Christmas on the Island

by Jenny Colgan

  Fintan looked mutinous.

  ‘Well, you’d need to ask him.’

  ‘And he’ll tell me to go screw myself,’ said Tripp.

  ‘And this isn’t going to change his mind on the money, if that’s your plan.’

  ‘Come,’ said Flora. ‘Everyone sit down and eat.’

  ‘THAT HOSS FOOD, ATTI FLOWA.’

  ‘Innes, tell Agot to come to the table.’

  ‘She’s had chips already,’ said Innes, looking uncomfortable.

  ‘Well, that’s not right, is it?’

  ‘I didn’t think you were coming back tonight!’

  ‘I cook also!’ said Fintan. Innes sighed.

  ‘Agot, if you don’t come to the table, no nativity play.’

  Agot jumped up as if shocked and ran to her chair.

  ‘She’s not in the nativity play!’ said Flora. ‘Hang on, is she?’

  Innes shushed her. ‘She thinks she is. Got the angel costume and everything. I’m going to let her sit by the stage and do the actions. I’m sure Lorna will say it’s fine.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound remotely fine! What if she gets on stage?’

  ‘I ANGEL IN TIVITY PLAY,’ said Agot stoutly.

  ‘Well, would that be a problem?’ said Innes weakly.

  ‘Yes!’ said Flora. ‘For every other parent trying to get a shot of their beloved child doing their actual nativity role without a small shiny monkey climbing all over it!’

  ‘Are we still doing the party here?’

  Even though it was the last thing Flora felt like doing this year, the annual party had been held at the MacKenzie farm since time immemorial and she didn’t feel like denying a) all the island’s children – without business brought in by the island’s young families, the Seaside Kitchen wouldn’t keep going through the wintertime, and b) Lorna, who otherwise would have to have it in the school gym hall and then stay there for sixteen hours afterwards trying to get the school back in order.

  ‘Yes,’ said Flora in a downbeat tone. ‘And I’ll need all hands on deck.’

  ‘I’ll be at Colton’s,’ said Fintan immediately.

  ‘Well, when he naps you get back here and do sausage rolls,’ said Flora. ‘Hamish, you can organise the squash and don’t make the mulled wine too strong otherwise the grown-ups forget they’ve even got children and we find them all asleep in the hay barn.’

  At least one MacKenzie said this every year but to no avail. People worked hard on Mure; many held down two or three jobs just to keep the island turning. Tourism, fishing, firemen, farming – it needed to be done, and there weren’t enough souls on the island to keep it all ticking over. So when the chance came to take a small amount of time off, they grabbed it with both hands.

  ‘All right, all right,’ grumbled Fintan.

  ‘I can help, maybe,’ said Tripp.

  ‘Yes, perhaps you can poison the minds of the children,’ snapped Fintan.

  ‘Stop it,’ said Flora. ‘We’re at dinner.’

  ‘I didn’t ask him to stay!’ protested Fintan, halfway out the door.

  Eck cleared his throat. This was unusual: it meant he had something to stay. Eck cleaved to the old ways: his forefathers had eaten their plain meals in strict Presbyterian silence, the kirk being suspicious of pleasure at the best of times. It had been one of the many things he’d adored about Flora’s mother – her joy in food and family and mealtimes and laughter and all the things he’d felt were missed from his own upbringing. He still wasn’t much of a talker though.

  Everyone automatically faced him as he sighed and fingered Bramble’s soft head under his fingers.

  ‘Ach, ah was thinking richt noo,’ he began. Tripp screwed up his face trying to understand.

  ‘Colton is oor family noo.’

  Everyone nodded heartily at him. It had not been easy for Eck, his youngest son marrying a man. He had coped surprisingly well.

  ‘So. We respect his wishes. But . . .’

  Flora and Fintan traded glances.

  ‘I don’t think your mither would have turned away brethren.’

  Suddenly Flora found herself staring hard at her plate. When her mother had been dying, she had found it overwhelming; had wanted nothing to do with Mure, or anyone in it, and had come to deeply regret it.

  ‘So,’ he said.

