Christmas At Thrush Green (21 page)

It was nearly five o’clock and dark when he left Woodstock and set off for home. His mind was full of what his friend had talked to him about: going together to the Euro-Architects Conference which was being held in Brussels in the spring. Edward didn’t usually attend conferences of that sort since his work was mostly local and involved designing new buildings to fit in with the local softly coloured Cotswold stone, but a couple of days at this conference would be valuable. It was important to keep abreast of new ideas.

He dropped his speed automatically as he came down the Woodstock Road towards Thrush Green. He could see Christmas trees twinkling in many of the windows of the houses set back on either side. One or two people had looped Christmas lights round their front doors and into the branches of small trees. Everyone to their own, thought Edward charitably.

As he drew alongside Blenheim Lodge, he turned his head - and immediately slammed on his brakes. Luckily there was no one immediately behind him but a car further back blew his horn as he drew out to overtake Edward’s now stationary car.

It was one thing to put Christmas wreaths round the necks of the lion and unicorn, but not winking lights! He hadn’t noticed the lights woven in among the yew and holly when he had passed earlier, but now you couldn’t avoid seeing them.

‘Holy Moses! What will those dreadful people think of next!’ he exclaimed.

Five minutes later, after putting the car away in the garage, and ensuring that the little box containing the brooch for Joan was safely out of sight in his jacket pocket, he barged into the kitchen, sending the door banging against a cupboard and setting all the china shaking.

‘Edward! Whatever’s the matter?’ Joan asked in some alarm.

Paul, who was sitting at the table, also looked up - a large piece of bread spread with peanut butter and jam halfway to his ever hungry mouth.

‘Those ghastly Burwells! You’ll never guess what they’ve done now! As if those ghastly uplighters weren’t bad enough, they’ve gone and draped the poor innocent lion and unicorn with the most excruciating Christmas wreaths - that twinkle, for heaven’s sake,’ and he proceeded, rather breathlessly, to describe what he called ‘an abomination of bad taste’.

Joan stood in front of her husband and ran her hands over his shoulders and down his arms. ‘Poor Edward, what an affront to your dignity! But you must calm down or your blood pressure will go through the roof.’

‘I agree with Dad,’ said Paul through a mouthful. He swallowed, then continued: ‘I think Christmas decorations should be discreet but beautiful. That’s why I like your Christmas tree with just the white bows and white lights, Mum.’

Edward ruffled his son’s head. ‘There’s my boy!’ He peered at the half-eaten piece of bread in Paul’s hand. ‘Horrible! How can you mix peanut butter and jam together?’

‘It’s brilliant. Here, have a bite,’ and Paul held the bread towards his father.

But Edward waved it away and went out of the kitchen, banging that door behind him, too.

‘Oh dear,’ said Joan. ‘Your father gets so upset when someone does something that he considers bad taste.’

‘Yeah, but a twinkling lion and unicorn does sound fairly ghastly,’ said Paul, cramming the last of the bread into his mouth.

‘Well, it’s all a matter of what people like. After all, you like peanut butter and jam together on your bread. Let the Burwells have their twinkling statues.’

 

 

After supper that evening in the kitchen at Lulling Vicarage, Ella was doing her best to do her share of clearing up. She obviously couldn’t help Charles dry the cutlery and plates that Dimity was washing, but she had learned where they lived, and she had put them away in the right drawers and cupboards. It was the bowls and large plates that she couldn’t find homes for, and there was no point guessing.

Dimity, glancing over her shoulder, saw her friend just standing there, four-square, the other side of the table. ‘That blue bowl goes in the middle cupboard, just behind you,’ she said, and Ella gratefully picked up the bowl and turned to put it away.

‘And where does this go?’ she said, lifting up a little cream jug.

‘Ah, I know that!’ said Charles. ‘In that top cupboard there.’ And Ella walked a few paces to where he had pointed.

‘I shall learn in time,’ Ella said. ‘Probably just as I go back home.’

Neither Dimity nor Charles made any comment to that. It was a subject that had been avoided.

