The three wise men waddled out of the bathroom looking a little confused, and very embarrassed by their costumes. White bath robes tied at the waist, and cardboard crowns, wrapped in gold paper; Willy’s crown was too small, sitting cockeyed on his head, and Jacob’s was bent. Jacob pulled at his glued on beard, and Iain had completely removed his, leaving a gluey mess on his face. Tartan socks flopped around Willy’s ankles and his robe gaped around his substantial girth, leaving the wise man’s sweater, bearing his favourite football club, visible.
“Oh you all look so adorable,” Miss McIntyre, the choir leader cooed, attempting to rub the glue off Iain’s face. “Oh Iain, where is your beard?”
Our chosen Mary, Margret Aitchison, pushed past me to glare at the boys in disbelief. She turned to me, her eyes made almost invisible by thick lensed glasses that reflected the light flatly. “Crowns!” Her voice rose above the din of the church’s basement cafeteria.
“Why do they get crowns?”
Miss McIntyre crouched down to meet Margret’s gaze, her choir gown billowing around her. “They’re the wise men dearie,” she attempted to appease the girl. I laughed to myself, imagining how this was going to go; I had worked with these children, since October, and knew quite well the extent of Margret’s will. Reason was not going to work.
“I want a crown! Mary needs a crown.” The child with the wild hair, and dirty fingernails, stood defiantly, crossing her arms over her Mary costume.
“Oh dearie, Mary was a simple lady—a poor one. She was humble, and wore only a shawl to cover her head.” Margret made a face.
I intervened; “Margret, you don’t need a crown. You’re Mary, not the Queen of England.”
“Then I want necklaces; Mary would wear necklaces. Right?”
“No she really wouldn’t. She was poor,” Miss McIntyre explained, frustration rising in her voice.
I looked over to our Joseph, the usually talkative Stewart, who sat at the small kitchen table, almost lost in the flurry of activity. He sat stiffly, clutching a shortbread biscuit between chubby fingers. His pallor had gone from a pasty yellow, to full blown green, in the course of just minutes.
“Stewart,” I knelt beside the boy, who shivered at the sound of his name. “Are you all right?” He merely nodded, but grimaced. I reached for the biscuit, which had become soggy between his sweaty fingers, and placed it onto the table. “Would you like a tea?”
I too was beginning to feel just as nauseous as Stewart looked; we had less than half an hour to organize these children into a calm enough state to perform the manger scene for the pageant. As the rest of the choir members began to assemble in the small room, the air became thick, as water was boiled for tea and Miss McIntyre’s gaudy perfume hung in the air like a pungent skunk.
“Ok, children; over to the table please,” I will gather them and let the choir of adults settle. I thought, suddenly frustrated. “I only have two wise men, where is Iain?” A sea of choir gowns blocked my view. “And Mary, where the hell is that girl?” The noise suddenly stopped, and the choir turned to look at me, shock on their faces.
“She’s under the table Carol,” Harold, the baritone pointed to where Margret sat, her scrawny arms wrapped around dirty shins.
“Sorry,” I managed for the curse, and bent down. “Margret, we’re almost ready to go on. Come on out now, and you can help me get Stewart going. OK?”
“I will not go on!” Margret hugged her knees closer, and shook her head dramatically.
A volcano of anger rushed through me, but I clenched my teeth, and held down the urge to grab the child by the foot and drag her out. “Why not?” I managed through tight lips.
“If I can’t be jewelled, I will not go on.” The girl’s eyes, through the thick lenses, narrowed. “Mary should be bejewelled.”
“You want a necklace?” I pulled at the clasp on my gold chain. “You can wear this; how’s that? How about one of the boy’s crowns; would that work?”
“No, I want beads; sparkly ones.” I looked around the room; the choir members were moving towards the stairs.
“Hang on! Children wait here. Willy, please find Iain for me, and bring him back here.”
I have no choice but to find some beads, the Nativity scene would be a bust without Mary, I thought frantically.
Diana stood on the steps holding a tea cup with the Queen’s image on it.
“Diana,” I pleaded breathlessly to the youngest of the adult choir. “Are you wearing beads?”
She looked surprised, and her hand went to her neck. “No, why?”
“The little beggar, Margret, won’t go on unless I get her beads.” Diana chuckled a little, then said quickly.
“My house is just down the lane, I have a bag of beads that we used to play with; they’re nothing special, just plastic and wooden beads, but I could run and get them.” She glanced at her watch, “I still have time.” She handed me her tea.
Diana returned flushed and breathless, holding her choir gown, and the bag of beads. I plopped the bag down in front of the diva, who had moved from under the table to sitting on top of it, legs swinging back and forth, big orthopaedic shoes threatening anyone who happened past.
“Pick one Margret,” she smiled at the colourful beads. “Time to get ready everyone.” We had less than five minutes.
