Authors: Jack Sheffield
I shook my head. ‘Beth, look at me!’ I said. ‘I’m six-feet-one-inch tall. I weigh thirteen stones four pounds and I’ve got a thirty-four-inch waist. I’m just not your usual build for Father Christmas.’
‘There’s no else I can think of, Jack.’
The steaming Yorkshire puddings arrived and I sighed and took off my spectacles to clean the lenses with my handkerchief. ‘Also, Father Christmas doesn’t wear Buddy Holly spectacles,’ I added for good measure.
‘Well, you’ll just have to take them off,’ said Beth firmly.
‘But without them, I can’t see a thing!’ I yelled in despair.
‘You’ll be perfect, Jack, trust me.’ And she gave me that look and I knew resistance was pointless.
An hour later I was sitting behind the curtain in the hall. The PE store had been cleared out and two staff-room chairs had been provided. On the wall behind me, on a panel of black sugar paper, a child’s painting of a reindeer had been mounted to give the impression I was sitting in
the
Arctic Circle. My huge bright-red Father Christmas costume hung on me like an oversize tent, the ticklish white beard made me want to sneeze and the black boots were too small.
Next to me were two girls from Beth’s top class. They were dressed as a fairy and an elf and were sitting on a bale of hay and looking bored.
‘What are you getting f’Christmas, Shelley?’ asked the fairy.
‘Ah’m gettin’ a record player an’ a Donny Osmond record,’ said the elf.
‘Donny Osmond? Ah don’t like ’im,’ said the fairy disdainfully. ‘Why don’t y’get summat decent like Johnny Rotten?’
‘Ah can’t change me mind now,’ said the elf. ‘ ’E’s proper brassed off is me dad. ’E sez ’e ’ates Christmas.’
So, full of seasonal spirit, we welcomed our first customer. A little blonde-haired girl walked in, dragging her reluctant elder sister behind her. Reassured, I moved smoothly into Father Christmas mode. ‘Ho-ho-ho, hello, little girl,’ I said in a deep booming voice. The elf and the fairy looked at me as if I should be taken away by men in white coats.
‘Hello, Father Christmas. I’m Lucy, I’m six, an’ this is my sister, Emily, she’s nine.’
I smiled at Lucy, while Emily gave me a knowing look. ‘So, what would you like for Christmas?’ I asked, immediately forsaking the booming voice.
‘I’d like a
Doctor Who Annual
, please, and a Talking K-9
so
I can share it with my sister ’cause she likes Tom Baker,’ said the little girl.
‘That’s very kind of you to think of your sister,’ I said.
‘Well, I love my sister ’cause she gives me all her old clothes an’ she ’as t’go out an’ buy new ones.’
Her big sister grinned.
‘I see,’ I said. ‘Well, I’ll tell my little elves and we’ll do our best.’
‘Thank you, Father Christmas,’ said Lucy and she walked out of the grotto through the narrow gap in the curtains.
As they disappeared from sight, Emily turned round and gave me a thumbs-up.
The elf turned to the fairy. ‘An’ what are you getting f’Christmas?’
‘A Starsky an’ ’Utch shoulder ’olster an’ a fibre-optic lamp,’ said the fairy.
There was a pause while the elf considered this modest collection of presents. ‘Is that all?’ asked the elf.
The curtains fluttered again and a mother came in with a pushchair and a five-year-old girl who was eating a Curlywurly.
‘Go on, then,’ said the mother, ‘ask Santa for what ah sed.’
‘Please can ah ’ave an Abba doll an’ a skateboard,’ recited the little girl.
Her mother nodded at me furiously.
‘And have you been a good girl this year?’ I asked.
‘Yes, she ’as,’ said the mother indignantly, ‘and she’ll be leaving y’usual mince pie an’ a glass o’ port.’
‘Oh, well, er … thank you and I’ll tell my little elves. Happy Christmas and a ho-ho-ho.’
The mother gave me a disparaging look. I thought the line about elves was rather good but decided to drop the ho-ho-ho.
The next customers came thick and fast until, an hour later, the final little girl asked for Kermit the Frog, Miss Piggy and a Muppet Show Board Game. The moustache went up my nose and I sneezed and her mother rushed her out quickly.
Then, followed by the elf and the fairy, I had to run the gauntlet of mothers and children as I hobbled through the hall in my tight boots. I was aware that a few of them tittered as I tiptoed past. Finally, in the blessed haven of the staff toilet, I changed back into my sports jacket and flares.
Back in the hall, Beth was busy talking to a group of mothers. Alongside her stood Simon, her handsome, flaxen-haired, deputy headteacher, who bore a passing resemblance to Robert Redford. He seemed very attentive to Beth’s every word. Then Beth’s cook ushered me into the staff-room, where I was served with a large mug of black tea plus a slice of Christmas cake and a slab of Wensleydale cheese. It was a feast after my ordeal and I gradually relaxed.
