The boy, who had been staring out of the window while he had related this astonishing story, licked his lips, wrinkled his nose and then looked up at me. ‘Tha knaas, Mester Phinn,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘mi granddad says
that people sometimes forget t’real meanin’ of Christmas. It’s nowt to do wi’ presents an’ food an’ such, he says. It’s abaat that little babby in a cowld dark barn wi’ nowt but t’bits of cloth what ‘e were wrapped up in. Specially at Christmas, we should be thankful for what we’ve got an’ remember them what have nowt. That’s what mi granddad says.’
‘Wise words,’ I said again.
On that cold, raw December day, when a watery winter sun pierced the high feathery clouds making the snow glow a golden pink, and when the air was so icy it burnt my cheeks and ears, I stood at the gates of the school for a moment. I looked down on the panorama of white, the deep valleys with long grey farmhouses, the meandering river, the omnipresent sheep, the endless limestone walls, and I felt glad to be alive.
I know that many of my stories are already used as readings during Christmas carol services across the country, and I am delighted about this. However, might I ask that readers make a small contribution to one of the two charities that I particularly support, CAFOD or Childline?
Thank you – and happy Christmas!
A Wayne in a Manger Page 5
