‘Are you sure it was an angel?’
‘Course, I’m sure. Her name was Gabrielle.’
At this, I remembered that the school was very big on equal opportunities.
‘I think I’m going faint,’ Joseph had sighed.
‘Pull yourself together. It’s great news. Angel Gabrielle told me not to be frightened.’
‘I must admit that I’m dead worried about this, Mary,’ Joseph had confided, shaking his head solemnly. ‘It’s come as a big shock.’
‘There’s nothing to worry about, silly. Everything will be all right.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to get married then.’
‘S’pose so.’
‘Are you sure you’re having a baby, Mary?’ Joseph had persisted.
‘Yes, I’ve told you, and we’re going to call him Jesus and he will be the best baby in the whole wide world and we will love him very, very much and take care of him.’
Joseph had nodded but had not looked too happy. ‘All right then,’ he had sighed.
How many young couples, I had thought to myself that afternoon as I watched the small children act out their play, had been in that situation?
Now at St Helen’s, the Christmas play was staged rather differently. Mrs Smith explained that she had asked the children to write the different parts of the Christmas story in their own words and four of the best readers would read the narrative while the other children mimed the actions.
Mary sat centre stage, staring innocently into space. The first little reader began the story: ‘Long, long ago there was a girl called Mary and she lived in a little white house with a flat roof Then the-angel appeared, a large boy wearing what looked like part of a sheet with a hole cut in it for his head. He stretched out his arms dramatically as the reader continued: ‘One day, God sent an angel and he told Mary she was going to have a very special baby boy and His name would be Jesus.’ The angel looked heavenwards. ‘When the angel went back up to God, he said, “Mary did what I said, God. She is calling Him Jesus, just as you told me to tell her.”’
A beaming little boy with red cheeks strode into the scene and positioned himself behind Mary who was still gazing serenely into the middle distance. He put a parcel on the floor, then placed his hand on Mary’s shoulder and stroked her fair hair.
A second reader took over: ‘In a town called Naz’reth, there was an old man called Joseph and he was a carpenter.’ The angel appeared again and stretched out his arms. ‘God sent an angel to him as well and told him to marry Mary. So Joseph asked Mary to marry him and she said, “Yes please,” and soon expected the baby. Joseph came home from work and he bought Mary some baby clothes and a big box of chocolates.’ Joseph bent down, picked up the parcel and dumped it in Mary’s lap.
Three children shuffled on, followed by a fourth smaller child carrying a toy sheep. The reader continued: ‘In the fields there were these shepherds looking after their sheep.’ The angel appeared again and stretched out his arms. ‘The angel went to see them as well. When they saw this great shining light, they were really, really scared. “Ooooh-er, ooooh—er,” they went. “What’s that?” “Don’t be frightened,” said the angel. “I bring you tidings of great joy. Today, a little baby boy will be born and you have to go and see Him.” “Righto,” said the shepherds.’
Three more children appeared, staring upwards and pointing, at which stage a rather large girl pushed the second reader out of the way, and started to read: ‘The three kings were very rich and they wore beautiful clothes and had these crowns and things. They looked at the stars every night. One night one of the kings said, “Hey up, what’s that up there, then?” “What?” said the other kings. “That up there in the sky? I’ve not seen a star like that one.” The star sparkled and glittered in the blue sky. “You know what?” said another king. “It means there’s a new baby king been born. Shall we go and see Him?” “All right.”’
The narrator continued: ‘They shouted to their wives: “Wives! Wives! Go and get some presents for the baby king. We’re off to Beth’lem to see Him.” “OK,” said the wives.
The three kings wandered around for a moment before miming knocking at a door. An aggressive-looking boy, with short spiky hair and a front tooth missing, emerged, holding a plastic sword. He stuck out his chin and glowered. ‘The three kings came to this big palace,’ continued the reader. ‘It was covered in expensive jewels and had a golden roof and a silver door. They could hear this blasting music. They knocked on the door and a man called Herod answered the door. “What do you want?” he shouted at them. “We are looking for the new baby king.” “Well, he’s not here!” said Herod. “And shift those camels. They can’t stay there.” He waved his sword about and said, “Clear off!” Herod was not a very nice man at all.’
