The Country Doctor's Choice (7 page)

She grinned at Iris as they left. ‘I wonder what she’d have said if I’d told her we check them all for VD! What a woman – I can’t help feeling sorry for that poor girl. But Iris, are you all right? You’re as white as a sheet. You’d better sit down. I’ll get you a glass of water.’

But Iris waved her aside. ‘I’m all right, Shelagh, honestly. I’ll call the next one in.’

Christmas Eve brought a clear, cold night, full of twinkling stars,
like silver lamps in a distant shrine
, Jeremy North half remembered from some old carol. His heart beat a little faster as he looked upon his special choir assembled at the west door of the church with their music sheets. Rebecca Coulter was a stately presence in a fur coat, Phyllis Maynard and Mary Whittaker were well wrapped up in woollen fleeces, scarves, gloves and knee-high leather boots. Beryl Johnson was muffled in a long scarf wound
twice round her neck and over her mouth, above which her eyes peered anxiously, and Daphne Bolt, who had not attended any rehearsals, now appeared smiling broadly, with her sons Philip and Mark, home from University and looking for some entertainment. Cyril Pritchard immediately went over to welcome them to the choir and hand them each a carol sheet.

‘I thought we might need a few extra copies, so I got these typed out by one of the ladies in the solicitors’ office,’ he said. ‘I’ll be leading you all in ‘Patapan’, that’s a French carol written primarily for children, but has a very nice refrain, so take a look at it.’

The boys nodded and turned to grin at each other as soon as he turned away. ‘What a weirdo!’ muttered Philip behind his hand. ‘Wouldn’t care to meet
him
in the churchyard after dark, would you?’

‘Poor old bugger, I bet he’s as lonely as hell,’ his kinder brother replied.

As always, Jeremy North experienced a tremor of mixed emotions at the mystery of Christmas: the medieval treasures of art and architecture to be found in this church that had stood here for over six hundred years, and where they were now celebrating the Nativity, the Incarnation of a holy child born in a stable. Memories of past Christmases when the children had been young came back to him, the feasting, the tree with its soft lights and wrapped presents at its base, the carols, the gifts given and
received, the holly and the mistletoe – and the soft light in Fiona’s eyes as they’d looked at each other over the tops of the happy children’s heads, before it had all gone so wrong. As headmaster of a primary school he had the opportunity to see again the festival through the innocent eyes of a child; he enjoyed watching the parents’ pride – and sometimes surprise – at seeing their children taking part in the annual nativity play, listening to their praise and shrugging off their enquiries about his own family. Now he prayed that the success of his Christmas choir would renew his own faith which was burning low. There was too much suffering in the world and not enough answers to prayer.

But now, surrounded by his singers, one face stood out from the rest: Iris Oates in her quilted red jacket with a fur-trimmed hood that framed her face smiled shyly at him, her eyes meeting his just for a moment, before she looked away.

O, God, is there a man who can resist a woman’s adoration, especially when – but no, to encourage the girl in any way would be wrong. Wicked, in fact. And could lead nowhere. And yet, and yet … he longed to talk to her, tell her everything, for surely she would listen and understand.

He dragged his eyes from her, and addressed the group. ‘Well, we’re all here, plus a couple of – no, three new members from the vicarage. I hope we’re all in good voice tonight, and festive mood. This
is the night when Christ was born, and we need to keep a balance between reverent awe and rejoicing, so we’ll start with “Good Christian Men, Rejoice” – and sing all three verses as we walk down to the square. Rebecca, you’ll give us the first note, best ladies at the front, followed by the rest of us – and one of you Bolt boys can carry the lantern – thanks, Mark. Mr Wetherby and Cyril will bring up the rear, and see that nobody gets left behind. Off we go!’

The market square was ablaze with Christmas lights. The Volunteer was packed, and some came out to cheer them and throw a few coins into the bucket carried by Philip Bolt. They sang ‘The Boar’s Head Carol’, and walked to the hospital singing ‘The First Nowell’, which they finished at the front entrance, near to Accident and Emergency.

‘We’ll need to keep out of the way of the ambulances bringing the sick and injured in from the pubs,’ Mark Bolt remarked with a grin.

