As Hilary walked to church, she realised that she was about to meet Andy Newton face-to-face and she really didn’t want to.  He was a member of the choir, and so he would be at choir practice.  It would be embarrassing.  She would much rather just go on receiving letters from him. 

When she did arrive, Margaret was feeling the radiators.  This was one of Margaret's bugbears.  “If the choir’s good enough to sing in church, it’s good enough to have the heating on Friday nights!” she would tell the vicar and the PCC, and, as usual, Margaret got her way.  The first half hour was children’s practice, in the Lady Chapel; Hilary would play the piano while Margaret directed.  As usual, the only sounds were Hilary's piano and Margaret’s voice, because the children made virtually no noise at all.  Sometimes, Caroline would join them for children’s practice, but she didn’t this evening.  In the background, Hilary could hear the adult choir arriving in ones and twos and taking their places in the choir stalls, her grandmother doing something with the church flowers and calling out, “These chrysants need watering, Mrs Armitage.“ 

Mrs Armitage pottered over with a watering can, shaking her head disapprovingly, muttering something about “hot houses” and, worse still, “Not English!”  “These ones, Mrs Rayner?”

Hilary's grandmother, Mrs Rayner, and her neighbour, Mrs Armitage, were as close as Hilary and Caroline, but, even after half a century, and a world war, they still called each other “Mrs”.

Children’s practice was almost over when two whey-faced girls, aged about eleven and ten, with greasy, unwashed hair and old clothes, entered the Lady Chapel and sat down.  After a moment, Gina Abbott, aged nine, jabbed at the ten year old’s faded anorak, then dragged her fingers down the sleeve of the child in front, hissing, “Pearce fleas!”

“Mum!” Hilary cried in a hoarse whisper, as they moved into the choir stalls for the main practice.  “What are the Pearce children doing here?”

“They’re members of the choir,” Margaret replied, in a normal tone.

“The Pearces?”

“Yes.”  

“But Mum!  You can't have the Pearces in the choir!”  The Pearces were Water Langley’s “problem family”.  At the village Co-op, where Hilary used to work at weekends, Mrs Pearce would stuff tins of baked beans into her handbag and accuse the staff of giving her the wrong change.

“Don’t be such a snob, Hilary!  Didn’t Our Lord eat with tax collectors, prostitutes and sinners?”  Margaret never called her by her full name except when she was annoyed with her. “Good evening, everybody!  Let’s start with hymn number 26, “O come, o come Emmanuel”.”

Mortified at being called a snob by her own mother, Hilary slunk into the choir stalls and opened her hymnbook.  Where was Caroline?  She wasn’t going to leave the choir immediately, was she?  Tears welled up in Hilary's eyes.  She had looked forward to Christmas in Water Langley for weeks and now it was going all wrong.  She grabbed a tissue from the Choir Tissue Box.

When Caroline sidled in during the last verse of “Of a Father’s Love Begotten”, Hilary heaved a sigh of relief and Margaret called out, “Good evening, Caroline!  Now, we have everyone except the Newton family.  Come along, Newtons.  I haven't got an alto line.”

“I believe their boys are at home,” said Mrs Armitage.

“Men!  Always make you late!” retorted Margaret, improvising aimlessly on the organ.

“It’s so nice to have the young people back at Christmas,” commented Hilary's grandmother, Mrs Rayner, beaming munificently at Hilary and Caroline.

Margaret nodded distractedly, her mind on her improvisation.

“That’s what Princess Anne had at her wedding!” suddenly exclaimed Mrs Phillips (lead soprano – or so she supposed).  “Isn't your mum wonderful to be able to play like that, Hilary?”

Hilary nodded.  Her mother, Margaret Bowles, organist and choir-mistress at St Catherine’s church was wonderful.  Everybody in Water Langley said so. 

The church door, warped over the course of several hundred years’ use, opened noisily.  “The Newtons!” exclaimed Margaret, still playing, and watching from the organ mirror. 

Hilary buried her head in her hymnbook.  She really did not want to look at Andy Newton.  How had she got into writing letters to him?  The whole thing had just, sort of, happened.

“Sorry, Margaret,” the voice of Andy’s father, John, was saying.  “I was late home from work.  I've been in court all day.”  John Newton was a solicitor, in Langton.

“Where’s Connie?” asked Margaret.  “She’s not late back from work.  She hasn’t worked since 1949.”

“Constance’s just clearing up after dinner,” John replied. 

Margaret nodded, then, concluding her improvisation with an abrupt flourish, called out.  “Let’s try “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree”.  We did it four years ago.”