At this point, the reader was replaced by a small boy in trousers too big for him. Mary and Joseph reappeared, pulling behind them a cardboard donkey on small wheels; it had a straw tail and very large, polystyrene ears. ‘Mary and Joseph went to Beth’lem on a donkey,’ piped the small reader, ‘but there was no room in the inn so they had to stay in a barn round the back. Mary had her little baby and she wrapped Him up nice and warm and kissed Him and called Him Jesus, just as God had told her to.’
Children began to enter slowly and gather around the baby. ‘And from the hills came the shepherds and from Herod’s palace came the three kings following a big star, and they all loved baby Jesus. He was small and cuddly and He laughed. “Why is He laughing?” asked the shepherds. “Because God’s tickling Him,” said Mary.’
Last of all came the little shepherd boy and he laid the toy sheep before the manger. ‘And they sang a lullaby for the baby Jesus, and everyone was happy,’ read the small boy. The whole area was now filled with children singing ‘Away in a Manger’ in clear, high voices.
When the carol finished, I sat for a moment and looked around me: the children’s faces were glowing with pleasure, Mrs Smith was wiping away a tear, the lights of the fir tree winked and twinkled, and the walls were ablaze with the colours of Christmas. Through the classroom window a pale sun cast a translucent light and the whole world gleamed silver. This was indeed something spiritual.
My afternoon appointment was at Highcopse County Primary School, and was a follow-up visit. I had inspected the school over a year earlier and written a substantial report with many recommendations. I was there now to see if the issues I had identified had been addressed. On my last visit I had noted that the children’s speaking and listening was good, the reading sound but the range of writing narrow and the standard barely satisfactory.
The first part of the afternoon I spent examining the teachers’ lesson plans and mark books before looking at samples of the children’s written work. Things had certainly got better and at afternoon playtime Mrs Peterson, the headteacher, smiled broadly when I told her there had been significant improvements in the standard of writing.
‘Well, Mr Phinn, that’s the best Christmas present I could have wished for. I am so pleased. I hope that you find the same in the infants. Mrs Dunn has been working extremely hard since your last visit to get things up to scratch.’
‘By the way, where’s Oliver today?’ I asked. On my previous visit, I had met Oliver, a remarkably articulate boy but somewhat accident-prone, like the time when a wax crayon became lodged in his ear.
‘You notice how quiet it’s been then?’ said the head-teacher. ‘He’s in the pantomime at the Fettlesham Little Theatre this afternoon, the matinée performance, no doubt putting his considerable acting talents to good use.’ There was a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
‘Any more accidents?’ I enquired.
‘Need you ask! Only last week he managed to get a sensitive part of his anatomy caught in his zip.’ Mrs Peterson did not elaborate on the last and most memorable accident. She merely sighed and gave me a knowing look.
‘So he’s in a pantomime this week?’
‘He is. He’s playing the part of the
cat in the Thornthwaite Thespians’ production of Dick Whittington and, knowing Oliver, he’ll steal the show. His costume is a minefield of zips. I said to Mrs Dunn when I saw it that he’d have been better off with buttons because if he’s not careful it’ll be a neutered cat that turns back to London with Dick Whittington.’
For the remainder of the afternoon I joined the infant class in a large, well-equipped room with colourful Christmas displays. Dominating the room was an old-fashioned teacher’s desk in heavy pine with a hard-backed chair tucked underneath. The infants’ teacher, Mrs Dunn, was dressed in a dark blue cardigan and dark brown skirt. Her grey hair was stretched back across her head and small dark eyes blinked nervously behind large frames. I had not been greatly impressed with this teacher when I had first observed her lessons the year before and my report had not been a good one.
I found to my surprise that things had improved vastly and was able to reassure a very worried Mrs Dunn before I packed my papers away in my briefcase, ready to depart.
‘Tom’s been a great influence, of course,’ she told me, a brief smile playing on her thin lips.
‘Tom?’
‘My partner.’ Mrs Dunn smiled. ‘I’d been on my own for a good few years since my husband died and then I met Tom on one of Mr Clamp’s wonderful art courses. He’s very creative is Tom, been a real inspiration.’
