A Wayne in a Manger

by Gervase Phinn

  ‘Miss Stirling gives you a silver star if you do good work.’

  ‘It wasn’t that sort of star, Dominic. These were like tiny diamonds sparkling in the darkness. This was the night that a very special baby would be born.’

  ‘Jesus!’

  ‘That’s right, it was Jesus.’

  ‘I’ve heard this story before. I know what happens.’

  ‘We all know what happens, Dominic, and we are going to hear what happens again.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because we are. Now, soon, a very special baby would be born and His name, as Dominic has already told us, would be Jesus.’

  ‘Was He induced?

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Was Baby Jesus induced?’

  ‘No, He wasn’t induced.’

  ‘I was induced.’

  ‘Well, Baby Jesus wasn’t induced.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Well, I know because it was a long, long time ago and they didn’t induce babies then.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they didn’t. Just listen to the story, Dominic, and then we will all find out what happens.’

  ‘But I know what happens.’

  ‘Well, we’re going to hear what happens again!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Yes, what is it, Elizabeth?’

  ‘What does seduced mean?’

  ‘Oh dear,’ I sighed wearily, catching sight of the teacher attempting to hide her laughter behind a hand. ‘I will tell you another time – when you are older. Now, let’s get on with the lovely Christmas story. And then amidst the tiny diamonds that sprinkled the dark sky there appeared a great shining star, a star that sparkled and gleamed with such a wondrous brilliant light that – ‘

  ‘How much did He weigh?’ asked Dominic.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Baby Jesus.’

  ‘I haven’t got to the Baby Jesus yet.’

  ‘I was an eight-pounder. My granny said I was like a plucked turkey when – ‘

  ‘Dominic!’ I said very quietly and slowly. ‘Now just listen to the story. You are spoiling it for all the other children.’

  ‘But I know how the story ends,’ he replied undaunted.

  ‘Then why don’t you come out here and tell it to us, Dominic,’ I said, throwing in the towel.

  And so he did. Like a seasoned actor taking centre stage, he came out to the front of the class and recounted the Christmas story in such a simple, animated and confident way that we all listened in rapt silence.

  ‘Once upon a time there was a man called Joseph and a lady called Mary and they were friends and they played games together and they had fun. Then they had a wedding and after the wedding they went home and then they had some lunch and a drink and then they set off for Beth’lem on their honeymoon and they went on a donkey When they got to Beth’lem there was no room at the inn so they had to stay in a barn round the back and then Mary had a little baby and she called it Jesus

  and she put Him in a manger and all the animals were around Him and the big star shone up in the sky and then the shepherds all came and then the Three Kings came and they all gave Him presents because it was His birthday and Baby Jesus had plenty of milk because there was lots of cows about.’

  There was silence at the end of Dominic’s story, then he looked at me and said, ‘OK?’

  ‘OK,’ I replied, ‘Very OK.’

  On my way out that morning a little girl with long blonde plaits and an angelic face approached me shyly. ‘I liked that story,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Did you?’ I replied. ‘I’m glad. Thank you for telling me.’

  ‘But Dominic tells it better than you do. Happy Christmas!’

  5

  The Grumpy Innkeeper

  The little actor in one version of the Christmas story that I attended looked very disgruntled. I heard later that the lead part of Joseph had been given to another child and the would-be thespian had not been too pleased. He had argued with his teacher to no avail, and still wasn’t very happy when he was given the role of the Innkeeper.

  ‘But why can’t I be Joseph?’ he had persisted.

  ‘Because you can’t!’ the teacher had snapped, ‘and if you don’t stop whingeing, William, you’ll end up as a palm tree.’

  On the night of the performance, Mary and Joseph arrived at the inn and knocked loudly on the door. The Innkeeper, who had remained grumpy all through the rehearsals, opened the door with a great beaming smile.

  ‘Innkeeper! Innkeeper!’ Joseph began. ‘We have travelled many miles in the darkness and the cold. May we come in?’

  ‘She can come in,’ the Innkeeper said, pulling Mary through the door, ‘but you can push off!’

  The voice of an exasperated teacher in the wings, ‘No, no, you silly boy!’ brought proceedings to a halt. A moment later Mary emerged from the inn to join her bemused spouse and they headed for the stable downstage where a large pink plastic doll representing Baby Jesus sat propped up in the manger.

  The doll, of the modern talking variety, had a mop of curly blonde hair and a round pink face. When Mary picked it up, the movement started it off, and in a loud tinny American accent, it announced: ‘My name is Tammy. Are you my mommy? My diaper needs changing.’

  Mary, with great presence of mind, thrust the doll under the imitation hay saying, ‘Nightie-night. Time for a little sleep.’

  The infant children had been asked to illustrate the Christmas story. One small paint-spattered child had produced a large and very colourful effort full of adoring shepherds, kneeling kings and assorted animals gathered around the crib.

  ‘What’s that in the middle of your picture, Amy?’ asked the teacher, indicating a large white ball resting in the manger.

