Casting Samson Read Free Page A

but obviously heavy cloth bag onto the table to show that he at least had done so.
    Godfrey Mullett beamed at him. “Oh, well done, Alan. And I’m glad to say I’ve managed to sell all mine as well.”
    The bags of small change chinked as each of the committee members handed over their takings to Godfrey, who, as a retired bank clerk, was considered the ideal person to be treasurer.
    Deborah pushed her bag across the table, wondering if any of the others had acted as her father had done and bought all the remaining tickets. In Stan Kemerton’s case, this had been quite a lot, since he’d been too busy to sell much more than half his quota.
    “Well done, everyone,” Alan congratulated them as Godfrey put the bags into his old leather briefcase to count later. “What’s the next item, Clara?”
    “Samson.”
    The vicar turned to Deborah and gave her a rather wan smile. “Perhaps your father told you that we’ve lost our Samson. Eric Monkwater had agreed to do it, but he crashed his balloon in the Gobi—”
    “The Sahara, Vicar,” Clara Babbacombe corrected him. “It was the Sahara Desert.”
    “Ah, yes. The Sahara, of course. Well, he’s been flown back to England now, which must be a relief to his poor wife. How long will Eric be in hospital, do we know, Mrs. Lindsay?”
    “I called in to see him last night.” Anne Lindsay’s grey eyes flicked around the table as she gave her report. “Mrs. Monkwater was there. She thinks he will be out by the end of next week, but even if he can leave off the neck brace by the pageant, his left leg is so badly broken they say it will be several weeks before the pins can be removed, and even longer before he will be walking on it.”
    “And our pageant is in just five weeks’ time,” added the vicar.
    A gloomy silence settled over the room as the committee members digested this information.
    “So, we must find a new Samson.” Alan Thorpe looked around the room. “Any ideas?”
    Yes, I know a man who’d be perfect . Deborah wanted so much to say the words aloud. Bernard would be ideal for the part. His regular workouts at the gym had given him the kind of muscled body that looked wonderful in a vest, and his blond, blue-eyed good looks with that megawatt smile would have all the girls sighing for him—as she was doing, even now. Deb struggled to pull herself together. It was useless thinking of Bernard any longer. It was over. Sadly she dragged her attention back to the meeting.
    Godfrey chuckled. “We could always approach Clara’s strippers!”
    Anne Lindsay grinned at Deborah’s bewildered look and promised to explain later.
    “We’ll have to advertise.” Alan tapped his pen on the table to emphasise the point. “Posters, appeal on local radio, that sort of thing.”
    “Oh dear, do you think that will attract anyone?”
    “Well, it’s our only chance, Vicar, unless we can think of someone to fill the role.”
    Another uncomfortable silence enveloped the committee as they cast their minds over their village community.
    “Well, I think advertising’s our best hope,” Anne agreed. “Who knows, we might attract someone from Flixton. We’ll just have to see who turns up.”
    “Turns up where?” asked the vicar.
    “Here, of course. The village hall.” Anne looked around the table. “We’ll have to have some sort of audition. What if I do a short piece for the paper? If I write it tonight and email it off straightaway, hopefully they’ll put it in Thursday’s edition.”
    Reverend Bodicote turned his anxious gaze towards her. “Perhaps we should mention that the money raised is going towards the church’s new heating system. That might attract more interest—after all, the congregation is always complaining how cold it is.”
    “Of course I can put that in.” She scribbled notes on her pad.
    “And explain that the pageant will be telling the stories from the stained glass windows in the church,” Miss Babbacombe added. “Kill two birds