by Debbie Young
The vestry door creaked open to admit Mary, who took her place in front of the bookshelf of hymnbooks, dusting and humming to herself contentedly. The Angel Gabriel made everyone gasp by materialising from behind the curtain at the west door, where Mrs Broom had patiently hidden since before the audience arrived. Mary threw down her duster in wonder, and fell to her knees with an audible creak.
Having to turn around in my seat to watch the Annunciation scene gave me ample chance to check out the audience behind me. To my relief, all the mostly familiar faces were smiling. All except one shadowy figure, bent over on the chair nearest the door, a large shawl covering its head and shoulders. I wondered whether the person was scared of angels, and what the technical term would be for such a phobia.
My attention was distracted by the Angel Gabriel raising her arms as she began to speak, revealing glistening feathery wings that Carol had cleverly built into the bat-winged robe. She’d sewn on hundreds of creamy feathers, sequins and pearlescent beads, now twinkling in the candlelight. The audience gasped in astonishment.
Her speech over, the Angel Gabriel wafted back behind the heavy red velvet curtain that acted as a draught excluder to the side door, leaving Mary alone to digest her startling news. The audience weren’t to know that while the scene unfolded, the Angel Gabriel was sneaking noiselessly out of the door and sprinting round the outside of the church, to gain readmission into the chancel via a small door beyond the choir stalls. There she was to hide until it was time for her to appear above the stable in Bethlehem.
Meanwhile, Mary was filling Joseph in on her eventful morning. He laid down his carpenter’s tool bag and gave her a congratulatory hug, before pulling a scroll out of his pocket to show her the map of the journey to Bethlehem that lay ahead.
“Don’t worry, I’ve taken care of the transport, and I got it at a bargain price, too,” he told her. “We’re going to need to tighten our belts if we’re to have a baby.”
Mary looked down at her waistline, and pulled off her generous apron to make it apparent that underneath its flowing folds she had been concealing a large baby bump.
There was a loud knock at the porch door, and a muffled clip-clop of hooves. The heavy door swung open as Tommy, dressed in a sacking tunic, proudly led in Janet the donkey, and handed her reins to Joseph. I’d been touched that Damian had thought to find a walk-on part for Tommy, until Mary had told me it was her idea.
When Tommy turned to leave, the audience chuckled at the slogan Uber Donkey Service written in Sharpie on the back of his t-shirt. Tommy turned to grin at the audience, pointing to his back in case anyone had missed the joke.
Joseph steadied Janet with her reins, and helped Mary mount the donkey side-saddle, before leading them up the side aisle and down the central one to suggest a long journey. On completion of their circuit, he stopped by the font and rapped hard on its wooden lid.
Ella Berry emerged from behind the font in her innkeeper costume.
“Good evening, sir, madam, and how can I help you?”
Ella wasn’t exactly acting, just being her usual upbeat self.
“I’d like a room for the night, please, for my wife and I,” replied Joseph. “This is the first time we’ve managed to take a mini-break from my carpenter’s business, so I’d like to make this a night to remember.”
A low chuckle rippled around the church.
“Hmm, I’m sorry, I’m afraid I don’t have any double rooms left at all. Now, if you were younger and unattached, say, aged four to eleven, I would go out of my way to squeeze you in. New children are always welcome here.”
Joseph pointed to Mary’s padded stomach, now prominent beneath her flowing blue robe. “Well, I can’t promise you a four-to-eleven-year-old yet, but if you give us a little time, I think you’ll find our child would be a real asset to any school.”
Ella stepped back in amazement, giving a stagey gasp and staring wide-eyed at Mary’s bulging tummy. Her performance would have been a credit to any silent movie actress whose career had been ended by the invention of the talkies.
“Oh, my goodness, why didn’t you say?” She ran a finger down the list on her clipboard. “Although our hotel rooms are all occupied, with a little extra work we could probably improvise accommodation for you, if you don’t mind waiting a few moments.”