  ‘The egg,’ replied the child.

  ‘Egg?’ repeated the teacher, puzzled.

  ‘You know, Miss,’ explained the child, ‘the egg that Baby Jesus hatched out of.’

  ‘Baby Jesus didn’t hatch out of an egg!’ chuckled the teacher. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’

  ‘But you said He did,’ replied the child, her forehead creasing into a frown and her bottom lip beginning to pout.

  ‘When did I say that Baby Jesus hatched out of an egg?’ enquired the teacher.

  ‘You said, “Mary laid Baby Jesus in a manger’” replied the child.

  6

  Nativity Play

  Oh Miss, I don’t want to be Joseph, Miss, I really don’t want to be him, With a cloak of bright red and a towel on my head

  And a cotton-wool beard on my chin.

  Oh Miss, please don’t make me a shepherd.

  I just won’t be able to sleep.

  I’ll go weak at the knees and wool makes me sneeze

  And I really am frightened of sheep.

  Oh Miss, I just can’t be the landlord,

  Who says there’s no room in the inn.

  I’ll get in a fright when it comes to the night

  And I know that I’ll let Mary in.

  Oh Miss, you’re not serious – an angel?

  Can’t Peter take that part instead?

  I’ll look such a clown in a white silky gown,

  And a halo stuck up on me head.

  Oh Miss, I am not being a camel!

  Or a cow or an ox or an ass!

  I’ll look quite absurd and I won’t say a word,

  And all of the audience will laugh.

  Oh Miss, I’d rather not be a Wise Man,

  Who brings precious gifts from afar.

  But the part right for me, and I hope you’II agree,

  In this play – can I be the star?

  7

  The Visitation

  One December, I was invited to a Nativity play held in a school in one of the few industrial towns in my area. Joseph, a rather fat boy dressed in a Mexican poncho and a towel over his head, did not look entirely happy when he heard the news of the imminent arrival of the baby.

  ‘Are you sure about th
is?’ he asked, an anxious expression suffusing his round face.

  ‘Course I’m sure!’ Mary replied. ‘An Angel of the Lord told me.’

  ‘Are you sure it was an angel?’

  ‘Course I’m sure. Her name was Gabrielle.’

  Hearing this, I remembered that the school was very big on equal opportunities.

  ‘I think I’m going to faint,’ Joseph sighed.

  ‘Pull yourself together. It’s great news. Angel Gabrielle told me not to be frightened.’

  ‘I’m dead worried about this, Mary,’ Joseph 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 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 nodded but still didn’t look too happy. ‘All right then,’ he sighed.

  How many young couples, I thought to myself that afternoon as I watched the small children act out their play, had been in that situation?

  At one little primary school, deep in the Dales, I attended an unforgettable Nativity play which was improvised by the children. This is not always a good idea because small children can be very unpredictable, particularly when faced with an appreciative audience.

  Mary, a pretty little thing of about six or seven, was busy bustling about the stage, wiping and dusting, when the Angel of the Lord appeared stage right. The heavenly spirit was a tall, self-conscious boy with a plain, pale face and sticky-out ears. He was dressed in a flowing white robe, large paper wings and sported a tinsel halo, somewhat crooked. Having wiped his nose on his sleeve, he glanced around suspiciously then sidled up to Mary, as a dodgy market-trader might, to see if you were interested in buying something from ‘under the counter’.

  ‘Who are you?’ Mary asked sharply, putting down her duster and placing her hands on her hips. This was not the quietly spoken, gentlenatured Mary I was used to.

  ‘I’m the Angel Gabriel,’ the boy replied with a deadpan expression and in a flat voice.

  ‘Well, what do you want?’

  ‘Are you Mary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I come with tidings of great joy.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ve got some good news.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You’re having a baby.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Who says?’

  ‘God, and He sent me to tell you.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know nothing about this.’

  ‘And it will be a boy and He will become great and be called – er, um… –’ The boy stalled for a moment. ‘Ah – called Son of the Most High, the King of Kings. He will rule for ever and His reign will have no end.’

  ‘What if it’s a girl?’

  ‘It won’t be.’

  ‘You don’t know. It might be.’

  ‘It won’t, ‘cos God knows about these things.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘And you must call it Jesus.’

  ‘I don’t like the name Jesus. Can I call Him something else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What about Gavin?’

  ‘No!’ the angel snapped. ‘You have to call it Jesus. Otherwise you don’t get it.’

  ‘All right then,’ Mary agreed.

  ‘And look after it.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m going to tell Joseph,’ the little girl said, putting on a worried expression and picking up her duster.

  ‘Tell him it’s God’s.’

  ‘OK,’ Mary said, smiling for the first time.

  When the Angel of the Lord had departed

  Joseph entered. He was a cheeky-faced little boy dressed in a brown woollen dressing gown, thick blue socks and a multicoloured towel over his head, held in place by the inevitable elastic belt with a snake clasp.

  ‘Hello, Mary,’ he said cheerfully.

