Christmas At Thrush Green (10 page)

‘It will be nice to see you at whatever time,’ said Phil, pulling a headscarf out of her pocket and covering her head. The rain was still lashing against the kitchen window.

Kit held the door open. ‘It’s getting a bit of a problem, I’m afraid, but there’ll be plenty of time to enjoy ourselves when old Dot has gone.’

Phil wasn’t sure how to reply to that, so she ran through the rain to her car. ‘Goodbye,’ she shouted over her shoulder.

 

Phil’s call to the Blue Cross the following morning was to no avail. They would have liked to help, they said, but policy deemed otherwise. They hoped Mrs Hurst understood. Phil didn’t really and Frank tried to allay her disappointment.

‘It’s probably just as well. A donkey might bite one of the children, kick a doting granny or, heaven forfend, infest the entire cast with fleas.’

Phil laughed but her good humour didn’t last long. The telephone rang; it was Alan Lester calling to tell her that Davey Biddle had chickenpox.

‘Poor mite,’ she said. ‘No wonder he was feeling so rotten on Saturday. Can you find me a replacement king?’

Alan told her that he had drafted in Bill Hooper, saying he’d had to do a bit of persuading because Bill, being the tallest boy in the school, definitely considered himself too big for the Nativity play. However, when the headmaster had casually mentioned that he thought Bill would make a good Playground Captain the next term - the child responsible for seeing that the lines of children were straight before going back into school from the playground after the various breaks - Bill had been won over.

But the finger in the dam didn’t last long. On Wednesday morning, Alan telephoned Phil with the news that both James and Anthony Gibbons were smitten with spots.

‘Now what do we do?’ Phil cried. ‘If three have got it, then surely all the rest will?’

‘Not necessarily,’ replied Alan. ‘We had an outbreak a couple of years ago and a number of children got it then. I’ve asked Mrs Hope to check the register to see if we can track down who was absent at that time. I’ll ring you during the dinner break.’

Phil went to Frank’s study where he was working to tell him the news. As usual, he was quite calm.

‘Don’t worry about it, Phil. There is nothing we can do for the moment.’

‘But if more go down with it . . .’ Phil’s voice faded away.

‘Then we’ll have to cancel, and resurrect it for next year.’

‘I suppose so. But it’s all the hard work that we’ve put into it so far. And should we stop the mothers ironing and mending the costumes? It will be a waste of time if they’re just going to be packed away in boxes again.’

‘Do you need to make a final decision now? Can’t we wait another day to see whether any more catch it?’

‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Phil again. ‘Thank you, dear, you’re so sensible.’ She looked at her watch. ‘You should’ve left for Sussex by now. Jeremy will never forgive you if you’re late collecting him.’

Frank took off his spectacles and put them in their case. ‘I’m going now and we’ll be back for a late lunch.’

Phil waved him off and then returned to the house. She’d woken that morning in good spirits, only for them to be dashed when the headmaster had rung about the Gibbons twins. She was sitting at the kitchen table, idly looking at the newspaper, when the telephone rang again, making her jump.

‘Hello, Phil, it’s Alan Lester again. I’ve got some more bad news, I’m afraid,’ and as Phil gasped, he added quickly, ‘and some better news. I’ll give you the bad news first. You’ve lost the Virgin Mary now. Louise has caught the wretched pox.’

‘Oh, Alan!’ cried Phil. ‘We’ll definitely have to cancel.’

‘I don’t think it’ll be necessary. Not yet, anyway. Mrs Hope has checked the register and our various medical records and, apart from one angel, all the rest of the cast has had chickenpox. But what about Jeremy and Paul?’

‘Jeremy had it a few years ago, and I’ve rung Joan who’s confirmed Paul has had it. So we should be all right with our narrators. But what about our kings and a Mary? We can’t go on without those.’

‘I’ve had a think,’ said Alan. ‘In fact, I have been doing little else.’ He laughed. ‘What about Annie Curdle? She’s a self-assured little thing, and I’m sure she could cope. Especially since George will be there beside her as Joseph. More importantly, they’ve both had chickenpox.’

‘It’s a good idea. Have you asked her parents?’

‘Not yet. I wanted to run it past you first. I’m tied up here at the moment. Could you ring Molly?’

‘Better still, I’ll walk across now,’ responded Phil. ‘But what about our kings, and aren’t we going to be a bit short of angels?’

