Arthur Templeton Brown stared at the dwindling Christmas cards on the mantelpiece, with a sigh. What do you expect, when you’ve outlived almost all the friends you ever had? He was looking forward to the carol concert. For once he had abandoned his old linen suit for something more in keeping. They were going to wear Christmassy colours, red, green and white, or a funny jumper, if they had one. He rummaged in the back of his wardrobe for his old dress uniform. He could never part with it, despite Caroline saying it stank of mothballs.
He tried on the scarlet jacket. It hung loose on him, but with a thick shirt underneath, it would do. As for the trousers, he would need braces to hold them up. Time to polish his black shoes and spruce up his moustache.
The past months had given him a purpose, with rehearsals, the drama of the storm and Ariadne’s fire. It was good to see the girls back in their own home, even if Hebe was looking a bit fey and forgetful. ‘Yonderley’, his mother used to say of people of a certain age, whose eyes wandered away from conversations. Hebe couldn’t be much over sixty.
Who was he to talk? He’d be creeping up the stairs, only to find he sometimes couldn’t recall why he was there. At ninety-five he supposed that was par for the course. Maria, who came to clean and see to his meals, was good company and kept his Greek up to scratch. He loved the kind, generous souls who had passed food to him and his men through the prison-camp wire during the war. Caroline and he had enjoyed their retirement in the sun. Now, in the winter of his life, he found he was looking back more and more and wondered how long he had left to enjoy being in this world. His breath was shorter going uphill, his appetite smaller, his afternoons spent napping over the Telegraph. Tonight’s concert would be fun, if only he could remember the words.
Outside the window, he sensed the temperature dropping. Darkness came so early, although he had only to step out down the lane to the plateia and the community hall. Simon had offered a lift, but he was glad of the fresh air and a chance to loosen his stiff limbs. ‘Sharp to it,’ he ordered himself, as he collected his music sheets together in an attaché case and shut his door. No need to lock it. One of the joys of village life here was the trust between neighbours.
The hall was already half full with everyone milling around, plastic cups of mulled wine in their hands and kiddies racing about in their best outfits. The Greeks knew how to dress their children for traditional parties. Maria’s girls were puffed out like pink meringues, triangles ready for the children’s carol. He was looking forward to hearing their pure, sweet voices, reminding him of how, as a boy, they were allowed to go from door to door singing ‘Here We Come A-wassailing’. There was always a bun or a sweet for them, and a noggin of something stronger for the adult members of the choir.
Ariadne, in conductor mode, was dressed in a bright scarlet shirt and black velvet trousers that shimmered in the candlelight. All the choir ladies were dressed to the nines and the men wore red shirts with bow ties.
‘You look magnificent, Colonel,’ said young Gary, admiring his uniform. ‘Have you met my wife, Kelly?’
In front of him stood a pretty girl dressed in a scarlet trouser suit. ‘I hope it’s going to be a good show, after all the effort you’ve put in. The hall looks very Christmassy,’ she said. ‘Let me get you some mull.’
‘What a lovely young lady, you lucky chap…’ Arthur whispered to Gary, with a wink.
Soon it was time to gather on the platform, which had been erected specially for the occasion and decorated with tinsel. Arthur was feeling nervous and a little breathless, glad there were chairs to sit on between carols. Yannis, the mayor, was sitting with his wife, plump as a capon, in the front row, and behind them there was a solid core of locals and international residents. Their publicity push had come up trumps. Ariadne rose to introduce the concert. Costas, the local schoolteacher, translated for those with little English.
‘In Britain on this night, people will be gathering in churches to sing these ancient carols, celebrating the birth of Our Lord. We wanted to share our tradition with you and to let your children sing your tradition to us. We hope you enjoy the readings, a translation of which is on your hymn sheet. It is our joy to come together in the darkest time to remember also those who, like Mary and Joseph, through no fault of their own, find themselves without home or country. That is why we have a bucket by the door for our refugee appeal. Thank you.’
She turned to the choir and the concert began. One by one they told the Christmas story through carols and readings. Arthur found tears in his eyes, thinking of past times and how he would miss the choir after this evening. He had met so many nice folk he’d never really known before: the couple from the retreat; Greg and Phil, whom he no longer thought of as nancy boys but as a kind couple who had helped out after the fire. Then there was young Gary, Duke, the jazz player, and his girlfriend Pippa. He hoped Elodie Durrante was watching from above. She would be heartened to see how the villagers of all nations had come together to share in this night. All too soon, the last carol was sung and everyone stood for the Greek national anthem, then ‘God Save The Queen’.
‘Well done, not a bad sound,’ Ariadne said, looking radiant and flushed with success. ‘Thank you, that was wonderful. We pulled it out of the bag and the children did us proud. Mel’s solos were just perfect.’
‘This can’t be the end of our choir,’ Natalie said, and everyone was nodding. She clapped her hands.
‘Well, we shall have to see,’ Ariadne replied.
Arthur turned to see Yannis, who had been out for a smoke, rushing back into the hall. He was covered with what appeared to be white dust. ‘It’s snowing!’ he shouted. ‘Come and see!’
‘But it doesn’t snow on Santaniki. We’re too near the sea,’ said Irini. Everybody rushed to the window to watch the flakes, which were floating down like feathers.
‘My mum used to say it was the angels shedding their wing feathers,’ said Della. ‘And I believed her.’
‘It’s beautiful and so Christmassy,’ Hebe added.
‘It won’t last,’ sighed Chloë.
‘So let’s enjoy it while it’s here,’ her daughter replied.
Arthur was tired. He didn’t fancy walking uphill in the snow, but it was pretty. No one seemed in a hurry to leave, except those living in the outlying villages and the family from the retreat. ‘We’ll walk you home,’ announced Greg. ‘We don’t want you slipping and spoiling that magnificent uniform.’
Arthur didn’t refuse their support. Singing had taken more out of him than he’d expected. He felt his chest tighten. ‘Such a grand evening, with icing on the top,’ he said, as the snow swirled around them. ‘We could be in England.’ How the houses sparkled. The branches of the Christmas pine tree were decked with snow. What a wonderful end to the night. Chloë was right: it wouldn’t last for long, but it was rather special.
They left him at his door and wished him a merry Christmas. Arthur made his way to his sitting room, where the fire was just about out. He piled on the logs and flopped into his armchair, smiling to himself, tired but content. The choir had given him company, music, memories and purpose, but he was shattered now, bone weary and ready for bed. Tomorrow, Christmas Day, there would be church and lunch with friends. Not a bad prospect, he thought, but first he must sleep.