  Then he got up from the table and retired the few feet to his seat by the fire, Bramble cheerfully accompanying him the four paces, then collapsing as if exhausted back onto his slippers as Eck picked up his whisky glass once more.

  ‘What does that mean?’ whispered Tripp to Flora.

  ‘It means you can sleep on the sofa, apparently,’ said Flora.

  ‘NOT AGOT BED,’ came a small voice, fresh from yet another failed attempt to get Bramble to eat the vegetables she’d pushed under the table.

  Chapter Thirty

  When the day of the nativity play finally dawned – the snow was resting, but it was cold and bright – at first, Saif didn’t notice the whispers.

  He found a seat next to Jeannie, whose kids weren’t even in the nativity play any more, but who just liked coming anyway. In fact, as he looked round, he realised that the entire island was there whether they had children or not. Flora was hosting a party at the farm afterwards; her mother had used to do it, he’d heard, back in the day when Flora and the boys were at the school (Hamish was always the donkey and happily carried whoever was playing Mary, which to Flora’s fury had been Lorna one year and a girl actually called Mary the next. She could forgive Lorna, who had been very fetching in the pretty blue dress, but Mary MacArthur was patently cheating and that was that. Being of bossy demeanour, Flora was normally the narrator, and not pleased about that either. Fintan was always the Angel Gabriel; Innes the inn keeper.).

  Saif nodded to Flora, who was right in front of him, wondering as he usually did why it wasn’t totally obvious to the rest of the world that she was carrying a baby. Her frame had widened, her breasts were bigger and her stomach rounded. People never noticed what was right under their noses. He wondered where Joel was. Next to Flora was Agot, who was clearly furious not to be involved in proceedings. She was wearing something strange (it was, in fact, Fintan’s old angel costume) and muttering, ‘STICKY STICKY STICK STICK’ in a tone just loud enough to be irritating and just quiet enough that she was getting away with it.

  ‘What actually happens?’ Saif whispered to Flora.

  ‘This is going to be weird, trying to explain the concept,’ Flora said. ‘Well. Right. Okay. You know Mary was a virgin . . . Oh God, that really does sound weird. Well, Joseph and Mary had to go to Bethlehem for, like, a survey or something and they couldn’t get a hotel. So they had a baby in a manger in a stable but there was a star thing and shepherds and kings came to visit.’

  Saif nodded his head. He knew that much.

  ‘And that’s what you’re doing? Acting it out?’

  ‘Um. Yes,’ said Flora. ‘It’s nice.’

  A small wailing child dressed as a sheep wandered past with a black nose and a loo roll tube filled with cotton wool for a tail. Saif blinked.

  ‘There are also shepherds,’ said Flora.

  ‘Ah,’ said Saif.

  Lorna came out and Saif automatically crossed his arms over his chest. Flora glanced at him. He had absolutely no idea he did that, she was sure. It was his way of protecting himself; not betraying the way he actually felt. Flora glanced at the stage. Sure enough, there was her friend doing what she always did: glancing quickly so she knew where he was in the room – in every room – then pulling her eyes away so she didn’t betray herself, or at least any more than the light rose blush stealing over her cheeks did. Honestly, thought Flora. The pair of them. And then she reminded herself not to fall asleep; she was absolutely knackered after preparing for the party. The boys had helped. Kind of.

  ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,’ said Lorna, ‘and thanks for coming. You know we appreciate it.’

  Everyone harrumphed c
heerily. It was a well-known fact that the nativity play was an utter gouge – £5 a ticket! And, once you were in, £1 for a small plastic cup of diluted orange juice, £1 for a plain biscuit or £4 for a hot plastic cup of very weak mulled wine. It was the school’s major fundraising event of the year, and they needed every penny.

  ‘The children have been working very, very hard for today, so I hope you enjoy it, and a very merry Christmas to you all!’

  There was much clapping as, doing the best she could, Mrs Cook started up ‘Little Donkey’ on the piano, accompanied by some fairly risky recorder playing from the top group and some very enthusiastic bell-ringing, which was rapidly hushed for coming in too early.