Darkness descended quickly and out of the high
Victorian
windows, in the distance, the bright moonlight illuminated the crumbling remains of a twelfth-century abbey on the banks of the River Hart. It had been built by Cistercian monks and was etched against the winter skyline. History lay heavy on this land.
Gradually the school emptied and I was standing in the entrance hall as the last two mothers walked out, each pushing a pushchair and engrossed in loud conversation.
‘Ah’ll tell y’summat f’nowt, Sandra.’
‘What’s that, Donna?’
‘That Miss ’Enderson’s lovely an’ my Tracy’s coming on a treat, but ah didn’t reckon much to ’er choice o’ this year’s Father Christmas.’
‘Ah know what y’mean, Donna. Mebbe ’e were jus’ a beginner.’
‘Well, somebody definitely needs t’fatten ’im up.’
‘ ’E were proper skinny.’
‘Skinny? ’E mus’ be t’thinnest Father Christmas in the world.’
I smiled and walked into the empty school hall. Beth was turning out the lights and carrying a large bunch of keys. She looked tired.
‘Goodbye, Beth,’ I said. ‘Thanks for the invitation.’
‘Thanks, Jack – you’ve been wonderful.’
The school was quiet now; only the ticking of the hall clock echoed round the Victorian building. I squeezed her hand and walked away into the darkness.
Chapter Eight
An Angel Called Harold
A large audience supported the school Christmas concert, 2.00 p.m.–3.30 p.m. Every child took part and members of the PTA served refreshments afterwards
.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook:
Thursday, 20 December 1979
THE TURKEY WAS
definitely limping.
It hopped forward on its left leg and then dragged its right leg behind it. I peered out through the frozen windscreen of my car and stared at the strange scene.
Jimmy Poole, his ginger curls hidden under a huge hand-knitted balaclava, had made a lead out of a length of orange baling twine and was guiding a limping turkey across the village green towards school. I decided to ask him about it later. It was Wednesday, 19 December, the
day
before our Christmas concert and a busy day was in store.
In the entrance hall, Jo Hunter was in conversation with Mrs Audrey Bustard, mother of seven-year-old Harold.
‘ ’E’s a proper little angel is my ’Arold,’ announced Mrs Bustard proudly. ‘Ah’ve made ’im this pair o’ wings,’ and she handed over a pair of wings that would have looked more at home on Batman.
‘Thank you,’ said Jo uncertainly.
I glanced at little Harold Bustard as I walked into the office. With his skinhead haircut, jug-handle ears and toothless grin, he didn’t look particularly angelic. The two green candles of snot that were fast approaching his upper lip appeared to go unnoticed by his mother.
‘Burra wanna be a sheep,’ grumbled Harold.
‘Shurrup, ’Arold,’ said Mrs Bustard. ‘You’ll do as y’told.’
‘Well, actually, Mrs Bus-taaahd,’ said Jo, remembering to put an extended and heavy emphasis on the second syllable of ‘Bustard’ so that it didn’t rhyme with custard or mustard, ‘we do need a few more sheep.’
‘Ah don’t want ’is dad t’be disappointed, Mrs ’Unter. ’E’s set ’is ’eart on it. It runs in t’family. ’E comes from a long line of angelic Bus-taaahds.’
‘Well, I’ll talk to Harold and we’ll decide what’s best,’ said Jo, ever the peacemaker. She crouched down in the staff-room doorway and wiped little Harold’s nose with
a
tissue. ‘I’m sure Harold will do well,’ she said cheerfully but not entirely convincingly.
Harold looked up at his mother with a fierce expression. ‘Burra wanna be a sheep.’
‘You’ll do as y’told an’ be a ruddy angel,’ said Mrs Bustard with a finality that brooked no argument.
Jo took a step backwards. ‘We really don’t mind,’ said Jo hopefully. ‘In fact, another sheep would be really useful.’
Mrs Bustard glared at Jo. ‘T’angelic ’ost jus’ wouldn’t be t’same wi’out our ’Arold,’ she said. ‘ ’Is uncle ’Enry were an angel, ’is dad were an angel an’ ah were an angel … an’ a bloody good’un an’ all.’
‘I’m sure you were, Mrs Bus-taaahd,’ said Jo with a sigh. ‘In that case … we’ll let Harold be an angel.’
Mrs Bustard nodded. She’d got what she came for. ‘C’mon, ’Arold,’ she said. Then she dragged little Harold across the entrance hall towards the front door, where she paused and shouted, ‘An’ ah’ll mek ’is ’alo tonight.’
Jo breathed a sigh of relief and walked into the office.
