The Magic of Christmas (16 page)

‘Don’t think he could do it, anyway,’ Mick said belligerently. ‘She’s got her rights!’

‘Possibly not, but I don’t think the question will arise. Anyway, what are you all doing here?’

They shifted uneasily again, looking around the near-empty workshop as though expecting something — or someone — to materialise out of the dark shadows.

‘He’s not coming back, if that’s what you’re all waiting for,’ I said evenly. ‘Tom’s played his last gig and you’ll have to get a new singer: not that I thought he was much good, anyway.’

‘His voice harmonised with mine very well,’ Ophelia blurted, then blushed as she caught my eye, like she usually did — as well she might. ‘Oh God!’

‘And he wrote most of the lyrics to my tunes,’ said Jojo, slowly turning the gold hoop in his ear as though tuning what remained of his brain.

‘No, actually, that was me,’ I said incautiously and they stared. ‘He used to hammer them out on the old piano and I’d try to fit words to them — just give you a base to work it up from, you know? I mean, they weren’t really mine when you’d finished with them, because they evolved into something else — something better, usually.’

For at their best (after a pint or two of Mossbrown Ale), the Mummers sometimes acquired a near-Pentangle unity that was quite hypnotic. ‘But the last couple of years, he didn’t ask me to help him with them any more.’

‘
Thought
they’d gone off,’ Mick, the one who looked like an escapee from
The Clan of the Cave Bear
, said. ‘Can you sing, too?’ he asked hopefully.

‘No.’

‘But—’

‘Absolutely not,’ I said firmly. ‘Look, I don’t mind if you want to come and keep using the workshop to practise in, as long as you don’t bother me. But you’ll have to find a new Mummer.’ A thought struck me: ‘Annie — you know Annie Vane, don’t you?’

They nodded.

‘She pet-sits for an ex-pop singer who bought the old vicarage. Ritch Rainford, he’s called and he’s an actor now, playing a Victorian mill owner in that
Cotton Common
soap.’

‘Not Ritch Rainford from Climaxxx?’ Miss Drippy said breathlessly. ‘I thought that was just a story, that he’d bought the place. He’s famous … but old,’ she added belatedly.

‘Nah, he can’t be much more than forty-five, at most,’ Jojo said, giving her a dirty look and adjusting his bandanna over his bald spot to the point where it almost became a headscarf. It’d have to be the pirate look next, low down on the forehead. ‘And he might want to keep his hand in, do a couple of gigs with us — worth asking … Good to talk to him, you know?’

‘You do that,’ I agreed.

‘But would the Mysteries Committee let us play for them, if one of us wasn’t from the Mosses?’ said the girl. ‘You know how stuffy they are about second-homers. I shouldn’t think he lives here all the time.’

‘I don’t know, Ophelia, but you could ask. It’s not like you’re performing in the plays and have to go to all the rehearsals, is it? Just incidental music and filling in between scenes.’

‘Olivia,’ she corrected me.

‘What?’

‘My name’s Olivia, not Ophelia.’

‘Oh?’ That was a surprise, but I fear due to her water-dipped appearance she will forever remain Ophelia in my mind. It seemed to strike a chord with the other two as well.

‘Suits you,’ Jojo said, and Mick agreed.

‘Why not change your name — new name, new start?’

‘Yeah! Ophelia Locke — cool,’ she agreed, brightening slightly. ‘I’ll do it! Ophelia … Ophelia …
Ophelia
.’

Loopy Locke, more like.

‘Looks different in here, somehow, without Tom,’ Jojo remarked intelligently.

‘That’s because I’ve sold the surfboard business and all the stuff’s gone,’ I said patiently. ‘Look, Jojo, here’s a key to the workshop — I’ve got a spare. It’ll save you asking for it if it’s locked, and you can leave equipment here safely if you want to.’

‘Thanks,’ he said and, giving my arm an earnest squeeze, added, ‘And, you know, anything you want — do anything we can …’ He trailed off, made earnest eye contact and let me go.

‘Ophelia Locke …’ whispered Miss Drippy in an ecstatic undertone. There were brown rabbits stencilled on the pockets of her smock.

Watership Down
has a lot to answer for.

Less than a week had passed since the funeral, yet with disconcerting rapidity summer had slid into September and what passed for normal life resumed. Even when Tom had been home he’d never played much part in the family rounds, so his absence was not really missed, insofar as you would miss a ticking time bomb.