“Oh yes,” John replied, taking his copy.  “I like “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree”.”

“Mm,” said Margaret.  John Newton was a nice bloke, member of the PCC and churchwarden, but he always sang the melody an octave down, totally convinced that he was singing bass. 

They were just finishing “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree” when the ancient church door wrenched open again and Hilary, her head still down in her copy, could hear Constance Newton’s high heels tap-tapping up the Nave.  “Late again, Connie!” Margaret cried.  Margaret was the only person allowed to call her “Connie”.  Even her own husband called her “Constance”.

“Had to finish washing up,” Constance Newton replied, taking her place in the alto stall.  (She was the only alto.)

“You must get a dishwasher, Connie!” retorted Margaret.

“Oh no!” Constance shuddered. “I wouldn’t want to put my china in a dishwasher!”

“Mm,” said Margaret, thumbing through the carol book.  “Sans Day Carol”.  You can all remember that, I hope?”

Caroline nudged Hilary during the organ introduction to the “Sans Day Carol”.  “Andy Newton!” she hissed.  “You’ve got to look at Andy Newton!”

Hilary had been studiously not looking at Andy Newton.

“Hil, you’ve got to look!”

“Now the holly bears a berry as white as the snow ……….” sang Hilary.

Margaret stopped them after a couple of verses, saying airily, “Well, that sounds all right for the time being.”  In the last verse was a descant which Mrs Phillips (her “lead” soprano) always sang sharp and, for the time being, she would spare herself the agony.  In fact, Margaret never over-rehearsed carols.  Christmas would creep up on her unawares, all too soon after Remembrance Sunday, and then you had to fit in Advent Sunday.  She was never able to give the vicar an Order of Service for the Nine Lessons and Carols in advance - Janet Wheatley, the church secretary, would usually be running it off on the Xerox at the vicarage as the congregation arrived. 

“You’ve got to look at Andy!” hissed Caroline.  “His hair’s all long!”

Hilary was still looking downwards.  The things that happened during choir practice were so familiar to her that she didn’t need to look.

“I think we’ll do “Three Kings From Persian Lands Afar” by Peter Cornelius,” said Margaret.  “It’s in “Carols for Choirs” One.  Can someone find the page, please?”

“Page 136,” said Andy’s brother, Robert, immediately.  Robert was the brilliant one, who had achieved ten grade 1s at O Level and three grade As at A Level.

“It’s marvellous how Robert remembers things,” said Mrs Armitage to Hilary's grandmother.  “No wonder he’s at Cambridge.”

 “We did it in 1968,” Robert added.  “On 20 December.” 

Hilary stole one furtive glance towards the men’s stall, at Robert, thin and pale, his worn corduroy jeans hanging loosely from his skinny waist.

“Yes, I think it was about then,” Margaret answered.  “Andy, can you try the solo part, please?”  (Hilary jumped as Margaret said “Andy”.)

“Mr Arnold sang the solo in 1968,” added Robert, dropping his carol book noisily on to the tiled floor.

“Young Andy can do the solo.  I'm eighty two, you know, too old for solos now,” said Fred Arnold, as he leant down stiffly to pick up the green carol book.  Robert, frowning in concentration, clasped it with both hands, as if it might leap from him again.

Andy sang through the solo part in “Three Kings From Persian Lands Afar” quite well really, Hilary thought.  She had the urge to tell him so in a letter, but that would be silly.  They couldn't write letters to each other in Water Langley.  Hilary stole another glance at the men’s stall, at Andy this time.  He really did have long hair.  In fact, it was quite amazing how his dark hair had grown in just one term.

“Well done, Andy,” said Margaret, at the end of choir practice.  “Could you pop round to our house during the week and run through with the piano.”

“Will he be singing that for the Nine Lessons and Carols?” asked Andy’s mother, Constance, eagerly. 

“Yes, I think so,” said Margaret, gathering up her music. 

Constance swelled palpably with maternal pride, her gaze lingering on Andy, who was walking down the Nave with Robert.  (Andy wasn’t trying to speak to her, Hilary noted in relief!). 

 “We’ll have to do something about that hair!” Constance said suddenly.  “Young people nowadays, they just don’t listen.”

Margaret was humming, as she rolled up the organ shutters, then she started to sing, “We don’t care about the length of his hair or the colour of his skin …”

“Really Margaret!” Constance retorted.  “I don’t care for pop music, especially not in church!”

Hilary wondered if Andy's mother knew that he was listening to Led Zeppelin.