Once they were settled in the drawing-room, with cups of coffee, Dimity decided to tackle the problem but not head-on. She thought it would be better to approach it from round the corner.

‘Did you get everything you wanted in the shops this afternoon, Ella? Will you need to go back tomorrow?’

Ella stirred her coffee. ‘I always think that coffee isn’t the same without a ciggy,’ she said, ignoring Dimity’s question. ‘It’s like strawberries without cream.’

Dimity didn’t respond to this, but Charles looked up. ‘Of course you can smoke in here, Ella,’ he said. ‘It’s not banned in this house.’

‘It’s just that smoking’s not good for your health,’ said Dimity.

‘Oh, pah! to my health,’ retorted Ella, scrabbling in her pocket for her cigarette-making equipment.

‘And how are you going to put one together, with only one hand?’ asked Dimity, smiling at her friend.

‘You’re going to do it for me,’ Ella replied. ‘You know how.’

And Dimity did. There had been a number of occasions when, during the time they were sharing Ella’s cottage, Ella had been incapacitated in one way or another, and Dimity had learned how to roll the cigarettes.

‘If you are going to continue to smoke,’ she said, moving across to sit beside Ella on the sofa and taking the tin from her, ‘I think you’d better move on to proper cigarettes, the sort that you buy in a packet.’

‘I hate those. They don’t taste of anything.’

‘Well,’ said Dimity firmly, ‘I think it’s either that or not smoking.’

Ella remained silent. She wasn’t really in a position to argue, not with her wrist in plaster and in a sling.

‘Now, what about your shopping? Have you got everything you need?’ Dimity asked again.

‘Yes, I think so,’ said Ella somewhat meekly. ‘Thank you.’ She knew how much she owed to Charles and Dimity for taking her in. Then she added, ‘Tomorrow, do you think we could go back to the cottage so I can get the presents that are there? Most of them are already wrapped, but I shall need help with a few others and those I bought today. And then they’ll need delivering round the village - please.’

‘Of course,’ replied Dimity, handing Ella the cigarette. ‘Sorry it’s a bit raggedy. Out of practice.’

‘It’s fine, thank you,’ said Ella, and lit it with a lighter she produced from another pocket. ‘Aah!’ she breathed out in great contentment, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air.

Dimity waved the smoke away, and returned to her chair beside the fire. ‘I suggest we call in at the cottage on the way to Rectory Cottages tomorrow - it’s the Trustees’ Christmas party at teatime,’ she added by way of explanation.

‘That would suit me well,’ said Ella. ‘While you’re entertaining the old folk, I can busy myself around the cottage. There’re things I will need if I’m going to stay here for a few more days.’ She paused, then added, ‘I can stay here over Christmas, can’t I, Dim? I don’t think I want to face the cottage on my own yet, not until that lino has been mended at any rate.’

‘Of course you can stay,’ Dimity cried. ‘We love having you, don’t we, Charles?’

And the good vicar looked up from his book. ‘Yes, Ella, we love having you,’ he echoed. ‘You must stay as long as you want.’

T
he next morning at Tullivers, Phil took a cup of tea upstairs to Frank who was still in bed.

‘What have I done to deserve this?’ he said, struggling up into a sitting position. ‘It’s only just after seven o’clock and you’re already dressed.’

‘Shopping,’ said Phil shortly.

‘More shopping? It’s not possible!’ said Frank, accepting the cup from his wife.

‘The butcher will be open at seven-thirty,’ Phil said. ‘And if I leave it till nine, there’ll be a queue all down the street as everyone with any sense will be collecting their turkeys today rather than tomorrow. And the supermarket will be hell, too. I may as well get it over with. Tempers get so dreadfully frayed later on.’

Frank grunted. Thank heavens the womenfolk do the shopping, he thought.

Phil sat down at the dressing-table and brushed her thick blonde hair. ‘Have you anything specific planned for today?’

