by Jules Wake
From behind the counter, Sally’s small blonde assistant snorted. ‘She’s a crazy woman. One of those super-heads that’s determined to make her school the best one in the area. Talk about competitive.’
‘And that’s a good thing for the children,’ said Sally a touch defensively. ‘My daughter’s there.’
‘That’s not what you said when she sent the chair of the PTA in, demanding that we provide all the coffee for the summer fete last year.’
‘It was for a good cause,’ said Sally.
‘So are our profits,’ retorted the other woman.
I glanced at Nate, my eyes widening with apprehension. ‘You were about to say?’
He grimaced. ‘I said I’d help because Grace wanted me to come into school and I –’ his lips curved in a rueful smile ‘– and I thought this would be a nice easy gig. A couple of hours once a week, but that was when Mrs Davies was in charge. I didn’t sign up for full-on producing and directing.’
‘Neither did I. I thought I’d be helping with some musical arrangements.’
We both lapsed into silence.
‘Have you told her about the star of Bethlehem, the year before?’ Sally butted in, bringing Nate’s coffee over. ‘Full-on pyrotechnics. Looked incredible. Although I did worry when I saw the caretaker on standby with two fire extinguishers.’
We both glared at her and she backed away hurriedly.
‘What are we going to do?’ I broke the silence, putting my elbow on the table and resting my chin in my palm.
‘Isn’t there anyone else at the Opera House that could help … someone –’ he lifted his shoulders in a half-hearted attempt at tact ‘– you know, with the script or something?’
‘I don’t think anyone could help with that script.’
He shot me a quick amused smile before tapping his steepled fingers against his lower lip, drawing my gaze to his mouth. Very sexy mouth.
I waved my hands, cross with myself for noticing that totally inappropriate fact, as if to push the thought away. But of course, like a particularly pernicious thorn, it had embedded itself. He has a wife, Viola.
‘I’m going to be tied up all weekend … Do you think you could have a go at writing the next scene? You’re the artistic one and we need something by Monday.’
I eyed him, feeling less than charitable towards him. ‘What with me only working on Saturday night, you mean?’
He frowned. ‘No, that’s not what I meant at all. I’ll help with other things but I’m not a writer; believe me, I don’t have an artistic bone in my body. I rely on facts, logic and what I can see and touch. Music is artistic, creative, isn’t it?’
‘Actually, no, it’s quite mathematical, actually. But, like you say, we need something by Monday. I’ll have a go … but I’m not promising miracles.’
‘I’ll see if I can round up some more parent helpers and I’ll help where I can. Why don’t I give you my mobile number? You can call me if there’s a problem. I am a governor, so –’ he gave a self-deprecating laugh ‘– I have some clout, apparently.’
We swapped numbers, in a grown-up, businesslike fashion. I didn’t think I’d be swapping any flirty texts with him any time soon. The little tentative butterfly wing quivers of excitement that had fluttered earlier in my stomach had been well and truly swatted by his businesslike attitude.
‘One thing we do need to do, and quickly, is to let the parents know what they need to provide, costume-wise, as soon as possible. Everyone is very busy at this time of year and, as Grace mentioned, it really is a faff for parents to have to go out hunting for things. Elaine, my wife, was extremely stressed last year at having to find the right colour leggings and T-shirt.’ He winced. ‘You’ve seen the cast list.’
I had indeed, although my mind was otherwise distracted. At last the wife had a name. Elaine sounded like a cool blonde.
‘Grace is a crocodile; I’m guessing that’s green leggings and T-shirt,’ said Nate with a frown. He looked at his watch, again with a little shake of his head. ‘I, for one, certainly won’t have time to go and buy that sort of thing, and neither will her mother. Work is full-on at the moment.’
I looked at his smart suit and the expensive watch on his wrist, the one that he’d looked at for a third time. Wife. Nanny. Suddenly I felt a little bit sorry for Grace.
