Christmas At Thrush Green (19 page)

‘I do know. Sometimes I feel that Christmas just goes on too long. By the time we get to New Year, I’m exhausted. The Youngs are having a New Year’s Eve party, and I’ll probably fall asleep long before the witching hour,’ said Isobel. She glanced at the clock. It was lovely talking to Agnes but she had lunch to cook. ‘Frank and Phil Hurst had a lovely party yesterday evening, after the Nativity. Oh, and Ella had a fall and has broken her wrist.’

‘Yes, I heard about that,’ said Agnes, much to Isobel’s surprise.

‘Goodness, news travels fast! Who did you hear that from?’ she asked.

‘From Joan Young. I’ve just been speaking to her.’

‘Oh, I see,’ said Isobel.

‘And she’s asked if Dorothy and I would like to come up for their party. And we would if, if . . .’

‘If you can stay,’ finished Isobel. ‘Of course you can. It will be lovely to see you both. Will you come on the day, or can you come earlier?’

‘No, we would like to come that afternoon, if we may, and we shall only stay a couple of nights because Dorothy wants to get back for the Lifeboat charity lunch on the second of January.’

‘It will be wonderful to see you both,’ said Isobel and, tucking the receiver under her chin, wrote it in the diary.

At that moment, the front door bell rang.

‘Agnes, dear, I must go - that’s the front door. We’ll talk again before you come up. Have a lovely Christmas! Bye.’

Somewhat thankfully, Isobel replaced the receiver and went to see who was calling on a Sunday morning.

It was Charles Henstock.

‘Charles, come in, come in!’ she cried.

‘I’m not disturbing you, am I?’ said the good rector. ‘Is Harold around?’

‘I’m afraid not. You’ll find him next door at the school, I think. They’re packing up the costumes from last night’s Nativity. But come in, I don’t think he will be that long. His nose starts twitching at about 12.30 on a Sunday. But would you mind coming through the kitchen. I must put in the beef or Harold won’t get his lunch until mid-afternoon, I’m so behind.’

Charles sat himself at the kitchen table while Isobel told him of the forthcoming visit of Dorothy and Agnes.

‘What fun! Dimity will be so pleased. We’ve been invited to the Youngs, too - what a party it’s going to be.’

At the mention of ‘party’, Isobel swung round from the sink. ‘Goodness, I’d quite forgotten. How’s Ella, poor Ella?’

‘She wasn’t up when I had to leave for the early service here in Thrush Green,’ said Charles. ‘She was understandably very shaken yesterday - more fearful about the future, I think, than actual pain. I believe it’s what is known as a Colles’ fracture, and she’ll be in plaster for about six weeks.’

‘Brittle bones,’ said Isobel, carefully placing the piece of beef among the potatoes and parsnips that were already browning in the pan of sizzling fat, and then spooning the spitting liquid over the meat and vegetables.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘A Colles’ fracture is usually indicative of brittle bones, osteoporosis - that disease that every woman dreads,’ replied Isobel.

‘Ah, yes,’ said the rector. ‘I believe that that is what one of my parishioners is suffering from. She’s fairly incapacitated.’

Having put in the joint, Isobel wiped her hands on her apron, looked at the clock and said, ‘I’m sure Harold won’t be long. Let me get you a glass of sherry. Everything’s done in here for the moment. Come into the sitting-room where the fire’s lit.’

A few minutes later, Harold returned, and came into the sitting-room rubbing his hands together. ‘Hello, Charles. Jolly cold out there, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, but very beautiful. I love these winter mornings, when the sky’s so blue, like today. The road to Lulling Woods was pretty icy, but all the frost on the trees looked lovely in the sun. It’s beginning to melt now - that’ll certainly make it easier to get around, anyway!’

Harold, having checked that Charles had got a glass of sherry, poured himself one and joined his old friend with his back to the fire.

