Authors: Jodi Taylor
‘Just make sure they’re the right sheep.’
‘Can’t make any promises. At this time of year they all look the same. Grey and pregnant.’
I knew the feeling. ‘I just don’t want to have to testify at your sheep rustling trial. And
please
make sure you’re back by two this afternoon. You’re leading a donkey up the aisle.’
But he was gone.
And he didn’t come back.
The clouds got lower. The day got darker. The odd snowflake drifted down. Mrs Crisp kept me busy in the kitchen but every time I looked out of the window, I could see Kevin crossing the yard to lean over the gate and peer up the lane.
We had an early lunch and began to prepare Norma Jean for her first public appearance. She’d been brushed; her little hooves oiled; her mane tamed – but only temporarily. Thirty seconds later it all sprang back into vertical life again.
‘Never mind,’ said Sharon. ‘Look what I’ve brought.’
She gathered up Marilyn’s forelock and tied it in a beautiful blue satin bow. Marilyn blinked and looked around in astonishment, possibly seeing clearly, for the first time, where she’d been living for the last two years.
With a toot, Andrew pulled into the yard and Kevin quickly shut the gate behind him before he realised that Russell wasn’t back yet and he was first reserve.
‘Why can’t Kevin do it?’ he demanded indignantly, as he was bundled upstairs to change.
‘Escorting the ladies,’ said Kevin with a grin. A remark he would subsequently come to regret.
Mrs Crisp and Sharon busied themselves in the kitchen, and at something of a loose end, I tried to relax. Seeking some distraction from worrying over Russell, adrift on the moors, accompanied only by a bunch of gormless sheep and a horse with the IQ of a banana, I wandered around the house, plumping cushions, straightening ornaments, and wiping the odd surface down with my sleeve. I straightened books. I put more blue stuff down the toilet. I tidied Russell’s shoes away. I took a magazine from the pile on the coffee table and sat down to read, only to get up almost immediately and arrange the pile into chronological order. I stared out of the window and wondered whether I should stay at home and wait for Russell. I rearranged the magazines into alphabetical order. From the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs Crisp and Sharon exchange glances.
‘What?’ I said.
‘Nothing,’ they said.
‘Are you sure you still want to go this afternoon, Mrs Checkland?’ asked Mrs Crisp. ‘It’s very cold today. Perhaps you should stay in the warm.’
‘Yes,’ I said, immediately deciding not to stay at home after all. ‘Of course I’m going. I wouldn’t miss this for anything. And Russell will be back any minute now.’
They nodded in that way people do when trying to reassure the simple-minded.
Andrew was not happy.
‘I’m not happy,’ he announced.
‘I can’t think why not,’ I said. ‘You look adorable.’
‘I looked even more adorable before you draped me with some old blanket and a tea towel. My legs are cold. Can I wear socks?’
‘Seriously, sandals and socks?’
‘It’s not a fashion parade, you know.’
‘Don’t you have thermal underwear?’
‘Yes, but not realising the hardships I would be expected to endure here, I didn’t bring it with me.’
‘Seriously? You … came to stay with Russell without bringing any … survival gear?’
He subsided, muttering. I waited for him to demand to know why Russell hadn’t returned because this was all his fault. He didn’t. He was as worried as I was. And like me, he was putting on a brave face.
The old church wasn’t much warmer inside than outside, but it was beautiful in its shabbiness. Soft, gentle lights glinted on the candlesticks on the altar. The flower-arranging teams had striven to outdo each other and four beautiful arrangements in red, gold, and green stood in each corner of the church, and most importantly, nowhere near Marilyn’s route to the stable. Straw bales made a snug little stable area and a low wooden manger filled with hay stood on the floor, ready for its occupant.
Sadly it seemed the organist, Mrs McSweeney, had sprained her wrist while stuffing her Christmas turkey and was temporarily
hors de combat
. Her place had been taken by her eldest son, Colin, a shy, solitary lad and a music student. Soft chords drifted around the thick Norman pillars and was lost in the darkness above our heads. Let people believe it was Bach, if they wanted to. I was almost certain he was playing ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’, which given the falling snow outside was quite appropriate, really.