‘And I guess that is very important,’ I said with sudden bite. ‘What is it you do?’
If he said brain-surgeon I’d give him a pass.
‘I’m a lawyer.’
Of all the jobs he could have said.
Paul was a lawyer and I still had the sour taste of the cold, precise way he’d drawn up lists of our possessions, allocating ownership where it was due before dismantling our relationship once and for all. He gave me a six-page document … right before he dumped me.
Chapter 6
I threw another piece of crumpled paper across the room. This was impossible. I wasn’t a scriptwriter. How the hell was I supposed to shoehorn the Noah’s ark of animals into the story of Jesus’ birth?
Bella walked into her kitchen clutching a large glass of white wine and topped my glass up. ‘Not made any progress?’ she asked with a smirk.
‘No, I bloody have not.’
She sniggered, much like she’d been doing ever since I arrived for our usual Sunday evening get-together. For once she’d left me to it while she bathed the girls.
I came most weeks to escape the silence of my flat and the heavy quiet of solo living, which I still hadn’t quite got used to. On good days when I’d been busy and out working, I told myself that I was embracing the silence and the independence of single life. The paint colours on the walls were all mine, the chocolate and crisps stayed put unless I’d eaten them and no one hammered on the door when I took an hour-long bath.
But on Sundays the quiet was overpowering, almost suffocating, especially when everyone else seemed to embrace that night before school need to stay home.
‘It really isn’t funny,’ I said, sitting back and looking at the cast list and the only existing page of script.
‘I think “to affinity and Bethlehem” is inspired,’ she snorted again.
‘You would; you don’t have to finish the rest of the story. I mean, seriously, how do I get a unicorn and a narwhal into the story? I’m pretty sure there’s not much sea between Nazareth and Bethlehem.’
Bella had all but spat her wine all over the pristine white surfaces in her kitchen when I’d arrived and first told her about the rocking crocodiles, hissing snakes and the armadillos and flamingos. Like Nate, she had grave reservations about the costumes.
‘I’m going into school tomorrow; I’ve got to have something,’ I said, despair starting to grip. ‘I can’t think of any dolphin songs or yak songs or unicorn songs for that matter. I’ve been racking my brains all weekend for anything suitable.’
‘I might be a tad old-fashioned but what’s wrong with Christmas carols?’ asked Bella.
She had a good point.
‘Why don’t you take a break?’ she suggested. ‘While I shove the pizzas in the oven and knock up a quick salad. You could go and read the girls a story.’ The latter was added with a sly smile.
I threw my pen down. ‘I think I will. Where are they? In the lounge?’
‘I said they could watch ten minutes of Blue Planet.’
Ella and Rosa were rosy-cheeked and smelled of lavender when I sat down between them on the sofa. I felt a tug at my heart at the sight of them in their matching dressing gowns and little fluffy slippers.
‘Who wants a bedtime story?’
‘Jesus’s Christmas Party,’ said Rosa, suddenly producing it from underneath a cushion.
‘I read that last time.’
‘Read it again,’ piped up Ella. ‘It’s our favourite.’
Picking up the book, I read it, the three of us joining in with great gusto at the innkeeper’s roared refrain, advising his never-ending stream of visitors to go to the stable.
By the time Bella came back downstairs, I’d completed a very rough script.
For some reason, even though not one of them was over five foot tall, a surge of fear shot through me and my tongue glued itself to the roof of my mouth. They were all looking up at me with wide-eyed interest as I stood at the front of the large hall.
There was absolutely no sign of Nate Williams, even though when he’d texted back last night he’d said he planned to be here. We’d had a brief text exchange and when I’d told him of my executive decision, he’d agreed that it was for the best and that he would back me a hundred per cent.
‘Oak and Apple class, say good morning to Miss Smith,’ said the teaching assistant in a high-pitched, here kitty, kitty sort of voice. She’d been allocated to help me, for which I was very grateful, otherwise I’d have been completely on my own.