  ‘Oh hello, Joseph,’ Mary replied.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’

  ‘Yes, pretty good really,’ she told him, nodding theatrically.

  ‘Have you anything to tell me?’

  There was a slight pause before she replied. ‘I am having a baby – oh, and it’s not yours.’

  8

  The Woodcarver

  One of the great delights of being a school inspector is being able to sit in at Storytime and see the small children’s upturned faces, their wide eyes and open mouths, as they hang on every word uttered by the teacher as she lifts the story from the page.

  The story Mrs Webb began reading that afternoon was a most moving account about a woodcarver. This man had been a happy, good-natured person until his beautiful wife and young child had died. Then he ceased to smile and became bitter and unpleasant to anyone who came near him.

  One cold winter’s day, however, shortly before Christmas, a widow and her small son called on him and asked him to carve a set of Nativity figures. ‘I had some as a child,’ the woman told him, ‘but sadly I have lost them. My father carved them for me and I thought that by some miracle they would turn up.’

  ‘There are no such things as miracles,’ the woodcarver replied gruffly. ‘I have no time to carve them for you.’

  The widow pulled her young son close to her. ‘Please,’ she said, ‘my son will be so disappointed.’

  Looking at the gentle up-turned face of the boy, the woodcarver relented. ‘Very well,’ he told her, ‘I will carve your figures.’

  The next morning, there was a little knock at the woodcarver’s door and, opening it, he found the young boy there.

  ‘May I sit and watch you carve the figures?’ he asked.

  It was very cold outside, so the woodcarver grumpily agreed. He sat the boy down by the fire, and told him to keep quiet. As the old man deftly carved the figures of the Three Kings, the shepherds, the angels and even St Joseph, the boy noticed that their faces looked so mournful, as if they had suffered some great tragedy.

  ‘Why are your faces all so sad?’ he asked. ‘When you come to carve Mary’s face, please make her smile. She’s just had a new baby and would be very happy.’

  The woodcarver laid down the figure of a shepherd he was carving, strode to the door, and ushered the boy out. ‘I told you not to speak,’ he said curtly.

  The next morning, however, the boy returned to the woodcarver’s house and was again settled down next to the fire.

  Mrs Webb arrived at the most poignant part of the story, pausing to ensure that she had the children’s full attention.

  The woodcarver tried again and again to carve the faces of Mary and the infant Jesus but without success. ‘I cannot make her smile,’ he muttered.

  There was soon a little pile of discarded carvings on the floor. The man finally reached into a drawer and took out a charcoal sketch of a young woman sitting in a rocking chair, cradling a tiny baby. It was of his wife and child. With tears streaming down his face, he carved the face of Mary in her rough woollen shawl, looking down lovingly at her precious baby.

  At this point, Mrs Webb stopped reading and a tangible silence fell on the classroom. She put her hand to her face and began to cry. I was at a loss what to do. Never, in all the years I had been observing teachers, had I ever seen a teacher break down like this in front of her class. She took a handkerchief from her pocket, dabbed her eyes and continued to weep.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed. ‘I’m sorry, I just can’t read any more…’

  I felt a lump come into my throat and my eyes began to fill up, too. Then a small boy stood up and made his way to the front of the class. He took the book from the teacher’s hand, gently patted her on the arm and said, ‘You sit there, Miss. I’ll finish the story.
’

  At break-time I sought out the boy. He was in the playground, sliding with his friends on the icy surface.

  ‘What you did today,’ I told him, ‘was a noble deed.’

  He looked up at me with a completely innocent face. ‘Pardon, sir?’

  ‘It was a very kind and thoughtful thing to do, helping Mrs Webb out like that.’

  His smile stretched from one ear to the other. ‘Oh, that,’ he told me cheerfully, ‘I often have to do it.’

  9

  The Crib

  Crompton Primary School was an enor-mous straggling structure on three levels. The school had originally been built in the late nineteenth century as a Board school to meet the educational needs of children of all ages: infants on the ground floor, juniors on the second and seniors on the top. It now catered for a large population of primary-aged children who lived in the dark and brooding northern industrial town of Crompton. With its shiny brick walls, greasy grey slate roof, small square windows, towers and turrets and enveloping high black iron fence, it resembled a prison or a workhouse more than a school. This could have easily been the setting for a Dickens novel. One could imagine little Oliver Twist standing by the great iron gates or Scrooge scuttling past the row upon row of dark, mean back-to-back terraced housing, drab featureless warehouses, rubbish-strewn wasteland, on his way to his cold cramped office.

  The teaching staff had endeavoured to make the interior of the ugly building as colourful and Christmassy as possible and had decorated the walls in the gloomy entrance hall with huge red cut-out figures of Santa Claus and prancing reindeers, snowmen and Victorian carol singers. A rather droopy Christmas tree stood in a corner.

  In the infant classroom, the children were busy colouring Christmas cards. Amidst the sea of faces I noticed Matty observing me from his desk in the corner of the room, a truculent expression on his little face. I felt certain he remembered me. I certainly remembered him.