Casting Samson (2 page)

“Is—is this the meeting of the Pageant Committee?” Deborah stood hesitantly at the entrance of the village hall, blushing as several pairs of enquiring eyes turned towards her. “Dad sends his apologies. With Mum being ill he’s really busy in the restaurant, so he’s asked me to take his place on the committee, I hope that’s okay…”

“Of course, Deborah.” Godfrey Mullett beamed at her. “Come in, my dear, come in. I’m so sorry your mother’s poorly, of course, but it is very good of you to take your father’s place. How are you enjoying life back in Moreton? Very different from the big city, eh? I must say we didn’t expect to see you back again, once you’d tasted life in the big, wide world. Well, well! Now, you know everyone here, I think? Except Mrs. Lindsay, of course—she moved to the village after you went off to London. Mrs. Lindsay, this is Deborah, Stan and Molly Kemerton’s only daughter.”

“Ah, yes, I can see the likeness. You have your mother’s hazel eyes. Nice to meet you, Deborah. And do, please, call me Anne.”

Deb immediately warmed to Anne Lindsay with her friendly, open countenance and beaming smile. Her father had filled her in on the details of the committee so she knew that Anne was a widow in her forties, but with her fine honey-coloured hair and smooth skin she looked much younger.

“Mrs Lindsay is our publicity officer,” explained Godfrey as Deborah slipped into the empty chair beside Anne. “Now, my dear, is there anything special you would like to do?”

“No-o, anything, really. I’ve got my computer set up, so I can help out with any letters, posters, that sort of thing…”

The other members of the committee regarded her encouragingly—as the newest and youngest member they were all keen to foster her interest in village affairs. When it was obvious that Deborah was not going to say anything more, Clara Babbacombe cleared her throat and looked down at her notes.

“Very good. Well, you haven’t missed much, just agreeing the minutes of the last meeting, etc. Next on the agenda is the raffle. Alan?”

All eyes turned towards Alan Thorpe, chairman of the committee. He was a bluff, confident businessman in his fifties who made a comfortable living from a number of properties in Moreton and around the country. Deborah could not remember his wife, who had died some years ago, but she’d always thought of Alan as very much lord of the manor, living in the big house, dispensing Sunday School prizes and opening fêtes. He gazed round the table now, enveloping them all in his paternal goodwill.

“Thank you, Clara. Your father probably told you, Deborah, that the raffle is a preliminary fundraiser to bring in a few pounds to help towards the costs of the pageant. It will be drawn at the Dog and Sardine on Thursday, so I hope you’ve all sold your allocation?” He lifted a small but obviously heavy cloth bag onto the table to show that he at least had done so.

Godfrey Mullett beamed at him. “Oh, well done, Alan. And I’m glad to say I’ve managed to sell all mine as well.”

The bags of small change chinked as each of the committee members handed over their takings to Godfrey, who, as a retired bank clerk, was considered the ideal person to be treasurer.

Deborah pushed her bag across the table, wondering if any of the others had acted as her father had done and bought all the remaining tickets. In Stan Kemerton’s case, this had been quite a lot, since he’d been too busy to sell much more than half his quota.

“Well done, everyone,” Alan congratulated them as Godfrey put the bags into his old leather briefcase to count later. “What’s the next item, Clara?”

“Samson.”

The vicar turned to Deborah and gave her a rather wan smile. “Perhaps your father told you that we’ve lost our Samson. Eric Monkwater had agreed to do it, but he crashed his balloon in the Gobi—”

“The Sahara, Vicar,” Clara Babbacombe corrected him. “It was the Sahara Desert.”

“Ah, yes. The Sahara, of course. Well, he’s been flown back to England now, which must be a relief to his poor wife. How long will Eric be in hospital, do we know, Mrs. Lindsay?”

“I called in to see him last night.” Anne Lindsay’s grey eyes flicked around the table as she gave her report. “Mrs. Monkwater was there. She thinks he will be out by the end of next week, but even if he can leave off the neck brace by the pageant, his left leg is so badly broken they say it will be several weeks before the pins can be removed, and even longer before he will be walking on it.”

“And our pageant is in just five weeks’ time,” added the vicar.

A gloomy silence settled over the room as the committee members digested this information.

“So, we must find a new Samson.” Alan Thorpe looked around the room. “Any ideas?”