‘Well, I am very pleased,’ I told her. ‘I’ll be sending in a report later this week. Well, goodbye, Mrs Dunn, and have a pleasant and restful Christmas.’
As I made for the door, however, the teacher called out to me. ‘Mr Phinn, we have about ten minutes left before going-home time. It would be very nice if you could read the children a little of the Christmas story. They have been listening to a couple of pages each day this week and we are up to where Mary and Joseph arrive in Bethlehem.’
‘Well,’ I murmured, not expecting such a request but hardly in a position to refuse, ‘I suppose I could. I must leave immediately at the end of school, however, since I have an engagement this evening and must get home to change.’
‘Oh, that would be splendid. I am sure the children will enjoy hearing another voice.’ Mrs Dunn clapped her hands together smartly. ‘All onto the carpet now, quickly and quietly, please. Thomas, will you not do that to Bethany’s hair and, John, leave the Christmas lights alone. Come along, Simon, you’re a real little slowcoach this afternoon.’
When the children were settled, had crossed their legs and folded their arms, and were sitting up straight with their eyes to the front, Mrs Dunn introduced me. ‘Today, as a special treat, Mr Phinn is going to read a little more of our story, a story we all know but love to hear again and again at Christmas time.’
I opened the large crimson-covered book, smiled at the sea of faces before me and read, ‘Now, children, it was a cold winter night when Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem many, many years ago. Joseph walked ahead, holding up his lamp to light the way —’
‘Didn’t he have a torch?’ asked a small girl with a Christmas ribbon in her hair.
‘No, Briony, he did not have a torch,’ Mrs Dunn told her. ‘There were no torches in those days, were there, Mr Phinn?’
‘No, no torches,’ I said. I knew from experience that telling stories to children of this age usually ended up as more interruption than story. ‘Mary was on an old donkey which walked oh so slowly. I think he knew he was carrying a precious cargo —’
‘Did it have bells on?’ Briony asked.
‘No, it didn’t have bells on.’
‘The donkey I rode at Blackpool in the summer had bells on.’
‘Briony!’ said Mrs Dunn sharply ‘Come over here and sit on my knee, please. I have asked you before not to shout out. It spoils the story for everyone else.’ As Briony scrambled over the small bodies which surrounded her, Mrs Dunn told her, ‘Mary’s donkey did not have bells on because it wasn’t a seaside donkey, was it, Mr Phinn?’
‘No,’ I said wearily, and returned to the book. ‘Now Mary, who was riding on the old gentle donkey, knew she was going to have her baby very soon. She was very excited but also felt very tired for she and Joseph had travelled far –’
A small freckled boy, who had been perfectly still and attentive until this moment, raised a hand, waved it in the air and called out, ‘Mr Phinn! Mr Phinn! My Auntie Jackie felt tired when she was having a baby. She had swollen ankles as well and a bad back. She said it was the last baby she was going to have because –’
‘Thomas, just listen, please,’ said Mrs Dunn. ‘We want to hear about baby Jesus, not about your Auntie Jackie’s baby, don’t we, Mr Phinn?’
‘We do,’ I said, and struggled on. ‘Mary and Joseph had been travelling for many miles and when they got to Bethlehem there was nowhere for them to stay. They looked everywhere but there was no room, not even at the inn.’ I glanced up to see Briony sitting quietly on Mrs Dunn’s knee, her thumb stuck firmly in her little mouth. ‘The innkeeper told them that there was a stable and they could stay there. Mary had her baby and wrapped Him in swaddling clothes and laid Him in a manger. And high above, in the clear sky, a great star shone above them. And all around them were the animals, the ox and the ass —’
‘What’s an ass, Mr Phinn?’ called out Thomas.
‘It’s a donkey,’ I said.
‘I wouldn’t like to sleep with a donkey!’ cried Briony, coming to life again on her vantage point on Mrs Dunn’s knee. ‘The ones in Blackpool are really smelly.’
‘This was a very nice donkey,’ said Mrs Dunn, ‘wasn’t it, Mr Phinn?’
‘Yes, Mrs Dunn,’ I replied, hearing with great relief the bell for the end of school. ‘It was an exceptionally nice donkey.’