‘Good. Morning. Miss Smith,’ intoned the class in a deadened robotic rhythm that threatened to suck all of the life out of me. Honestly, it was like facing a crowd of Dementors. I had no idea how they were going to respond to the news that Noah’s Christmas Ark was no more. The children, all in their green and grey uniforms, were sitting cross-legged in front of me on the polished parquet floor, which had probably had thousands of children’s feet pass across its surface over its lifetime.
I took in a breath and said in a voice designed to counteract their joyless greeting, ‘Good morning, Oak class. Good morning, Apple class.’ I beamed at them like Mary Poppins on acid. ‘Shall we try that again? Good morning, Oak class,’ I bellowed in a loud voice. ‘Good morning, Apple class.’
‘Good morning, Miss Smith,’ they bellowed back with a lot more energy.
Energy was good. I could work with that. I checked my watch. Where was Nate?
‘That’s better. I’m looking for people with good loud voices. Do I have any here?’
A sea of hands shot up, waving like little sea anemones. Better and better. Things were looking up. I could do this.
I was on the hoof, making things up as I went along. Actually, that wasn’t true at all. I’d planned today with meticulous attention to detail, dividing up the duties between myself and Nate. It was vital we made a good impression as we had to sell them a complete change of plan. I’d decided it was best to be honest and explain that Mrs Davies was too poorly to finish the script, so we were going to start afresh with a new lot of auditions. I’d hoped to palm that job off on Nate but as he still wasn’t here and I couldn’t stand in front of the children looking like a complete lemon, I got on with it.
Despite a few minor groans most of the children looked interested when I explained that we were going to have new parts and that there’d be fresh auditions today.
‘But I still want to be an armadillo,’ said Jack, a touch of belligerence in his square plump face.
‘There isn’t an armadillo in this story.’
‘I want to be an armadillo,’ he repeated, folding his arms, giving me an implacable stare.
‘There’ll be other parts. New ones.’ I smiled gamely at him as he continued to stare at me.
‘I’m not happy. I’m not happy.’ He shook his head and I was pretty sure that he was parroting someone else’s words.
I gave him a vague smile and moved on. Today I had to get my cast together and teach them the new songs I’d chosen. I needed a loud confident boy to play the innkeeper. A bossy know-it-all to play his wife. A serene Mary. A careful, thoughtful Joseph. Three bouncy kings. As many rustic shepherds as I could get away with. A herd of cows, a flock of sheep, oh, and an angel.
If I could hand all that over to Nate, I could get on and start teaching the children the Christmas carols.
I looked at the door again. Where was he? I looked back at the children, watching me with expectant interest. I was on my own.
‘Does anyone know any Christmas carols?’ I’d already decided on most of them but I was hoping this little bit of democracy would make the children feel more involved and hopefully forget about marmosets, narwhals and flipping unicorns.
Again the hands shot up, several with that me-me-me fervour you only find in little children. Right under my nose, one little boy waved his hand madly, almost bouncing up and down on the spot trying to get my attention. It would have taken someone with a heart of cold, hard stone to ignore him.
‘You there, young man?’
‘Do you like football, miss?’
His mate next to him nudged him and giggled.
‘George,’ the teaching assistant shadowing me cut in, ‘if you can’t be sensible, you’ll have to go and sit in Mrs Roberts’ office.’
George looked as if he might have spent a fair bit of time there before because he gave an irrepressible grin and carried on staring at me.
‘Anyone else?’ The forest of hands shot up again and this time I picked another child, a demure-looking girl with plaits and a green headband which matched her regulation green sweatshirt with the logo of a brown and green tree on the right breast.
‘Away in a Manger,’ she said in a proud little voice.
‘Excellent,’ I said in the sort of voice that suggested she’d just discovered how to sequence the genome. Actually it was perfect and, unbeknownst to her, already on my list. I turned and wrote it on the whiteboard behind me. I’d already decided I needed five carols to break up the action and to extend the performance.