She turned to call over her shoulder to summon John, the school caretaker. He emerged from the vestry carrying his school mop and bucket, his familiar brown dustcoat over a long white robe.
“John, please will you spare a few moments to do a little extra job for this nice young couple?”
Joseph patted his steely grey fringe, visible beneath his headdress, with a grin that made the congregation laugh.
“Can you just check the stable is clean and tidy? Strew some fresh straw, and—” she paused for a surreptitious look at Mary’s stomach “—leave plenty of hot water, clean towels and blankets.” She turned back to Mary and Joseph. “It may not be much to write home about, and you’d no doubt have a more peaceful night if you were in the inn itself, but it’s certainly a room with a view. On this lovely starry night, who knows what you might see?”
42 Room at the Gazebo
The innkeeper patted the rump of Janet, the donkey, before melting away into the darkness to hide behind the font for the rest of the play.
Janet, still carrying Mary, began to advance down the nave towards the stable, with Joseph leading her by the reins. An angelic choir of schoolchildren in tinsel haloes and white tunics (plain pillowcases with strategically cut holes) processed up the central aisle. They were singing “Little Donkey” very softly. When they arranged themselves cross-legged along the chancel steps, their little bottoms must have been very cold on the ancient flagstones. They did well not to allow their song to become shriller.
Meanwhile, John had crept up the side aisle, and was waiting to welcome the party with an enamel water jug of water and a pile of fluffy towels and blankets.
Joseph helped Mary down from the donkey, then handed the reins to John, who led Janet away to a waiting mound of hay and a bucket of water in a side chapel.
Putting one hand to her aching back, Mary settled herself awkwardly on a wooden milking stool. In front of her stood a deep pine feeding trough, lined with straw and covered with a small rough blanket. Only the cast were meant to know that beneath the blanket a life-sized baby doll was waiting its cue to be born.
Joseph took down a storm lantern suspended from the roof of the gazebo, opened its glass door, lit the candle inside, and replaced the lantern on its hook. The low light glimmered romantically over the scene. I tried not to think of what might happen if the lantern fell from its nail into the manger below.
As the children finished the last verse, the Angel Gabriel arose from her hiding place and climbed up on to a concealed plinth behind the gazebo. One of the children stood up to attend to her. He picked up a bamboo cane which had been concealed behind the stable. At the top of the cane was a glowing halo, fashioned out of light sticks left over from Halloween. He positioned it neatly behind the headmistress’s head and held it there.
The Angel Gabriel stood, arms raised, halo glowing, framed by the stone arches of the east window, its dark stained glass shimmering in the candlelight. Silently, the cast froze in position for a few moments, creating a dramatic tableau that might have come straight out of a medieval painting. Well, apart from the cross-legged angels, anyway.
The audience sat spellbound, waiting for the Angel Gabriel to speak.
“And lo, it came to pass that the innkeeper had been to business school and knew how to turn a crisis into an opportunity, which was just as well for Mary and Joseph. They were exhausted from their long journey. The roads were full of donkey-jams on this busiest night of the year. They appreciated the innkeeper’s kindness, and Joseph decided he’d put in a good word for the hotel on TripAdvisor afterwards. They were soon comfortably settled in to their accommodation, but Mary had a funny feeling that it w
ouldn’t be a restful night.”
When the Angel Gabriel lowered her wings and put her hands together in prayer, the little angels did the same. The church fell silent again to allow the audience to absorb the peace and promise of the scene.
Then Mary stood up from her stool and stretched wearily. “I love sleeping on straw,” she said. “It always smells so refreshing, and it’s comfy too, provided your donkey doesn’t eat it.”
“Yes, the only mattress better than straw is one stuffed with feathers,” said Joseph. The Angel Gabriel, raising her arms to show off her feathers, gave a look of mock horror, which made the audience chuckle.
When the laughter subsided, Joseph continued. “I’m only a humble carpenter. I’m afraid I’ll never be able to afford a feather mattress for you, Mary.”