We seated ourselves. Mrs Crisp first; then me, taking up more than my fair share of pew; then Sharon, with Kevin on the end in case of Marilyn-related emergencies. He carried a backpack with a spare halter, a lifetime’s supply of carrots, and a hopefully not-to-be-needed first aid kit.
I stared around anxiously. No Russell. I hadn’t thought he would be here, but I was pregnant and entitled to clutch at straws. On the other side of the aisle, Monica Braithwaite was looking for Martin. We caught each other’s eye, nodded, and smiled, each pretending we weren’t in the slightest bit worried. The gentle murmur of conversation rose up around us. I could smell the warm smell of straw, old hymn books, and hot dust as the heaters fought a losing battle with damp stone.
Somewhere, a signal was given. Colin brought the (probably not) Bach to a graceful conclusion. There was silence for a minute, and then the Angel Gabriel appeared, very dramatically, out of the gloom. Supplanted she may have been, but Fiona Braithwaite was obviously determined to wring every last moment of drama from her performance.
She wore the obligatory white sheet and a tinsel halo. How much more difficult must it be to kit out nativity plays in these days of patterned duvet covers? And dishwashers. No more tea towels for those eastern headdresses. As compensation for not being chosen to be Mary, her beautiful golden wings had been designed by Russell, cut out by me, and glued by her mother, during a cosy afternoon in her kitchen. Dramatically lit from beneath, she stood on her straw bale and extended her arms. I felt the usual shiver run through me.
‘And it came to pass in those days that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed.’
‘Nothing changes,’ grumbled a man behind me. His wife shushed him.
‘And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee out of the city of Nazareth into Judea unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem. To be taxed with Mary, his espoused wife, being great with child.’
She paused for a moment, the echoes of her voice dying away, and here they came.
Joseph led the way, stumping determinedly up the aisle, with his shepherd’s crook (borrowed from the Braithwaites). He wore an old brown dressing gown, tied with a sash. Behind him came the Virgin Mary, resplendent in a blue velvet robe that had obviously cost a fortune. Impractical long sleeves trailed on the ground and a white veil framed her face. Her hands were clasped and her eyes raised piously heavenwards. She caught sight of Fiona, dramatically lit on her bale, and a small expression of annoyance flickered over her face. I heard a faint snort from the other side of the aisle.
I felt like snorting myself and my efforts at decorum caused a sudden cramping pain which I forgot about immediately, because here came our girl, tip-tapping alongside a poker-faced Andrew, in her smart tartan dog-coat and very fetching blue bow. Not, probably a realistic look for a first-century donkey, but giving the congregation the full benefit of her saintly expression and huge dark eyes. Her little hooves clattered softly on the stone floor.
‘Aaaaaawwwww,’ said the congregation en masse. I could hear at least two kids demanding a donkey for Christmas.
There was a slightly awkward moment when she paused to investigate the wreaths hanging from the end of each pew, but since they mostly consisted of substantial amounts of holly, she lost interest. I could not relax, however. The Baby Jesus might still be in peril.
The organ started up and we sang ‘O Little Town of Bethlehem’ as they arrived at the stable and with some fuss, they got themselves into position. The Angel Gabriel, from her dominant position on the straw bale, smirked down at the kneeling Virgin Mary who glared back again. Joseph, sensibly, kept his head down.
To my own surprise, I found myself suddenly overwhelmed with emotion, fighting back tears and swallowing huge lumps in my throat. I found a tissue, sniffed, and made myself concentrate. The Angel Gabriel was speaking again.
‘And so it was, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling clothes and laid him in a manger, because there was no room for them in the inn.’
Mr Wivenhoe had wisely sidestepped the whole ‘room at the inn’ issue. Apparently, years ago, while taking part in his own nativity play, a young Russell had thrown the whole afternoon into confusion by flinging open the door and inviting them all inside. ‘There’s plenty of room at the inn.’ The young Andrew, in his role as second innkeeper and anxious to adhere to the plot, had attempted to push them all back out again. There had been Words.
We dutifully sang ‘Away in a Manger’ and with a certain amount of groping under the straw, the small bundle signifying the Baby Jesus was held high, rather in the manner of
The Lion King
, and then ceremonially laid in the manger. Marilyn watched all this with huge interest. I held my breath but Andrew was there to intervene. No kids would be traumatised by seeing Baby Jesus eaten at birth.
