before, but I could see now that when she was Becky’s age, she must have been. Through the baker’s eyes, she was beautiful still, especially in the candlelight, pink and animated with excitement.
“Is – is her husband here?” he asked, sounding as if he feared the answer. “I thought she was single.”
He turned his puppy-dog eyes on me.
“No, there’s no husband, no Mr Carol.” I tried not to smile. “Ooh, I don’t suppose you know the time, do you?”
He pulled back his cuff to check. “Just gone half seven. Sorry, am I keeping you?”
Hector butted in. “Sophie has a flight to catch from Bristol Airport in a little while. She’s off to spend Christmas in Inverness with her parents, so we really need to get going, I’m afraid.”
He grabbed my arm and began to steer me towards the door.
“But do chase Car
ol up,” I called over my shoulder. “Offer her your savouries instead of the cakes. And merry Christmas!”
I turned to Hector. “That was a bit rude, dragging me off like that.”
“I thought you were trying to get away from him. He is a bit dull.”
I stopped by the hymnbook table. “No, not at all. Don’t you see? I was trying to detect whether he was married. He had his hands in his pockets. I’d spotted he was right-handed, so I knew that his watch would be on his left wrist. When I asked him the time, it was only to get him to expose his left hand so I could check for a wedding ring.”
“He doesn’t strike me as the marrying kind.”
That’s what Carol said about you, I thought, but didn’t say it.
Now that people were starting to leave the church, the vicar had taken up his post in the porch, shaking hands with his parishioners as they passed by. As we reached the front of the queue, he took my outstretched hand in both of his and held it steady, fixing me with the big brown eyes of one of Santa’s reindeer.
“Sophie, that was marvellous. You managed to inject new zest and fun into the nativity story and make it relevant and engrossing for the villagers, while also keeping alive the awe and wonder about our Lord’s birth. Kate tells me you’re a trained teacher. I wonder whether you’d care to help her restart the village Sunday School? I feel sure you have a special talent for interesting young minds in the teachings of the church.”
His smile was so winning and his hands so warm that I found myself faltering an almost soundless, “Yes, of course.” I felt as if he had cast a spell over me.
51 A Toast to Christmas
Hector and I walked down the path hand in hand towards the lychgate, our other hands warming round polystyrene cups of mulled wine. As our feet crunched on the gravel, I was already regretting how easily the vicar had won me over. I’d never meant to volunteer.
Hector found the idea of me teaching Sunday School amusing.
“Look out, Sophie. With those powers of persuasion, he’ll have you taking holy orders before January is out. ‘Get thee to a nunnery.’”
“I assume that’s a quote rather than a command?”
“Hamlet, to Ophelia. And don’t, by the way. It didn’t do Ophelia any good.”
I turned the conversation on a different tack. “To be honest, I haven’t spared a thought for January yet. I’ve been so focused on getting the nativity play out of the way, I’m not ready for a new year.”
“No, but I bet you’re ready for a break.”
I stopped still on the frosty pavement, mouth open. Surely he wasn’t going to break up with me tonight of all nights?
He pulled at my hand to make me walk on. For a moment, I felt like Janet.
“And after you’ve had a nice break with your parents, maybe—” he coughed “—when you get back, you’d like to come down in the New Year and meet mine?”
I stopped again, stunned by the enormity of what Hector, the self-confessed commitment-phobe, had just said. I drained my mulled wine, then threw my arms round him, crushing my polystyrene cup like a melting snowball. At first I was unable to speak, but that might have been partly because I’d just swallowed a clove.
Then my voice returned.
“Yes,” I said. “Yes, I will. Yes.”
“But first, before I drive you to the airport, let’s go back to my flat for a quick nightcap. We don’t need to leave till about nine.”
“But you’re driving. And you’ve just had mulled wine. You’d better not drink any more alcohol.”
Marching faster now, he squeezed my hand to reassure me, his face deadpan. “Who said anything about having a drink?”
I hastened my step.
Coming Soon
Meanwhile, the baker noted with a sigh that while his pitta wraps had quickly disappeared, most of his mince pies had remained untouched. Accidentally he knocked one on to the floor, where it landed with a thud but remained entirely intact.
He thought everyone loved mince pies at Christmas, but now these would all be wasted. He couldn’t really sell them after they’d been out on display all evening.
Or could he? It wasn’t as if they were sausage rolls or meat pies. They wouldn’t give anyone food poisoning. Mincemeat lasted for ages, didn’t it? A bit like jam. He tried to remember his recent training. Considering he’d downshifted from accountancy to a craft to reduce his stress levels, he was still having far too many anxious moments.
