‘Who’s next for Santa?’ asked Good Fairy. There were two mothers outside and two children. Brenda Ricketts came in with Billy, who had just celebrated his fifth birthday.
‘Ho-ho-ho,’ said Gabriel as Billy sat on his knee.
‘What did y’say that for?’ asked Billy, who had always been a direct little boy.
‘’E knows ’is onions, does my Billy,’ said Brenda Ricketts proudly.
And he smells of them thought Gabriel.
‘Tell Santa what y’want, Billy,’ urged Brenda.
‘Yes, Billy – what would you like for Christmas?’ asked Gabriel.
Billy was looking curiously at Santa’s beard and began to tug at it. ‘Leave ’is beard alone,’ shouted Brenda, ‘an’ say what y’want.’
Billy took a deep breath and looked up at Santa. ‘Ah wanna rat.’
‘A rat – a white rat?’
‘No,’ said Billy, ‘a Roland Rat.’
‘A Roland Rat?’
‘’E’s on breakfas’ telly, Santa,’ explained Brenda, ‘wi’ ’is friend Kevin.’
‘Kevin?’ Gabriel was struggling to comprehend. ‘Is Kevin a rat as well?’
‘Yes, Santa,’ said Billy.
‘I see,’ said Gabriel. He was lost for words.
Billy was a good-hearted little boy and was always willing to help a friend in difficulty. ‘Well if y’struggling, Santa,’ he said, ‘all you ’ave t’do is go t’Nugent’s Toy Shop in York an’ they’ve one in t’front window.’
Gabriel smiled. ‘Well, before that I’ll look in my toy cupboard to see if the little elves have made one.’
Billy looked at Busy Elf, who was yawning while flicking through the pages of her Smash Hits magazine. Meanwhile, Good Fairy was wrapping more mystery gifts in tissue and sticking lengthy strands of Sellotape round them.
‘Santa mus’ spend a lot on Sellotape,’ observed Billy.
‘Yes, luv,’ said Brenda. ‘Come on, time t’go. It’s nearly seven o’ clock and Santa ’as t’close now an’ fly back to t’North Pole,’ and she grabbed Billy’s hand and they hurried out.
Across the market square Geoffrey Dudley-Palmer was in Dixons and thinking hard about purchasing a Polaroid Sun Camera 600 for Petula.
‘It’s a highly sophisticated system of electronics,’ said the eager assistant with an attempt at a Rod Stewart spiky hairstyle that looked like an explosion in a Shredded Wheat factory.
‘Really?’ said Geoffrey, clearly impressed. He loved new technology.
Shredded Wheat Boy was now in full flow. ‘The amount of light is measured by sensors so you get perfectly lit pictures.’
‘Sounds good,’ said Geoffrey.
The earnest young man moved in for the kill. ‘It’s pre-focused, so it only takes a split second to point and press.’ He thrust the camera into Geoffrey’s hands and recited his pièce de résistance. ‘And only ninety seconds from pressing the button to peeling off the processed print.’
‘But will my wife be able to work it?’ asked Geoffrey in desperation.
Shredded Wheat Boy realized this wasn’t the moment to declare his firm belief that advanced electronic hardware was clearly beyond the wit of a mere woman. He resorted to his man-to-man knowing wink and a patronizing smile perfected over his short apprenticeship. ‘A trained chimpanzee could operate this.’
Geoffrey kept his thoughts to himself about his deep-seated and politically incorrect views of potential contests between his wife and educated primates. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said.
‘There’s one more customer,’ said Good Fairy, looking at her watch, ‘but we should be shutting now.’
‘We can’t turn them away,’ said Gabriel firmly.
Reluctantly, Good Fairy opened the door and a slim woman in her early thirties walked in with her fair-haired daughter. The mother stopped suddenly, surprised to see familiar eyes peering out from under Santa’s fur-lined hood. Recognition was immediate – but it was too late: the eager little girl stepped forward and stared up at Father Christmas in his bright red suit.
‘Hello, Santa,’ she said … and Gabriel smiled down at his granddaughter.
‘Hello, Zoe,’ said Gabriel.
The little girl looked puzzled. ‘Santa – how d’you know my name?’
Abigail gave him a sharp look, but Gabriel recovered quickly. ‘Santa knows the names of all good little girls and boys,’ he replied.
The little girl looked relieved.
