The Christmas Surprise Page 22

  Moray stroked her hair.

  ‘Honestly,’ said Rosie. ‘Tell me honestly. If Apostil were your son, what would you do?’

  ‘I would want him to have every possible advantage in life,’ said Moray, gently. ‘Like I would for any child.’

  Rosie nodded.

  ‘And Stephen’s not happy about it?’

  It was kind of Moray to let her cry all down the front of his morning suit.

  Lilian helped her clean herself up, wisely without asking too many questions, and put on her mascara for her.

  ‘Everyone cries at weddings,’ she said. ‘Can’t bear the damn things myself. Can’t believe you’re getting me to this one.’

  ‘You and Henry should have got married,’ sniffed Rosie.

  ‘Oh, we were, my love,’ said Lilian. ‘In our hearts, I think. Now, how long do you think that fat vicar is going to go on for today? Let’s get the fish and chip van to drive past after twenty minutes. He’ll follow the smell right out the door.’

  ‘You are awful,’ said Rosie, but it did the trick. She felt a little better, and not as if she’d be sobbing over everyone all through the service. She twisted her own engagement ring anxiously.

  ‘Stop that,’ said Moray. ‘You’ll look weird.’

  ‘Okay, okay!’

  They were driving the short distance to the church, the icy cobbles being deemed absolutely far too hazardous for Lilian’s delicate bones

  ‘That’s true, you know,’ Lilian had said. ‘One fall and it’s all over. Everyone knows. Nelly Quivox tripped down the stairs. Only broke her ankle but was dead in a week. I think she did it on purpose.’

  ‘You are a GHOUL,’ said Rosie. ‘Stop it.’

  ‘I can’t stop it,’ said Lilian. ‘I’m at the opposite bit to you. Everyone you know is having babies, not dying. So you sit around and bore everyone to tears about people who have just arrived, whereas I tell stories about people who have just left. It’s precisely the same thing, except my stories are interesting and not all blah blah blah milk oh look he did a burp call the Marconi office.’

  ‘That’s … Well. That’s a bit true,’ said Rosie, taking her great-aunt’s bird-like arm in hers as they stepped out of the cottage and towards the car. Most of Lipton was heading down the main street in their Sunday best. Even those who were not invited were going to see Tina and Jake off; a wedding in the village was, after all, a wedding, and there was a merry Christmas feel to the air as people hailed their neighbours, the women in fancy hats, the farmer’s wives who spent all year in practical, warm clothes pink and nervous-looking, clopping across the cobbles in unaccustomed heels.

  The church had white ribbons and holly draped over the lychgate, and great bunches of white flowers at the end of every pew with mistletoe and big white bows everywhere. Stephen – Apostil having been borne off by some of the other mothers – was standing at the door handing out orders of service, his stick leaning against the old arched doorway. For a second, he took Rosie’s breath away.

  He was so handsome in his old morning suit, his top hat by his stick, the smart waistcoat with its white buttonhole. He looked exactly, in fact, like the man she’d dreamed of marrying, of being with, for so long. Her heart softened and she wanted to run to him. As if sensing her, he glanced up; she smiled at him, nervously, apologetically, and he raised his hand a little bit, and again she wanted to run and beg forgiveness, and make everything all right again.

  But how could it be all right when she was tearing him away from his job and his life and his family and everything he loved?

  If she had been different, would his mother have liked her more? Accepted her? Invited her to stay with them, be a part of his family? If she’d been like his other girlfriends: posh, blonde Made in Chelsea types with plenty of money, who could have bought somewhere nice on their own, none of the boring problems that belonged to little people, who ran sweetshops and had no inheritance. And of course if she had a working set of Fallopian tubes, that would probably have helped things too …

  She swallowed heavily and checked on Apostil, who was being doted on by some of Jake’s rugby chums. Apostil was giggling and laughing his head off. She went a little closer, conscious now – all the time – of the possibility that the damn social worker might pop up at any moment and that she should probably not be letting him out of her sight.

