A Wayne in a Manger

by Gervase Phinn

  On my last visit to the school, I had come across this small grubby six-year-old with a tangle of greasy hair and a pallid face. He was a sad, neglected and troublesome boy who had left a lasting impression upon me. ‘Do you know, Mr Phinn,’ the Headteacher had said to me, ‘the poor child got nothing last Christmas because his mother told him that Santa had run out of presents by the time he got to their house.’

  On that last visit I had attempted to read the infant children a story but it had been interrupted consistently by a very loud and voluble child called Tequila. At the very front of the classroom now sat the child in question with her plump face, frizzy hair tied up with a bow and great wide eyes.

  ‘Just put your pencils down for a moment please, children,’ said the teacher, ‘and look this way. Do any of you remember Mr Phinn, the school inspector? He came into our school earlier this year.’

  ‘I know who ‘e is,’ said Tequila. I thought it wouldn’t be long before she made her presence felt. ‘It were ‘im what told us about that cat.’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Lazy Tom. I read a story to you all.’

  ‘We might be gettin’ another cat for Christmas,’ Tequila told me now.

  ‘I thought your granny didn’t like cats,’ I said.

  ‘She dunt, but she dunt live wi’ us any more. She’s in an ‘ome.’

  ‘Well, I am very sorry to hear it,’ I said.

  ‘My dad’s not,’ said the child. ‘He said it were best place for ‘er. Mi granny dribbles in her knickers and she –’

  ‘Yes, you told me before,’ I said quickly.

  ‘That’s enough now, Tequila,’ said the teacher.

  ‘But I were tellin’ ‘im about mi granny.’

  ‘Yes, I know you were,’ said the teacher sharply, ‘and we’ve heard quite enough. Now, I’m sure Mr Phinn would like to see our crib.’

  ‘Very much,’ I said.

  The crib was a large but extremely sorry-looking affair with dull strips of wood stuck together haphazardly, scraps of faded hay and huge figures, which had clearly seen better days. The white paint had flaked off the Baby

  Jesus giving Him an unhealthy grey appearance. Joseph had lost an arm and the angels their haloes, the Three Kings looked like down-and-outs, while the ox and the ass were chipped beyond recognition. Someone had tried to brighten up the Virgin Mary by repainting her with long yellow tresses, bright red lips, crimson cheeks and an electric blue cape. She had a strange, rather alluring smile on her face. Looking at her now, the adjective ‘Virgin’ was the last word that came to mind.

  ‘They’ve gorra much nicer one in Fettlesham,’ Tequila informed me. ‘Ours is real tatty.’

  ‘But that’s what it probably would have looked like,’ I told her. ‘Baby Jesus was born in a stable, a cattle shed, and He had a manger for a bed. It wouldn’t have been nice and clean and bright like the crib in Fettlesham. The stable Baby Jesus was born in would have been full of rather smelly animals and dirty hay. There was no room in the inn, you see, so Mary and Joseph had to stay in the stable and it didn’t have lovely furniture and carpets and central heating.’

  ‘Well, they should ‘ave booked in advance,’ pronounced Tequila. ‘It allus gets busy at Christmas.’

  ‘Mary had to have her baby in a cold, dark barn,’ I continued. ‘He had no nice new clothes, no toys, no cot. He came into the world with nothing. He was one of the poor and mean and lowly.’

  Matty, who had been watching with eyes like saucers in his pallid face, shook his head slowly and said quietly but with feeling, ‘Poor little bugger.’

  10

  No Room at the Inn

  Mums and dads, grannies and grandpas, aunties and uncles, neighbours and friends filled the school hall for the Nativity play, the highlight of the school year. I found a seat just as the lights dimmed and a spotlight lit up the small stage.

  The curtain opened to reveal the outlines of various eastern-looking houses painted on a backdrop and two rather forlorn palm trees made out of papier mâché and green crêpe paper which drooped in the centre of the stage.

  The little boy playing the lead as Joseph entered wearing a brightly coloured towel over his head. He took centre stage without a trace of nerves, stared at the audience and then beckoned a particularly worried-looking Mary who entered, pulling behind her a large cardboard-and-polystyrene donkey.