‘Go on, Zoe,’ said Abigail quickly. ‘Tell Santa what you would like for Christmas and then we’ll be off.’
Gabriel ignored the rebuff even though it hurt. He knew his daughter hadn’t forgiven him.
‘Well, Santa,’ said Zoe, ‘please can I have a doll that wees and some books with Christmas stories – and some slippers.’
Abigail was surprised. ‘Slippers?’
‘Yes, Mummy,’ said Zoe, ‘for Ga-ga Book, because his feet are always cold when he reads stories to me.’
Abigail looked at her father and a flicker of a smile crossed her lips. She remembered when she was a child and Gabriel had read stories to her. He had cold feet even then. Meanwhile, Gabriel couldn’t speak. He just stared in awe at the child he loved so much. Zoe put her hand in her pocket and took out a carrot. ‘And this is for Rudolph,’ she said.
‘Thank you, Zoe,’ said Gabriel, ‘and a happy Christmas.’
Mother and daughter walked out into the darkness.
In the Earnshaw household all was not well. Mrs Earnshaw had clearly lost something, while Terry knew the day of judgement was approaching fast. He had opened the little cardboard flaps on the back of his sister’s Co-op Advent calendar and eaten Dallas Sue-Ellen’s chocolates from 20 December onwards.
‘Baby Jesus ’as gone missing,’ said a concerned Mrs Earnshaw. She held up the shoebox of Nativity figures.
‘What’s that, Mam?’ asked Terry.
‘Well, Mary and Joseph are ’ere but there’s no baby Jesus.’
The Earnshaw family were taking part in what Joseph Evans described as the annual Posada: namely, the journey of Joseph, Mary and the donkey to Bethlehem. Over the period of advent the little clay figures were passed from one family to another. The idea was to re-enact their search for lodgings and it meant that Joseph, Mary and the donkey stayed in a different place each night, finally arriving back in church for the Crib Service on Christmas Eve.
‘Baby Jesus?’ repeated Terry, looking puzzled. ‘But ’e’s not been born yet, Mam. ’E dunt turn up ’til Christmas Day.’
The penny dropped and Mrs Earnshaw nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Well … ah never thought o’ that.’
Terry arranged the figures on the mantelpiece so that they were safe from Dallas Sue-Ellen’s sticky fingers and then went up to bed.
‘An’ shut that door, Terry,’ shouted Mrs Earnshaw. ‘Y’weren’t brought up in a barn!’
‘But Jesus was,’ retorted Terry, quick as a flash, ‘an’ ’e didn’t get told off.’
Heathcliffe looked up from his Roy of the Rovers comic. ‘’E’s right, Mam.’
Mrs Earnshaw smiled and pondered for a moment. Well at least they’re learning something at school she thought.
Tuesday-morning assembly was a happy but tearful affair. After Joseph had retold the story of the birth of Jesus we said a prayer and then Jo Hunter gave a moving speech of thanks. Sergeant Dan Hunter was sitting next to me and, at the end, he shook my hand. ‘Thanks, Jack,’ he said quietly. ‘We’ll never forget Ragley School.’
However, during morning break it was clearly the Nativity story that had caught the imagination of the youngest children. ‘Well, when ah grow up,’ said Patience Crapper, ‘if ah ’ave a baby an’ it’s a boy, ah’ll sell it ’cause ah ’ate boys.’
Jemima Poole was more forgiving. ‘Ah bet Mary would’ve liked a nice tin o’ biscuits,’ she said. ‘My mam allus likes a biscuit when she’s fed up wi’ my big brother.’
Charlie Cartwright was unimpressed with the
kings’ gifts. ‘If ah’d been Jesus ah would ’ave rather ’ad a Lego set or mebbe a light sabre.’
Meanwhile, that evening little Billy Ricketts went home and told his mother that Jesus had been born in a stabilizer. Fortunately Joseph was untroubled by the children’s active imaginations; he was too busy preparing for the annual Crib Service on Christmas Eve.
Beth’s parents, John and Diane Henderson, had travelled up from Hampshire on Friday evening to spend Christmas with us, while my mother and her sister May had decided to enjoy Christmas and Hogmanay north of the border with the Scottish clan. So it was that on Christmas Eve morning Beth was in the lounge looking at a knitting pattern and Diane was holding up the almost completed sweater that she was knitting for Laura. They were discussing something called reverse stocking stitch, but as I didn’t even know what forward stocking stitch was it didn’t seem the right moment to interrupt.
