The Christmas Surprise
Page 44

‘Hester says if I want to be a warmongo I need to show everyone.’
‘Mmmm,’ said Rosie. ‘Edinburgh rock?’
Edison nodded fervently. He was unswervingly loyal to his favourite brand.
‘And then can you sponsor me?’
Poor old Rosie had, of course, sponsored every child in the village. As, to be fair, had everybody else. They had all gone into fund-raising for the African school with a will. Cars were being cleaned on a daily basis, grass cut and errands run; and everyone was getting pleasantly used to mass silences, and the sight of clusters of children dressed up as bears. Rosie tried to keep it economical as she signed Edison’s raggedy sheet for sponsored marching.
‘Is this Boys’ Brigade too? Where is it held?’ she asked as she put away her purse, then fetched the glass jar of Edinburgh rock she kept within easy reach. ‘Is it at the church?’
‘No, that’s Beavers,’ said Edison. ‘We hate Beavers and will shoot them with our muskets.’
Rosie looked at him.
‘You know, I wonder if Hester hasn’t got a point.’
‘Where is it?’ asked Tina, in a voice slightly brighter than before.
‘At the scout hut,’ said Edison, his voice muffled by the insertion of a large stick of rock into his mouth. ‘Down the other side of the village.’
The girls both fell silent.
‘They still use that place?’ said Tina, sounding slightly out of breath.
‘Hang on, that place Lilian used to go to dances?’ said Rosie. ‘It must be falling down.’
‘It lets in a lot of rain,’ said Edison. ‘Helps us pretend to be REAL soldiers on a deadly battleground. Where it is raining.’
Rosie and Tina swapped significant looks.
‘I think we may be down to look at that later,’ said Rosie.
‘I think we may,’ said Tina.
They left Jake with the twins and marched forward into the frosty Lipton night, Apostil wrapped up papoose style on Rosie’s chest, his little fists clenched tightly.
They walked down the main street, their boots clicking on the cobbles, their breath steaming in the cloudy air. They waved to Malik as they passed, who waved back cheerily, still open for another few hours until everyone was home and nobody needed anything – there was almost nothing he didn’t stock, and he was very generous with his change when they were in a tight spot. Past Mrs Manly’s boutique, which was showing for winter a stupendously large purple quilted coat, embroidered with a picture of a wolf howling at the moon. It was hundreds of pounds and so completely a one-off that Rosie was desperate for someone to buy it, which she felt was rather cruel of her.
Past the Red Lion, where a couple of farmers were anxiously swapping tips about the cold snap, and how to stop sheep from lambing too early if they got a brief thaw; two dogs ran about having a tussle before being called to heel by their masters.
Past the market cross, and the bakery, which opened early and closed after lunch, or whenever they’d sold the last jam doughnut of the day, when perky, round-cheeked Mrs Arknop would disappear mysteriously at the same time as the milkman, Joe Longbottom. Both of them were well into their fifties, but, Rosie’s doings aside, sometimes the village could be a little low on gossip.
Past the school, its Christmas paper chains hanging from every available wall space, and great sheaves of holly round the door, looking less like decoration and more like the head teacher was trying to ward off evil spirits, the jolly shining berries protection against the darkness of the very depths of the year. Sprinkled above, like fairy threads, was light, delicate mistletoe.
‘Good luck to witches trying to get in there,’ observed Rosie.
‘It’ll keep Lady Lipton out,’ grumbled Tina.
Rosie craned her neck to see if she could see Stephen, his large head bent over, marking exercise books as he often did in the evening, unwilling to clutter up their little home or bring work into the cottage when he would rather be lying on his back rubbing Apostil’s sturdy little shoulders and being licked by Mr Dog. He wasn’t there.
Past the pretty steepled church with its kissing gate, and rainbow paintings by children in the information case, which made Lilian sniff and declare that a few more parish meetings and a few fewer rainbows might actually be a bit more useful. No lights burned in the vestry, so the vicar was probably out and about on his rounds (‘Biscuit-scrounging more like,’ Lilian would growl, before lauding the austere habits of the Pope once again).
They were coming to the end of the village now, past the curve of the churchyard – there was a small graveyard on the other side of the road too – then down past the farm tracks where Lilian had once whizzed on her bicycle and out on to the old road, where in amongst the woods at the top of an overgrown path stood the ramshackle wooden hut that had once hosted dances and parties, town meetings and rallies.
As people’s expectations of nights out had changed somewhat and it became more acceptable for women to drink in the bar at the Red Lion, the hut had gradually fallen out of use. Tonight, however, it was lit up in the icy gloom, and from inside came the sound of small feet crashing up and down and harshly shouted orders.
Rosie and Tina swapped glances.
‘It’s kind of falling-down,’ whispered Tina.
‘Listen,’ said Rosie. ‘With some posh fairy lights and a couple of gas heaters and some tinsel and those funny chairs with ribbons on the back, it’ll be transformed. Like when Ross married Emily on Friends, remember?’
‘I remember that not turning out so well,’ said Tina.
The noise from the old hut showed no sign of stopping.
‘I wonder who runs it,’ said Rosie. ‘We know it’s not the vicar; it involves physical exercise. Anyway, they’ll know who owns the hut.’
‘Do you think …’ Tina’s eyes were bright. ‘Do you think they’d let us have our wedding here?’
‘I can’t imagine why not,’ said Rosie. ‘Who in the village could possibly not wish you and Jake every happiness and success? Except my mother-in-law-to-be, and let’s assume she’s got nothing to do with it.’
She walked up to the hut and knocked confidently on the door. There was silence inside, a few scuffles, then the door was thrown open, and there, looking not at all happy to be disturbed, was Roy Blaine.
Rosie could never think of Roy Blaine without reminding herself that there were loads of dentists she knew who were absolute salt-of-the-earth types: gentle, thoughtful, kind to children, and who didn’t treat the occasional dental issue as a moral failing.