  Then two figures came across the stage. Hamish would probably have happily volunteered to be the donkey again, but those days had gone and now wee Alice-Elizabeth MacKay, who was related to ninety per cent of the village, all of whom sent up a massive cheer when she appeared in a wildly ridiculous, sent-for-from-the-mainland blue-and-white ‘Mary-style’ ballgown, walk behind a stuffed donkey. And behind that was – and everyone immediately went quiet – Ibrahim, walking slowly on bare feet, with his head down.

  Even though he was still small for his age, he stood out against the tiny Alice-Elizabeth MacKay. And he was wearing – what was he wearing?

  Saif leaned forward, aghast, as everyone else pretended not to be looking at him for his reaction. He was wearing a bizarre tea towel on his head and—Was that meant to be a dishdasha? Is that what they thought it looked like, or what it was, or what it meant?

  Saif’s face grew hot. In Syria they had plenty of robes. For formal occasions such as family weddings, the boys would wear neat thobes, beautiful, embroidered garments Amena chose with her own mother, or family heirlooms passed down.

  Not . . . not this ridiculous smock thing that looked like someone had hollowed out a potato sack. Saif felt his face grow hotter with fury; his skin felt like it was itching all over. Is this what they thought of his little Middle-Eastern children?

  Ib wouldn’t catch his eye. He too must be remembering: occasions – proper, ceremonial special occasions – at home. Not this . . . this . . . travesty.

  The children suddenly realised there was something wrong with the atmosphere in the room. Lorna, who had worried so much and worked so hard to figure out how to do what was right, also suddenly realised that whatever she felt for Saif, however difficult it was to be near him, she should simply have done the easiest thing there was to do – asked him. She thought of the email she hadn’t sent and cursed herself.

  She stared at his stricken face, but couldn’t catch his eye. Meanwhile, Ib, onstage, his accent still heavy, forced out in a deadpan:

  ‘Please help. My wife to have baby. Do you have room?’

  The donkey was wheeled away and Saif gasped as he realised the tiny girl on stage actually had a cushion up her robe to make her look pregnant. It was grotesque.

  If his son hadn’t been on stage and the eyes of the town upon his response to what he saw, he would have got up, grabbed his sons and walked out.

  Worse was to come. Ash, looking – to most of the crowd at least – absolutely adorable with his huge eyes and tiny body and still weak leg, limped out as the innkeeper.

  Ash stared at the audience, all words forgotten, caught his father’s eye – Saif didn’t realise quite how grave his expression was – looked at his brother, who still had his face staring at the ground, and suddenly looked as if he were about to burst into tears. Lorna hung back, ready to run on and rescue him if need be. Normally when a child forgot their lines there was indulgent laughter from the crowd, but not today; today you could hear a pin drop. Somebody sniggered and Saif felt his entire body go stiff.

  Suddenly Agot stood up from the audience before Flora could stop her and hollered:

  ‘I’S HAVE NO ROOM AT THE INN!’

  They had been practising Ash’s lines together very seriously the last few times they had seen each other.

  Ash’s face lit up.

  ‘I’S HAVE NO ROOM AT THE INN!’ he said in his funny little accent – half Syrian, half Scots – and the entire audience clapped and laughed and cooed and Saif sat, stewing, furious, as they patronised his family. What had they been thinking?

  * * *

  Even twenty little ones lisping ‘Silent Night’ – something which normally could bring a tear to the eye of an iron horse – managed to move Saif, who was unfamiliar with the song and found lyrics hard to understand in English so he wasn’t really listening, just sitting there, his ears burning.

  He hadn’t really thought so much about where he was sent to begin with. Anywhere, he didn’t care. Anywhere that was safe to bring his family. Anywhere he could put his children to bed without expecting to wake in the night to the sound of bombs and his house being blown up. Both sides to him were equally incomprehensible, the issues utterly muddied. So when the British government had taken him in, he had been grateful in the abstract but hadn’t really cared where he was sent; he had only cared about getting his family back together. English, French, wherever.

  And yet over time – after first barely noticing anything apart from an array of old ladies who looked very similar, with an array of minor complaints that he often wasn’t exactly sure warranted his expertise – he had gradually started to open up to the reality of the world he now found himself in. Its beauty, the shocking speed of its weather, the way the clouds danced on the horizon, the fresh smell of the sea, the shocking icy water – the best he’d ever tasted in his life.

