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  PENGUIN BOOKS

  A Wayne in a Manger

  Gervase Phinn is a teacher, freelance lecturer, author, poet, schools inspector, educational consultant, visiting professor of education – but none of these is more important to him than his family.

  For fourteen years he taught in a range of schools, then acted as General Advisor for Language Development in Rotherham before moving on to North Yorkshire, where he spent ten years as a schools inspector, time that has provided so much source material for his books. He is a Fellow of the Royal Society of Arts and an Honorary Fellow of St John’s College, York.

  Gervase Phinn lives with his family near Doncaster.

  A Wayne in a Manger

  GERVASE PHINN

  PENGIUN BOOKS

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  First published by Michael Joseph 2005

  Published in Penguin Books 2006

  8

  Copyright © Gervase Phinn,2005

  Illustrations © Chris Mould,2005

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

  Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

  ISBN: 978-0-14-192474-8

  For my parents

  Margaret Patricia Phinn

  and Richard Joseph Phinn

  who never missed a Nativity

  in which I took part

  ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHRIS MOULD

  Acknowledgements

  The majority of these stories appeared originally in my Dales books. However, for this collection I have embellished here, embroidered there, so the versions here tend to be a variation on the originals.

  Two teachers mentioned in the text use stories by Nicholas Allan and Susan Wojciechowski: ‘A Night to Remember’ is based on the story Jesus’ Christmas Party written by Nicholas Allan (published by Random House Children’s Books), and ‘The Woodcarver’ is based on The Christmas Miracle by Susan Wojciechowski (published by Walker Books).

  Of the poems, ‘Nativity Play’ first appeared in The Day Our Teacher Went Batty, and ‘Christmas Lights’ and ‘Christmas Presents for Miss’ in It Takes One to Know One (both books published by Puffin Books).

  Contents

  1 A Very Special Time of Year

  2 The Infant Nativity Play

  3 The Visit of Father Christmas

  4 Storytime

  5 The Grumpy Innkeeper

  6 Nativity Play

  7 The Visitation

  8 The Woodcarver

  9 The Crib

  10 No Room at the Inn

  11 Christmas Lights

  12 A Night to Remember

  13 With Bells On

  14 A Christmas Angel

  15 Balthazar

  16 Christmas Presents for Miss

  17 The Arrival of the Three Kings

  18 The Journey to Bethlehem

  19 Christmas Eve

  20 A Yorkshire Nativity

  1

  A Very Special Time of Year

  December sunshine, bright and brittle, shone through the classroom window and lit up the vicar. His sparse sandy hair shone like gold, his small black eyes sparkled and his cheeks shone as if they had recently been scrubbed.

  ‘This is a very special time of year, children,’ he said jovially, addressing the infants who stared up at him with open mouths. ‘Can anyone tell me what it is?’

  ‘Christmas,’ volunteered a small wiry boy with a feathery fringe, who began waving his hand in the air like a daffodil in a strong wind. ‘It’s Christmas.’

  ‘It is indeed,’ agreed the vicar, smiling beatifically. ‘It’s Christmas, and a very, very special time of year.’

  ‘I’m gerrin a bike,’ the boy told him.

  ‘I’m gerrin a doll what can wet ‘er nappies an’ talk,’ added a large girl with a round moon face and hair in untidy bunches.

  This was the signal for all the children to shout out what presents they were hoping to receive from Father Christmas.

  ‘I’m gerrin a remote-controlled car.’

  ‘I’m gerrin a train set.’

  ‘I’m gerrin a…’

  ‘Children! Children!’ exclaimed the vicar, raising a hand like a crossing patrol warden stopping cars. ‘Christmas is not just about presents, you know. It’s really a celebration of a birthday. It’s about the birth of a very special baby.’

  ‘I know what it were called,’ said the small wiry boy.

  The vicar interlaced his long fingers just beneath his chin in an attitude of a child praying and smiled. ‘I’m very glad to hear it,’ he said in that solicitous and kindly tone often possessed by men of the cloth.

  ‘It were called Wayne,’ the child told him.

  ‘Wayne? Certainly not! What a thought!’ cried the vicar in mock horror.

  ‘It were!’ cried the boy undeterred. ‘Babby were called Wayne.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t called Wayne,’ said the vicar, his jaw tightening and his voice quavering a little. He bit his lip momentarily. The poor man had imagined that speaking to a group of small children about Christmas would be an easy enough task but he was now regretting he had ever agreed to visit the school that morning. ‘The baby was called Jesus,’ the vicar told him, slowly and deliberately.

  ‘It were Wayne,’ persisted the child, nodding vigorously.

  ‘Jesus!’ snapped the vicar.

  ‘Wayne,’ repeated the child. ‘I know,’ cos we all sang about it in assembly: “A Wayne in a manger, no crib for a bed.’”