I picked another waving hand and then realised it was Grace, Nate’s daughter.
‘You’re Daddy’s friend,’ she said in an accusing voice. The teaching assistant coughed and put her hand over her face. And for some ridiculous reason I blushed bright red, which probably confirmed her assumption.
‘I’ve met your daddy,’ I agreed evenly, with a carefully blank face, ‘when we talked about the nativity. Do you have a carol for me?’
She shook her head. ‘My daddy’s very handsome. Don’t you want to be his friend?’
‘I’m afraid I don’t really know him. I only met him that day.’
And there, as if by magic, he was standing at the back of the hall, a look of unholy amusement on his ‘very handsome’ face.
‘He’s very nice,’ pressed Grace
Aware of the pinkness of my cheeks, I gave her a perfunctory, ‘I’m sure he is.’ I could see his shoulders shaking even from this distance, the dratted man. I ignored him and turned to the teaching assistant, who had managed to recover from her fit of coughing and thankfully intervened. ‘Perhaps we can stick to the Christmas carols, thank you, Grace?’
Grace huffed, folded her arms and pinched her mouth together in an expression of too-adult disgust which had me trying not to laugh as she watched me with continued suspicion.
‘Anyone else?’ God, how did teachers do it – keep up this bright, sparkly, I’m so excited voice? I pointed to another boy whose hand had shot up dead straight like an arrow in flight.
‘Hark the Harold Angels.’
I bit back a smile. ‘Perfect. Because we’re going to need an angel.’
Several eager little girls looked excitedly at each other and started whispering. I looked towards the back of the hall, waiting for Nate to join me, but he was finishing a conversation with Mrs Roberts. Hopefully, he was explaining to her why we’d decided to rewrite the script. I’d emailed it to him the previous evening and he’d agreed to speak to her to let her know we’d decided to take a new direction. He’d also agreed he’d be here to help me this morning.
When I looked up a second later Mrs Roberts had disappeared. I gave Nate an expectant look, waiting for him to cross the hall floor and join me. Instead he waved his phone, mouthed, ‘Text you,’ and bloody disappeared!
I glared at the empty doorway. This was not what I’d signed up for.
Resigned but with low simmering anger, I turned back t
o the task at hand. It took some time but eventually I had five carols, all of which would fit perfectly within the story and included O Little Town of Bethlehem, We Three Kings and Silent Night. I was starting to feel a slight sense of euphoria.
‘OK, now I need some characters for the nativity. Some really good actors. Could you put your hand up if you would like to say a few lines?’
Jack’s hand shot up. ‘I want to be the armadillo.’
I gave him another smile – there was no way I was putting an armadillo into my nice traditional script – and turned to some of the other children. I could have predicted that George would be one of them, although I could already see quite a few children sinking back into their little bodies, trying to make themselves invisible and as unobtrusive as possible. ‘No one has to say lines if they don’t want to,’ I added more gently, smiling at some of the anxious faces. ‘You can sing the carols with everyone else.’
I had a good thirty children keen to show their stuff. I gave the doorway one last look. It really did look like I was on my own. Thankfully, the teaching assistant, who was pretty capable, agreed to take half the children over to the other side of the hall and she started practising the words to Away in a Manger with them, while I tried to get the measure of the children who wanted parts. I looked enviously at the piano. Teaching carols was much more in my comfort zone.
Come on, Viola, you’ve just got to get on with it. At least I had a script that made some sense now.
I’d shamelessly stolen the story of Jesus’s Christmas Party, writing the script with a fair bit of padding of my own, while taking complete advantage of Bella’s hospitality as she’d put the girls to bed and cooked pizza. During that time I’d created what I hoped was a half hour play and then used her printer to print out the lines for the innkeeper and his wife and other key parts for audition.
When the break bell rang the children all scattered like marbles, racing off at varying speeds towards the long corridor down to their classrooms.