A woman representative of the Everham Park Hospital Management Committee met them and said she would guide them to the designated areas where they had permission to sing, starting with the children’s ward, with a caution not to make too much noise, as some of the children would be asleep. The ward was quiet at first, and Cyril drew a few deep breaths, ready to sing ‘Patapan’; but Jeremy quickly decided against the too-ra-loo-ra-loos and pat-a-pat-pans as being too loud and too unfamiliar. He chose instead ‘The Rocking
Carol’, two verses only, sung very softly. An older boy was fascinated and started to join in, as did a girl with a leg suspended in plaster. These two had no inhibitions, and belted out with gusto,

The nurse in charge of the ward glared at the visitors who had sung so quietly that they had been drowned out by the rowdy boy and girl, and now hastily left the ward, followed by yells demanding their return. They were next led through men’s and women’s surgical wards, then men’s and women’s medical, where the older patients were mainly appreciative, some tearfully so, while others ignored them. Finally they climbed the stairs to Maternity, there being too many of them to crowd into the lift.

‘Now for “Patapan”,’ said Cyril confidently as they approached the unit with some trepidation; they were led first into the antenatal ward where the women greeted them with smiles. They sang ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and were applauded, so Jeremy ordered ‘While Shepherds Watched’, also applauded. There were only seven patients in postnatal, one recovering from a Caesarean section, but they
smiled and listened to ‘Away in a Manger’, with a few accompaniments from the five cradles beside the beds, the other two babies being in the nursery. Their guide then led them to the annexe which served the Delivery Unit and Theatre.

‘I don’t expect they’ll want you in the Delivery Unit,’ she said, ‘but I’ll go and see what’s happening there. Wait here, please.’

She returned to say that a baby girl had been born ten minutes ago in Delivery Room Four. Dr Hammond had been sent for to put in stitches, and meanwhile the new mother had no objection at all to the carol singers, and asked for something nice and soothing for the baby. They moved up the annexe to the open door of Delivery Room Four, and Jeremy was about to begin ‘Silent Night’ when Dr Hammond breezed in.

‘Good heavens, what’s going on here?’ she asked. ‘What are you thinking of, Nurse Burns, letting these people into a sterile area? They must leave at once!’

By now the lady singers were at the door and smiling at the new mother, sitting up on the delivery bed, her baby in her arms. Mrs Coulter exclaimed, ‘Mrs Peacock! Mrs Peacock, the new Methodist minister’s wife! I knew you were expecting soon, but I didn’t realise it was today!’

Another, heavier footstep was heard entering the annexe, and Dr McDowall appeared.

‘I’ve heard a lot of disturbance going on here,’
he said with mock severity, ‘and I’ve come to make some arrests. Who are these intruders, Marie Burns?’

‘They’re the carol singers, doctor, and Dr Hammond says they’ve got to go,’ said Staff Midwife Burns clearly for all to hear. ‘Mrs Peacock wants them to sing a carol for the baby. They’re Methodists,’ she added.

‘Well, then they must stay, we’ve heard nothing detrimental about Methodists, have we?’ he said, moving through the singers to the Delivery Room, where Dr Hammond stood waiting impatiently.

‘Dr Shelagh, what a lovely surprise! A baby on Christmas Eve!’

‘I’m simply waiting to suture an episiotomy,’ she answered, trying not to show her irritation. ‘And I’ve asked them to leave the department at once. Mr Kydd would be furious.’

‘Oh, come off it, Shelagh, it’s Christmas and these good people have come a-wassailing. We can’t let them go without a carol.’

‘Oh,
please
, let them sing ‘Silent Night’!’ begged Mrs Peacock.

McDowall nodded to Jeremy North, and they began to sing the carol. Iris Oates’s voice rose up sweet and clear on the high note of
sleep in heavenly peace
, and Rebecca’s bell-like contralto descended to the bottom note in the repeat of the line. No other sound was heard until all three verses were sung, and Shelagh saw that she had to capitulate. She
formally thanked them for coming, but added that they must leave now because Mrs Peacock needed treatment. Ignoring McDowall who had overridden her authority, she beckoned to Nurse Marie Burns to prepare the patient for suturing.

‘Thank you all, it was heavenly,’ McDowall told the singers. ‘Good night and a happy Christmas to you all – and a welcome to our new arrival!’