  Of all the activities that take place at Christmas, it is the infants’ Nativity play that I most look forward to. Innocent children reenacting one of the greatest stories of all time capture the essence of Christmas. To see Mary, aged six, draped in pale blue and tightly clutching Baby Jesus (usually a large plastic doll) to her chest, never fails to bring a tear to the eye. To see Joseph, a thick multicoloured towel draped over his head (usually held in

  place by an elastic belt with a snake clasp) and attired in a dressing gown and red socks, always brings a sympathetic smile to the lips.

  Then there are the shepherds (usually a motley group of little boys who scratch, fidget and pick their noses throughout the performance), the Three Kings (who invariably forget their lines or drop the gifts), the adoring angels clad in white sheets with bits of tins
el stapled to the bottom and uncomfortable-looking cardboard wings strapped to their backs and, of course, there’s the grumpy Innkeeper, who very often steals the show.

  There is something very special and heartwarming about the infant Nativity.

  2

  The Infant Nativity Play

  Every teacher of young children has a story to tell about the Christmas Nativity play. There was the time the Innkeeper, when asked if there was any room in the inn, answered, ‘Plenty’, and ushered the startled Holy Family inside; the occasion when Mary dropped Baby Jesus, immediately bursting into floods of tears as the large pink doll rolled off the stage; the time that the Archangel Gabriel informed Mary that he had tidings of great joy to bring but had completely forgotten what they were; and the memorable moment when the giant cardboard star, which had been suspended on a wire above the stage, fell on Joseph who, very much out of character, rubbed his head and exclaimed, ‘Bloody ‘ell!’

  Then there was the time when the little boy playing Joseph strode confidently onto the stage and asked the small figure in blue who was cradling her baby, ‘And how’s our Jesus been today, Mary?’ ‘He’s been a right little so-and-so!’ came the blunt reply.

  In one school I eavesdropped on a conversation between the Headteacher and a parent concerning the Nativity play the children were to perform. ‘So what’s this play about then?’ asked the mother in all seriousness.

  In another school I heard a father complain that, ‘Tha alius do t’same play every Christmas. Tha wants to do summat different!’

  As an Inspector for English and Drama, it was inevitable that I should be invited to attend several school nativities each Christmas. On one unforgettable occasion, at a small school deep in the heart of the Yorkshire Dales, the Angel of the Lord – an angelic-looking little girl with golden curls and great innocent eyes – appeared on stage. She was draped in a shimmering white nylon sheet trimmed with sparkling tinsel and had elaborate golden wings, cut out of cardboard, attached to her back. She did indeed look the part.

  The heavenly child was, however, unaware that the pretty ensemble she was wearing had somehow gathered up at the back. As she approached the front of the stage, little arms outstretched, one of the small shepherds, huddled around an imitation fire, had noticed.

  The Archangel Gabriel began: ‘Fear not, for glad tidings of great joy I bring –’

  ‘I can see your pink knickers!’ the shepherd informed her in a whisper so loud it could be heard at the back of the hall.

  The angel continued regardless. ‘To you in David’s town this day, a baby boy will be born –’

  ‘I can see your knickers!’ said the shepherd even louder. ‘Chardonnay, I can see your pink knickers!’

  The Angel of the Lord, screwing up her little face angrily, turned around sharply and told him to ‘Shut yer gob!’ before continuing her speech in the most innocent of voices.

  Things improved until the arrival of Mary and Joseph, both in thick woollen robes and headdresses. The heaters in the hall blasted out hot air, the bright spotlights shone down

  on the cast relentlessly and gthe small actors began to blow out their cheeks, huffing and puffing, scratching and fidgeting. As the

  Three Kings presented the happy couple with their gifts, Mary sighed and thrust the large doll representing the Baby Jesus, with a fair bit of force, on to the lap of Joseph with the words, ‘You ‘old Him a bit. ‘E’s gerrin dead ‘eavy!’

  As I approached a Dales school one December afternoon, I found all the children heading for home. I stopped a small boy loaded down with Christmas cards, calendars, decorations, presents and all manner of boxes and bags as he tried to negotiate the narrow gate.

  ‘Where’s everyone going?’ I asked. ‘There’s a Nativity play here this afternoon, isn’t there?’

  He stopped for the amount of time it took to tell me bluntly, ‘It’s off!’

  ‘It’s off?’ I repeated.

  ‘Aye,’ he replied. ‘T’Virgin Mary’s got nits!’

  3

  The Visit of Father Christmas

  I arrived at the Church of England primary school to find an extremely distraught Headteacher, Miss Fairburn.

  ‘Oh dear, Mr Phinn,’ she gasped, ‘oh dear me!’ Teachers are sometimes rather nervous when I arrive in school but I had never had such an effect before. This woman was near to fainting. ‘Oh, it’s not you, Mr Phinn. It’s just that Father Christmas has appendicitis and it looks as if we will have to cancel the party. The children will be so disappointed. They were so looking forward to it.’

