When had I got things so confused? So wrong?
CHAPTER 8
In the run up to the opening—and only—night, Mum had taken on the final scenes. She had me running around the village on errands, posting flyers on trees and in shop windows, collecting dry cleaning and any last-minute props. I was even caught on one of the twins’ phones carrying a pantomime horse’s head under my arm, jogging across the village green. It had taken a long time for the vicar of St Marks to find it in his attic, and I doubted there was time to write it into the script. Basically, I barely had time to think: to brood, to regret, to beat my head senseless against the kitchen wall in punishment for the chances I’d missed.
And then I stumbled into the house on the morning of the show with another huge box of donated Christ