‘Well done,’ I said. ‘I imagine it’s a bit wearing having to deal with Mrs Bustard.’
‘Actually, it’s Mrs Bus-taaahd, Jack,’ said Jo with a grin and she skipped out into the corridor to the stock cupboard to collect some white card, red crêpe paper and a new brand of rubber glue with a distinctive but strangely compulsive smell.
Our annual Christmas concert was almost upon us and, traditionally, each class was to present a short play.
However
, this year, Anne and Jo had decided to combine their classes in a joint Cecil B DeMille production of the nativity. Sally’s class had prepared a tear-jerking adaptation of Charles Dickens’s
A Christmas Carol
and my class had rehearsed the world première of Jodie Cuthbertson’s original play
Christmas in the Eighties
, which relied heavily on miming to Abba records while wearing lots of make-up.
By morning break the staff-room was so full of costumes, shepherds’ crooks and kitchen-foil crowns that, in spite of the temperature dropping like a stone and the forecast of snow, it was a relief to do playground duty. I was warming my hands on my mug of coffee when I noticed Jimmy Poole standing by the cycle shed. He looked dejected, so I walked over to him.
‘What’s the matter, Jimmy?’ I asked.
‘Thpartacuth hath gone, Mr Theffield,’ said Jimmy mournfully.
‘Spartacus?’
‘Yeth. Ah tied ’im up ’ere an’ he’th gone.’
I remembered the turkey. ‘Is Spartacus a turkey?’ I asked.
‘Yeth, Mr Theffield,’ said Jimmy, totally unimpressed by my powers of deduction.
‘You’ve got a turkey called Spartacus?’
‘Yeth. Cauth of that thtory you told uth in athembly.’
I recalled I had just related the epic story of Spartacus the slave. ‘And why did you bring him to school, Jimmy?’
‘Ah’m trying to thtop Thpartacus getting killed for
Chrithmath
, Mr Theffield, cauth he’th my friend ’an’ ah feel thorry for ’im.’
‘I’m sure we’ll find him,’ I said unconvincingly and Jimmy walked back into class. I took a quick look round the cycle shed, but the limping turkey and the length of baling twine had disappeared. Spartacus was a free turkey.
Back in my classroom two of the mothers, Staff Nurse Sue Phillips and Margery Ackroyd, had called in to make glittery Abba outfits, while I helped ten-year-old Katy Ollerenshaw prepare a compilation of Christmas carols on our Grundig reel-to-reel tape recorder. It was noticeable that, compared with me, Katy was much more competent.
At twelve o’clock, Jungle Telegraph Jodie made an announcement. ‘Vicar’s coming up t’drive, Mr Sheffield, an’ ’e’s walkin’ funny.’ It was true. The Revd Joseph Evans was walking like a man wearing sandpaper underpants. I went to meet him in the entrance hall.
‘Come into the staff-room, Joseph, and sit down,’ I said, clearing colourful parcels of gold, frankincense and myrrh from the nearest chair.
Joseph gave me a strained look. ‘I’d rather not, Jack. My, er, little problem’s back again.’
It was obvious that Joseph’s haemorrhoids had made an unwelcome return. No one ever used the ‘h’ word; we always referred to Joseph’s ‘little problem’.
‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, Joseph. Would you like a cushion?’
‘Thanks, Jack, that’s very kind.’ He lowered himself very gingerly on to one of the cross-stitched cushions that Vera had made for the staff-room. ‘I wondered if we could have a word about the Bible readings for the church services over Christmas,’ he said.
‘Why not call round to Bilbo Cottage after school?’ I asked. ‘I should be home by six.’
Joseph stood up with some relief. ‘Good idea, Jack.’ He paused in the doorway, looked back and smiled. ‘And I’ll bring a bottle.’
It was six fifteen when I arrived home in Kirkby Steepleton. A sharp wind had sprung up and, over the distant Hambleton hills, heavy grey clouds promised snow. A little white Austin A40 was parked on my driveway, which meant Joseph had arrived. I hurried into the warm house, where loud Scottish voices could be heard in the kitchen.
My little Glaswegian mother, Margaret, and her sister, May, had arrived for their annual Christmas visit and it hadn’t taken them long to work out what was wrong with Joseph. He was standing by the kitchen door, looking utterly bemused and clutching a wine bottle with a home-made label.
‘Hello, Jack,’ said Joseph. He gave me the bottle of murky yellow-green liquid. Joseph was very proud of his home-made wine. ‘It’s my peapod and nettle,’ he said.
Meanwhile, a strong unpleasant smell drifted out of
the
kitchen and Joseph and I twitched uncomfortably. Cooking was not Aunt May’s forte.
‘Och aye, Vicar, this’ll cure y’asteroids,’ said Aunt May, who possessed a very individual but perfectly understandable use of the English language.