The rain had eased, and we'd decided to walk to the Hall. I'd begun to feel rather like a laboratory rat, pacing its cage, restless and vaguely agitated by tedium, rendered more mentally tired than I can believe possible by an afternoon of entertaining a four year old boy with cardboard and scissors. Consequently, I had leapt on Louisa's suggestion of leaving the car at home, possibly rather too enthusiastically, considering my misgivings at how tired she seemed, how vaguely out of sorts she is.
I'd waited on the terrace for her, the cold, damp air heavy in my lungs, holding James' hand as he admired his condensing clouds of breath.
"Just like Grandma." He'd told me proudly, pouting like a goldfish and contorting his mouth into an oddly round shape as he made strange puffing noises.
"Can't make the li'l rings though." He'd added matter-of-factly, and I'd gripped his hand in horror, making a mental note to add 'teaching our son to blow smoke rings' as one of many items that I planned to castigate Eleanor over.
Louisa totters out towards me and I suddenly have a feeling that walking might not be the most sensible idea, as she holds her back with one hand and winces as she clambers down the stairs, despite the fact that I am endeavouring to support her other arm.
"Oh for goodness sake, Martin, please stop fussing!" She snaps at me as I inadvertently verbalise my concern. "If I decide that I'm too weak and feeble to make it up the hill, then you'll just have to fetch the car to get me, got it?"
"Mmm, yes." I'd muttered, wary of the increasing amount of spirit that she'd begun to exhibit since I'd taken rather a dismal view of our son stinking of her mother's second hand cigarette smoke.
We'd walked in silence, as unusual for my wife as it was typical for me, and we had only made it as far as the bottom of the hill when James started to whinge. I was well aware that the rather strained quietness that had enveloped us indicated that Louisa's patience was wearing thin. I was also very cognisant of the fact that, with her raging hormones and her extreme physical discomfort, that the scapegoat for her frustration with James, and her mother, and her unwieldy body, would inevitably be me. Without a word, I had picked him up and swung him onto my hip, causing him to giggle with delight.
"You're getting a bit big to be carried, young man. " I'd told him quietly as he'd twisted his head from side to side, seemingly thrilled with his vantage point.
"Mummy, d'you know when someone is dead, they can't move their arms 'n' legs, 'n' their heart doesn't beat any more?" He'd said after a few minutes.
"Yes, James. I did know that actually. " Louisa replies with fake brightness, casting a speculative, narrow-eyed glance in my direction. "What made you think about that, then?"
The fabric of my raincoat is smooth and, as James flings his arms out and leans backwards, he slips, alarming me and causing me to tighten my grip on him, before I can even protest my innocence to Louisa.
"In that car, the man was dead.." James replies calmly, pointing vaguely back behind him.
"They were probably just asleep darling." She says, laughing, but the look she gives me is anything but amused, and she stops in her tracks and glances tentatively back. I watch as she turns around and walks awkwardly across to the little hatchback, parked alone underneath the street light, on the other side of the road.
"Oh my god, Martin, I think they are dead!" I hear her exclaim, as she puts her hand over her mouth and stares at the car with abject horror.
Hanging on to James for dear life, I run over to her side, rapping on the window loudly until, after a moment, slowly and robotically, the alleged corpse's head turns to face us.
"Urrrgh." I say, unable to hide the distaste on my face. "It's ummm, it's that spooky old bat from up on the moor... "
As I struggle to recall her name, the window lowers slowly, creaking ominously, and the driver stares at me, unblinking, looking for all the world like a freshly thawed cadaver.
"Good evening Doctor. Such a pleasure to see you again after all this time." She says liltingly, her face a mask of neutrality, her thin grey hair combed back from her face and plastered down to her skull with what appears to be some sort of industrial adhesive.
If I had been alone, I would simply have walked away but I am increasingly mindful of the way my behaviour must appear in front of my son. That is to say, I never get a chance to forget the fact because Louisa is constantly reminding me that I am a his most significant role model. I clear my throat and nod.
"Mmm yes. Umm, good evening...how...how is your sister?" I reply, doing some furious mental arithmetic, rather in disbelief that they are still alive, determining that they both must be well into their nineties by now.
"You may recall that my sister has always been sentimental; mawkish one might say, drawn in by the flimsy and the meretricious... " She drones, her voice positively dripping with disparagement. "The reason I am here is that she was most specific in her request to hear the carols this evening, and I have ever taken the view that whatever Beth wants, Beth receives..."
"It's Janet, isn't it? Janet Sawle?" Louisa interrupts and I can hear the alarm in her voice. "Don't you think it's just a bit cold tonight for you to be sitting in the car?"
