neighbour, Mr Braithwaite, is contributing a sheep for the shepherds – and possibly a lamb as well, although it’s a little bit early, he says, but I certainly think that this year we’re on to a winner. Especially with your delightful little donkey. At least, I hope we are. There was a certain amount of criticism last year.’
Poor Mr Wivenhoe. I felt so sorry for him, beset by foes on all sides. The Parish Council. The Bishop. The Ladies League of Something or Other. The Flower-Arranging Rota. The mothers of every little girl who wanted to be the Virgin Mary this year. All the Forces of Darkness gathered daily around his hapless head. No one living outside a small English village could have any comprehension of the pressures under which he laboured.
‘So I hope very much that you will allow us to use your charming little donkey …’
‘Marilyn,’ I said.
‘Yes. Such a pretty name for such a pretty donkey. I’m sure she will be the star of the show.’
I rather thought that was supposed to be Baby Jesus, but I held my peace.
‘You do … know she’s never done this sort of thing … before?’ I said, feeling he should be aware, right from the outset, of the realities of the situation.
‘It will be easy,’ he said, cheerfully displaying an enormous lack of knowledge of donkeys in general and Marilyn in particular. ‘She just has to walk up the aisle with Mary and Joseph. We’ve made a little stable area from straw bales. Baby Jesus will be concealed behind one of them. At the appropriate moment (probably during the singing of “Away in a Manger”), young Alison Maynard – she’s playing Mary – will pull him out and lay him in the manger. The three shepherds appear stage left – with their sheep – and the three wise men will approach stage right.’
‘Not with a camel?’ I said, suddenly alarmed at the possibilities.
‘Oh, my goodness me, no. Gold-painted tea caddies containing the traditional gifts.’
‘I thought Fiona Braithwaite was the Virgin Mary this year,’ said Sharon, disentangling more tinsel from the tenacious clutches of our ancient Christmas lights. Sharon is Mrs Crisp’s niece. She and Kevin, our handyman, had been an item ever since the day she came to work at Frogmorton Farm and Kevin, unable to take his eyes off her, had walked straight into the water trough. Wheelbarrow and all.
Mr Wivenhoe sighed. Miraculously, his mug was empty again. I can only assume he absorbed his tea through osmosis.
‘There was some – jostling – for the part and after a certain amount of discussion, young Fiona agreed to take on the part of Gabriel instead.’
‘A … challenging role,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said uncertainly. ‘It certainly is. Sadly, there has been some friction between the two young ladies, especially as each sees her own role as the most important in the proceedings.’
I could well imagine. And poor, dear Mr Wivenhoe was about to introduce yet a third female into this already volatile mix.
Speaking of volatile … The back door crashed open and on a wave of Arctic air, my husband was suddenly in the room.
‘Hello everyone,’ he said cheerfully, kicking off his wellies. ‘Something smells good, Mrs Crisp. I hope that’s for us and you’re not just boiling up my socks like last time. Why is the cat covered in a tea towel? Is it dead at last? Is that why the vicar’s here? Or are we being exorcised again?’
‘Mr Wivenhoe wants to borrow … Marilyn for the children’s nativity play,’ I said quickly, before the vicar could query the precise meaning of the word ‘again’.
He finally got rid of the last welly and wandered over to shake hands.
‘Are you sure, Mr Wivenhoe? She’s not really house-trained, you know.’
‘The play lasts only a fraction over forty minutes, Russell. I’m hoping this will not be a problem. I’ve explained to Mrs Checkland that Marilyn need only walk up the aisle behind Mary and Joseph. I though you
Poor Mr Wivenhoe. I felt so sorry for him, beset by foes on all sides. The Parish Council. The Bishop. The Ladies League of Something or Other. The Flower-Arranging Rota. The mothers of every little girl who wanted to be the Virgin Mary this year. All the Forces of Darkness gathered daily around his hapless head. No one living outside a small English village could have any comprehension of the pressures under which he laboured.
‘So I hope very much that you will allow us to use your charming little donkey …’
‘Marilyn,’ I said.
‘Yes. Such a pretty name for such a pretty donkey. I’m sure she will be the star of the show.’
I rather thought that was supposed to be Baby Jesus, but I held my peace.
‘You do … know she’s never done this sort of thing … before?’ I said, feeling he should be aware, right from the outset, of the realities of the situation.
‘It will be easy,’ he said, cheerfully displaying an enormous lack of knowledge of donkeys in general and Marilyn in particular. ‘She just has to walk up the aisle with Mary and Joseph. We’ve made a little stable area from straw bales. Baby Jesus will be concealed behind one of them. At the appropriate moment (probably during the singing of “Away in a Manger”), young Alison Maynard – she’s playing Mary – will pull him out and lay him in the manger. The three shepherds appear stage left – with their sheep – and the three wise men will approach stage right.’
‘Not with a camel?’ I said, suddenly alarmed at the possibilities.
‘Oh, my goodness me, no. Gold-painted tea caddies containing the traditional gifts.’
‘I thought Fiona Braithwaite was the Virgin Mary this year,’ said Sharon, disentangling more tinsel from the tenacious clutches of our ancient Christmas lights. Sharon is Mrs Crisp’s niece. She and Kevin, our handyman, had been an item ever since the day she came to work at Frogmorton Farm and Kevin, unable to take his eyes off her, had walked straight into the water trough. Wheelbarrow and all.
Mr Wivenhoe sighed. Miraculously, his mug was empty again. I can only assume he absorbed his tea through osmosis.
‘There was some – jostling – for the part and after a certain amount of discussion, young Fiona agreed to take on the part of Gabriel instead.’
‘A … challenging role,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ he said uncertainly. ‘It certainly is. Sadly, there has been some friction between the two young ladies, especially as each sees her own role as the most important in the proceedings.’
I could well imagine. And poor, dear Mr Wivenhoe was about to introduce yet a third female into this already volatile mix.
Speaking of volatile … The back door crashed open and on a wave of Arctic air, my husband was suddenly in the room.
‘Hello everyone,’ he said cheerfully, kicking off his wellies. ‘Something smells good, Mrs Crisp. I hope that’s for us and you’re not just boiling up my socks like last time. Why is the cat covered in a tea towel? Is it dead at last? Is that why the vicar’s here? Or are we being exorcised again?’
‘Mr Wivenhoe wants to borrow … Marilyn for the children’s nativity play,’ I said quickly, before the vicar could query the precise meaning of the word ‘again’.
He finally got rid of the last welly and wandered over to shake hands.
‘Are you sure, Mr Wivenhoe? She’s not really house-trained, you know.’
‘The play lasts only a fraction over forty minutes, Russell. I’m hoping this will not be a problem. I’ve explained to Mrs Checkland that Marilyn need only walk up the aisle behind Mary and Joseph. I though you
Similar Books