  Apostil’s face lit up when he saw her. There was no other way to describe it. His smile, already wide from the fuss being made of him, suddenly became even wider, his eyes sparkled with excitement, his little hand stretched out towards her. He was the sun coming out; she and Stephen were everything to him, and that was all that mattered.

  ‘Here’s Mam,’ said one of the boys cheerfully, handing him over. ‘Hey there, our Rosie. Can your lad come and play prop forward? He’s going to be a big ’un.’

  ‘Maybe not this Saturday,’ said Rosie, smiling, and thinking how, after his op, he’d be able to do all that stuff – all the throwing, and sport, and joining in things. She thought Apostil was the most amazing thing in the world; the operation would give him all the tools to show everybody else that too.

  Eventually they were all sitting down. Rosie saw Jake, anxious and sweaty, with a terrible new haircut, and the vicar, in special celebration robes, beaming pinkly and casting ominous glances towards his acoustic guitar. Tina had been pretty adamant about that, though, and someone was playing the organ.

  Just as everyone was getting fidgety, the good old wedding march started up, and everyone rose, Rosie realising two things at the same time: firstly, that Lady Lipton and Pamela were there, both looking furious (and extremely similar) at the fact that, of course, their normal pew, the front one, was taken by the families of the bride and groom; and secondly, that she had completely forgotten to check whether Apostil was wearing his special wedding babygro, and she could tell under his jumper that he wasn’t.

  First the twins, Kent and Emily, came forward, holding hands, Emily in a beautiful white dress with a big red bow and a soft white cardigan; Kent in white shorts and shirt and a red tie. The entire church sighed with happiness at what a lovely picture they made as they walked slowly and incredibly seriously to the front, the nervous looks on their faces being replaced with relief as they got to within two steps of Jake, their stepdad-to-be, at which point they broke ranks and ran into his arms. He hugged them tightly, tears already streaming down his cheeks.

  ‘This is emotional,’ said Lilian sarcastically, and Rosie nudged her, whilst sniffing.

  Then Jake’s brother and best man came on the arm of Tina’s sister, then the three ushers, including Stephen, with three other bridesmaids, school friends of Tina’s. And trotting next to Stephen, to Rosie’s utter surprise – and the delight of the many children in the church, chivvied in rows for the school choir – was Mr Dog, wearing Apostil’s bow tie babygro with the feet chopped off, and carrying a knotted box, obviously containing the rings, in his mouth.

  Then the laughter and the delighted noises stopped, as Tina appeared on her father’s arm at the far end of the nave.

  Her dress was plain and long, with a red bow just like Emily’s tight around her tiny waist, matching her lipstick exactly. Her hair was soft and tousled, and she wore a thin gold circlet around her head, with a little medieval-style tuft of a veil coming off the back of it. Long strands of ivy were threaded in and out of her plaits (which were thicker, Rosie thought suspiciously, than Tina’s normal hair). She had a little fake fur shrug round her shoulders, and the sleeves of the satin dress hung long, nearly to the floor. The effect was beautiful, like a carved tomb come to life. She held a bouquet of holly and mistletoe interlaced with ivy. From up and down the church there were gasps. Jake was now extremely red in the face, his mouth hanging open. Rosie beamed. It was, she knew, exactly the effect Tina had dreamed of for a long time, had worked on so hard. For her, it was all worthwhile.

  The choir of children began to sing, though it wasn’t ‘Jesu, Joy of Man’s Desir
ing’ or one of the more usual wedding songs. Stephen had quietly gone and taken up his place in front of them as default choirmaster. Very softly they started up the old Advent hymn, their pure voices echoing in the high vaults of the church ceiling.

  O come, O come, Emmanuel

  And ransom captive Israel

  That mourns in lonely exile here

  Until the Son of God appear

  Rejoice! Rejoice! Emmanuel

  Shall come to thee, O Israel.

  When Tina had told Rosie that that was what they were going to sing, she had been rather taken aback.

  ‘Isn’t it about the baby Jesus?’

  ‘It’s church, Rosie. You’re a heathen. They’re all about Jesus.’

  ‘Yes, I know, but it doesn’t sound very weddingy.’

