Free The Country Doctor's Choice by Maggie Bennett Page B

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 woundtwice 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 andreceived, 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. Thisis 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