Yes, I know a man who’d be perfect
. Deborah wanted so much to say the words aloud. Bernard would be ideal for the part. His regular workouts at the gym had given him the kind of muscled body that looked wonderful in a vest, and his blond, blue-eyed good looks with that megawatt smile would have all the girls sighing for him—as she was doing, even now. Deb struggled to pull herself together. It was useless thinking of Bernard any longer. It was over. Sadly she dragged her attention back to the meeting.

Godfrey chuckled. “We could always approach Clara’s strippers!”

Anne Lindsay grinned at Deborah’s bewildered look and promised to explain later.

“We’ll have to advertise.” Alan tapped his pen on the table to emphasise the point. “Posters, appeal on local radio, that sort of thing.”

“Oh dear, do you think that will attract anyone?”

“Well, it’s our only chance, Vicar, unless we can think of someone to fill the role.”

Another uncomfortable silence enveloped the committee as they cast their minds over their village community.

“Well, I think advertising’s our best hope,” Anne agreed. “Who knows, we might attract someone from Flixton. We’ll just have to see who turns up.”

“Turns up where?” asked the vicar.

“Here, of course. The village hall.” Anne looked around the table. “We’ll have to have some sort of audition. What if I do a short piece for the paper? If I write it tonight and email it off straightaway, hopefully they’ll put it in Thursday’s edition.”

Reverend Bodicote turned his anxious gaze towards her. “Perhaps we should mention that the money raised is going towards the church’s new heating system. That might attract more interest—after all, the congregation is always complaining how cold it is.”

“Of course I can put that in.” She scribbled notes on her pad.

“And explain that the pageant will be telling the stories from the stained glass windows in the church,” Miss Babbacombe added. “Kill two birds with one stone—advertise the fact that we’re looking for someone to play Samson and tell them about the pageant at the same time.”

“Good idea.” Anne Lindsay turned to Deborah. “Perhaps you could design a poster for us on the computer.”

“Of course. I’ll do it tomorrow, then we can get copies in all the local shops before the weekend.”

Anne nodded. “That would be great. Now, when shall we have the audition?

Alan Thorpe glanced at his diary. Shall we say a week tomorrow, at eight o’clock?”

“Better make it eight-thirty,” put in Miss Babbacombe. “Wednesday is Brownies and they don’t finish until eight.”

“Eight-thirty it is, then. And don’t forget, Dog and Sardine this Thursday, when we draw the raffle.” Alan Thorpe closed his notebook, indicating that the meeting was at an end. “Anyone want a lift home?”

Putting on a pageant had seemed such a good idea, thought Deborah as she cleared tables at the Yew Tree Restaurant the following Thursday lunchtime. In fact, the whole thing had sounded so simple. A village fête and carnival procession to celebrate the 700th anniversary of St. John’s, the parish church of Moreton-by-Fleetwater. Her father had persuaded her to take his place on the pageant committee.

“What with your mum not being well and the restaurant to run, I can’t manage it, and anyway, it’ll do you good, girl. Since you’re going to be here for the next few months, you might as well have something to do.” When Deborah left the room, he added to his wife, “Take her mind off that Bernard. She needs to get out a bit, get her confidence back. Damn that young man! I always said he was no good.”

Mrs. Kemerton nodded and sighed. “But she thought the world of him. And when love comes in the door, common sense flies out the window.”

“Hmm,” her father growled, burying his head in the paper. “She’s well rid of him, and the sooner she realises that and stops moping, the better.”

So Deborah had offered her services to the Pageant Committee and been welcomed with open arms.

“You know what it’s like, my dear,” the vicar told her as they left the village hall after that first meeting, “never enough helpers, and young blood is always welcome.”

Deborah had to admit that her blood was the youngest by at least a generation. The Reverend Aubrey Bodicote was a kindly if rather vague man in his early sixties. He had come to Moreton as a young vicar and fallen in love with the village. Thankfully his quiet faith had appealed to the villagers, who’d taken him to their hearts and called upon his services for their hatching, matching and dispatching for the past forty years.

Then there was the dragonlike Miss Babbacombe and Godfrey Mullett—they were both ancient—and even Alan Thorpe, although considerably younger, was old enough to be her grandfather. At twenty-three she was a positive baby.