  ‘Come on!’ urged Joseph. ‘Hurry up!’ He banged on the door of one of the houses. ‘Open up! Open up!’ he shouted loudly.

  The Innkeeper, with a face like a death mask, threw open the door. ‘What?’ he barked.

  ‘Have you any room?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You have!’

  ‘I haven’t!’

  ‘You have, I saw t’light on.’

  ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Look, we’ve travelled all t’night, up and down those sand-dunes, through dusty towns, over hills, in and out of rivers. We’re fit to drop.’

  ‘Can’t help that, there’s no room,’ replied the Innkeeper.

  ‘And I’ve got t’wife out here on t’donkey.’ Joseph gestured in the direction of a very glum-looking Mary who was staring at the audience, completely motionless.

  The Innkeeper remained unmoved. ‘And you can’t leave that donkey there. You’ll have to move it!’

  ‘Well, give us a room.’

  ‘There is no room in the inn. How many more times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘She’s having a babby, tha knaws.’

  ‘Well, I can’t help that, it’s nowt to do with me.’

  ‘I know,’ replied Joseph sighing as he turned to the audience, ‘and it’s nowt to do with me neither.’

  To the surprise of the children there were great guffaws of laughter from the audience.

  And so the play progressed until the final magic moment. Little rosy-faced angels in white with cardboard wings and tinsel haloes, shepherds with towels over their heads and cotton-wool beards, the Three Kings in coloured robes and shiny paper hats gathered around Mary and Joseph on the cramped stage to sing ‘Away in a Manger’ and bring a tear to every eye.

  11

  Christmas Lights

  The lights on the Christmas tree winked

  And the snow fell thick and heavy outside.

  From the walls of the school hall

  Angels spread their silver wings

  And the Three Kings held high their gifts.

  The lights dimmed and silence fell

  Mums and dads, grannies and grandpas

  Stared at the stage expectantly

  For the Christmas story to begin.

  A spotlight flooded the stage and a small child entered

  Wide-eyed, she stared at the sea of smiling faces before her.

  ‘Welcome,’ she whispered, ‘to our… to our…’

  Then she froze like a frightened rabbit

  Caught in the headlights’ glare.

  ‘To our Nativity!’ came the teacher’s hushed voice off-stage.

  ‘To our…’ began the child again. ‘To our…’

  ‘Nativity!’ repeated the teacher.

  ‘Harvest Festival!’ announced the child.

  12

  A Night to Remember

  There was one particular Nativity play that I remember well. It was held at St Bartholomew’s Roman Catholic Infant School and the star of the show was the Innkeeper, played with great gusto by a round-faced little boy of six.

  In front of the curtains on the makeshift stage there was a bed in which the Innkeeper was sleeping. He was suddenly awoken by Joseph banging loudly on the inn door and asking for a room. He clambered out of bed.

  ‘There’s no room in t’inn!’ he barked.

  ‘Have you nowhere for us to stay?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘Tha can go round t’back, if tha wants. There’s a barn. Tha can sleep in theer!’

  ‘Is there nowhere else?’ asked Joseph.

  ‘No, tek it or leave it. It’s all t’same to me.
I’m goin’ back to t’bed.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ said Joseph, cheerfully. ‘Come along, Mary.’

  When Joseph and Mary had exited stage right, the cross Innkeeper returned to his bed, stretched, yawned and began snoring loudly.

  There was another loud knocking at the door. The Innkeeper jumped from his bed and stamped his foot angrily.

  ‘What?’ he demanded of a group of motley characters in dressing gowns and tea towels over their heads.

  ‘We are the shepherds looking for a baby,’ they announced.

  ‘Well, there’s no babby ‘ere, so clear off! I’m trying to get some sleep ‘ere!’

  The shepherds departed stage right.

  The Innkeeper climbed back into bed, stretched, yawned and began snoring loudly.

  There was yet more loud knocking at the door. Once more, the Innkeeper jumped from his bed and stamped his foot angrily again.

  ‘What now?’ he shouted, his little hands on his hips and with a face that would turn milk sour.