‘You have a good life here, Harold,’ Charles said, a cheerful smile on his round face. ‘A welcoming fire, surrounded by all your books, music on the player and—’

‘And a beautiful wife to look after me!’ cut in Harold, smiling at his wife sitting in one of the fireside armchairs. ‘I know, I’m very lucky but you don’t do so badly yourself.’

‘And I know it, too,’ Charles replied.

‘What would men do without women!’ added Isobel mischievously.

‘Now, now,’ said her husband, ‘don’t let’s start on that subject. What’s most important is Ella. How is she this morning?’

Charles once more said that he wasn’t sure since he’d had to leave the house before she was up. ‘I had a word with John Lovell when he brought Ella back last night. She was predictably very depressed about the fracture. Dim and I had a talk early this morning, and we are determined that Ella should stay with us now, and right over Christmas. She can’t go back alone to her cottage, and we’ve got so much room.’

‘What a sensible idea,’ said Isobel.

‘I don’t for a moment think she will agree,’ said Charles, and both Isobel and Harold nodded. They knew Ella of old. ‘But we’ll insist and that’s the end of the matter.’

‘And then what?’ asked Harold.

‘I don’t know, I really don’t know. I think we will have to take it day by day.’

At that moment, the pretty little clock on the mantelpiece struck one o’clock.

‘I must go!’ cried Charles. ‘Lunch is usually at one-fifteen on Sunday, which gives me time to digest it before the next service. It’s the carol service at St John’s this afternoon.’ He put his empty glass down on a little table. ‘Thank you for the sherry.’

Harold saw him to the door. ‘You will keep us in touch about Ella, won’t you? And let us know if there is anything we can do to help.’

‘Thank you, and yes, of course, both Dim and I will keep you posted.’ And with a cheery wave, the rector made his way down the garden path to his car.

 

At Tullivers on the other side of the green, there was a clattering noise on the stairs, and Jeremy burst into the kitchen.

‘What’s for lunch?’ he said. ‘I’m starving.’

His stepfather looked at him over the top of the newspaper he was reading. ‘Good afternoon, Jeremy. And how are we feeling?’

‘Fine! Great! Good party!’

‘Ah yes, good party,’ Frank repeated. ‘And after every good party, there’s the clearing up. So where’ve you been?’

‘Growing boys need plenty of sleep,’ Jeremy replied cheekily. ‘And I’m here now to help. But first I must have some food. What time’s lunch?’

Phil came into the kitchen at that moment. ‘Morning, darling. We’ve decided not to have lunch today, but have a decent supper instead.’

Jeremy’s face fell and he looked so disappointed that his mother immediately softened her resolve to be strict with him on ‘the morning after’.

‘Some people got up and had a proper breakfast. Have some cereal now, to keep the wolf from the door, then you can fill up with bread and pâté when we eat in about half an hour, and there’s plenty of cheese.’

Jeremy grunted, at which Frank shook his head and returned to his newspaper.

However, Phil wasn’t going to let Jeremy off so easily. ‘In between your breakfast and lunch, there’s some washing-up for you to do,’ and she indicated a pile of large platters standing on the draining-board.

Jeremy had reached for the box of cereal and was pouring a huge heap into a bowl he had taken from the cupboard. ‘They can go into the dishwasher,’ he said, pleased that his chore had been so easy.

‘Not those plates, they can’t,’ replied his mother. ‘First, they’re too big for the dishwasher, and second they’re too good. They’re old plates and I don’t want them anywhere near the machine. All the stuff now on the draining-board has to be hand-washed, and you have been designated Chief Washer.’

Jeremy wasn’t really listening. Having spooned three large teaspoonfuls of sugar onto his cereal, he now went to the fridge to get the milk. His eyes lit on a covered bowl of food.

‘What’s this? Can I have this?’

‘That’s the remains of last night’s lasagne. Yes, I suppose you can have that for lunch.’

‘Lasagne? I never had any lasagne,’ Jeremy said, slopping milk into his cereal bowl so fast that cereal bits went out over the back edge. The boy nonchalantly scooped them up with his fingers.