The old lady stares at her, a superior almost condescending smile on her smooth, grey face. Her skin is so thin and pale that she is almost transparent, and her irises are almost devoid of colour entirely. I feel James slide his arms around my neck and I sense his fear, appearing to him, as it must, that we are in fact conversing with a creepy, corpse-like monstrosity.
"No, my dear. You see, many years ago, I perfected entering a state of brumation when it was so required." She replies in a vaguely patronising tone, nodding dismissively at us. "And that is what I intend to do now, if I am not disturbed again."
Without another word, I reach out and grasp Louisa's elbow, encouraging her to follow my lead in rapidly making our escape, mindful that the old woman is a total cupcake, as likely as not to be contaminated by any manner of hazardous substances.
"Right, ok then, well, goodnight." Louisa says, earnestly, turning to grimace at me as the window closes on her and Janet Sawle's head slowly swivels back to a forward-facing position
I know my wife well enough to predict what she is thinking. I know, for instance, that she will be bursting to to discuss the Sawle sisters at length, and this slightly disconcerting encounter in particular. She will want to provide me with her impression of the interaction, perhaps she will even attempt to diagnose a syndrome, or a condition or even a psychopathy, because her dabble into quasi-psychology currently enthrals her completely. But I also understand that she will never discuss anything confronting or unpleasant in front of James, she will never be critical or judgemental, or even mention subjects she considers unsuitable if he might be listening. She protects him ferociously and consistently, and I can't help but admire that facet of her personality greatly. Wordlessly, I slow my pace as we climb the hill toward the Village Hall, tucking her arm securely through mine as I feel her steps falter on the steep shiny pavement. She glances across at me, wide-eyed in horror, and, for the briefest of moments, rests her head on my shoulder.
I think of her earlier statement that the time I now had available to spend with my son is one of the more fortunate repercussions resulting from my suspension from General Practice. On reflection, I'm not quite sure why I was so determined to reject her premise, why finding any silver lining to the situation I'd found myself in seemed someone disloyal, an anathema to my sense of self. Yet, as we'd slipped past the pub, it had been busy, I would even go so far as to say raucous, and I'd felt a sudden wave of relief that, for the first time in years, I wouldn't be spending the upcoming week dealing with a plethora of alcohol poisonings and campylobacter infections, or prescribing ellaOne and Levonelle to a succession of anxious or pointlessly defiant women. A ridiculous reaction really as it's not my role to judge anyone, in fact the village could be as careless and profligate as it's heart desired and the Wadebridge surgery could deal with every last bit of it; every reckless, regretful resident was now someone else's issue. Whipped cream could stand unrefrigerated for days, every man and his dog could sit down to a Christmas lunch of raw chicken, room temperature shrimps, and home made mayonnaise and it was not my responsibility. Chris Parsons had made it abundantly clear that I was not to treat anyone and, therefore, so be it. Unless it was truly a matter of life or death, it was plainly nothing to do with me.
With the pavement shining like polished steel, and the potholes and uneven paving inadequately illuminated by vague yellow street lights, I hesitate as we stand in front of the Hall. Louisa lets go of my arm and pushes the door open, and I carefully lower James to his feet beside me. Inside, it's busy and bright and already noisy, all the things she relishes: her community gathering together to celebrate Christmas, tunelessly yet enthusiastically, she is in her element. She flashes me a small reassuring smile as James reaches for her hand. I understand his shyness, his sense of wanting to be involved but, at the same time, paralysed by an indescribable sense of trepidation. I hope, in turn, that Louisa understands my own sense of apprehension, how much I am dreading this infernal evening; every torturous chord, every forced salutation, every tedious conversation, it is a compounding of my idea of an unmitigated hell. As hard as I try, as much as I attempt to discipline myself, as severely as I counsel myself that I must set a good example to my son, I know that I will find nothing even remotely compensatory about the entire programme. From the first predictable tap on the microphone until the merciful final coda of caterwauling; as the tone-deaf, geriatric warblers mercifully fade out, as the last of Penhale's feeble attempts at humour float above the heads of the disinterested crowd, until Louisa signals that we can at last escape to the peaceful isolation of our home, I will observe the proceedings with nothing less than appalled antipathy.
"Alright Doc?" I hear Morwenna chirp and I nod at her quickly. She is wearing large, dangling earrings that appear to have some sort of LED light display built into them, no doubt intent on continuing down the path that will see her require a loboplasty at some point in the future.
"Yes." I reply succinctly, glancing at Louisa and taking James' little hand in mine.