  But Tina had been right and Rosie wrong. The gentle beseeching tone of the hymn, with its celebratory final cadences, was cathartic and beautiful, the children’s voices joined by the congregation for ‘Rejoice! Rejoice!’

  The vicar welcomed everyone and made a lame joke about broadband internet, which most of the congregation didn’t get, then invited Emily up to the front.

  She stood, as white as her dress, almost hidden behind the mike stand until Stephen moved over and lowered it for her, clasping her briefly on the shoulder and smiling at her as he did so. She smiled tentatively back, her look of terror replaced by something more relaxed, and the audience relaxed too as Stephen signalled to the organist.

  Quietly at first, then with growing confidence, Emily sang as sweetly as a bird:

  O Little Town of Bethlehem

  How still we see thee lie

  Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

  The silent stars go by

  Yet in thy dark streets shineth

  The everlasting light

  The hopes and fears of all the years

  Are met in thee tonight

  ‘Oh MAN,’ said Rosie quietly, digging in her handbag for a tissue. ‘This is totally unfair. Who can compete with that?’

  The high, clear voice rang through the church, a celebration of all that was fresh and new, and there was barely an eye left dry.

  As the marriage service got under way, and the old words were spoken, Rosie thought about the bundle in her bag. She would have time; nobody was looking at them, and she was right next to the loo, entirely deliberately.

  ‘To have, and to hold …’

  She glanced up and saw with a start that Stephen was staring straight at her, with such a naked look of pain and doubt, she couldn’t tear her eyes away.

  ‘For better, for worse …’

  She blinked away the tears. It was she who had brought all these doubts; questioned Stephen’s ability to change, to do what needed to be done; blamed him for the tough times of the past, failed to trust him in the hard times coming.

  ‘For richer, for poorer …’

  The rest of the church faded away. The music, the bride, the flowers, the fancy hats (the village boutique had been completely emptied in the preceding weeks), the fuss, the squabbles all disappeared and suddenly there was nobody there but the three of them, in the ancient space where those same words had been said for hundreds of years.

  ‘In sickness and in health …’

  Rosie held their son tight to her chest, so tightly he looked at her enquiringly, plucking at the little silk buttons on her collar, but she did not glance down.

  ‘Till death us do part …’

  Stephen strode across the church, leaving the children behind, barely noticed by most of the congregation, who were transfixed by Tina and Jake, equally in a world of their own. Not taking his eyes off Rosie for a second, he grabbed her, and Apostil, and her bag, and without a word pulled her into the back of the church, surrounded by flowers and a disgruntled-looking video technician, and grabbed her to him and kissed her again and again, the tears running down her face.

  ‘I now pronounce you man and wife.’

  They held each other close, and Stephen promised his family with all his heart that he would never leave them, that he didn’t care where they were or how they lived, as long as Apostil had every chance to get better, and Rosie could only say, ‘I know, I know, I know.’

  The choir started up (rather raggedly without Stephen to guide them, but the organist tipped them the wink) with a lusty and thrilling version of ‘Torches’, involving much full-hearted singing and some bellowing, as Stephen and Rosie drew apart. They hadn’t much time: the blessing was to take place after the signing of the register.

  ‘Quick,’ said Stephen. ‘Go on. Let’s get him changed.’

  ‘No way,’ said Rosie, not betraying it was in her bag.

  ‘Way. Come on. This one thing.’

  She looked at his face, smiling at her.

  ‘Argh,’ she said, grinning. ‘He will NEVER FORGIVE US.’

  ‘He will never forgive us for a lot of things,’ said Stephen. ‘I reckon this will come pretty far down the list by the time we’re finished with him.’

  With a few squawks from the normally obliging Apostil, they wrestled him into the ridiculous lacy white christening gown, which he promptly dribbled down. Rosie cleaned him up as best she could with a wipe, which he did not enjoy, and there was a clearing of throats from the altar.

  ‘And now,’ said the vicar, ‘we are pleased to be welcoming a baby into the family of our church.’

  ‘I don’t want to give the vicar my baby,’ squeaked Rosie, her face turning pink.

  ‘Ssssh,’ said Stephen, squeezing her tight. ‘You can cross your fingers.’