‘Leave it with me,’ said Alan. ‘I’m going to have a word with Mrs Todd to see if she will let Jimmy join us.’ Then by way of explanation, he added, ‘They’re Plymouth Brethren, you see, so Jimmy doesn’t go to St Andrew’s. Or we might have to do with just two shepherds instead of three, and I’ll think of someone for the third king. As for angels, Mrs Hope is sure she can get a few more of the older infants. In fact, it’s not the infants that we have to persuade but their parents. It seems that the whole of Thrush Green goes shopping on Saturdays. I must rush now. Ring me, will you, after school, to let me know about Annie Curdle.’

After the headmaster had rung off, Phil stood for a moment gathering her thoughts. Was it really worth all this trouble? Yes, she told herself sternly. Even if the younger generation of parents didn’t want to go to the Nativity service, there were plenty of older residents of Thrush Green who would certainly attend.

She looked at her watch. There was time to pop across to see Molly Curdle, and be back by the time Jeremy arrived home. She peered out of the window. The trees on the green were being buffeted by the wind, but it didn’t appear to be raining, so she put on an old jacket, pulled on a woolly hat and set out.

Winnie Bailey was in her garden next door, replenishing the bird-nut feeder, and Phil walked down the pavement a short way so she could talk to her over the fence.

‘Well done, Winnie. You are good. I keep forgetting to fill my container but I’ll give the chore to Jeremy as a holiday job.’

‘I wouldn’t ever forget the birds. They give me so much pleasure. Also’ - she paused a moment to secure the top of the container and re-hook it to a slender branch of the apple tree - ‘it always reminds me of dear Donald. He used to love having his second cup of breakfast coffee sitting at the study window, so he could watch the birds. Nuthatches were his favourite.’

‘You fill me with good intentions,’ said Phil. ‘I will put bird nuts on my shopping list as soon as I get home.’ She waved goodbye to Winnie and then walked across the corner of the green to Stable Cottage.

 

It proved to be a successful visit. Molly was sure that Annie would be thrilled to be the Virgin Mary and confirmed that both her children had had chickenpox. She also agreed to go down to the cottage where spotty Louise lived and collect the blue robe. It would need to be shortened, but Molly was good with her needle and said it would be an easy job.

Having thanked her profusely, Phil walked back towards Tullivers. There was a glimmer of sun in the sky - the first they’d had for some days - and Phil tipped her face up towards it. She was sure she could feel the faintest of warm rays on her cheeks. A robin celebrated from a nearby chimneypot, fluting its melody sweetly, and Phil stopped to listen to it, her eyes closed.

Peep - peep! Peep - peep - peeeeeep!

Phil opened her eyes, and saw her husband’s car draw up outside the house. From out of the car flew her beloved son, Jeremy.

‘Hi, Mum, I’m home! Oh, happy, happy Christmas!’ And, reaching her, he gave his mother a great big hug.

 

‘Jeremy’s home,’ remarked Harold Shoosmith, who was standing at his sitting-room window that overlooked the green.

‘Phil’ll be pleased,’ replied Isobel, looking up from a pair of socks she was darning. ‘She loves that boy.’

‘He still seems to be a nice lad. It’s sad how adolescence makes such a mess of the young nowadays, the boys especially.’

‘And you would know,’ Isobel responded, smiling. ‘So much experience.’

Harold turned from the window to look at her. The remark had rather wounded him. ‘All right, I know I haven’t had children, but I like to think I’m broad-minded. I read the newspaper every day and—’

‘And listen to the news twice a day,’ Isobel continued. It was a well-worn theme.

‘Mock me if you must,’ Harold said ruefully, ‘but I consider myself up to date with the present day.’

‘Of course you are, dearest. Now, what are you going to do this afternoon? You’ve finished the newspaper, including the crossword, and there’s another four hours until the six o’clock news.’

‘If you don’t mind, I thought I would pop over and see Ella, make sure she’s quite recovered from that fall she had.’ The village grapevine had ensured the news of Ella’s fall on the way to see Dotty was common knowledge in less than twenty-four hours. ‘I think she sometimes gets lonely over there on her own,’ Harold continued.

‘I don’t, for a moment, think Ella is lonely. From what everyone tells me, she and Dimity got on well together when they both lived there, but I think Ella is someone who appreciates her own company. Think how often she leaves some gathering or other and goes off home, long before the party has broken up.’