‘Amen,’ they repeated as they left and descended the stairs. Not much was said as they walked back to the church, apart from Cyril voicing his regret that they had not sung ‘Patapan’. Jeremy whispered ‘Thank you, my dear,’ into Iris’s ear, to which she could make no reply. She seemed to be floating somewhere between earth and heaven. All right, so Jeremy North was a married man with a family and was not for her – could never be hers – but that did not stop her from adoring him over the distance between them, and surely she would remember this glorious Christmas Eve until her dying day!

It was Christmas Day in the morning. The Reverend Derek Bolt did not expect the turnout for the 10.30 service to be large, because the church had been packed on the previous evening, swelled by a number of non-churchgoers who had thought it a nice idea to slip back to a time when they had believed without doubting, when there was still a chance that legends could come true, before the clamour of the world
drowned out the angels’ song. Daphne and his sons were sitting beneath the pulpit, and he hoped the boys would listen to him. He got nothing but good-natured teasing when he tried to talk to them as a father – as a
Dad
. He wanted to express his pride in them, the happiness they brought to their mother – oh,
hell
, there was that woman again, sitting two pews back from his own family. Now her presence would intrude on all the thoughts he tried to convey in his sermon on this special day of the year. For the next hour there she would be, gazing at him soulfully: she would completely spoil it for him.

Asking for forgiveness and God’s help, the vicar proceeded with Morning Prayer. Seated at the organ, Jeremy North too had his unspoken thoughts. His eyes searched the sea of faces, but he knew there would be no sign of Fiona, Denise or little Peter. Somebody whispered, ‘It’s a pity none of his family are here,’ followed by a whispered reply, ‘They say there’s trouble with all three. Poor Mr North!’

Jeremy had in fact almost pleaded with Denise to come, but she had tearfully apologised, saying that she felt very ill, and Fiona had refused to leave her.

‘Poor girl, just as she’s found a decent boyfriend, and now this,’ Fiona had sighed. ‘And I’ll get no help at all with the turkey and trimmings.’

‘The turkey’s in the oven on a low gas, and when I get back I’ll take over in the kitchen, and you can take a couple of hours off,’ he had reassured her.

‘Somebody’s got to stay around here in case the phone rings and it’s Roy,’ she said with a worried frown.

‘As long as it’s only Roy and not the police. Sorry, Peter-poppet, you won’t hear Granddad making a joyful noise on the organ this morning.’

The Christmas service began; the hymns were lustily sung, the collection taken and Derek made the due preparation for Communion. The wafers and the wine, symbolising the body and blood, were taken from the altar; a queue of communicants formed, and Derek placed a wafer on the hand of each, then Mrs Whittaker offered them the chalice. Jeremy North went first, so as to get back to the organ and play softly while Communion proceeded.

‘The body of Christ.’

‘Amen.’

‘The blood of Christ.’

‘Amen.’

Derek braced himself as Beryl Johnson moved forward, and held out the wafer to her.

‘The body of Christ.’

He waited for her ‘Amen,’ but instead she made a grab at his hand, pressing it to her lips, and moaning, ‘Oh, my God, take pity!’ The wafer fell to the floor, and he snatched his hand free, drawing back from her as if from a poisonous snake.

‘Stop—be quiet—’ Words deserted him as she stood before him weeping, but Mrs Whittaker, practical as
ever, nodded to Phyllis Maynard who was next in the line of communicants, and a silent message passed between them. Phyllis stepped forward, took Miss Johnson by the arm, and led her down the aisle to a seat at the back.

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—’ Beryl repeated on a rising note.

‘Stop that, stop it at once,’ ordered Phyllis. ‘Listen, I’ll take you home after the service, my car’s just around the corner in the car park. Only you must be sensible.’

Phyllis got Beryl out of the church before the singing of the last hymn, ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’, led by the Christmas choir. They got into the car, and little was said on the journey to Angel Close and Beryl’s little semi. Phyllis got out and walked arm-in-arm with her passenger to the front door. Beryl had quietened, but Phyllis went indoors with her and brewed a pot of tea which they shared.

‘I know how you must miss your mother, Beryl, and I’m truly sorry, we all are, but it’s really time to move on now. People will only give you so long to grieve, and then you must make the effort. I lost my husband less than three months ago, and I know how—’