‘And there were in the same country, shepherds abiding in their fields, keeping watch over their flocks by night.’
I spared a thought for Russell and Martin, searching for their own flocks out there in the snow. Surely they should be back by now. Surely I would return to Frogmorton to find Russell sprawled in front of the range with a beer in one hand and a bacon sandwich in the other, full of inventive excuses for his non-appearance. Please. Let that happen.
Under cover of looking around the church, I kept craning my neck to see if Russell was maybe standing at the back. On the other side of the aisle, I could see Monica doing the same. In this quiet church, the wind sounded very loud.
‘And lo – the angel of the Lord came upon them and the glory of the Lord shone about them and they were sore afraid.’
Cue the spotlight on three dramatically cowering shepherds and a very unimpressed and very fat sheep.
We sang ‘While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night’, as the three shepherds heaved themselves to their feet and appeared in the stable. Marilyn immediately abandoned her scrutiny of the Baby Jesus and fixed the sheep with an expression of deep professional rivalry. The sheep ignored her and tried to lie down. There was a small wrestling match between the sheep and the shepherds, one of whom was Martin’s son and who was looking extremely anxious.
I wished that Russell was here. He would have enjoyed this so much. As would Thomas. And today, neither of them was present. I folded my arms over my stomach and leaned forward to ease the cramp. It didn’t help at all.
‘Now when Jesus was born in Bethlehem, behold, there came three wise men from the East. And lo – the star which they saw in the East went before them.’
And here came the Wise Men, beautifully attired in their mothers’ curtains and a vast amount of Christmas tinsel, all clutching their meticulously painted tea caddies. Before them, carefully watching where he put his feet, walked young Charlie Kessler, grinning from ear to ear. Charlie went to the special school on the other side of Rushford and this was his first nativity play ever. He was obviously enjoying every moment. And he had a line to say, as well. According to his mother, he had been practising solidly for the last two weeks. He beamed with pride and excitement and waved madly to his family, all of whom beamed and waved right back. Charlie was portraying The Star, and as such, carried a long pole with a beautiful golden star (Russell again) dangling from the end.
The congregation sang ‘We Three Kings’ as they slowly approached the stable.
That sheep was making a lot of noise. I saw Andrew lean over to look. Marilyn also, was struggling to climb over the straw bales to see what was going on.
One of the shepherds, Martin’s son, said doubtfully, ‘Um, Mr Checkland …?’
Oh God. The sheep was dying. Our nativity play was to be presided over by a dead sheep. Surely this could not be happening …
Andrew handed Marilyn’s lead to Charlie. ‘Here you go, Charlie. You’re in charge of the donkey for a moment. Hold tight now,’
Charlie nearly burst. This was easily the most exciting day of his life.
The sheep really was making an awful lot of noise, completely upstaging the Virgin Mary who, with commendable dedication to her part, still knelt in prayer but was looking extremely cross about it. Marilyn was craning her neck like a giraffe. Charlie leaned over to have a look and gasped with excitement.
‘Hey, Mum! Guess what’s just fallen out of this sheep’s bottom!’
Even Mary opened her eyes at that, screamed ‘Eeeew!’, and scrambled to get away, abandoning Baby Jesus to his fate. I saw Fiona Braithwaite and her mother exchange glances and then look away again. Monica looked particularly pleased with herself. I wondered just who had selected this particular sheep for this particular performance.
All around us, the children in the audience were fighting their way into the aisle for a better view. One little girl, her thumb in her mouth, crept slowly towards the stable. Other children followed suit. Without a word being spoken, they seated themselves cross-legged on the stone floor, eyes and mouths wide with wonder. It struck me that next year, Mr Wivenhoe was going to have to incorporate the Cirque du Soleil at the very least, to better this year’s effort.
Andrew performed a few basic tasks, mercifully hidden behind a straw bale, and then announced, ‘No cause for alarm, anyone. It’s a boy. Mother and child doing well,’ and kicked loose straw over the messy bits.
‘Aaaaawwww,’ said the congregation and I could hear at least two children demanding a newborn lamb for Christmas.