‘Sorry about that,’ she told the audience.
‘Hey up!’ said Danny. ‘Who are you?’
‘I am the Angel of the Lord,’ replied Chardonnay, ‘and I bring you tidings of great joy.’
‘What’s that then?’ asked the second shepherd.
‘There’s a baby boy been born this very night in a stable in Bethlehem. He is the Son of God, the Saviour of the World, Christ the Lord, the Messiah. So leave your sheep and follow yonder star and worship Him.’
The narrator stepped forward. ‘And suddenly the sky was filled with a host of heavenly angels. Remain seated please. This carol will be sung by the choir only.’ Mr Tomlinson struck up the piano and the children sang lustily ‘While Shepherds Watched their Flocks by Night’.
As the angels and shepherds left the stage, the Three Kings arrived on the scene.
‘Now far far away in a distant land, three kings, wise men from the East, saw a bright shining star high in the dark sky which foretold of the birth of the new-born king,’ said Oscar. ‘Could you all stand for the next carol: “We Three Kings of Orient Are”.’
Someone had really gone to town on the costume of the first king, for he was resplendent in a gold cape and silver pants. He wore a large bejewelled cardboard crown that shone brilliantly under the stage lights and trainers that lit up and flashed as he walked.
‘I am Melchior, king of the north,’ he announced loudly before kneeling before the manger and laying down a brightly wrapped box. ‘I bring you gold.’
The second wise man, played by Chantelle dressed in a very fetching blue cloak, strode forward carrying a blue shampoo bottle. She too boomed out his words: ‘I am Gaspar, king of the east, and I bring you myrrh.’
The third wise man was James. He was dressed in a velvet cloak made from a faded red curtain that still had the hooks in it and he was sporting a cardboard crown that covered half his face.
Elisabeth turned to see the expression on Dr Stirling’s face. He moved his head forward, his eyes straining as he looked intently at his son. James shuffled nervously to the centre of the stage and stared around him wide-eyed and frightened, as if lost in a busy shopping street. There was a long silence. The children in the choir turned their heads and the other two kings looked at each other and shrugged. Oscar, feeling he should take charge of the situation, moved forward and was about to speak, but he stopped when he saw James hold up a hand. The boy closed his eyes for a moment, then he took a deep breath and in a loud and confident voice he spoke.
‘And I am Balthazar, king of the west, and I bring frankincense.’
When he had delivered his lines a flash of pure pleasure lit up his face. With his eyes shining, he looked over the heads of the audience to where his father was standing and smiled a triumphant smile.
The curtains closed and Oscar took centre stage.
‘And on that holy night, when the stars were shining brightly, in a humble stable in Bethlehem, Jesus Christ was born and the Three Wise Men and the humble shepherds, the angels and the beasts of the fields, worshipped Him, for He was the Son of God, the most wonderful, the King of all Kings and the Light of the World.’
The curtains opened again to reveal a tableau at the centre of which stood Mary, cradling a large plastic doll. Chardonnay moved forward and the children knelt as she sang.
‘O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Saviour’s birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
’Til He appear’d and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
Fall on your knees! O hear the angels’ voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
O night divine, O night, O night Divine.’
And that afternoon, as great flakes began to settle and form a thick carpet along the pavements, a lone figure, walking with thin rigid steps, made its way back to the cottage at the end of the village. Miss Sowerbutts, her pale face as blank as a figurehead on the front of a ship, heard the high, clear voice that filled the air as she paused at the gate of the school. And as she heard the divine singing a bitter despairing loneliness swept over her.
And as the snowflakes landed and melted on the window-panes in the school hall and the lights on the Christmas tree winked, Dr Stirling stared at the stage. But it was not the singing angel whom he saw, nor the innkeeper in his striped apron, nor the shepherds in their coloured dressing-gowns nor the little figure in blue cradling the plastic doll in her arms. It was the small boy in the faded red velvet curtain, the boy with his face glowing and his eyes shining. And when the choir of angels sang ‘O night divine’, he wiped the tears from his cheeks.
That evening a white moon lit up the landscape, luminous and still. Cars growled along the road through the soft snow, throwing cascades of slush in their wake. Lights twinkled and flickered in windows and there was the smell of pine in the air. No wind blew, no birds called, no animal moved and, save for the sporadic soft thud of snow falling from the branches of the towering oak tree which stood before the school, all was silent.
Elisabeth sat at her desk in the classroom. Everyone had gone home and the school was silent. There was a stillness, as if life itself had been suspended.
A figure appeared at the door.
‘I saw the light on,’ said Dr Stirling.
‘I wasn’t quite ready to go home yet,’ Elisabeth told him. ‘I’m just having a quiet few moments, unwinding before tidying things up.’
‘It was a wonderful Nativity,’ he said, coming over to the desk. She could smell the cologne on his collar.
‘Yes, it was. I was very proud of the children.’ She looked down at her hands, almost afraid of meeting his eyes. ‘And what about James? Didn’t he do well?’
‘He did,’ replied the doctor. ‘I was very proud of him. And you must be very proud of what you have achieved since you started at the school.’
‘I am,’ she said.
‘Elisabeth,’ he began after a moment, but stopped, searching for the right words to use, unsure how to begin. ‘I … I … wanted to say …’
Then, seeing the sprig of mistletoe on the desk, he reached out and picked it up.
‘One of the girls who has a bit of a crush on young Danny brought it into school,’ Elisabeth told him. She chuckled. ‘She chased the poor lad around the yard but he was having none of it. Then in the classroom she—’
‘Happy Christmas, Elisabeth,’ interrupted Dr Stirling, leaning forward and holding the mistletoe above her head.
She looked at him for a moment, then smiled. ‘Happy Christmas, Michael,’ she said, lifting up her face.
About the Author
Gervase Phinn is a teacher, freelance lecturer, author, poet, school inspector, educational consultant, and visiting professor of education. For fourteen years he taught in a range of schools, then acted as General Adviser for Language Development in Rotherham before moving on to North Yorkshire, where he spent ten years as a school inspector – time that has provided much source material for his many bestselling books. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and an Honorary Fellow of St John’s College, York. He lives with his family near Doncaster.
You can find out more at www.gervase-phinn.com
GERVASE PHINN
OUT OF THE WOODS BUT NOT OVER THE HILL
For Gervase Phinn growing old is not about a leisurely walk to the pub for a game of dominoes or snoozing in his favourite armchair. As this sparkling collection of his very best humorous writing shows, he may be ‘out of the woods’ but he is certainly not ‘over the hill’.
Looking back over more than sixty years of family life, teaching, inspecting schools, writing and public speaking, Gervase never fails to unearth humour, character, warmth and wisdom from the most diverse of experiences, whether they be growing up in Rotherham with the most un-Yorkshire-like of names or de
scribing why loud mobile phone users get his goat.
Brimming with nostalgia, gently mocking life’s absurdities, never shy of an opinion, this is Gervase Phinn at his wittiest, twinkly-eyed best.
Out now in paperback
The Little Village School Page 38