In any case Peter dropped his hand and they continued in silence up the road.
Andrew Lofton, another sheep farmer, was waiting with his Land Rover at the turning circle at the top of the village. Peter climbed into the trailer in the back; in an attempt to be festive, Andrew had festooned it with Christmas lights and tacked aHo Ho Hobanner to the back of the car. With Peter standing there awkwardly, still a rather thin Santa, Juliet thought it all looked a bitless than, but she supposed it wouldn’t matter too much in the darkness. In any case, all the children really wanted was sweets.
“Here you go, Peter.” She handed him a white cloth sack filled with candy. Peter took it, peering into the depths. “One each, I suppose?”
“That’s right, and no arguments. No one saying they don’t like Smarties or sour cherries or the rest of it.” That had happened last year, and Rob had allowed exchanges of sweets, which had been a disaster of whining children and annoyed parents. “They take what they get,” Juliet said sternly, and got into the passenger side of the Rover.
Andrew started driving slowly down the street. He’d rolled down the windows and had Christmas carols playing on the car stereo, and all in all Juliet supposed it was merry enough, although she still felt a little flat. She remembered how she’d told Lucy about the service, how excited her sister had been to experience it.
She’d called Lucy twice over the past week to check in about Fiona, although she didn’t actually care about their mother. She cared about Lucy, and whether she was coming back.
Lucy hadn’t made any promises. Fiona had developed an infection and had to stay in the hospital for a few more days, and Lucy had said once again that she hoped to be back in January. Juliet still didn’t believe her.
A small crowd of children had gathered by the Christmas tree outside the Hangman’s Noose, and they let out a raggedy cheer as the Land Rover approached.
“Ho ho ho,” Peter called, and Juliet smiled to hear how his voice boomed. Maybe he could manage this role after all.
Andrew stopped the car and Peter started handing out sweets. Juliet watched from the passenger seat, keeping an eye on some of the older boys who were known to stir up trouble. Oliver Jones could be unruly sometimes, but now she saw him hanging back, holding his mother Lena’s hand. A few children asked for different sweets, and Peter refused.
“Maybe I’ll give you a different sweet on Christmas Day,” he suggested, his voice just a little too hearty, and Juliet heard one of the older boys answer sneeringly, “You’re not coming round on Christmas Day. You’re not really Father Christmas.”
“Shut your mouth, Danny Briggs,” Diana Rigby snapped. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Juliet knew that the children of Hartley-by-the-Sea believed in Father Christmas as long as they could, sometimes right up to age ten or eleven. Everyone liked it that way; it was almost a point of pride, how naive the village children could be. How long the magic lasted.
“Who is it this year, anyway?” the boy continued, undaunted. “It’s not Mr. Telford from the pub.”
“Right, I’d best get a move on,” Peter said, his voice still determinedly jolly. “Must see the children down at the beach. And I’m looking forward to a mince pie, myself.” Juliet watched as he passed a hand over his face, which unfortunately knocked his beard askew.
A burst of laughter erupted from the children; it wasn’t precisely unkind, but it wasn’t good, either. Juliet cringed. Even stolid, silent Andrew Lofton winced a bit.If Lucy were here,she thought,she’d manage to make this funny. She’d salvage something from it, but it’s just me instead.
“Get a move on,” she told Andrew, and he started driving down the main street again, even more slowly this time due to the crowds around them.
A few of the sneering boys followed the Land Rover; the younger children fell away as they made the turn onto the beach road.
“We know you’re not Father Christmas!” one of the boys jeered.
“You’re the stupidest Santa I ever saw,” another boy called.
“I know who you are!” This from the boy who had started it all, his voice crowing. “You’re Peter Lanford, the one with the crazy old father!”
“Right!” Juliet was unbuckling her seat belt before she even realized what she was doing. She flung open the door and jumped out of the still-moving Land Rover, stumbling a bit before righting herself, and pointed a shaking finger at the three boys. “Clear off, you lot, before I box your ears and send you back to your mothers. Look at you, terrorizing everyone and ruining Christmas for a bunch of little children. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”
Only one of the boys appeared remotely cowed, and even more furious, Juliet took a step forward, her arm raised. “Get away with you!” she shouted, her voice carrying and cracking on the still night. “All of you clear off before I give you a good slap!”
“Juliet.” Andrew Lofton had stopped the car and now Peter clambered down from the trailer, and put his hands on her shoulders. “All right, you three,” he said to the boys, whowere still standing there, looking undecided as to whether they wanted to keep on with their taunting. “Clear off like she said.”
The quiet note of authority in Peter’s voice convinced the boys in a way that Juliet’s shrieking hadn’t, and they headed back down the beach road towards the village.
Peter stood with his hands on Juliet’s shoulders, and only then did she realize she was shaking. Wordlessly he turned her so she was facing him, and then he put his arms around and held her in an embrace that Juliet craved with her whole being.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled against his shirt. “I don’t know why I was so angry.”
“You’ve had a lot to deal with lately.”
“They’ll be talking about it for ages,” she said with a sniff. “How that old shrew Juliet Bagshaw lost it on the beach road, and spoiled Christmas for everyone.”
“Then let’s give them something else to talk about,” Peter said, and to her amazement he kissed her.