The Angel Gabriel wiped her brow in relief and lowered her wings, then returned to her prayerful pose.
“I don’t mind,” replied Mary. “You’ve given me everything I need. I’ve really appreciated your moral support at what could have proved a very difficult time for me.”
She settled herself awkwardly down on a stool, then put one hand on her cushioned tummy.
“Oh, my goodness! I think we’ve timed our arrival just right. How lucky are we?”
Right on cue, the organist started up an overture for the song from Handel’s Messiah, “Unto Us a Son is Born”, which was to be performed by the church choir. Hector had been playing Handel’s Messiah a lot in the bookshop lately, and I was pleased to realise I knew all the words.
“‘And His name shall be called: Wonderful! Counsellor! Almighty God! The Everlasting Father, the Prince of Peace’.”
As the choir sang, the small angels got up from the steps and went to stand in a semicircle in front of the stable scene, facing the audience. Raising their arms to form a living screen, they shielded Mary’s modesty during her labour. More than one of them couldn’t resist waving to their families in the audience.
As the reverberations of the organ music died away, the angels slowly parted to reveal Mary, looking remarkably thinner and more composed, sitting on her stool, on top of the cushion that had provided her bump, drinking a cup of tea.
As the small angels shuffled off back to the steps, one of them turned to his friend and said loudly, “If I’d have been her, I’d have called him Joey after his dad.” That wasn’t in my script. I glanced up at the vicar, hoping he wasn’t offended, and was relieved to see he was smiling indulgently as a ripple of laughter ran round the congregation.
I leaned across to whisper in Hector’s ear.
“So far, so good.”
He nodded, beaming, and squeezed my hand encouragingly.
43 Unexpected Guests
“Well,” Mary was saying, “that was easier than I’d expected.”
Joseph bent over the manger to tuck the blanket in around the new-born baby doll.
“Well done, dear,” he said, admiringly. “Now we’d better try to get some rest.”
Mary looked up and pointed down the nave.
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that,” she said. “It looks as if we’ve got company.”
Striding up the central aisle came one of the youngest children in a star costume, which Carol had adapted from a starfish outfit from a school production of The Little Mermaid. Behind him followed the three Wise Men, played by the school’s teaching staff. Each bore an impressive gift, fashioned out of papier-mâché by the top class as their December art project.
Holding their gifts aloft for everyone to see, the trio froze into a tableau half way up the aisle, while the children gave an enthusiastic rendition of “We Three Kings”. The Wise Men’s arms must have been aching by the end of the last verse.
The kings resumed their journey, and when they arrived outside the gazebo, the star turned around to face them.
“Here you are, Wise Men.” Then the star addressed Mary and Joseph. “Hello, I’ve got three Wise Men come to see you.”
Mary smiled at the star encouragingly, then looked down at her baby. “Well, that’s nice, dear. It’s never too early to start a child’s education.”
The star returned to the wise men.
“Thank you, Twinkle,” said the one with the gold. He reached into the pocket of his heavy emerald brocade robe, fashioned by Carol from a curtain left over from the Players’ Sound of Music outfits, and fished out a nylon net bag of gold chocolate coins. Taking this gratuity, the star skipped happily up the chancel to stand on a sturdy wooden box behind the gazebo, and so appeared to come to rest over the stable.
The Wise Men approached the manger and knelt before the baby, showing a handsome profile of their headdresses to the audience.
Joseph turned to Mary with a sigh.
“So much for us travelling light, dear. I think for our trip home, we might need another donkey.”
The Wise Man with the gold was first to speak.
“Gracious lady, we come not to teach your child but to learn from him. We may be Wise Men, but he can teach us so much more.”
A couple of the angels sniggered at their teachers’ confessions of ignorance.
“We look forward to hearing his words of wisdom once he’s learned to speak,” said Frankincense.
“He will be the most famous teacher and the wisest man of all,” said Myrrh. “So congratulations all round.”
“As a carpenter, I wish I could say he’s a chip off the old block,” said Joseph. “But being Wise Men, you probably already know that I can’t take any of the credit for his genes.”