  ‘We are the Three Kings come from afar,’ announced a small boy swamped in a long red and gold costume. ‘We come bearing gifts.’

  ‘For me?’ asked the Innkeeper, suddenly smiling.

  ‘No, for a baby.’

  ‘Well, there’s no babby ‘ere!’ the Innkeeper exclaimed, assuming his furious countenance. ‘I’ve just told a lot o’ shepherds. Try next door. I’m goin’ back t’bed.’

  ‘Righty-ho,’ said the first King, cheerfully. ‘Come along, you other Kings.’

  When the Three Kings had exited stage left, the Innkeeper crawled into bed, stretched, yawned and once more began snoring loudly.

  Suddenly a bright spotlight shone on him, lighting up the whole stage, and a crowd of small angels dressed in white appeared and began singing ‘Away in a Manger’ somewhat untunefully.

  ‘That does it!’ shouted the Innkeeper. ‘I’m right sick o’ this.’

  He jumped from his bed, stamped and stormed across the stage to find out what was going on. The curtains then opened to reveal a tableau at the centre of which was a little Mary in blue and Joseph in a dressing gown, white socks and with a towel over his head.

  ‘What’s goin’ on ‘ere, then?’ the Innkeeper demanded loudly.

  Mary held a finger to her lips. ‘Sshhh! You’ll wake up the baby,’ she whispered.

  The grumpy Innkeeper peered angrily into the manger. His expression suddenly changed and a great beaming smile filled his face. ‘Aaaaaahhhhh, what a luvverly little babby,’ he sighed. ‘He’s a real bobby-dazzler.’

  ‘Aaaaaahhhhh,’ we in the audience all responded as the curtain fell.

  13

  With Bells On

  ‘Now, if you are all looking this way, children, I am going to tell you the story of Christmas. Now, sit up smartly, nice straight backs, eyes this way, and we will begin. It was a cold, cold winter night many, many years ago when Mary and Joseph arrived in Bethlehem. Joseph walked ahead holding up his lamp to light the way.’

  ‘Didn’t he have a torch, Miss?’

  ‘No, Kimberley, he didn’t have a torch. There were no torches in those days. Mary was on an old donkey which walked oh so slowly. Clip-clop, clip-clop, he went. I think he knew that he was carrying a very precious burden that night.’

  ‘Miss, we live next door to Mrs Burdon.’

  ‘This is a different burden, Patrick. This burden was a very heavy weight.’

  ‘Mrs Burdon’s very heavy, Miss. My mum says she’s fat.’

  ‘Patrick, dear, just listen. This story has nothing to do with Mrs Burdon. As I was saying, Mary was on an old donkey which walked oh so slowly. Clip-clop, clip-clop, he went.’

  ‘Miss, I went on a donkey this year at Blackpool. It ran off along the sands and my dad had to chase it. It kicked my dad and tried to bite him, Miss.’

  ‘Yes, well, this donkey was a very special donkey, Dean, a very gentle donkey.’

  ‘Did it have bells on, Miss?’

  ‘No, it didn’t have bells on.’

  ‘Didn’t they have bells in those days, Miss?’

  ‘I’m sure they did have bells, Dean, but this donkey didn’t have any.’

  ‘The donkey I went on at Blackpool had bells on.’

  ‘Yes, well, this one didn’t, Dean. Now Mary knew she was going to have a baby very soon. She had been travelling all day and she felt very, very tired.’

  ‘Miss, my dad was very, very tired after he chased the donkey.’

  ‘Mary was tired because she had been travelling all day and she was having a baby.’

  ‘Miss, my Auntie Brenda felt very, very tired when she was having my cousin Oliver. She had swollen ankles and a bad back and, Miss, she was always being sick. She said it was the last baby she was going to have because –’

  ‘Patrick, just listen, dear. Mary and Joseph had been waiting so long for the arrival of their very special baby.’

  ‘Nine months!’

  ‘That’s right, Patrick. My goodness, you do know a lot about babies!’

  ‘Miss, I know where babies come from as well. My dad told me.’

  ‘Yes, well, this is neither the time nor the place to go into that.’

  ‘Did she go to the hospital, Miss?’

