Casting Samson Read Free Page B

with one stone—advertise the fact that we’re looking for someone to play Samson and tell them about the pageant at the same time.”
    “Good idea.” Anne Lindsay turned to Deborah. “Perhaps you could design a poster for us on the computer.”
    “Of course. I’ll do it tomorrow, then we can get copies in all the local shops before the weekend.”
    Anne nodded. “That would be great. Now, when shall we have the audition?
    Alan Thorpe glanced at his diary. Shall we say a week tomorrow, at eight o’clock?”
    “Better make it eight-thirty,” put in Miss Babbacombe. “Wednesday is Brownies and they don’t finish until eight.”
    “Eight-thirty it is, then. And don’t forget, Dog and Sardine this Thursday, when we draw the raffle.” Alan Thorpe closed his notebook, indicating that the meeting was at an end. “Anyone want a lift home?”
     
    Putting on a pageant had seemed such a good idea, thought Deborah as she cleared tables at the Yew Tree Restaurant the following Thursday lunchtime. In fact, the whole thing had sounded so simple. A village fête and carnival procession to celebrate the 700th anniversary of St. John’s, the parish church of Moreton-by-Fleetwater. Her father had persuaded her to take his place on the pageant committee.
    “What with your mum not being well and the restaurant to run, I can’t manage it, and anyway, it’ll do you good, girl. Since you’re going to be here for the next few months, you might as well have something to do.” When Deborah left the room, he added to his wife, “Take her mind off that Bernard. She needs to get out a bit, get her confidence back. Damn that young man! I always said he was no good.”
    Mrs. Kemerton nodded and sighed. “But she thought the world of him. And when love comes in the door, common sense flies out the window.”
    “Hmm,” her father growled, burying his head in the paper. “She’s well rid of him, and the sooner she realises that and stops moping, the better.”
    So Deborah had offered her services to the Pageant Committee and been welcomed with open arms.
    “You know what it’s like, my dear,” the vicar told her as they left the village hall after that first meeting, “never enough helpers, and young blood is always welcome.”
    Deborah had to admit that her blood was the youngest by at least a generation. The Reverend Aubrey Bodicote was a kindly if rather vague man in his early sixties. He had come to Moreton as a young vicar and fallen in love with the village. Thankfully his quiet faith had appealed to the villagers, who’d taken him to their hearts and called upon his services for their hatching, matching and dispatching for the past forty years.
    Then there was the dragonlike Miss Babbacombe and Godfrey Mullett—they were both ancient—and even Alan Thorpe, although considerably younger, was old enough to be her grandfather. At twenty-three she was a positive baby.
    As the last of the lunchtime customers departed, Deborah moved in to clear away their empty coffee cups, her mind moving to the final member of the committee, Anne Lindsay. She had warmed to Anne as soon as they met. She liked the ready sense of humour that made her grey eyes gleam with amusement, and her mouth always seemed on the verge of a smile. Deborah also liked her serenity. She was a widow, so it seemed reasonable to suppose that she had not always been happy, but if Anne Lindsay could overcome her grief then Deborah hoped that she, too, would recover, in time.
    Deborah was aware of her father’s reasons for encouraging her to join the committee. He wanted her to go out more, make new friends. Deborah had never been very good at that. New people and unfamiliar places filled her with dread, which was why taking the job in London had been such a big step for her. Sometimes she wondered how she’d found the courage to do it. Perhaps it was the fact that most of her school friends had left Moreton, going off to get married or follow a career. It was