  There was also the kindness and chattiness of the people, which reminded him of home; the warmth and hospitality, which he rarely took up but was glad was there. And of course, Lorna’s friendship, which had led him to an appreciation of the community he lived and worked in.

  He had let his guard down. And he knew it. Here was the proof. They were still such outsiders. They were still figures of absolute strangeness and fun.

  He stayed in his seat, a pasted grin on his face; the crowd had dispersed in various directions. Flora shot him a worried look and whispered, ‘The boys were great,’ which didn’t seem to register at all, but she’d had to hare after Agot who, the moment Lorna had left the stage, had jumped up and appeared to be about to lead everyone in a communal dance.

  * * *

  Ib was furious backstage.

  ‘They think we’re funny! That we wear tea towels on our heads!’ he was shouting in Arabic. The other kids were giving him a very wide berth. Saif had gone back to find him once people had started coming up to him – they’d read his expression and retreated fairly quickly.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Saif in English. ‘It’s just a story.’

  ‘IS NOT STORY!’ said Ash. ‘IS TRUE! BABY JEEBUS COME.’

  Saif wrinkled up his face and rubbed his eyes. Ash was beaming.

  ‘I was good, Abba?’

  ‘It was all stupid,’ said Ib bitterly.

  Saif put his arms around his younger son; Ib was keeping a safe distance, having pulled off the tea towel and thrown it on the floor as the other children scampered into the adoring arms and videotaping hands of their families.

  ‘You were very good,’ he said, and Ash beamed.

  ‘It was STUPID,’ said Ib dangerously loudly. ‘And you’re a stupid baby!’

  Ash’s face crumpled. Fortunately Agot turned up just at the right moment.

  ‘ASH! ASH! PARTY!’

  Like all six-year-olds, Ash’s moods turned on a dime.

  ‘Party?!’

  ‘Party now!’

  He turned to look at his father.

  ‘I go party,’ he said, nodding emphatically in an attempt to get his father to nod along, and he took Saif’s hand in a proprietorial fashion.

  ‘MY HOUSE PARTY.’

  Saif blinked. Ash was . . . he was happy. Ib . . . not so much.

  ‘Ib. Go with Ash. Make sure he gets down okay.’

  ‘I don’t want to go to a stupid party with
stupid babies.’

  ‘Just go,’ he said. ‘I’ll join you in a minute.’

  In fact, he wanted to leave the kids to have fun at the party while he had a few very choice words with the teaching staff. He’d pick the kids up later. They didn’t need to see that. Neither could he deny Ash what he wanted most in the world: normality. To do what everyone else was doing. His own fury and sadness didn’t mean anything to a six-year-old being offered a piece of cake and some fizzy pop, and even in his high mood he wouldn’t have dreamed of denying the little boy.

  * * *

  Most people had left the school by now, rubbing their hands together at the thought of the MacKenzies’ annual Christmas hoolie. It was normally a good one. Shouts and laughs and overexcited adrenalised children scampered and ran down the hill. It was already pitch-black at 4 p.m. As usual, the village council had voted against a large communal Christmas tree, using the money instead to hang lanterns and bulbs all the way down the steep hill to light the children’s way home. Even in mid-afternoon in December, it was hard to see your way, and so there were jolly lights, twinkling in the trees like a sparkling rope, and the children loved them.

  Various parents were still helping out – putting the chairs away, scraping up the bits and pieces of costumes and books – and Saif tried to look inconspicuous even as he was still churning up with anger and upset.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  It was in the gym that Lorna found him, eyes burning.

  Eventually, the helpers drifted off, too tempted by the warm lights and the sounds of music starting up from the farmhouse down the hill. Saif, being a conscientious sort of man, was just putting the last of the chairs in the corner of the room-cum-dining hall when Lorna walked round to switch off the lights. She turned them off in the hall by accident, not realising Saif was still inside until he called out, ‘Lorenah?’

  The brilliant moonlight cast itself across the room, changing the dusty old hall into something twinkling and rather magical as it caught the tinsel and the shimmering backdrop of the starry nativity and all the glittering decorations the children had made hanging from the ceiling.