I walked into the kitchen where John, a lean, athletic six-footer with steel-grey hair, was playing in the hallway with baby John. ‘So he slept through the night, Jack?’ said John. ‘That must be a relief.’
We had moved John’s cot into our room so that he and Diane could use our tiny second bedroom. ‘Yes, things are settling down now, thankfully,’ I said. ‘We’re both getting some sleep at last.’
He lifted up his grandson, who immediately reached for his reflection in the hall mirror. ‘He’s an observant little lad, isn’t he?’ said John with a smile.
‘He’s trying to roll over on his tummy now,’ I added with pride.
‘Takes me back,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t seem that long since Beth and Laura were this age.’ He stared thoughtfully out of the leaded window at the winter scene beyond. ‘Shame she couldn’t be with us for Christmas,’ he said, ‘but she chose to go back to London.’
‘So I heard,’ I said.
At 2.30 we all piled into John’s Land Rover and drove to St Mary’s. The church bells were ringing as we walked up the pathway of Yorkshire stone while the snow settled in gentle curves against the weathered gravestones.
When we walked in through the great Norman doorway the sound of children’s voices filled this beautiful church. Vera was lighting tall candles within the sanctuary of the altar so that a tapestry of flickering shadows illuminated the stained glass in the east window. Sally Pringle was preparing to accompany the children’s Nativity on her guitar while Anne, helped by Sue Phillips plus a few willing parents, dressed the children in their costumes. It was a special time and we squeezed into one of the front pews so that John had a good view of the Nativity scene. The Posada was now complete, with the tiny figure of baby Jesus finally joining the tableau in the straw-covered stable.
Soon, the Valium-sedated Elsie Crapper played the introduction to ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and the choir mistress, Mary McIntyre, a lyric soprano who had a diploma from the Royal College of Music in London, sang the first verse as a solo as she led the choir down the central aisle. It was music blessed by angels.
As always, the children stole the show and, once more, the timeless tale was acted out by a cast wearing tea-towel headdresses and curtain-cloaks.
It was five o’ clock when we got back to Bilbo Cottage. John lit a roaring log fire, I warmed some mulled wine, while Beth and Diane prepared a huge pan of leek and potato soup and a side plate of fresh bread.
Soon we were circling the programmes in the Radio Times that we wanted to watch or record over Christmas. I selected the Boxing Day film, Bridge on the River Kwai with Alec Guinness; Beth and Diane picked a Prokofiev ballet from La Scala, Milan, featuring Rudolph Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn; while John selected the Only Fools and Horses Christmas Special ‘Thicker Than Water’.
Also, a host of new presents from John and Diane had appeared under the tree, including, as we were later to discover, a Black & Decker Chuck Drill for me, a new dress for Beth and a carpet play-zoo for John.
Visitors to Santa’s grotto had dwindled to a trickle as snow fell once more over the vast plain of York. Good Fairy and Busy Elf had not reappeared as Santa’s helpers after the first night. Instead their mother, a friendly if over-apologetic lady, kept Gabriel company over the next few days, supplying him with endless cups of tea, an extra electric heater and a non-stop monologue concerning the problems of having teenage daughters.
It was nearly closing time when there was a tap on the door. The Rotary president’s wife had left long ago to complete her Christmas shopping. Gabriel looked out and there was Abigail and a very excited Zoe. She was carrying a decorated shoebox. ‘Santa, please could you give this to my Ga-ga Book on Christmas morning?’
Gabriel knelt on one knee before her. ‘Of course, my dear.’
‘There’s something else,’ said Abigail quietly.
Zoe played with Santa’s beard while she considered what to say next.
‘And please will you tell Ga-ga Book that he can come to our house for Christmas dinner?’
Only the gentle patter of snowflakes on the window disturbed the long silence. ‘I will … I will,’ said Gabriel. He looked up at his daughter. ‘And thank you.’
He rubbed a tear from his eye and Zoe looked at his wrist. ‘My Ga-ga Book has a Mickey Mouse watch,’ she said.
‘I know,’ said Gabriel, ‘… I know.’
Abigail picked up Zoe and rearranged the warm scarf round the little girl’s neck. ‘Your mummy gave it to him when she was a little girl,’ she said quietly.
As they walked out into the snow Gabriel called after them. ‘Shall I tell him to bring anything?’
‘No,’ said Abigail simply, ‘just himself.’