Jasper seems to be feeling much the same, though it didn’t help that half the time Mimi forgot what had happened and we had to explain it to her all over again.

We made an expedition to buy the laptop and printer Jasper thought I should have and then he set me up a little workstation in the window of the sitting room, which provided at least a temporary distraction for his thoughts.

Still, at least Jasper could escape to the dig every day and I had way too much to do to brood, for the garden had taken advantage of my lack of attention to burgeon forth into a burst of flowerings and fruitings like a butterfly dancing along the edge of winter. I was harvesting and bartering the excess, bottling tomato chutney and pickling shallots.

This morning the members of the CPC all went to Faye’s farm again for the meeting, since she wanted us to taste the Christmas ice creams she was developing — and it turned out she had also managed to produce the perfect brandy-butter one, too! I think it will be a lovely change with the Christmas pudding and we have all ordered a tub each.

‘Thank you all for helping me with the buffet for the funeral too,’ I said, when we had settled down to the coffee and gossip part of things. ‘I don’t know how I would have managed without you.’

‘That’s all right — what are friends for, if not to help each other?’ Marian said, and the others murmured agreement.

‘There were certainly a few eye-opening revelations about Tom, weren’t there?’ Miss Pym said forthrightly. ‘Neither that French wife of Nick Pharamond’s nor Polly Darke appear to have any moral code whatsoever!’

‘Or Ophelia Locke,’ Faye pointed out.

‘I don’t think you can entirely blame Ophelia — she’s obviously a sandwich short of a picnic,’ Annie said generously.

‘No, and I do feel a bit sorry for her, even if she is exasperatingly silly,’ I agreed. ‘I’ve persuaded Unks not to evict her from her estate cottage.’

‘It’s a pity it’s not in his power to evict Polly Darke from
her
house though, isn’t it?’ Marian suggested. ‘She’s been seen everywhere, dressed in weirdest widow’s black, playing for the sympathy vote.’

‘Well, she won’t get it from any of us,’ Annie said. ‘In fact, she’s not at all liked locally.’

‘She asks me every year if she can take part in the Mystery Play,’ Marian said, ‘and I turn her down. She’s just attention-seeking.’

‘I’m glad my part is small,’ Faye said, who was currently playing Mary Magdalen. ‘I hate getting up in front of all those people.’

‘Me too,’ I agreed. ‘I saw Gary Naylor the other day and he said he was going to be Jesus again.’

‘Oh yes,’ Marian said. ‘He made quite a good job of it last year, once we’d persuaded him out of wearing black during his scenes, especially those big boots with all the metal studs.’

‘Jasper says he’s an Emo,’ I explained.

‘What’s an Emo?’ asked Faye.

‘Sort of a gloomier Goth, I think.’

‘Only a year older than Jasper, isn’t he?’ Miss Pym said. ‘Expect he will grow out of it soon. He was a good boy at school … and speaking of which, term starts again next week, so I will soon be rehearsing the little animals for the Noah scene.’

Miss Pym must be long past official retirement age and they are too afraid to tell her, but though she now only works part-time, she is still very much in control of the small infants’ school and, I suspect, always will be.

Jasper and I agreed that there was nothing to beat a supper of globe artichokes with a little pot of melted butter for dipping, and fresh bread and cheese, with blackberry fluff and cream to follow.

One afternoon I was out in the garden waging a Canute-like attempt to assert my authority over Nature, when the vicar visited me.

While Gareth ostensibly came to see how I was going on and offer comfort and a shoulder to cry on, should I need it, I quickly discerned that he really wanted to talk about Annie. So I told him all about our long friendship, dating back to our schooldays at St Mattie’s, where she was hockey captain and my best subject was Nature Studies, and the French cookery course we did afterwards in London.

‘Neither of us was academic, you see. After the course we worked for a party catering firm for a couple of months, until I married Tom and she came home to live in Middlemoss.’

‘And now she has her own pet-minding business?’

‘Yes, and it’s very successful,’ I said, and told him what a lovely, trusting person Annie was, even after being jilted practically at the altar several years ago, when her fiancé ran off with one of the prospective bridesmaids. Then I pointed out her many activities within the parish.

