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round the piano and taking their places on the circle of chairs placed around it.
    ‘Good evening, all! Very pleased to see such a good turnout on a winter evening.’
    There was a varied response of ‘Good evening’s; they were all clearly eager to begin rehearsing for the Christmas choir.
    ‘I think most of us know each other, don’t we? I can see a new lady over there – an old friend, if I’m not mistaken.’
    ‘Yes, I’ve brought Mrs Phyllis Maynard with me,’ said Mary Whittaker.
    ‘Yes, Mr North, Mary persuaded me to come,’ Phyllis said shyly.
    ‘Welcome, Phyllis! We’re all indebted to Mary for that,’ he smiled. ‘Mrs Rebecca Coulter we all know for her splendid contralto’ – he nodded towards a large lady weighing about sixteen stone at least, who bowed in acknowledgement.
    ‘Mr Wetherby we know, a faithful member of St Matthew’s who will add volume to our efforts – that’s him over there with the Father Christmas beard – and all the way from North Camp, Mr Pritchard – I don’t know if you will be able to help us out, Cyril – we need more male voices, a strong tenor or baritone.’
    A thin-faced man of about fifty-five replied in a thin, whistly voice that Mr North could certainly count on him as a tenor.
    ‘I’ve carefully preserved my voice, Mr North, and would come over for any occasion if needed.’
    ‘Thank you, Cyril, I knew you’d step in. And if any of you have ever been to Everham Park lately as an outpatient, the chances are that you’ll have met Sister Oates who works in that department – only we know her as Iris, a soprano to die for.’
    He gave her a grateful look, and she responded with a self-deprecating smile.
    ‘Now, then. We must decide on what we’re going to sing. We all know the good old roof-raisers, “While Shepherds Watched” and “Hark the Herald Angels”, but I’d like you to learn something different, like the French carol “Patapan” and the “Boar’s Head Carol”, dating from sixteenth-century Oxford, when the students would bring in the boar’s head, roasted and no doubt with an apple in its mouth, to set before their masters at the high table. It’s a splendid tune, do any of you know it?’ There was a general shaking of heads.
    ‘Right! Iris, you sing the first verse, and I want everybody to listen carefully.
    “
The boar’s head in hand bear I,
Bedecked with bays and rosemary,
And I pray you, my masters, be merry

Quot estis in convivio!”’
    An appreciative murmur rippled over the group, and Jeremy responded with ‘Encore! Let’s make her sing it again, shall we?’
    This time she sang the verse and the refrain, while Jeremy sat at the piano, joining with her in a fine strong baritone.
    ‘Right! So now come on, my masters, all join in!’
    Their varied voices rose up to the roof, with Iris and Jeremy, the nurse and the teacher, leading them into a vision of Christmas, of sparkling stars in the frosty night, of remembered mystery and magic, seen through childhood’s eyes.
    How could Iris
not
fall in love with such a master?
     
    It was after nine when Jeremy North unlocked the front door. He had called at The Volunteer, Everham’s oldest pub, on his way home from the church, so as to sit and listen again, in his head, to Iris Oates leading the little amateur choir in their rendering of the ‘Boar’s Head Carol’, and how quickly they had learnt to sing it in two parts, and how good it had sounded. But it was time to go home.
    He heard Fiona’s voice coming from the kitchen, and from familiar experience he judged that her mood was not good. She and their younger daughter Catherine were seated at the kitchen table, Fiona’s face flushed and angry, Catherine’s flushed and tearful.
    ‘Hi, there!’ he said, picking up the kettle and filling it from the cold tap. ‘Who’s for a cuppa?’
    ‘A lot of use
you’ve
been this evening, just when I need all the help and support I can get!’ replied Fiona. ‘I’m