  It turned out that Father Christmas was Mr Beech, the school crossing patrol assistant, who every year took on this arduous role at the infant and nursery Christmas party. However, he had been rushed to hospital after breakfast and his daughter had telephoned to say that he would not be able to oblige as Santa Claus that afternoon. I am quite sure that there were tears in the Headteacher’s eyes. ‘The children will be so disappointed. They are all so excited about Father Christmas coming.’

  What could I do? I was the only available man. Nervously I donned the costume, and after a strong cup of coffee entered the hall to find row upon row of open-mouthed, wide-eyed children. They squealed in delight when they saw the familiar red coat and fluffy, white cotton-wool beard. Everything went pretty well until a bright little spark announced loudly, ‘You’re not real, you know.’

  ‘Oh yes, I am!’ I replied in a deep, jolly Father Christmas voice.

  ‘Oh no, you’re not,’ she persisted. ‘Your beard’s held on by elastic. I can see it. And Father Christmas has big boots. You’re wearing shoes.’

  ‘That’s true but I got stuck in a snowdrift on my way here and my boots were so filled up with snow that I borrowed these shoes from Mr Beech.’ School inspectors have to think on their feet when it comes to bright little buttons like this one.

  ‘You can’t have because Mr Beech has gone to hospital,’ continued the child. ‘My mum told me because he lives next door. You’re not the real Father Christmas!’

  ‘Oh yes, I am!’ I said in my loud, jolly voice and heard a whole school hall shout back: ‘Oh no, you’re not!’

  The Headteacher intervened and bailed me out by starting the singing. After three verses of ‘Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer’, each child came forward in turn to receive a small present.

  ‘What are the names of your reindeers?’ asked a little boy.

  ‘Well, there’s Rudolf,’ I started, ‘and Donner and Blitzen and er… er…’

  Miss Fairburn, seeing that I was struggling, helped me out again by explaining that Father Christmas was rather deaf.

  ‘Some of the snow from the snowdrift is still in his ears,’ she said.

  One child asked me if I knew her name and when I replied that I didn’t, she looked crestfallen. ‘But I thought Father Christmas knows all the boys’ and girls’ names?’

  Miss Fairburn explained that Father Christmas’s eyes weren’t too good either and he had such a lot of letters to read.

  One rather grubby little scrap asked if she could sit on my knee.

  ‘No, Chelsea,’ said the Headteacher firmly. ‘I don’t think–’ She was too late. The child had clambered up and was clinging to me like a little monkey.

  ‘Get down, Chelsea,’ said Miss Fairburn loudly. ‘I don’t think Father Christmas wants children on his knee. He’s got a poorly leg.’ Any more ailments, I thought, and I would be joining Mr Beech in the Royal Infirmary.

  ‘Now, you be a very good little girl and sit on the floor, Chelsea,’ I said in my jolliest voice, ‘otherwise all the other children will want to climb up.’ Chelsea stayed put and held fast like a limpet. I chuckled uneasily until the child’s teacher at last managed to prise her off. The Headteacher shrugged and looked knowingly at the teachers standing around the hall.

  After the children had sung me out to ‘Jingle Bells’ I was invited into the staff room. It was extremely hot under the red suit.

  ‘Fathe
r Christmas, you were a great hit,’ said Miss Fairburn. The staff looked on and nodded. ‘And we’d like to give you a little Christmas gift.’

  ‘Oh no,’ I said, ‘it really isn’t necessary.’

  ‘Oh, but I think it is necessary,’ insisted the Headteacher and presented me with a small bottle-shaped parcel which looked as if it had been rather hastily wrapped in some bright red tissue paper.

  I shook my gift and held it to my ear. ‘After-shave?’ I enquired. ‘Is it after-shave?’

  ‘No, Father Christmas,’ the staff replied as one.

  ‘Is it a little bottle of whisky?’

  ‘No, Father Christmas,’ they chorused.

  I tore off the wrapping to reveal a small brown bottle of medication. The label read: ‘For infestation of the head.’

  ‘Chelsea’s just got over head lice,’ said the

  Headteacher. ‘It’s not advisable to be too close to her for the time being.’

  ‘And she’s just recovered from scabies,’ piped up a beaming teacher. The rest of the staff then joined in with a hearty ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’

  4

  Storytime

  ‘It was cold and dark that December night many, many, many years ago, and on the hillside, where the icy winds whistled through the dark trees –’

  ‘I can whistle, Sir.’

  ‘And the grass was frosted and stiff with cold–’

  ‘Do you want to hear me whistle, Sir?’

  ‘Not now, Dominic, thank you. Perhaps later. Listen to the story, there’s a good boy. Matthew, the little shepherd boy, huddled in a dry hollow with his sheep to keep warm. The cold winter wind blew about his ears, and high above him the dark sky was studded with millions of tiny silver stars –’