Christmas At Thrush Green (9 page)

‘Do you need us?’ called Ben Curdle, who had arrived and was sorting through bits of scenery with another parent.

‘No, I think you’re more useful there,’ replied Phil. ‘We’ll run through your part next Saturday morning when the costume arrives.’

The next hour was, to put it mildly, something more akin to a Whitehall farce than a Nativity play. Alan Lester and Frank Hurst took the narrators’ parts - Paul and Jeremy would just have the final rehearsal the following Saturday morning to learn what they were supposed to do and where - and Phil encouraged the youngsters as the play hiccupped from one little scene to the next.

One of the angels had a little ‘accident’ in the middle of the scene with Archangel Gabriel’s pronouncement that Mary was to have a baby, and everything had to stop while she was mopped up.

‘But now I ain’t got no knickers on,’ she wailed.

The shepherds and kings smirked.

‘It doesn’t matter, darling,’ soothed Phil. ‘No one can see.’

Finally, it was the turn of the Three Kings to make their entrance. When the little entourage stopped in front of the crib, James and Anthony remembered their lines perfectly - making Mrs Gibbons feel a trifle smug - but the third king, a slightly smaller lad called Davey Biddle, was very lacklustre.

‘I am - er - number - er . . . What number am I, miss? I can’t remember.’ The child wiped a finger under his nose.

‘Three, Davey, number three.’

The child stood and looked at Phil dumbly.

‘Go on,’ called Mrs Gibbons who was sitting on a chair to one side. ‘Number Three King.’

Little Davey took a deep breath and started again. ‘I am Number - er - Three King and - um - I bring you gold.’

‘No, not gold! My James has just brought the gold,’ Mrs Gibbons cried.

‘Thank you, Mrs Gibbons. Perhaps you could leave this to me,’ called Phil across the room. ‘In fact, I think the children would do better without any parents in the room. It’s been a long rehearsal. Could I ask you all to wait in the other classroom?’

Mrs Gibbons looked affronted, but moved next door with a handful of other parents.

‘Now, Davey, will you try again?’ asked Phil gently. ‘You are bringing myrrh.’

‘Can’t I bring gold?’ the boy pleaded. ‘I knows what that is.’

‘We’re bigger than you,’ said Anthony Gibbons, giving the smaller boy a little push. ‘And we get to bring the frankincense and gold.’

Phil intervened. ‘Now then, lads, go easy. The kings mustn’t be seen to be having fisticuffs.’ She turned to young Davey. ‘Myrrh isn’t difficult to say, Davey. It might be spelt in a funny way, but it’s pronounced “mer” - just like “her” but with an “m”.’

To her horror, the boy dissolved into tears. ‘I want to go home.’

Mrs Hope, who was sitting at the piano and in whose class the child was, came across the room. ‘This is very unlike you, Davey,’ she said. ‘We chose you because we felt you would do it so well.’

But the child wasn’t to be comforted. ‘I want to go home to my mum.’

Phil nodded in resignation. ‘We’ll go and see if we can find someone to take you home. Did he come with a parent?’ she asked Mrs Hope.

‘Yes, he’s next door with the scenery.’

Phil took the sobbing child by the hand. ‘Come along then. When I get back, Mrs Hope, we’ll have another run-through of “Silent Night”. It’s much too dirge-like at the moment.’

Phil took Davey into the other classroom and reunited him with his father who was holding a papier-mâché palm tree while Ben plugged a hole near the bottom of its trunk.

Phil explained the situation and suggested Mr Biddle should take the over-wrought child back to his mother.

‘Come along, then, son,’ he said. ‘We’ll get you home. All been a bit much for you, has it?’ He turned to Phil. ‘I don’t know what the matter can be. He’s usually fine at things like this.’

‘Never mind,’ said Phil. ‘Just so long as you’re all right for next weekend.’

If she had been a superstitious person, she might not have said that.

 

After the rehearsal, and once the classrooms had been restored to order, Frank suggested he and Phil should go along the road to The Two Pheasants. There was often a gathering of their friends in the pub before lunch at weekends, and both felt they deserved a drink for their efforts.