‘That’s true,’ Harold conceded. ‘It’s almost as though she gets bored with the small talk. Anyway, if it’s all right with you, I’ll go over and chat with her for a bit.’

‘Fine by me,’ replied his wife. ‘I could pretend I’m quite happy darning these socks but, I’m warning you, my New Year’s resolution is to darn no more socks. Life’s too short both to stuff mushrooms and to darn socks. You must learn to wear socks that are a mixture of wool and nylon, or whatever. Something that doesn’t go into holes.’

‘But those are my favourite yellow cashmere socks,’ protested Harold. ‘And it was only a tiny hole.’

‘Tiny holes turn into bigger ones,’ replied Isobel. ‘But I know you love these socks and since I love you, I’m darning them.’

Harold bent over the back of Isobel’s chair and kissed the top of her head. ‘I won’t be long.’

 

The pale sun that Phil Hurst had turned her face towards was still shining as Harold left the house. He hesitated whether to go via the green, which was the shortest way, or go round by the road. How wet was it? He went and stood on the edge of the green: it looked dry enough so he set off across it.

‘Good afternoon, Nathaniel,’ he said as he strode past the statue of the missionary on its plinth. Harold was gratified to see that it was still gleaming clean from his ministrations earlier in the month.

A large black bird flapped lazily across the sky ahead of him. ‘Lots of crows is rooks, one rook is a crow,’ he murmured. It was one of his favourite adages. ‘And good afternoon to you, Mr Crow.’

He was shortly pushing open the gate leading to Ella’s house. He saw the formidable bulk of his friend standing in her sitting-room window, and waved to her. But she didn’t wave back. She was peering at something in her hand, and obviously hadn’t seen him so Harold hailed her.

‘Ella, hello-o!’

Ella looked up then, and raised her hand in greeting. A second later the front door opened and she ushered him in.

‘How lovely to see you. It means I can put this wretched piece of needlework aside and have a ciggy. You don’t mind, do you?’

‘It’s your house so of course I don’t mind. Any chance of a cup of coffee?’

Ella shoved her cigarette-making equipment back into the side pocket of her capacious trousers. ‘Of course. Let’s go into the kitchen. Warmer there.’

Harold followed the large figure through into the kitchen at the back, and settled himself at the table. Ella put some water in the kettle and turned it on. She then plumped herself down in a chair opposite Harold. ‘Well, then, what’s new?’ she asked.

This was a typical Ella Bembridge opening. She might as well have said: ‘I’ve got a good bit of gossip, but you go first.’

‘I don’t think I’ve got any news. Jeremy Prior has just got home for the holidays. And I hear Frank and Phil are having a bit of trouble with the Nativity service. A number of children going down with chickenpox.’

‘Joan told me that Molly had told her that Phil had told her that they were hanging in there for as long as possible. But they may have to cancel if any more children fall out.’

After a moment, the kettle boiled and Ella pulled herself to her feet and went to attend to the coffee. She made it straight into a mug, added a bit of milk, and put it in front of Harold.

‘Not having any yourself?’ he asked.

‘No, I had some earlier. Actually,’ she said, leaning across the table to peer at Harold’s mug, ‘is it all right? Mine tasted most odd.’

Harold took a tentative sip and immediately spluttered. ‘This isn’t coffee, Ella! I’m not sure what it is, but it’s certainly not coffee.’

‘Oh dear!’ cried Ella. ‘I hope I haven’t poisoned you.’

Harold got up to fetch a spoon from the draining-board and he stirred the brown mixture in his mug. ‘It’s got bits floating in it. It’s not one of Dotty’s concoctions, is it?’

‘Heavens, no! I know when to leave well alone.’

Ella turned to the shelf above the stove, took down a jar and peered at it. ‘That’s coffee in there, isn’t it?’

Harold looked at the glass canister. ‘Well, if it is, it’s the funniest-looking coffee I’ve ever seen.’ He took the lid off the canister and cautiously sniffed inside. ‘Don’t know what it is. It doesn’t have much of a smell. But it’s certainly not coffee.’

Ella took the container from him, and tipped a little of its contents into the palm of her hand. She tilted her head on one side and peered at it. Then she stuck out a pink tongue and licked at the pile.