Page 20 of Home This Christmas

SIXTEEN

I am preparing to head for the church a little after six, when Will calls and asks if he can see me tomorrow morning for coffee at the Swan Inn. I tell him that would be lovely, reminding him it may depend on the train situation.

Tucking my phone into my handbag, I wrap my scarf around me for the short walk to the church.

The temperature has dropped so much that after the recent rainfall, the ground is now hard and frozen. I walk carefully in my flat boots, aware that they’re not the most practical footwear and feel relieved when my feet crunch into the gravel of the path leading to the church entrance.

Before I go inside, I stop to take in the impressive Christmas tree once more.

I imagine the children sitting at their desks in school and painting the clay and wooden painted baubles, the names of lost relatives etched into them, which I find particularly poignant and beautiful.

The bright multicoloured lights still make me smile and it is comforting to know that nothing has changed.

There is an excited chatter as groups of people make their way along the gravel path to the church, one or two mums arriving late with their children, clutching their hands and hurrying them along.

‘Ruby, glad you could make it,’ says Gerard, shaking me warmly by the hand. He is standing at the church entrance welcoming everyone to the nativity. ‘We will talk later.’ He smiles, before greeting a middle-aged couple behind me.

Inside, the church is already half full, and I make my way to a pew towards the back, thinking it only fair that the locals who are here to watch their children have the prime seats.

The church has been beautifully decorated with sprigs of holly and ivy along with chunky church candles on window ledges, their flames gently illuminating the vibrant colours of the glass.

It occurs to me then that I have never been inside my local church in London, even at Christmas time. I am not even sure where it is.

I am staring at the altar straight ahead, as groups of children begin to file down the aisle from the back of the church. There are audible gasps of admiration from the watching congregation, mainly parents who wave at their little ones as they pass by.

The church is already almost filled to capacity, when an elderly lady with her grey hair in a bun, and accompanied by a young woman, slides into the bench next to me and smiles. As I return her smile, I think I vaguely recognise her from somewhere but can’t quite place her.

I am about to speak to her, when a silence falls over the hall, as the headteacher of the nearby primary school welcomes us all and announces the start of the nativity.

The children burst into ‘Silent Night’, led by a teacher with a pleasant but very high-pitched voice that takes me right back to my primary school days here in the village.

I am at once transported to the wooden floor in the assembly hall of my primary school, where we would sit cross-legged, as our teacher played piano and sang at the top of her soprano voice.

The children at the front of the stage look adorable and a delightful, gap-toothed child of around seven years old stands and narrates, setting the scene in Bethlehem.

Esme, who is in the pew in front, turns to me and points out Pippa standing proudly in a gold angel outfit complete with sparkly tinsel halo.

For a second, I wish Mum was here – she always loved the nativity. When Dad died, she stopped coming, saying she could not bear the looks of sympathy on people’s faces when they spoke to her.

As I grew older, I found it quite sad that she chose to live somewhere away from here and take comfort in strangers, rather than old friends. There is no doubt they would have supported her here, but I guess she just needed some time alone.

Everything seems to be going well with the nativity, when a young girl who looks to be around reception class age announces in a loud voice that she needs a wee. When she is quickly ushered off the stage, several other children raise their hand and ask the same thing.

The teacher on stage, clearly forgetting she has a microphone attached to her sweater, mutters something to another teacher about this being ridiculous, and why the bloody hell did the children not need the toilet earlier, when she asked them?

‘They never do,’ says someone from the audience, most of whom are now giggling, whilst the teacher turns puce with embarrassment.

The headteacher takes control of the situation by telling the children there will be no more toilet visits until the next scene has finished. This results in one child bursting into tears and sobbing theatrically, before being escorted quietly from the stage.

‘It was on a starry night…’ Pippa sings the first line of a song before the other children join in, as Esme looks on proudly.

A row of smaller children is standing on a bench behind the older kids, and one little boy appears to be digging another little boy in the ribs.

They gently jostle each other, with that mischievous look on their faces that young boys have, when the slightly taller one shoves the smaller boy, who falls off the bench and into the row of children in front.

