Part 17 - And So This Is Christmas (Thursday, 26 December 1968) Jimmy looked out of the passenger side window at the village of Thaxted. The trees were bare but no snows had fallen as yet. It had been more than four years since he had last been there and was surprised to see the Red Flag fluttering from the steeple of St John's. "Peggy, Boxing Day isn't one of your Red Letter days is it?" he asked. "Feast of St Stephen," she said automatically before muttering something about 'superstitious claptrap'. "Actually Jimmy, it's a Thaxted tradition to always fly the Red Flag in times of war[1]. It goes back to the heady days of the internationalist struggle during World War One." That would be right, thought Jimmy. Very conservative these English villages. A tradition that was over 50 years old might even be seen as innovative by some locals. The Stansgates had spent Christmas day alone in Bristol before making the journey to Jimmy's in-laws. Jimmy and Peggy's son Hilary was spending the holiday season in Tunisia with some of his wealthy companions. And Carol had insisted on staying at her college in Edinburgh. Her friend Harry was there, either having no family of his own or none he was willing to visit at Yuletide. "Looking forward to seeing this Enid, again," said Jimmy conversationally, referring to Peggy's step-mother. Beatrice Roberts had died some time ago. Alfred had loved his wife dearly and spent the best part of two years in mourning. Then, in the manner of those who have been lucky in love, he found another soul-mate and shortly thereafter wed her. For historical reasons Alfred refused to be married at St John's, the only establishment in Thaxted with a hall large enough to host the reception, so the pair had been wed at the Saffron Walden Methodist chapel. That was the only time Jimmy had met Enid. And when Jimmy said he was looking forward to meeting her again, he meant it. Jimmy was one of those politicians that genuinely liked meeting new people. And with everyone at the wedding, he hadn't really a chance to get to know her properly.

There couldn't have been that many women in Thaxted suitable for Alfred, Jimmy concluded, seated in the sitting room of Number 2, Weaverhead Close. Peggy and Alfred were sitting together on the sofa in animated discussion. It was one of those rare occasions where Peggy seemed to be having trouble getting a word in edgeways. Alfred was now an old man but the Roberts fire still burned within. "That Harold Wilson chap. Know the type. Practically a communist. Can't abide him. But I'll vote for you personally. Just as long as his rag-tag lot loses..." "But father, I'm not standing in Maldon..." "Good job too. The last lot of MPs we've had here have all been queers and communists. If you ask me..." "If you'll just let me continue, I'm not standing in Maldon, I'm standing in Bristol South..." "If you'll just let me continue, my girl, if you ask me they should never have got rid of Hugh Gaitskell. He would have stood up to the homosexual lefty element that..." "If you'll just let ME continue, Bristol South-East..." Jimmy turned his attention to Enid, who had just asked him solicitously if he would like some tea. "Do you have anything stronger?" he asked hopefully. He recalled that Alfred was a notorious teetotaller but hoped Enid was hewn from different timber. His hopes were dashed "Only orange pekoe" he was told. "Have you any pint mugs, please?" "Ooh, no. We have china cups, like the posh people use." "That will be lovely, thanks," said Lord Stansgate, masking his disappointment. With some effort, he made the proffered cup last more than three mouthfuls. He was desperate for a pipe but knew better to ask for that. Perhaps the wind-chill factor would not be so severe as the afternoon wore on and he could step outside for a meditative puff. Enid Roberts seemed delighted to have a good audience. As the president and sole member of the Thaxted Viewers and Listeners Association she had few people to talk to. Her main outlet of communication was the Letters to the Editor page of the Chelmsford Recorder. Within ten minutes Jimmy felt he had come to know Enid quite well enough. "Is there anything on the telly?" he asked desperately. Enid picked up the Radio Times. "Filth, filth, filth, filth, filth, filth," she declared, scanning the three channels' offerings for the next few hours, "and a repeat of the Queen's Christmas Message. Would you like another cup of tea?" Jimmy sagged, "That would be lovely, thank you." The father-daughter bonding was getting louder. "And I suppose you don't even like black people!" "Wogs? They're all right. Go for a year on a grain of rice. No, it's the Irish you've got to look out for. Traitors. Stabbed us in the back in 1916. Bailed out of the Commonwealth as soon as we stood up to Hitler, too. But don't you worry, Margaret, Enoch's onto them. D'you know how many different languages..." "Enoch! The butcher of Hué? Why, that man..." "Butcher of Hué? No girl, it's that Vo Nguyen Giap or whatever his name is[2], who's the one responsible for..." "If you'll just let me continue..." "If you'll just let me continue..." [If you'll just let me continue.]

[1] Strictly speaking, the 'Vietnam War' is merely a police action. But you try telling Father Jack Putterill that. [2] His name _is_ Vo Nguyen Giap. Alfred Roberts is one of the few Conservatives in Thaxted who would know the name correctly. Actually, Alfred Roberts is one of the few Conservatives in Thaxted. Enid being the other.