Art
Art
Art hadn’t been so excited about a performance since he’d played one of Prince Vultan’s more minor Hawkmen in Flash Gordon back in 1980 and, for a few heady days, had been Brian Blessed’s New Best Friend.
He’d borrowed a Christmas tree, complete with decorations, from the local garden center, and it was now placed at the entrance to the hall. In this instance, he and two of the children had actually asked if they could take it for free, and to his immense surprise they’d said yes!
Perhaps he should take small children dressed as innkeepers with him everywhere he went. He wasn’t invisible when he was with the kids. Everyone noticed them, smiled at them, asked how they could help. The children were a magic portal back into his old world.
Arranged around the Christmas tree was a gorgeous group of teenage musicians from Ziggy’s school, draped in tinsel and belting out an enthusiastic rendition of “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” The past few decades seemed to have passed in a flash, yet Art couldn’t imagine being that impossibly young and unbattered by life.
Art wondered if he’d jump at an offer to live it all again. Then he spotted Ziggy mooning around after the redheaded oboe player, reminding him of the exquisite torture of young love. Perhaps not.
The tired, neglected old hall was as warm, inviting, and primped up as the madam of a high-class brothel. It had a whole new lease of life, much like himself and the other senior citizens.
At the back of the hall, a table groaned with tea, coffee, and a huge array of cupcakes baked by Anna and the children (with varying degrees of success), along with a small mountain of confectionery he’d liberated from Starbucks over the years. Some of the regular attendees at the Alcoholics Anonymous meetings were manning the stand. They needed the community center to survive, too, and were, they’d told Lydia, experts when it came to tea and cake.
At the front, the stage was set for the performance, with the scenery enthusiastically created by the kids. A projector screen hung from the ceiling, onto which William’s carefully curated photographs of happy, collaborating children and seniors, painting backdrops and rehearsing the play, were being beamed.
“Art!” said Lydia. “Doesn’t it look amazing? They’re never going to be able to close us down once they see all this! By the way, I dropped into Starbucks to thank them for sponsoring the play. The manager looked a bit nonplussed, to be honest. I suspect he was overstressed, what with Christmas being their busiest trading period. Anyhow, he said he’d try to come along. Isn’t that great?”
“So great!” said Art. Although it wasn’t great at all, obviously. “Must go and check on the cast. They’ll be needing a preperformance pep talk.”
“Better to die of stage fright or anaphylactic shock?” said William, who was sitting behind the stage dressed as one of the Three Kings in a velvet cloak and crown.
“Definitely stage fright,” said Art. “Imagine the drama of dying in front of a captive audience! A magnificent, noble way to go! Far more interesting than a peanut allergy. Not that that’s going to happen today, hey? It’s going to be a triumph!”
“My friend from the local rag turned up with a photographer in tow,” said William. “He says we’re the perfect festive feel-good story. He’s hoping one of the nationals might even pick it up, if it’s a quiet news day. And there’s a cub reporter here from the Evening Standard !”
“Amazing! And it’s a full house! Did you see, the whole council is sitting in the front two rows?” said Art.
“I’m starting to think we might just pull this off,” said William. “If we get lots of glowing press coverage, they’ll find it really hard to sell our hall from under us. There’s nothing the council loves more than positive PR.”
“How’s my cast feeling? You’re all going to be absolutely fabulous, darlings!” said Art to the assembled children, who were sitting in a nervous and hyperactive huddle on the floor, bubbling away like a volcano about to erupt.
“Jamal and Jessica, the kings were good friends, and didn’t hit each other over the head with their gifts for baby Jesus. Please can you get in character? And I think the sheep is eating someone’s rice cakes! Drop, M! Right, we have ten minutes till curtain up. Does anyone need the toilet?”
···
A hush fell over the audience, with the exception of Noah’s dad, who was complaining to anyone who would listen about his son wearing a dress. A spotlight veered wildly across the stage before illuminating Art, the narrator. Anna’s hand-eye coordination was a little hit and miss. Just as well she was no longer in charge of an articulated lorry. At least she’d got into the Christmassy spirit of the whole thing, and had dyed her hair half red, half green, with giant glittery Christmas baubles hanging from her ears.
“Welcome to the Mandel Community Center nativity!” said Art. “Today we are telling the Christian story of the birth of Jesus, but our nursery and senior citizens’ group represent people of all faiths, and celebrate all their major religious and cultural events.” Art paused for the smattering of applause and “Hear! Hear!”s from the council—a group of mainly white, middle-aged men who prided themselves on their inclusivity.
“Mary and Joseph lived in Nazareth, an awfully long time ago,” said Art. “Before even I was born. And one night, something incredible happened.”
Right on cue, Tallulah appeared in the spotlight, magnificent in wings and halo. She pointed her wand at Noah—Art had tried to explain that angels didn’t have wands, but Tallulah, for whom the line between angel and fairy was somewhat blurred, had insisted—and said, “Mary, you’re going to have a baby! He’s the son of God and his name will be Jesus!”
“Mary was pretty surprised to hear this,” said Art, and paused for Noah to do his surprised face, which looked a little like Munch’s The Scream . “And due to decades of Tory government austerity and the inadequacy of Universal Credit, Mary and Joseph had to travel to Bethlehem to visit the food bank.”
Art hadn’t actually cleared this slight deviation from the script with Lydia and Janine, but hoped they would forgive him. He surreptitiously checked the front two rows to see if his subtle message had landed.
Noah climbed onto the donkey mobility scooter and, led by Zack, processed around the full perimeter of the hall, following the signs—painted by one of the older children—reading bEtHLEhEM THiS WaY .
“Meanwhile,” said Art, “in the fields, the shepherd watched his sheep by night.” Art held his breath, wondering if Lucky would make it onto the stage. Janine came on leading Maggie, dressed in her sheep costume knitted by Ruby.
“Come on, Lucky! You can do it!” she said, crouching down and gesturing to the small boy standing in the wings, hugging his stomach.
Anna swung the light onto Maggie, and finally, shuffling silently forward, looking at his feet, Lucky appeared next to her, dressed as a shepherd. Art blew a whistle, and Maggie stood on her back legs and turned a full circle, before bowing to the audience, who cheered wildly at them both.
“You did it, M!” said Art under his breath. All those hours of training and mountains of sausages had not gone to waste.
Lucky stood, stoically, by his sheep, his fists clenched by his sides, and his eyes flicking once or twice toward his audience. The clear, reedy sound of a single oboe played “Silent Night,” and Art felt a lump forming in his throat.
“The shepherd saw something amazing in the night sky!” said Art, once the oboe had fallen silent. Anna swung the light toward the wings, lighting up a twinkly Tallulah, who was sitting on William’s shoulders, her hands clutching tightly on to his ears, as if they were the handlebars of an out-of-control bicycle.
“I’m a star! I’m a star!” she shouted, causing a ripple of laughter from the audience. Then she added, “I really, really need a wee.”
William put her back down onto the floor remarkably quickly.