‘Of course,’ I added casually, tossing a handful of weeds into the wheelbarrow, ‘the way to Annie’s heart is through her love of dogs. She even puts in several hours a week as a voluntary helper at the RSPCA kennels.’

Gareth left carrying bags of salad vegetables and runner beans, and looking thoughtful, so I hoped I’d planted some idea of how to win her affections: now the ball was in his court.

He was very nice in a serious and
terribly
good way, so I thought they would be very well suited. I couldn’t give my best friend in marriage to just
any
old eligible bachelor, he had to be Mr Right. Or, in this case, Mr Bright.

This could be just the right moment for him to make his move, too, for I’d got the impression lately that Annie was finding Ritch Rainford disconcerting, now her initial bedazzlement was wearing off. She’d never had one of her fantasy men become flesh before.

If Gareth played his cards right, she could very well rebound quite happily into his arms.

Annie had managed all the Posh Pet-sitting stuff herself since the funeral, but I told her I could cope now if she needed help. So the following morning I walked Delphine Lake’s three little dogs, who were very glad to see me, because Delphine’s idea of a walk is from the car into the house.

Then I went to collect a cat from the vet’s surgery and returned it to the owner — or rather, the owner’s au pair, who didn’t seem very pleased to have it back. But I expect once it had got over its indignant rage at being confined in a carrying box it would soon calm down. How weirdly vocal Siamese cats are!

On the way home I popped in at Annie’s little terraced cottage again to see if anything else needed doing, and found her making a chart of her Posh Pet-sitting for the next fortnight, with different coloured stars for the regular customers and fluorescent spots for the one-offs — very organised. Even the keys for houses where she lets herself in were starred and spotted to match.

‘I see Ritch Rainford’s bagged all the gold stars,’ I commented, having made us each a cup of coffee.

‘Well, he is our major celebrity so far,’ she said defensively. ‘And he seems to be turning into a regular customer, though he doesn’t give me much notice. He’s terribly casual — handed out the keys and the code for the burglar alarm to me and his new cleaning lady before he really knew us at all.’

‘Who has he got cleaning for him?’

‘Dora Tombs. She’s a Naylor — niece or great-niece of Ted, the gardener up at the Hall.’

‘We Naylors get everywhere, like Mile-a-Minute.’

‘I think you’re more of a rambling rose than a Russian Vine,’ she said kindly.

A brazen strand of hair fell into her eyes, and she pushed it back and clamped it down with a white Scottie dog hairslide. She has no taste: even the smock she was wearing over her cord trousers and T-shirt had dogs stencilled around the bottom and made her look like a pregnant bun loaf.

‘What on earth are you wearing?’ I demanded. ‘Isn’t that one of Ophelia Locke’s little creations?’

‘Yes. The big pockets are really useful and it wasn’t expensive. She sells most of them at those historical re-enactment fairs, but she printed one with dogs as a special order for me.’

‘It does nothing for your figure,’ I told her frankly.

‘I haven’t got a figure.’

‘Yes, you have, an hourglass one with a very small waist. But that thing doesn’t go in in the middle at all. You look entirely globular. Take it from me, it’s a mistake.’

‘It’s very practical, which is why I wanted it,’ she said defensively. ‘Anyway, no one is interested in my figure.’ Then she blushed underneath all the little freckles.

‘Come clean, obviously someone’s interested! Tell Auntie Lizzy,’ I said encouragingly. Had Gareth actually made his move already?

‘They’re — he — he’s not really, it’s just that he can’t seem to take his eyes off my bust when I’m wearing a T-shirt,’ she confessed. ‘So I feel happier covered up.’

‘What, the
vicar
?’ I exclaimed.

She looked at me as if I’d run mad. ‘The
vicar
? Of course not, Lizzy! No, I meant Ritch Rainford. I thought he was lovely at first, so charming and amazingly handsome. Only there’s something in his eyes when he’s talking to me and everything he says seems to have some kind of innuendo in it … and … well, I’m simply not used to that kind of thing. It makes me feel very gauche and uncomfortable, though I’m sure he doesn’t mean anything by his manner, it’s just his way.’

‘Oh? So he’s turned out to be mad, bad and dangerous to know?’

‘It’s just me being silly and not knowing what to say back, I expect. For instance, when I was bending over patting Flo the other day he walked into the kitchen and stared at my chest, then said, “You don’t get many of
those
to the pound!” I simply didn’t know where to put myself.’