As the last of the lunchtime customers departed, Deborah moved in to clear away their empty coffee cups, her mind moving to the final member of the committee, Anne Lindsay. She had warmed to Anne as soon as they met. She liked the ready sense of humour that made her grey eyes gleam with amusement, and her mouth always seemed on the verge of a smile. Deborah also liked her serenity. She was a widow, so it seemed reasonable to suppose that she had not always been happy, but if Anne Lindsay could overcome her grief then Deborah hoped that she, too, would recover, in time.

Deborah was aware of her father’s reasons for encouraging her to join the committee. He wanted her to go out more, make new friends. Deborah had never been very good at that. New people and unfamiliar places filled her with dread, which was why taking the job in London had been such a big step for her. Sometimes she wondered how she’d found the courage to do it. Perhaps it was the fact that most of her school friends had left Moreton, going off to get married or follow a career. It was expected that she too would leave to find her own way in the world, following her time at business college.

Bernard Masters was already a rising star at the firm of Appletons Accountants when Deborah joined their head office in London, and when he singled her out for attention she found herself floating on air. She had taken him to Moreton a couple of times to visit her parents, but it had not been a success. She was uncomfortably aware that Bernard looked down on the Kemertons’ little restaurant business and, sensing condescension, her father held himself aloof. He had not uttered one word of criticism against her new boyfriend but it would not have made any difference to Deborah if he had. She was too much in love to care about anyone’s opinion. Bernard was her idol. He took her to sushi bars and the most fashionable restaurants, encouraged her to have her hair straightened, chose her clothes and generally turned her into a stylish city girl. In return, she’d given him unwavering devotion, running the flat with the same smooth efficiency she used in the office.

“Um—excuse me?”

Deborah jumped, pulled out of her reverie by the words uttered close behind her. She turned to find herself looking up into a pair of deep brown eyes, rich and dark as plain chocolate. Their owner was smiling, a friendly, lopsided grin that drew an answering smile from Deborah.

“I know two-thirty’s a bit late, but can we get something to eat?”

She looked past him at his companions, three young men—unusual for the Yew Tree, whose regular midday clientele was what her father termed the blue-rinse brigade. The young men also seemed unfamiliar with their surroundings and Deborah remembered her job.

“Oh yes, of course. If you’d like to pick a table…” She flushed and smiled. “There’s plenty to choose from, most of our customers like an early lunch.”

She took their order and passed it through to her father in the kitchen.

“Just in time.” He smiled at her. “Another five minutes and I’d have finished for the day.” He squinted at the order. “And who is this for? None of our regular lunch-timers, I’ll bet.”

“No, Dad. Four lads—students probably.”

He grinned. “Very likely—gammon steak, Cumberland sausage—give any of our regulars that sort of food at this time of day and they’d end up with raging indigestion. Okay, love, you lay up, and I’ll get cracking. Tell ’em it’ll be ten minutes.”

Having relayed this message, Deborah went back into the restaurant. As she cleaned one of the tables by the window, she glanced up and noticed a white minibus parked on the forecourt. She stopped wiping. The minibus was pulled across the window and she had a clear view of the side panel, with its silhouette of four male figures and the words
Four Front
emblazoned in black and gold beneath it. She looked across at the four young men waiting for their meal. Could they be the male strippers Clara Babbacombe had suggested? There was no one else around, it must be them!

As she continued to tidy up, she surreptitiously studied the group, searching for some sign of celebrity. They relaxed in their chairs, elbows resting on the table, drinking their cola direct from the can. There was nothing to distinguish them from any other young men she had seen in the town.

One appeared to be doing most of the talking. His bleached, spiky hair, snub nose and round face gave him a cheeky look. Nice enough, but not Deborah’s idea of a hunk, unlike the guy on his right. He was a square-jawed Adonis with sun-streaked dark blond hair that was probably not natural. But who would care, thought Deborah, smiling to herself. She could only see his profile but guessed his eyes would be deep blue.

She moved to another table, giving herself a clearer view of the other two members of the group. One had a thin, sensitive face with blond hair that fell forward over his brow. He looked intelligent, studious, although the broad shoulders beneath his soft linen shirt hinted at the athlete—she could easily imagine him in a blazer and straw boater, punting on the Cam.