Mary leaned over to pat Joseph on the shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t sell yourself short, dear. In lots of other ways, I couldn’t have done this without you. I mean, you did provide the donkey that brought us here, didn’t you?”
Joseph nodded and smiled bashfully. “Glad to be of any service that I can, Mary. Just say if there’s any more I can do. You know I’ll always be here if you and the boy need me.”
“Earthly fathers have their uses too,” said Gold. He turned to face the audience with a knowing look. “Simple souls though they may be, it’s always good when they turn up at parents’ night at school. And speaking of simple souls, here comes a whole flock of visitors for you.”
Joseph put one hand above his eyes to peer down the aisle. “Crikey, I’d better call room service for more tea.”
A swarm of the youngest children had spilled out of the vestry, whispering to each other excitedly, as Sally, the chief shepherd, herded her young shepherds and lambs up the central aisle.
Meanwhile, the Wise Men arranged themselves behind the holy family. The sight reminded me of a wedding photo. The Wise Men’s fancy frocks would have looked good on bridesmaids.
Despite our careful rehearsals, some of the new arrivals in the stable had forgotten the drill. Instead of arranging themselves as planned on pieces of masking tape stuck to the floor with their names on, in their excitement they buzzed around the manger like wasps round a windfall apple, jostling to see who could get closest to the crib.
Then one of the youngest piped up, “Do you think your baby Jesus would like a cuddle, Mrs Virgin?”
44 Back to the Manger
In the ensuing scuffle between the two small boys vying to be the first to pick up the Baby Jesus doll, they managed to pull it apart. This unexpected plot twist had the audience on the edge of their seats, for all the wrong reasons.
When the chilling wail rang out from the back pew and ricocheted down the aisle to the front of the church, my first thought was that it came from one of the squabbling children’s parents, horrified by their irreverent behaviour.
But then the screaming woman came bounding up the aisle to join the action.
“My baby! You’ve murdered my baby!”
When she realised it was only a doll, she delved into the manger as if expecting to find her baby in there, which of course it wasn’t.
“He was there an hour ago. I put him there myself. Who’s stolen my
baby?”
Poor Mary stared at her, wide-eyed. Then the woman turned to face the congregation, polling the room with an accusing finger. “All right, this is a church, isn’t it? So confess? Which of you has stolen my baby?”
On the long list of things I’d worried about going wrong in my nativity play, I’d never for a moment considered the appearance of a stranger claiming we’d abducted her baby.
Even this lesser charge was mystifying. The members of the congregation looked at each other, turning this way and that, as if expecting to see one of their neighbours produce the missing child from beneath a pew, the festive equivalent of a rabbit from a conjuror’s hat.
The vicar was first to pull himself together. He hammered on the pulpit’s lectern to call the audience to order.
“Now, now, I’m sure there’s a simple explanation. My dear girl, do I gather you have mislaid a real live baby somewhere in this building?”
The woman looked up at him dumbly. Thin as a baguette and obviously distraught, she seemed strangely familiar.
“Well, if you will leave a baby unattended, you might expect it to wander off,” grumbled an elderly lady seated behind me.
“Disgraceful,” agreed her companion.
“Maybe Baby Jesus caught an early flight into Egypt,” said Billy, laughing at his own joke.
The vicar tried again. “So you left your baby in the manger?”
The girl nodded. “Yes. Little Arthur was nice and warm beneath the blanket. I’d just fed him so he was fast asleep. He’s a very sound sleeper. I thought he’d be safe in a church. He’s no trouble. He’s never any trouble.”
“But my dear – I’m sorry, I don’t know your name – whatever possessed you to do that?”
The girl shrank back, pulling her shawl protectively about herself. “Possessed? Who said I’m possessed?”
The Angel Gabriel, channelling her inner headmistress, stepped out from behind the stable to lay one wing gently around the girl’s shoulders. Then she turned to Mary and Joseph.