‘Well, no, you didn’t,’ Frank said, giving up on his newspaper and folding it up. ‘You and I need to have a chat, young man, but it can wait until later. Are you coming with us to the carol service at St John’s this afternoon?’

Jeremy’s spoon paused halfway between bowl and mouth. ‘Paul and I had planned to go for a bike ride and,’ he said, looking out of the window, ‘it looks a super day for one. To be honest, I think I’ve had enough of church for a bit.’

‘Fair enough,’ Frank replied. ‘You can go round to the Youngs when we go down to Lulling, so long as you’ve done your duties here.’

His voice was firm and Jeremy knew his stepfather well enough to know when he meant what he was saying. ‘OK,’ he said, and then concentrated on devouring his bowl of cereal.

Frank watched him for a minute. He was fairly used to teenagers. Robert, his son from his first marriage, had four children, and the youngest of those was about Jeremy’s age. Frank usually spent a week or so down in Wales each year with Robert and his family, and knew all about growing pains. He wasn’t worried about Jeremy. The boy had natural exuberance and the bike ride would do both him and Paul good - but only once the chores had been carried out.

Having finished the bowl of cereal, Jeremy got up from the table and gently pushed his mother away from where she was leaning with her back against the sink.

‘Move. How can I wash up with you standing there?’ And a moment later, with a sinkful of frothing suds, Jeremy set to work.

 

As Charles Henstock drove back to Lulling, he mused about the coming week which was the busiest in the year for him. The morning’s hard frost had mostly gone although he noticed there was still a little patch of white beneath one wall where the weak winter sun hadn’t reached. As he crossed from the garage to the back door, he heard the squabble of starlings as they battled for position on the bird-feeder that was hanging from an old apple tree.

Opening the back door, he was greeted by warmth and the delicious smell of Sunday roast. Rubbing his hands together gleefully, he went into the kitchen and tilted his little snub nose to sniff appreciatively. ‘That smell must be the best smell in the world. Sunday lunch!’

Dimity turned round from the stove where she was making gravy. ‘Just in time, I was beginning to think we’d start without you.’

‘Where’s Ella? How is she?’ Charles asked quietly.

‘She’s in the drawing-room with the Sunday papers. She’s very down, but that’s understandable. Would you go through and tell her we’re about ready to eat.’

And a few minutes later, Sunday lunch at the vicarage was under way.

‘Pass Ella’s plate to me,’ Dimity said, ‘and I’ll cut it up.’ Charles put down his carving knife and passed the plate of nice pink lamb to his wife.

‘I feel so helpless,’ said Ella, ‘and I’m afraid you’re going to get very tired of me saying that all the time.’

‘Then don’t say it!’ responded Dimity gently. ‘We’ll just take it for granted. I’ll cut those potatoes up a bit, but you’ll be able to manage the carrots and beans yourself.’

Over lunch, the three of them discussed Ella’s immediate future. Charles was slightly surprised that their doughty friend didn’t put up more of a fight about staying on at the vicarage until after Christmas but, later, Dimity quietly explained to him that getting Ella washed and dressed that morning had been such a performance that Ella obviously realized that she couldn’t return to her cottage and fend for herself.

Over the apple crumble and cream, they made plans for the afternoon. Dimity was going with Charles to the carol service, and Ella was deputed to keep the fire going in the drawing-room. Before leaving, Charles carried in a big armful of logs and dropped them into the wicker basket by the fireplace.

‘That should keep you going while we’re out,’ he said, and Ella smiled gratefully.

‘You are very dear friends. I don’t know what I would do without you.’

L
ulling High Street on the Monday before Christmas was crowded with shoppers frantically trying to buy the last of their presents. At the beginning of December, the men from the local Fire Brigade had arrived with their ladders and strung lines of white lights across the fronts of the first floor of all the buildings. It was a time-honoured tradition that these brave men would undertake this job and, as usual, little knots of children had gathered to watch them and offer unhelpful advice. The following day the firemen returned to attach small Christmas trees to brackets above many of the shops’ front doors, and the trees now twinkled with little white lights.