Still, there were perks. Like the lovely, warm-hearted Carol. When he came back from loading the empty pitta trays and boxes of uneaten mince pies in his van, he was disappointed to find she’d gone, taking her daughter and grandson with her.
After saying goodbye to the WI ladies who were still clearing away, the baker retreated to his van, where he sat for a few minutes trying to summon up the courage to call on Carol on his way home. Then he realised that he had no idea where she lived.
After cleaning his sticky hands on a wet-wipe, he reached over to extract from the glove compartment a large glittery Christmas card featuring a jolly snowman and snowlady, holding snow hands and smiling sweetly. With a deep intake of breath, he pulled a pen from his pocket, opened the card, and signed his name, quickly adding a small kiss. He stared at it, wondering whether it looked too stark. Then he added “Happy Christmas Carol” at the top and stuffed it quickly in the envelope before he could change his mind.
He was just about to seal the envelope when he realised he’d forgotten the comma between “Christmas” and “Carol”, which would have made him look foolish and ignorant. A “merry Christmas carol” was not what he meant at all.
Reckless now, he added another two kisses, and licked and sealed the envelope before his courage could fail. Then he started the engine, pulled out on to the High Street, and drove towards the village shop.
As he passed Hector’s House, a low light flicked on in the front room of the flat above the bookshop. He ought to call in there after Christmas, he thought, to see if that nice chap with the curly hair would place a regular order for his cakes. He was kicking himself for not suggesting it earlier, when the young couple had complimented him on his pitta bread. He wasn’t much good at this marketing lark.
Pulling on the brake outside the village shop, he looked for signs of life, but all was in darkness. He got out of the car to read the opening times on the window sticker, and discovered to his relief that the shop would open every day until Christmas, closing only at noon on Christmas Eve. Carol would definitely get his card in good time.
He posted it through the letterbox, waiting to hear it fall on the doormat. The point of no return. Then he pulled himself together, got back in his van and slipped into first gear. As he made for home in Slate Green, he was full of hope as to what the New Year might bring him in the village of Wendlebury Barrow – perhaps a role as the Ghost of Carol’s Christmas Yet to Come.
THE END
Acknowledgements
Enormous thanks to all of the people who have helped make this a better book:
Alison Jack, my editor, always patient, capable, and dependable
Lucienne Boyce, David Penny, Belinda Pollard and Orna Ross, for wise and sensitive mentoring and moral support
Simon Bendry, for his expert advice about Remembrance Day procedures
Shaun Ivory, a sage Irish writer friend who always keeps me on my toes and encourages me to keep striving for more
Michael MacMahon, whose wonderful delivery of Prospero’s speech to close each Hawkesbury Upton Literature Festival inspired me to include it in this story
All seven of these are also authors, and I highly recommend their books.
Rachel Lawston, of Lawston Design, has done a marvellous job of the cover, helping to bring the book and the Sophie Sayers Village Mystery series to life at a glance. Her service is creative, generous and wise, and I count myself very lucky to be her client.
Finally, many thanks to Lucinda May Somerville, who, eons ago, when we were at
the University of York together, gave me for my twenty-first birthday the small blue hardback volume of the York Mystery Plays mentioned in this book, with the inscription: “Maybe it’ll remind you of York when you get decrepit.” I hope she’ll be glad that I put it to constructive use eventually.
With very best wishes
Debbie Young
More Sophie Sayers Village Mysteries for You to Enjoy
If you enjoyed this book, you might like to check out the other novels in this growing series, which are all available to buy in paperback or to read via Amazon’s Kindle service.
The initial series of seven novels will run the course of the village year from one summer to the next:
1 Best Murder in Show (midsummer to September)
2 Trick or Murder? (autumn, including Halloween and Guy Fawkes’ Night))
3 Murder in the Manger (from Remembrance Day to Christmas Eve)
4 Murder by the Book (from New Year’s Day to Valentine’s Day)
5 Springtime for Murder (Easter time)
6 Murder Your Darlings (May)
7 Murder, Lost and Found (early summer)
Please visit my Amazon page for full details.
About the Author
Debbie Young writes warm, witty, feel-good fiction inspired by life in the English village where she lives with her husband and daughter.
Her Sophie Sayers Village Mystery series of seven novels will catalogue the course of a year in the fictional village of Wendlebury Barrow. She is also writing a second series set in a girls’ boarding school, Staffroom at St Bride’s Mysteries, which will launch in 2019.
She also writes short stories, and has published three themed collections: Marry in Haste, Quick Change and Stocking Fillers. Her short stories also feature in many anthologies and is frequently invited to speak at book events around the country. She also runs the Hawkesbury Upton Literature Festival.