They found Harold in there, with Edward Young and his brother-in-law, John Lovell.

Harold hailed them with pleasure. ‘You’ve survived! Well done. Now, what can I get you?’

The small group sat at a table in the window, and Phil told them about the rehearsal, and the small drama with the reluctant King Number Three.

‘I remember going to a Nativity play when I was out in Africa,’ said Harold, ‘and they had a real live baby in the crib, and Mary rode up the aisle on a real donkey.’

‘Now there’s a thought,’ mused Phil, putting down her glass of cider. ‘Are there any new babies in the village, John?’ she asked.

‘Not in my care,’ he replied. ‘Anyway, I’m not sure many parents would want their newborn baby in a draughty church.’

‘St Andrew’s isn’t draughty,’ protested Harold. ‘At least, not once the south door is shut.’

‘But what about a donkey?’ asked Phil. ‘Does anyone have a donkey?’

‘You could ask Dotty,’ suggested Edward. ‘It’s the sort of thing she’d know.’

‘Good idea. I’ll pop over and see her tomorrow. I owe her a visit anyway,’ said Phil.

‘Mind you don’t eat or drink anything that will give you a go of the collywobbles,’ warned John Lovell. ‘The Nativity play will need you at full strength next week.’

The group laughed. It was good to be among friends in Thrush Green.

 

In a cottage set beside the lane to Lulling Woods, Mrs Biddle clucked over young Davey like a mother hen.

‘Poor lamb, you not feelin’ well, then?’

‘Me head aches,’ said the boy, running a hand through his tousled mousy mop.

‘We’ll have some dinner. That will make you feel better. Probably all the excitement were too much for you.’

This roused Davey who said more forcefully, ‘No, it weren’t that. Nothing much to get excited about. I just didn’t feel like joinin’ in.’ Then he added, ‘An’ I’m not hungry.’

Mrs Biddle wiped her hands down her flowered pinny, and then felt the boy’s forehead. ‘You feels all right. If you don’t want no dinner, just you sit there, quiet like. Dad,’ she said, turning to Mr Biddle, who was washing his hands at the sink, ‘go and call them other two. They’re out the back somewhere. No doubt they’ll eat what Davey don’t want.’

But not even the thought of his elder brother and sister eating his dinner stirred young Davey from his apathy.

T
he following morning, which turned out to be another dull overcast day, Phil went to see Dotty. Because the low clouds threatened rain, she took the car and was glad of her decision since it began to pour shortly after she had left Thrush Green. As she drove down the narrow lane that led to Dotty’s cottage, puddles had already formed on the pitted surface and the car sent up a spray of water on either side, soaking the already bedraggled grass verges.

‘High time this lane was resurfaced,’ she muttered, swerving to avoid another pothole.

‘Come in quickly out of the rain,’ cried Kit, opening the back door as Phil arrived. ‘Here, let me take your mac. I’ll find a hanger for it.’

‘Oh heavens, don’t worry about that old thing,’ laughed Phil. ‘It’s my gardening mac. The one I throw on when it’s raining but the rubbish must be put out, or some herbs gathered in.’

‘Herbs?’ rang out a frail voice from the sitting-room. ‘Have you come for some of my herbs?’

‘You go on through,’ said Kit, ‘and I’ll put the kettle on. Connie will be back soon.’

Phil went into the next room, and kissed the wrinkled and paper-thin cheek that was offered to her. Dotty was lying on the sofa as usual, the tartan rug wrapped round her legs. A small earthquake appeared to take place under the rug then a hairy white head appeared.

‘Hello, Bruce,’ said Phil, ruffling the Westie’s head.

‘Go back under the rug, there’s a good boy,’ commanded Dotty. ‘He’s my hot-water bottle, you see.’

‘It’s nice and warm in here,’ said Phil, stretching out her hands to the fire. ‘It’s pretty miserable outside. Definitely a day to stay indoors.’

‘Yes, maybe, but I’ll still have to go out and shut up the chickens and ducks this afternoon,’ said Dotty, rearranging the rug back over the bump beside her on the sofa.

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Kit, bringing in a tray of mugs. ‘Coffee for you, Phil, and here’s your tea, Dot.’

