The Christmas Surprise
Page 62
‘That was our surprise, Miss Rosie.’ Edison’s voice rang out from the choristers.
‘Well it certainly was,’ said Rosie through her tears. ‘It was a very good one.’
‘If we can finally get on,’ said the vicar peevishly. ‘I welcome thee, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Apostil Akibo Edward Lakeman.’
Then it was Lilian’s turn to gasp.
It was freezing outside the church, but nobody noticed, and nobody minded. People kept coming over to congratulate Tina and Jake, and cuddle Apostil, and hug everyone else, and the photographer grew increasingly exasperated and warned them that they’d have no formal pics at all, and Tina – Tina, the devotee of the perfect wedding, Tina who had planned everything down to the nth degree, Tina with her magazines and colour-coded folders and Post-its – tossed her head and said those pictures were absolutely crap anyway, and superboring, and please, just to take pictures of their day as it actually was.
The sun shone on the icicles lining the church walls, and followed them as they all crunched their way on foot up towards the hut – everyone except Tina, who was borne away triumphantly by her new husband on a shiny tractor lent to them by Peter Isitt, which had been decorated with flowers and holly and lined with blankets. They threw sweets as they went, to Lilian’s horror, and the schoolchildren, already hyped up from the massive success of their concert, and the pressure of having to stay incredibly well-behaved for over an hour, went completely crazy for them. Holes were made in the knees of new trousers; icy mud was spattered across pretty dresses and smocks; shoes were trampled into oblivion. But today, nobody seemed to mind too much. Tina’s ushers, in another surprise for Rosie, were all shaking buckets for the African fund, and people were donating with a will.
Amid all the excitement, a rather shell-shocked Moshe announced that if it was always like this, he thought he might convert. Lilian told him to come and talk to her first. She had adopted him without a second thought, and he was pleased to be invited to take her free arm; the other one of course was being held by Moray.
‘You are SUCH a coquette,’ said Rosie.
‘Always,’ returned Lilian serenely.
To give credit to Henrietta, she did come over, with a slight stiffness in her gait and a set to her shoulders, to where the little family was standing.
‘Quaint,’ she said, peering at Apostil, who was democratically beaming at everyone while also desperately trying to pull off his lace robe, which was scratching at his neck. ‘Hello,’ she said formally. ‘I’m your grandmother, remember?’
Apostil stared at her with his big round eyes and blew a spit bubble.
‘Have you seen Pamela?’ Henrietta asked. Rosie suspected she’d already gone ahead to the scout hut – the party to which Hetty was not invited – but didn’t say. Stephen stood, stony-faced.
Rosie couldn’t help it.
‘Would you like to come on? To the party? I mean, everybody else is …’
Hetty sniffed.
‘I dislike doing things everybody else is doing.’
‘We know that,’ said Stephen.
Hetty pulled herself up.
‘No. I want to check the gardener has spliced up the winter garden properly. There’s always plenty to be getting on with in the house.’
‘If you have a house,’ said Stephen sotto voce as she turned and walked away, the sole figure heading back up towards town, where her Land Rover was parked. Rosie clasped his arm.
‘Don’t you dare start to say anything about us being better off,’ said Stephen, tightly.
‘I shan’t,’ said Rosie, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the ear. ‘But we—’
‘Ssssh! I don’t want to hear it!’
‘But—’
‘I’ve just agreed to spend the rest of my life waiting at bus stops and shopping at Poundingtons.’
‘You can get amazing stuff at Poundingtons!’
‘I’m going to have to go through a metal detector to get to work every day!’
‘I’ll fancy you even more for your extraordinary bravery.’
He squeezed her hand.
‘You’d better,’ he said.
Chapter Eighteen
They were nearly the last to arrive at the hut. Outside, a huge bonfire had been set up in a great circle of stones in the forest clearing, and the children were running around it, shouting and hollering like wild things. Awkward teenagers were handing out champagne in plastic glasses, while Roy was eyeing it carefully. Many people had brought bottles too, which were cheerfully added to the makeshift bar inside. Outside, Tina and Jake, Kent and Emily and Roy and Pamela made up a slightly peculiar receiving line, and, with good grace, Rosie and Stephen joined it too, so everyone could have a cuddle of Apostil, who was showing signs of getting hungry. Rosie sipped from a glass of champagne, and found time to say hello to everyone who was there; from Hye right down to Edison, who shook hands very gravely and seriously.
Pamela was all over Roy, who people were nodding at pleasantly enough.
‘So that’s going well?’ said Rosie politely, trying not to betray her vast sense of surprise. They were as unlikely a couple as could be imagined.
Pamela downed her drink as they all politely shook hands with Mrs Pettigrew who lived in the old row of cottages that had only got electricity in the nineties, and the Johnson family, six enormous boys who ran the vast dairy farm on the other side of the peaks, all of them looking identical, pink-faced and very cheerful in ill-fitting suits and slip-on shoes. They were some of Rosie’s best customers, but she couldn’t tell them apart any more than anyone else could, since they worked, ate, lived, played rugby and socialised together. Two of them were apparently married, but nobody knew which two. Moray also insisted that one of them was gay, but could never remember which one either.
‘You have to realise,’ Pamela said, nudging Roy to get her a refill. ‘The men in New York, they’re all totally unavailable. They’d never show vulnerability like he has, they never open up.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie.
‘And you know, I’m ready to settle down. Nobody in New York is; they’re all trying to make another million. I mean, I’ve got my house here now, my roots are here, Roy’s made his money.’