‘And did this one have bells on?’ asked Briony, as she scrambled off Mrs Dunn’s knee.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ said Mrs Dunn, straightening her skirt. ‘What do you think, Mr Phinn?’
I had had enough of Mrs Dunn and her constant referring questions back to me. I fleetingly thought of her new partner, Tom, and decided he must be a veritable saint. ‘I think perhaps this donkey did wear bells, Mrs Dunn. Now, I really must be off so I can get back in daylight and before it starts to snow again,’ and I left the dowdily-dressed teacher to stem the flow of questions from Briony who was now demanding to know what sort of bells they were.
Two days after I had been checked out by Mrs Cleaver-Canning, I had received a letter from her, written on pale, embossed and scented paper, confirming the invitation to speak at the golf club dinner. She had suggested – and it was clear from the tone of the suggestion that there was little point in arguing – that I should leave my car at I, Prince Regent Row, and Winco would drive us both down in the Mercedes. I was not at all sorry about this since the morning’s snow, which had melted a little during the day, had frozen and the roads were lethally icy.
I arrived at the elegant Georgian house, now denuded of its crimson covering, at the appointed hour, parked my car in the drive and scrunched across the gravel to the impressive porch with the stone pillars. In the middle of the ornately-carved front door hung a vast wreath of holly, ivy and bright red ribbons.
I was welcomed again by Winco. ‘Ah,’ he said in his deep, throaty voice, ‘Mr Phinn. Come in, come in. Nasty weather, isn’t it? The better half is upstairs and will be down in a moment. We’ll go into the drawing-room, if you’d like to come this way.’
Above the marble fireplace of the sumptuously-furnished room I now entered hung a huge portrait in oils of a heavily be-medalled and be-plumed cavalry officer who bore an unnerving resemblance to the lady of the house.
‘That’s Margot’s two or three times great-grandfather General Sir George Sabine Augustus Cleaver-Boiling in his uniform of Colonel of the 12th Royal Lancers. Impressive looking chap, isn’t he?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ I said, staring up at the self-important looking man, mounted on a rearing horse.
‘Brought the Cleaver hyphen with her when she married me. Didn’t fa
ncy plain old Canning. Anyway, do sit down. I’ll just give Margot a call.’ Winco shuffled off and once in the hall shouted up the stairs, ‘Margot! Margot! Mr Phinn’s here.’
Back came the predictable short and impatient reply, ‘I’m coming! I’m coming!’ Then came the barked instruction, ‘Start the car up, Winco, will you, and get it warm.’
‘Already warm and waiting,’ he called back.
I wandered round the room in wonderment at the sumptuousness of it all. On a table was a selection of photographs in elaborate silver frames. A plump, curly-headed girl with large eyes and pouting lips posed with a pony. Various severe-looking old men and women, all in black, stared out with disapproving expressions. In pride of place was a black and white picture of a handsome, dashing young RAF officer, with a head of wavy hair, a bristling moustache and an infectious grin. It was the younger Winco. He wore the ribbon of the Distinguished Flying Cross.
There was the sound of heavy footsteps on the stairs, followed by a whispering outside the door. ‘I have asked you, Winco, on so many occasions, not to shout up the stairs.’ Then the Honourable Mrs Cleaver-Canning entered the drawing-room looking – well, magnificent. She was dressed in an amazing black, low-cut dress that she filled out abundantly and which made her great bosom bulge. She dripped with jewellery.
‘Ah, Mr Phinn, how very nice to see you.’ She turned regally to Winco who was hovering at the door. ‘Haven’t you changed yet?’
‘I’m not going, am I?’
‘Well, not to the dinner, you’re not, but you are driving us there and you can’t very well take us looking like the gardener. Put on your blazer and flannels. But get us a sherry first, will you, Winco? Amontillado, Mr Phinn?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
‘Righto,’ Winco said jovially and ambled out of the room, returning a moment later with two glasses of sherry on a small silver salver. He then departed to get changed.
‘It’s a dreadful night,’ remarked Mrs Cleaver-Canning. ‘I just hope Winco takes care. Once he gets behind the wheel he thinks he’s in a cockpit. The roads are offly slippery at this time of year. So dangerous.’
Head Over Heels in the Dales Page 10