  ‘No, she didn’t. There were no hospitals in those days.’

  ‘Miss, my Auntie Brenda had to go to the hospital.’

  ‘Well, Mary didn’t. Now, just listen, there’s a good boy. My goodness, we will never get through the story with all these interruptions. Joseph looked everywhere for somewhere to stay. He asked at the inn but the Innkeeper said that there was no room. There was only the stable where the ox and the ass slept.’

  ‘Miss, what’s an ass?’

  ‘It’s a donkey, Dean.’

  ‘I wouldn’t like to sleep with a donkey, Miss. The one in Blackpool was really smelly and tried to kick my dad and bite his hand.’

  ‘This was a very nice donkey. Soon Mary would have her very special baby and lay Him in swaddling clothes in a manger.’

  ‘The donkeys in Blackpool were mangy, Miss. My dad said so.’

  ‘I said “manger”, Dean, not “mangy”. The Angel told Mary not to fear. He brought tidings of great joy but he told Joseph to take Mary and the baby and flee to Egypt.’

  ‘Miss, the donkeys in Blackpool had fleas, Miss. My Auntie Christine was scratching the whole holiday and –’

  ‘I think we will finish the story tomorrow, children. Now, sit up smartly, nice straight backs, eyes this way, and we will wait for the bell.’

  14

  A Christmas Angel

  It was on a cold, raw December day that I visited Bartondale. The sky was an empty, steely grey and the air was so icy it almost burnt your cheeks and ears. The drive from the nearby market town was uphill all the way along a narrow, twisting, slippery road. Barton Moor Parochial School, an austere building of dark grey stone and mean little windows, was surrounded by the bleakest of country. It was set high up above a panorama of dark green hills flecked with snow, deep valleys with long grey farmhouses and a meandering river. Nearby there was a little cluster of houses and an ancient squat church, all surrounded by a fleecy mist. This was the hamlet of Barton Moor.

  I was standing with Miss Precious, the Headteacher, staring out of the window in the school hall and across a small playground area, which was covered in a light dusting of snow.

  ‘If an angel were to descend to Earth,’ cooed my companion, ‘he would surely look like little Jasper.’ Standing alone, just beyond the window, was the subject of the Headteacher’s observations.

  The child did indeed look like a little cherub: an ocean of golden curls, large dark long-lashed eyes and a pale skin tinged with red on the cheeks. All he needed was a golden halo and a pair of small white wings.

  ‘He’s such a quiet, sensitive little boy,’ Miss Precious told me in a confidential tone of voice. ‘Not a jot of trouble. Always does as he’s told, never misbehaves or is silly. But he’s so
dreadfully quiet. Doesn’t say so much as two words all day long.’

  ‘How old is he?’ I asked.

  ‘Just six.’

  ‘Most six-year-olds never stop talking,’ I said, thinking of the many infants I had met who had a comment to make or an answer for everything.

  ‘But he’s not like other six-year-olds,’ mused the Headteacher. ‘So very quiet and when he does talk he sometimes says the funniest things. He had just started school and was sitting in a large cardboard box in the Home Corner, brumming away. “Are you in your racing car?” I asked him. “No, I’m in a cardboard box,” he replied. How I laughed.’

  At that moment, the bell signalled the end of break and the children hurried into school, chattering excitedly and rubbing their hands together. Miss Precious and I moved to the front door to greet them. Little Jasper was the last. He stood at the school entrance looking so sad and forlorn, and there on his cheek was a frozen teardrop.

  ‘Aaaahhh, bless him,’ sighed Miss Precious. ‘Have you been crying, Jasper?’ she asked the child.

  He shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure?’ asked the Headteacher. ‘It looks as if you’ve been crying.’

  He shook his head again.

  ‘Look, there’s a little tear on your cheek,’ she said, gently reaching out. ‘Here, let me brush it away’ She swept his cheek with a long finger.

  ‘It’s snot,’ he told her with a little shrug, and followed the other children into school.

  15

  Balthazar

  Willingforth was something of a show-piece school and Miss Pilkington, the formidable Headteacher, was highly regarded. So I anticipated that the performance would be rather special, and indeed it was.