‘Coffee! Pah!’ spat out Dotty inelegantly. ‘Can’t think why you drink the stuff. Now a good cup of herbal tea does you the world of good. And this is a particularly good batch - blackberry and elderflower!’

‘Good gracious!’ said Phil. ‘I thought you made elderflower cordial and blackberry wine, but I’ve never heard of blackberry and elderflower tea before. Which does it taste of?’

Dotty proffered her mug towards Phil.

‘I don’t think I’ll taste it, but I will smell it, if I may.’ She sniffed at the steam that arose from the mug. ‘Hmm . . . I think I can smell the elderflower, but the blackberry eludes me.’

‘The blackberry gives the colour and the sweetness, the elderflower the flavour,’ said Dotty, taking a sip and sighing with deep contentment. ‘Now then, tell me all the gossip.’

Considering that Dotty very rarely left her cottage or garden nowadays, it was amazing how much she knew about what was going on in Thrush Green and Lulling. Phil wasn’t one for gossip so Dotty had to be content with hearing all about the Nativity play.

‘Which is why I’m here really,’ Phil said finally. ‘I’m looking for a donkey.’

‘A donkey?’ said Connie, coming into the room. ‘Hello, Phil. Nice to see you. Sorry I wasn’t here when you arrived. It was Matins at Lulling Woods this morning, and I thought someone from this house should go.’

‘Many people?’ Phil asked.

‘Oh, the usual crowd - eight of us, I think. I feel so sorry for Charles Henstock, coming all the way out here for so few people. But tell me about the donkey. I trust one hasn’t been found in the porch of St Andrew’s and is looking for a home?’

This was where Bruce, the West Highland terrier, had been found several years previously.

Phil laughed. ‘No, don’t worry. I’m actually looking to borrow one, for the Nativity play next Saturday. I thought you, Dotty, might know where I could find one.’

Connie sounded surprised. ‘A donkey - in church? What would the good rector think of that?’

‘He won’t actually be there,’ replied Phil. ‘St John’s have got their own Christingle service that evening, so Harold as senior churchwarden will be in overall charge. But Charles has given permission. So long as we clean up behind it.’

Dotty was deep in thought. Then she said, ‘The Hughes in Nidd had a donkey but they passed it on when the children grew up.’

‘That must have been at least twenty years ago, Aunt Dot,’ murmured Connie, but Dotty wasn’t listening.

‘There used to be one in a field on the outskirts of Lulling, but I seem to remember hearing that it had fallen into the Pleshey and drowned.’

‘Poor thing,’ said Phil.

‘I believe it was very old,’ said Dotty. Then she brightened. ‘I know! What about contacting the Blue Cross at Burford? They often have donkeys and might be prepared to lend one for the play.’

‘That’s a good idea. Thanks, Dotty. I was sure you’d come up with a solution.’

‘Good place that, the Blue Cross. We ought to give the proceeds of one of our jumbles to it, instead of endlessly to church thingies.’

Dotty was always trying to persuade the village committees to give money to one of the animal causes dear to her heart, but the church roof or the African appeal usually won.

‘I’ll ring the Blue Cross tomorrow and let you know what happens. Now, I must get home and give Frank his lunch.’ As Phil rose, she suddenly remembered there was a bit of news they might not yet have heard. ‘Did you know that Albert Piggott is retiring?’

‘What, again?’ asked Connie. ‘He must have retired three times since I’ve been living here with Aunt Dot.’

‘Apparently, it’s for real this time. Or so Harold says. Been approved by the PCC, and young Bobby Cooke is taking over.’

‘Well, he’s a waste of space if ever there was,’ snorted Dotty. ‘Albert’s bone idle most of the time, but he’s good with animals. He and I have always got on.’

‘He’ll probably drink his pension away at the pub,’ remarked Kit, going with Phil through to the kitchen and helping her on with her mac. ‘Thanks so much for coming down. It does the old girl a world of good to see people other than us. I hope the Nativity goes well. I’m sorry I won’t be there, but I’ll be at your party afterwards. One of us must be here with Dotty so I’m doing first shift, and Connie will do the second.’