The children were together; all of them, and we headed upstairs. I peaked through the makeshift curtain, and smiled at the set that had been so lovingly created by the boy’s choir. A manger with real straw, some animals of varying types; I wasn’t sure how a bull fit the program, but I liked it anyway. There was an actual half door, made for the Inn, and a large gold star dangled from a rope, swaying in the breeze of the forced air furnace. And the church was packed; Margret’s parents, and older brother sat in the front row, her mother looked nervously around, as the parishioners filled the pews.
All’s well, I thought, and turned to smile at Margret. My smile stuck, when I saw the child; she wore, not one necklace, but close to the whole bag of necklaces. She looked more like a gypsy than the Virgin Mary.
Oh Lord, I knelt in front of her. “Is that not a bit much?”
“No, I like them,” she stroked the mass of beads that threatened to choke her.
The pageant began, and before I knew it, the curtain opened on the little scene. I had to let the child wear the beads.
“Go,” I pushed the Innkeeper and his wife onto the stage. They stood frozen for a moment, staring at the congregation, but thankfully moved towards their place at the Inn door. Lines were delivered; although, a little quietly. I sighed with relief none the less. It was going to go well after all.
I pulled Mary and Joseph to the edge of the stage. The bejewelled Mary, and the greenish looking Joseph; “Go,” I whispered, and they were on their way. I heard a small chuckle rise through the audience, as Mary jingled her way onto the stage. She held her head high, and moved her shoulders dramatically, making the necklaces rattle against her small chest. The camel on wheels that Joseph pulled, wobbled and tipped over—he didn’t seem to notice, and pulled it on its side towards the Inn door, where he stood visibly shaking.
“Come on Joseph, knock.” I whispered as loudly as I could, hoping he’d hear.
Mary pushed him, “knock Joseph!” She prompted too loudly. “Knock!” Joseph stood frozen.
“There’s no room at the Inn,” the Innkeeper blurted out quickly, not sure what to do.
“We haven’t asked yet, have we?” Mary retorted angrily. “Come on Joseph, ask!”
Oh God, panic rose and the growling din of anxiety filled my ears. What do I do? Joseph looked wobbly, as he stared blankly at the Innkeeper, as though he didn’t recognize anything at all.
It was then that Mary pushed Joseph, in an attempt to jolt him out of his stupor, but it was too forceful, and poor Joseph fell heavily onto the stage; Mary, without missing a beat, stepped over him, and in a booming voice, delivered Joseph’s lines.
The show must go on; the Innkeeper led Mary, and the lame camel around the prostate Joseph, towards the stable. I suddenly sprang forward, and raced onto the stage to retrieve Joseph; who, once moved from his resting place, began to vomit. I carried the lad backstage, feeling the warm liquid drip from my skirt and down my leg to my suede shoe. Remnants of shortbread biscuit, and whatever the boy ate for lunch, were left on the stage floor, in the perfect position for someone to slip.
“I’ll take him,” Harold scooped him from my arms, and took him to the bathroom, as Stewart’s distraught mother made her way down the aisle. I nodded my apologies to her, as she crossed in front of the manger scene to rescue her boy.
Back on stage, the actors, without Joseph, took the classic rendition of the Manger scene to a new level, and by the time the three wise men strolled onto the stage, the doll, representing the baby Jesus had been removed from the makeshift cradle, and dropped unceremoniously onto the straw.
The new mother, Mary—wearing her bargain bin jewelry, delivered her lines beautifully, with emotion, and good voice projection. The wise men did not, and that is where the next problem arose.
“Speak up,” Mary spat out. “No one can hear you.”
The wise man tried again.
“That’s not your bloody line,” Mary yelled, and with great force pushed the wise man, so that he tumbled backwards, into the Inn door. The hinges broke, and both wise man and door, crashed onto the floor, perilously close to the pool of vomit, left by Joseph. Without seeming provocation, the Innkeeper’s wife kicked Mary, who retaliated by connecting a heavy orthopaedic shoe with the girl’s shin. The shrill scream, of the Innkeeper’s wife, echoed through the church assembly; there were certainly no napping parishioners at this pageant.
I stood rooted in shock, unable to move, my heart pounding, suddenly focused on the chunks of vomit that slipped from the hem of my skirt, onto my other shoe.
“We’ve got this,” Harold said behind me, and the choir began “Away In a Manger,” as they walked briskly onto the stage with confidence, as though on cue. I watched them lift their gowns, as they stepped over the vomit; they then expertly positioned themselves to hide the fight scene occurring in the manger.
“That was great,” said Margret, when I pulled her off Iain, and dragged her backstage, as the choir moved into “Oh little town of Bethlehem.” I felt a surprising compassion for the smart, spirited and strangely different child, wearing the beads like armour, her glasses now crooked on her face, and her hair even more awry than usual.
I started to laugh, “yes it was Margret, you made a very inspiring Mary.”