Gabriel picked up the box and looked at the label. It read: ‘To Ga-ga Book, love Zoe XX’. He lifted the lid, peeped inside and smiled. The slippers were a hideous tartan but they were fur-lined. He had spent the last week promising surprises, but the best one had been saved until last.
‘Warm heart, cold feet,’ he chuckled as he locked up Santa’s grotto for another year.
Chapter Nine
The Length of Our Days
Mrs Grainger and Mrs Pringle with children from the reception class and the school choir and orchestra will be supporting the Ragley annual village pantomime, The Wizard of Oz, in the village hall on 31 December.
Extract from the Ragley School Logbook: Tuesday, 20 December 1983
‘THAT WAS WONDERFUL, darling,’ said Felicity Miles-Humphreys through gritted teeth. Nora Pratt had just sung ‘Over the Wainbow’ without the use of the letter ‘R’ and Felicity was beginning to regret her choice of The Wizard of Oz for this year’s annual village pantomime.
It was Saturday, 31 December and reluctant daylight had followed a dawn of wolf-grey clouds. At nine o’ clock I had said goodbye to Beth and John and driven on the frozen back road from Kirkby Steepleton to Ragley village. The countryside was held fast in the grip of winter but slowly the first sharp light flickered across the frosty fields. Finally the sun broke through the mist and long, grey-blue shadows filtered through the bare trees. As I pulled up on the High Street the hedgerows were rimed with white frost and a diamond light lit up the bright berries on holly bushes laced with dark ivy. However, when I walked into the village hall armed with a can of lurid emerald-green emulsion paint and a two-inch bristle brush, the natural wonders of the world did not appear to be in abundance.
‘Now … Munchkins, centre stage please,’ shrieked the self-appointed producer and artistic director of the Ragley Amateur Dramatic Society. Felicity Miles-Humphreys adjusted a bright red headband that held back a mop of astonishingly frizzy hair dyed as black as her flowing kaftan. Felicity, a large lady – or big-boned as she often described her corpulent frame – was aware that the need for Valium had increased with each meeting of Ragley’s motley crew of budding thespians.
The dress rehearsal was not going well. In fact, the word ‘dress’ was tenuous in the extreme, as few of the cast had brought their costumes. Also, Felicity’s husband, Peter the stuttering bank clerk, was
making his hesitant acting debut as the Tin Man, who, according to the script, didn’t have a heart. Likewise, Felicity didn’t have the heart to tell Peter that he was hopeless. Meanwhile, Rupert, her artistic son with delusions of theatrical greatness, had been cast as the Scarecrow and he kept forgetting his lines. However, as the Scarecrow was going to the Emerald City to get a brain, Felicity hoped the audience would assume this was in keeping with his character. As if that wasn’t enough, Deirdre Coe as the Lion, incongruously, was simply too bossy and she strode the stage intimidating the rest of the hapless performers. On top of all that, the Munchkins had munched all the Garibaldi biscuits and Jimmy Poole’s Yorkshire terrier as Toto the Dog was chewing up the Yellow Brick Road. ‘Let’s take five,’ announced Felicity in true Hollywood tradition.
Anne Grainger, as a reluctant but faithful committee member, and Sally Pringle as an ad hoc musical director, both recognized the signs of an imminent nervous breakdown and hurried off to the kitchen at the back of the village hall to make Felicity a cup of tea. It was a long-standing tradition to have a family pantomime in the village hall on New Year’s Eve that included most of the children in the reception class, plus members of the school choir and orchestra, so the presence of Anne and Sally was appreciated by all. Sadly, it was destined to be a performance that would never be forgotten.
While Felicity found a few moments’ respite in a cubicle in the ladies’ toilet, she vividly recalled an earlier production of The Wizard of Oz that had been her inspiration. In 1977 she had gone to the Theatre Royal in York when Julie Dawn Cole, famous for playing Veruca Salt in the 1971 film Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory, had been perfect in the part of Dorothy, while Marsha Fitzalan had proved to be a particularly convincing Wicked Witch. She also recalled a particularly handsome chocolate tree played by a young man called Pierce Brosnan, who had gone on to star in an American TV programme called Remington Steele.
When she finally emerged and walked into the kitchen area, Anne Grainger gave her an encouraging hug and a cup of very sweet tea. ‘Don’t worry, Felicity,’ she said.
07 School's Out! Page 12