My plan is to find a quiet, unobserved position and focus my attention entirely on him in the vain hope that the inevitable interruptions and puerile conversations will be few and far between. I hear my receptionist wish me a Merry Christmas and I clear my throat and reply uncomfortably by muttering my assent. I do so detest the empty platitudes that abound at this time of year. Avoiding the central aisle, we slip along the back wall and, as we pass one of the large free standing speakers, we are hit by a blast of feedback. I feel James startle, and then he freezes as I hear him make a soft little whimpering sound.
"Yes, James, it's a horrible noise, isn't it? But it's just what is called feedback, ummm, the Larsen Effect, a positive loop gain between the microphone and the speaker. Nothing to worry about."
I glance up and notice Roger Fenn by the PA amplifier, scowling in concentration as he twiddles with various knobs, his face a study in frustration. James remains rooted to the spot, despite my reassurances, but it seems to me that the village's curmudgeonly sound engineer might not quite have a handle on proceedings and perhaps we should move away from the speakers with more haste. I bend down and hoist James up on to my hip and, as he wriggles into a comfortable position, he spots Ruth which fortunately distracts him. She casts me a lopsided, knowing smile and we begin to make our way toward each other. I notice that her stoop seems more pronounced and the length of her stride is short and almost a shuffle. We are none of us getting any younger, I think as I shift my arm to better support my son's weight.
"Good evening Martin. Good evening James." She says archly, holding my gaze as if she knows exactly what I'm thinking.
James greets her rather enthusiastically. I'm aware that she's been secretly teaching him how to play chess and I know this because he came straight home and told me. At the time, the knowledge had made me feel strangely contented and I had resolved to keep the information to myself but, as I mutter a vague reply, I feel a strong sense of indebtedness toward her. I am especially grateful to have an antidote on hand, in the form of my sagacious old aunt, who endeavours to spend time with her great-nephew in an educational and instructive manner; a counterpoint to his unscrupulous grandmother who seems determined only to show him how to roll his own cigarettes and, probably, to cheat at games.
The hall is becoming more crowded now and I motion to Ruth that we should find somewhere to sit down. We find a place towards the back and, before I lower myself on to the worn bench, devoid as it is of any last vestige of varnish, I make eye contact with Louisa who still has not made it more than a few feet past the entry, and I indicate to her that I have claimed our seating. She smiles at me and I realise how much she thrives in this sort of social interaction, surrounded as she is by the redhead whose fingertip I restored, the bolshie fat woman for whom diet pills were but an implausible hope, and the short balding bantam cockerel of a man who had strutted around Portwenn Primary as if becoming Chairman of the School Committee was the pinnacle of Organisational and Logistical achievement.
"What time do you want me on Christmas Day?" Ruth asks, speaking as she tends to do, artfully, and with her teeth clamped shut . "Louisa instructed me not to bring anything but, even in view of how much free time you have on your hands currently, it does seem a little outside the boundaries of acceptable behaviour. I'd almost go so far as to say stingy..."
"It's all in hand." I assure her quickly, removing my coat, folding it carefully and placing it over the back of my chair. "Louisa insisted on a turkey but we've compromised on the trappings and there will be no ham, of course."
"Of course." My aunt says drily. "God forbid."
I'm about to remind her of the dangers of excess sodium and nitrates, and the associated risks of methemoglobinemia and carcinogenic nitrosamines, when I'm suddenly disconcerted. There's a clatter and the sound of raised voices and, as I glance in the direction of the disturbance, I see Mrs. Tishell clambering inexplicably over the rows of seating, in a most undignified fashion, knocking over several in the process. I'm then horrified to hear her call out my name, loudly and with increasing desperation. I realise she seems to be in some sort of frenzied rush and, as I glance behind me, I suddenly have an inkling why. The pushy American with polycythaemia rubra vera is striding toward me purposefully and I feel a sudden and strong sense of apprehension. There seems to be some sort of rivalry between them, a festering competitive dislike, and, though I want no part of it, it seems as if I'm about to be drawn into their frivolous conflict.
I look around in desperation but Louisa has her back to me, deep in conversation with that fruit loop, Stewart James who seems reluctant to venture fully into the hall, loitering awkwardly by the door as my wife does her best to encourage him inside. One look at Aunt Ruth's face indicates that she is already relishing the situation, finding far too much that is fascinating about the imminent contest for her to consider interfering. I look at James' innocent and trusting little face and I realise I am on my own. I pull him to his feet hastily, as his expression changes to one of bewilderment.
"James needs the lavatory." I tell Ruth, my haste to flee plainly evident in my voice, and before the mad pharmacist and her determined adversary can encircle me, I stride off toward the stage with James scampering along beside me, protesting loudly to his Daddy that he does not actually need to go.