‘He certainly has,’ said Rosie.
‘Well it certainly was,’ said Rosie through her tears. ‘It was a very good one.’
‘If we can finally get on,’ said the vicar peevishly. ‘I welcome thee, in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost, Apostil Akibo Edward Lakeman.’
Then it was Lilian’s turn to gasp.
It was freezing outside the church, but nobody noticed, and nobody minded. People kept coming over to congratulate Tina and Jake, and cuddle Apostil, and hug everyone else, and the photographer grew increasingly exasperated and warned them that they’d have no formal pics at all, and Tina – Tina, the devotee of the perfect wedding, Tina who had planned everything down to the nth degree, Tina with her magazines and colour-coded folders and Post-its – tossed her head and said those pictures were absolutely crap anyway, and superboring, and please, just to take pictures of their day as it actually was.
The sun shone on the icicles lining the church walls, and followed them as they all crunched their way on foot up towards the hut – everyone except Tina, who was borne away triumphantly by her new husband on a shiny tractor lent to them by Peter Isitt, which had been decorated with flowers and holly and lined with blankets. They threw sweets as they went, to Lilian’s horror, and the schoolchildren, already hyped up from the massive success of their concert, and the pressure of having to stay incredibly well-behaved for over an hour, went completely crazy for them. Holes were made in the knees of new trousers; icy mud was spattered across pretty dresses and smocks; shoes were trampled into oblivion. But today, nobody seemed to mind too much. Tina’s ushers, in another surprise for Rosie, were all shaking buckets for the African fund, and people were donating with a will.
Amid all the excitement, a rather shell-shocked Moshe announced that if it was always like this, he thought he might convert. Lilian told him to come and talk to her first. She had adopted him without a second thought, and he was pleased to be invited to take her free arm; the other one of course was being held by Moray.
‘You are SUCH a coquette,’ said Rosie.
‘Always,’ returned Lilian serenely.
To give credit to Henrietta, she did come over, with a slight stiffness in her gait and a set to her shoulders, to where the little family was standing.
‘Quaint,’ she said, peering at Apostil, who was democratically beaming at everyone while also desperately trying to pull off his lace robe, which was scratching at his neck. ‘Hello,’ she said formally. ‘I’m your grandmother, remember?’
Apostil stared at her with his big round eyes and blew a spit bubble.
‘Have you seen Pamela?’ Henrietta asked. Rosie suspected she’d already gone ahead to the scout hut – the party to which Hetty was not invited – but didn’t say. Stephen stood, stony-faced.
Rosie couldn’t help it.
‘Would you like to come on? To the party? I mean, everybody else is …’
Hetty sniffed.
‘I dislike doing things everybody else is doing.’
‘We know that,’ said Stephen.
Hetty pulled herself up.
‘No. I want to check the gardener has spliced up the winter garden properly. There’s always plenty to be getting on with in the house.’
‘If you have a house,’ said Stephen sotto voce as she turned and walked away, the sole figure heading back up towards town, where her Land Rover was parked. Rosie clasped his arm.
‘Don’t you dare start to say anything about us being better off,’ said Stephen, tightly.
‘I shan’t,’ said Rosie, then reached up and kissed him lightly on the ear. ‘But we—’
‘Ssssh! I don’t want to hear it!’
‘But—’
‘I’ve just agreed to spend the rest of my life waiting at bus stops and shopping at Poundingtons.’
‘You can get amazing stuff at Poundingtons!’
‘I’m going to have to go through a metal detector to get to work every day!’
‘I’ll fancy you even more for your extraordinary bravery.’
He squeezed her hand.
‘You’d better,’ he said.
Chapter Eighteen
They were nearly the last to arrive at the hut. Outside, a huge bonfire had been set up in a great circle of stones in the forest clearing, and the children were running around it, shouting and hollering like wild things. Awkward teenagers were handing out champagne in plastic glasses, while Roy was eyeing it carefully. Many people had brought bottles too, which were cheerfully added to the makeshift bar inside. Outside, Tina and Jake, Kent and Emily and Roy and Pamela made up a slightly peculiar receiving line, and, with good grace, Rosie and Stephen joined it too, so everyone could have a cuddle of Apostil, who was showing signs of getting hungry. Rosie sipped from a glass of champagne, and found time to say hello to everyone who was there; from Hye right down to Edison, who shook hands very gravely and seriously.
Pamela was all over Roy, who people were nodding at pleasantly enough.
‘So that’s going well?’ said Rosie politely, trying not to betray her vast sense of surprise. They were as unlikely a couple as could be imagined.
Pamela downed her drink as they all politely shook hands with Mrs Pettigrew who lived in the old row of cottages that had only got electricity in the nineties, and the Johnson family, six enormous boys who ran the vast dairy farm on the other side of the peaks, all of them looking identical, pink-faced and very cheerful in ill-fitting suits and slip-on shoes. They were some of Rosie’s best customers, but she couldn’t tell them apart any more than anyone else could, since they worked, ate, lived, played rugby and socialised together. Two of them were apparently married, but nobody knew which two. Moray also insisted that one of them was gay, but could never remember which one either.
‘You have to realise,’ Pamela said, nudging Roy to get her a refill. ‘The men in New York, they’re all totally unavailable. They’d never show vulnerability like he has, they never open up.’
‘Hmm,’ said Rosie.
‘And you know, I’m ready to settle down. Nobody in New York is; they’re all trying to make another million. I mean, I’ve got my house here now, my roots are here, Roy’s made his money.’
‘He certainly has,’ said Rosie.