A domino effect ensues with the singing children toppling over one other, whilst admirably still singing.

Most of the children are laughing, one or two are crying, and one little boy in a shepherd’s costume is waving at his mum, who I notice taking a sneaky a video of the whole thing on her phone, despite the no photos rule.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ says the grey-haired lady next to me, clapping her hands in delight. ‘This is so much more exciting than last year’s performance.’

It dawns on me then where I know the lady from: she had been the landlady of the Greyhound pub.

The teachers hurriedly reassemble the children on stage to the strains of ‘The Holly and the Ivy’ being played on the piano with gusto.

By now I’m sure the lady next to me is Phylis, who must be at least in her late eighties by now. I wonder what became of her husband, although in all honesty, even twenty years ago, he never exactly looked a picture of health, with his ruddy cheeks and rotund stomach.

Half an hour later, the performance has finished, thankfully without any more hiccups, and the assembled congregation give the children a standing ovation.

Before I have a chance to speak to Phylis, the lady sittingnext to Phylis leads her away.

I feel sad about missing the opportunity to say hello.

The vicar takes to the stage then, thanking everyone involved.

‘Well, that was eventful. But the show went on, didn’t it?

Thanks to all the wonderful staff of Brindleford primary school, for keeping things moving.

’ He gives them a round of applause, and the audience join in.

‘And of course for all their hard work in this year’s nativity.

But of course we would not have a show without our wonderful talented children.

Well done to every single one of you,’ he says, turning to the children on stage, as more applause and a standing ovation follows.

He invites parents to take a photo of their children, reminding them about safeguarding laws and not sharing things on social media. He then tells the congregation that refreshments will shortly be served at the rear of the church hall, should they wish to stay and partake.

‘That was entertaining!’ Esme chuckles as we enjoy a cup of tea and a mince pie. Lots of families have drifted off, but there are still quite a few milling around chatting and enjoying the melt-in-the-mouth mince pies and shortbread on offer, donated by Penny from the bakery.

‘Well done you!’ I tell a flushed-looking Pippa, who is glugging down a glass of blackcurrant juice.

‘Thank you,’ she says politely, before she turns her attention to her friend who is dressed as one of the three kings.

Marilyn joins us for a chat then, along with a few other mums and their children.

‘I bet you wouldn’t see that in the West End,’ she says, as she produces a bottle of mulled wine.

She grabs three paper cups, before furtively filling them.

‘Not enough to go around,’ she explains with a wink.

‘It’s better warm really, with a nice cinnamon stick, but it will have to do.

’ She hands us the drinks that we gratefully sip.

‘It was a lot of fun.’ I smile. ‘I had forgotten how the nativity always gets me in the Christmas mood, and the children were brilliant.’

‘They were, weren’t they?’ Esme agrees. ‘They manage to pull it off every year, with or without the disasters.’ She laughs. ‘So, will you be staying here for Christmas?’ she asks as we sip our wine.

‘No, I don’t think so,’ I say, although a little less emphatically this time. ‘I will be heading off tomorrow.’

‘It’s not that bad here, is it?’ She raises an eyebrow and smiles.

‘No, not at all. It’s just my life is in London. I barely know anyone here anymore, apart from the vicar and Marilyn – although I am very pleased to have made a new friend,’ I say, tapping my paper cup against hers.

‘Same here. And there are quite a few young people living here nowadays, as I mentioned. Including Penny, who you have already met. We have a walking group, a yoga class at the village hall and regular dinner dates at Roberto’s.’

‘And of course, we could always do with a more people in our congregation,’ adds Marilyn.

‘It all sounds very tempting. And I actually went to Roberto’s the other night; it was lovely.’

‘It is. And a new Thai restaurant will be opening soon on the high street. It’s all going on here,’ says Esme.

‘Really?’ My mouth waters at the thought of a pad thai.

‘Well, you can join our gang if you do decide to stay on for a bit longer,’ she offers kindly, just as Penny arrives and places some more mince pies down, still warm from the oven.