‘I’d really like to finish the article for the Listener,’ he said. ‘I know it’s not due in until the first week of January, but I’d rather finish it now. I find articles are never as good if there’s a gap during the writing. What’s Jeremy doing when his lordship deigns to get up?’

‘I expect he and Paul will find something. If you see him before I do, encourage them to go out - for a bike ride, or something. And now,’ she said, bending over the bed and giving her husband’s forehead a kiss, ‘I must be off. Is there anything I can get for you while I’m there?’

‘No thanks. Have fun.’

‘I doubt it,’ said Phil. ‘Thank goodness Christmas only comes once a year.’

 

Edward Young pulled his front door shut and walked a few steps down the garden path. Then he stopped and sniffed the air. The sky was steel grey above him, and the weather forecasters - if they could be trusted - had murmured something about the possibility of some snow. Since there had been a frost the previous night, the ground was still hard and any snow might settle. He crossed the little road outside his house, and walked onto the green, intending to cut across it to Winnie Bailey’s house. He had promised to help her set up her Christmas tree.

His progress was delayed when he saw that Harold Shoosmith, also on the green, was in the throes of picking up a trail of rubbish that had been jettisoned from the litter bin which was inexplicably in the middle of the green, on its side. Edward went across to help.

‘Ah, morning, Edward,’ Harold said, straightening up. ‘Beastly mess, this. Can’t stand litter at the best of times, but certainly not on our green.’

‘I can’t think what the bin is doing here,’ said Edward, stooping to pick up a drinks can. ‘There wasn’t any wind yesterday.’

‘Urchins, probably.’

Edward laughed at Harold’s use of such an old-fashioned word. ‘Well, if I catch said urchins, I’ll shove ’em in the bin along with the litter.’

‘I’m just going across to see Albert,’ said Harold. ‘I’ll ask him if he knows anything. I expect he’ll lay it at the door of the Cooke boys, even if it wasn’t them.’

‘Thing is, he’d probably be right,’ said Edward. ‘Right little scoundrels. I’ll see you later, won’t I, at Rectory Cottages?’

‘I’ll be there,’ replied Harold. ‘Wouldn’t miss the sweet sherry for the world!’ And with a cheery wave, he grabbed the rim of the litter bin and, dragging it behind him, set off across the green towards the church.

Edward continued his progress to Winnie’s house, and she was standing at her open front door as he approached. The Christmas tree, which had been delivered the day before, was lying on the drive.

‘Well done, you two, for clearing up that mess. I saw it lying about yesterday. And you’re so kind to help with the tree. Everything’s ready.’

Edward peered through the open door into the hall where the tree would stand. Winnie had already positioned the tub for the tree into an angle of the staircase, and she had neatly draped the front of the tub with red crêpe paper.

‘I asked for a slightly smaller tree this year. I shouldn’t really bother to have one at all, but Donald always said that Christmas wouldn’t be Christmas without a tree so I’ll keep going as long as possible.’

‘Quite right, too!’ said Edward. ‘Now, if you’re ready, I’ll bring it in.’

Edward stood the tree upright on the drive, put his arms round and through the prickly branches and lifted. He carried it towards the front door - it was more awkward than heavy. Having manoeuvred it through the door, he paused momentarily on the front door mat and carefully wiped his feet.

‘Don’t worry about any mud!’ cried Winnie. ‘We can sweep up afterwards. Now walk forward and I’ll guide you to the right place.’

Jenny had appeared from the kitchen and now went a little way up the stairs, and took hold of the top of the tree. ‘Back a bit more. Over to the right - no, the other way, your left. There, that’s it. Now down.’

And Edward gently lowered the tree into the tub. He extricated his arms from the branches and the tree immediately tilted to one side but Jenny was ready for it, and pulled it back upright. They had done this many times before.

‘Now where’s the stuffing?’ asked Edward, and Winnie handed him a bucket of kindling. Edward got down on his knees and shovelled handfuls of kindling wood round the base of the tree in the tub, and then packed in balls of newspaper Jenny had prepared until the tree was steady. He felt the trunk once more, declared it ‘as good as it will ever be’, and then got to his feet.