‘Good evening, Vicar. Marvellous turnout. You must be thrilled.’
Dylan Pritchard Jones, looking dapper in a new, expensively cut three-piece suit, sidled up to the Reverend Slaughter, flashing a mouthful of expensive white veneers. In the pew behind him sat his exhausted wife, Maisie, with their newest daughter, baby Ava, asleep in her arms, and a toddler slumped, bored, across her lap. Everyone, even the vicar, knew about Dylan’s regular extramarital exploits. Rumour had it that he had a new, very young mistress, the third wife of one of the richest fathers at Lancings, the exclusive boys’ prep school where he was now deputy head. Naturally the vicar disapproved, but as Dylan was chairman of the parish fundraising committee, and a damned efficient one at that, he kept his opinions to himself.
‘Hullo Dylan. Yes, it’s standing room only. You see the television people are here?’
‘Are they?’ Dylan feigned surprise. Ridiculously vain and attention-seeking, he’d dragged his family to church a full forty-five minutes early to ensure a pew that the TV cameras would cover. ‘I hadn’t noticed. I suspect they’re here for Lady Muck, are they?’ he nodded in Tatiana’s direction, scowling disapprovingly. ‘Some people have no shame.’
‘Indeed,’ Reverend Slaughter said archly.
The organist, Frank Bannister, struck up the opening chord of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’.
‘I believe that’s my cue,’ said the vicar, scuttling up the pulpit stairs like an excited, bright red beetle. ‘Merry Christmas, Dylan.’
‘Merry Christmas, Vicar. Good luck.’
Every year at Live Crib, either an animal or a local child usually provided some sort of amusing distraction. Last year the baby Jesus had opened her lungs and howled piteously for the entire one-hour service. The year before that, an angel had fallen asleep in the rafters, falling twelve feet onto the stone church floor and breaking his arm, just as the three wise men were depositing their gifts. This year, brilliantly, dear old Wilbur the donkey had completely stolen the show, first by farting loudly immediately after the line ‘And lo! An Angel of the Lord appeared’, and then by lifting his tail and emptying his bowels dramatically during ‘Hark the Herald Angels Sing’, thereby eliciting a string of deeply unholy turns of phrase from both Mary and Joseph, not to mention howls of laughter from the congregation.
‘That was priceless,’ said Tati, wiping away tears of mirth as she and Jason filed out into the churchyard after the service. ‘I do so hope it makes the BBC South East news.’
‘If it doesn’t we should send it in to You’ve Been Framed!,’ said Tom. ‘That’s got to be worth two hundred and fifty quid. What the hell were they feeding that animal, that’s what I’d like to know. Prunes?’
‘Poor Reverend Slaughter,’ said Angela. ‘He looked mortified. We shouldn’t laugh.’
‘Oh, Mummy,’ Logan poked her in the ribs affectionately. ‘You were laughing as hard as the rest of us.’
‘No I wasn’t,’ lied Angela.
‘Then why has your mascara run all over your cheeks?’
‘Oh, God. It hasn’t, has it?’ said Angela, stifling another giggle and hunting through her bag for a tissue.
Tatiana was already outside, standing at the bottom of the steps where a pool of parishioners had started to gather. It was a stunning evening. The sky glowed Christmas-card blue beneath a full moon, and a light shower of snow was beginning to fall, heavy, fat flakes floating gently down onto ground already thickly blanketed with white.
She recognized almost all of the families filing out of the church, and waited for people to come up to her and say hello, or Merry Christmas, but nobody did. One or two of them spoke to Jason, and acknowledged her curtly with nods or smiles. But there was no warmth, no recognition, no ‘Congratulations on all your success, Tatiana,’ or ‘How have you been, Tatiana?’ or ‘Welcome home, Tatiana.’
Trying not to feel hurt, she slipped away from Jason and his family and wandered alone into the churchyard. She hadn’t intended to do so, but she found herself walking towards her father’s grave. Set about forty feet from the church walls, up a small hill, the Flint-Hamilton family plot consisted of a simple, unostentatious row of stone slabs lying flat to the ground. Rory lay next to his parents, Edmund and Hilda, on one side, and his wife Vicky, Tatiana’s mother, who had died when Tati was just eight, on the other. His grave was only seven years old, but it was as worn and lichened as the others already. Behind her parents and grandparents, a string of Tatiana’s more distant ancestors were buried, with Flint-Hamilton stones dating back to the early 1720s. It was a peaceful place to be buried, particularly tonight, in the snow, and with the Christmas bells of the church pealing above them through the smoky night air.
‘Tatiana.’
Max Bingley’s voice made her jump.