  ‘If I can ask Stephen Lakeman and Rosie …’ the vicar coughed, making it entirely clear he was making a point about their different surnames, and glanced at the front pew, ‘Hopkins to step forward.’

  ‘Oh crap,’ said Rosie. ‘He thinks we’re down there.’

  ‘You know what that means,’ said Stephen, as the congregation started to twist around looking for them. ‘We are actually going to have to walk down the aisle.’

  Rosie went bright pink.

  ‘Oh bloody hell.’

  Helpfully, the organist sprang into action, playing ‘Paiste Am Betlehem’, the ancient Manx carol, that sounded so unearthly it made Rosie shiver.

  ‘Seriously?’ she said.

  ‘Seriously,’ said Stephen, proffering his arm. And desperately trying not to laugh, particularly under the disapproving eye of Stephen’s mother and Lilian, both of whom clearly thought they were showing off, they proceeded down the aisle, in Stephen’s case for the second time that morning.

  ‘Well that was unorthodox,’ said the vicar as they arrived at the front, blushing.

  ‘You should know,’ murmured Stephen under his breath.

  ‘Can I also have the godparents?’ said the vicar into the microphone.

  Rosie looked round nervously. Moray had disappeared when they’d arrived at the church; she’d expected him to sit with them, but he wasn’t there. Finally she saw him, right at the back, easing out of the end of the pew, followed by a slim, handsome, dark-eyed man.

  A gasp of shock went through the congregation as the two men walked up the aisle hand in hand. The vicar was beside himself. Rosie handed Apostil to Stephen and went and met them at the top of the aisle, throwing her arms around them both.

  ‘Moshe!’ she said. ‘I can’t believe you came! Oh my God, Moray, you’ve really done it this time.’

  ‘I do hope so,’ said Moray into her ear. ‘Bloody hell.’

  Rosie laughed. She’d never seen him without his sangfroid.

  Stephen came forward to shake both their hands.

  ‘The vicar is calling up his agent as we speak to try and get on television. Welcome.’

  ‘We come as a job lot,’ said Moray. ‘Is that okay?’

  ‘Totally!’ said Rosie. ‘Do you have a clue what you’re doing?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Moshe. ‘But I haven’t been burned up in a fiery pit yet.’

  ‘There’s time,�
�� said Rosie. ‘Just nod a lot.’

  She turned on Moray’s smartphone, which was somehow patching in to Angie in Australia. All the children whooped to see their auntie Rosie, and were rapidly silenced by Angie and Pip.

  Tina and Jake, the other godparents, emerged shyly from signing the register, and there were hugs and kisses all round. Rosie, glancing up, caught sight of Henrietta, standing proud and cold at the end of her pew, staring straight ahead as if at a funeral, and felt, in the midst of all her joy, a clutch of pity. Then she thought again of all her empty rooms, and how she still could not open her arms to her own son, and looked away.

  ‘If we could just get started,’ said the vicar, who was still peeved at not being allowed to perform his original baptism song on his guitar.

  He gabbled through the introductory words. Apostil was thoroughly entranced by the lights and the candles and the being handed about, and seemed to be enjoying himself hugely. Then, just as the vicar put his arms out to take him, there was a sudden eruption of giggles and fidgeting from the children’s choir, and Stephen glanced over at them, smiled, and held up his hand.

  ‘Um,’ he said. ‘We have just one thing.’

  ‘What?’ said Rosie, feeling that this service had turned into enough of a carnival already.

  ‘Well,’ said Stephen, clearing his throat. ‘What with the sponsored bean sitting, and the sponsored swim and the sponsored silence, and everyone in the village who kept a tin on their shop counter … we managed to do this …’

  He grinned, and turned towards the little choir at the side, who turned on several laptop computers Rosie hadn’t noticed before. After some inevitable fidgeting, they all got fixed and lined up, and Rosie gasped. To her amazement, there it was, right in front of them – the school, the little school in Kduli. But it had a fresh coat of paint, and a large solar-powered fan, and in the corner, a massive selection of books; and every child had a new slate.