Hetty and Doris sat in the latter’s kitchen comforted by a pot of tea. In the garden of The Swallows a few hellebore flowers peeped out under the sodden bushes, pale heads nodding like forlorn refugees. Out of the window, Hetty saw Thomas sniff the pathetic clumps with lordly indifference. ‘Doris, what do people do round here for Christmas?’ The old lady considered. ‘Carol concert and Midnight Mass, if you’re religious. I go to St Veronica’s. It’s that trendy vicar – Father Roger, that’s him. Barrel of laughs. The jokes he tells from the pulpit – he’s on telly, did you know?’ ‘Father Roger? Yes, he’s on our programme.’ Hetty explained the connection. Doris gaped, suddenly respectful, then wily. ‘D’you ever get spare tickets for the audience?’ ‘You can come every week, if you like. We’re having awful trouble getting enough bottoms to fill seats. These days, appearing on television doesn’t quite compete with staying at home to watch it, apparently.’ ‘Ooh, yes!
