Chapter Twenty
“I warn you, they do need a little work,” said Genny breathlessly, as she hauled the main backdrop out for Imogen to see.
“I’ll just get the manger and stuff.”
Imogen looked at the scenery propped against the wall. “Hmmm. It is a little surprising.”
“It’s the pig, isn’t it?” came a muffled voice from the storeroom.
“Yeah, mainly,” said Imogen in what she felt was a masterly understatement as she looked at the row of animals leaning jovially
and anthropomorphically over the top of the stable stall.
“The ox and the ass are okay, but I somehow don’t feel that, given the predominantly Jewish population at the time, there
would have been a pig in the stable where Jesus was born,” Genny explained, appearing at Imogen’s side and brushing her hair
out of her eyes with a grimy hand. “After all, Christianity hadn’t been invented, when you think about it.”
“There’s that aspect, now you mention it,” said Imogen slowly, “but, more than anything, I think it’s the hat.”
“Ah, yes—the hat,” said Genny, mouth twitching into a grin. They both tilted their heads to better appreciate the pig’s headgear.
“It is what is known, I believe, as a porkpie hat—appropriately enough. Did I mention the bloke who did this for us was seriously
bonkers?”
“You’re not kidding. How long have you been having to use it?”
“Twelve years. He died in the spring.”
“Hence, finally, the opportunity for a rethink?”
“Exactly,” said Genny with fervor. “I’ve been waiting a long time for this.”
Like Imogen, Brian the carpenter had been desperate to start work on the school refurbishment. Having the nativity play scenery
to do in the meantime was a welcome diversion from the delay, and he cheerfully knocked out the designs she sketched for him.
Decoration was not his bag, though, he had explained, and crawling around on her knees to paint it all herself had been quite
a strain on Imogen’s heavily pregnant body.
Now, on the day of the nativity play, she was at least as skittish as the children, who scampered shrieking around the school
hall, ignoring teachers trying to fasten on headdresses and fix angel wings.
“We encouraged the children to choose their own parts,” explained Genny as a horde of angels with a pink fairy in its midst
trotted past.
“Ahhh,” said Imogen, beginning to understand. “Which one’s Mary?” she added as two little girls in blue walked past demurely
holding hands.
“Both, nearly,” chuckled Genny. “In the end we persuaded Katy to be Mary’s sister Helen, who’s just come to stay to help out with the baby.”
“Good thought,” replied Imogen seriously.
“Yes, well, we thought Helen could lend a hand getting ready for the three kings to arrive. Only there’s five of them—plus
a queen—so there’s quite a bit to do.”
As they spoke, the hall was filling up with parents and grandparents waving proudly to their children, who were now more or
less corralled at the front of the hall.
A lot of the mothers looked casually glamorous with artfully lightened hair and gym-toned bodies in the latest gear. These
were the sociable ones too, hooting to each other across the hall, catching up on the schoolgate gossip. Some were running
cake stalls and a raffle to boost PTA funds, doling out tea and coffee from tables set along the perimeter of the hall. Fathers
mainly shuffled uncomfortably, heads down. Every now and then, one would sidle, stiff-legged, toward another that he knew,
and they would clap hands on each other’s shoulders awkwardly, looking relieved at having someone to talk to.
And then Imogen’s heart pounded as she spotted Gabriel, glowering fiercely at the back of the hall, standing apart from everyone
and staring in her direction.
Their eyes met, and they stared helplessly at each other. Then, Louise, dressed in a red swirly dress with a fur collar—literally a sexy Santa, registered Imogen—arrived beside him, handing him a paper cup of mulled wine. Instantly, his ferocious expression lifted, and he smiled as he turned to her in a toast, apparently delighted as she ran her fingers down his arm.
Swine.
Imogen turned away from this devastating scene furiously, just as Genny shuffled onto the stage, twiddling the ends of her
hair and waiting for everyone to notice she was there.
Simon smiled encouragingly at her from the back of the hall and folded his arms to listen.
“As well as the children, who have all worked so hard,” she said eventually, her voice quivering just a little, “we should
thank the PTA for organizing the stalls; the mummies, grandparents, and daddies who contributed cakes and prizes for the raffle;
and also Imogen and Brian for quite miraculously transforming the stage sets we have this year.” She paused, as the audience
obediently applauded.
“I think you are all aware,” she went on, her nerves returning a little, “how precious our school is to this community and
how highly we all value it as a service for our children and our community. I think you all know, also, that our school is
in danger. Thanks to the efforts of those who are working on the refurbishments which will bring the building up to standard,
we have a real chance to fight against closure. I would like you all to be aware of the great sacrifice those people are making,
a team led by Bill”—she stopped for the audience to give a cheer, and for a delighted, red-faced Bill at the back of the hall
to duck his head—“and help the fundraisers by all supporting the raffle and tombola before you leave.
“And now, without further ado, I give you—our play!”
Genny edged crablike along the narrow space in the front of the stage and disappeared behind the curtain.
After some frantic whispering and shuffling, plus a couple of heavy thuds, the curtains squeaked jerkily open onto the first
tableau. As the children launched, almost tunefully, into “Little Donkey, Little Donkey...” Imogen felt the hairs stand
up on the back of her neck, and her eyes prick with tears. Seeing the wobbly smiles of the mothers and even the fathers surreptitiously
wiping moistened eyes, she stroked her tummy thoughtfully and allowed herself a little daydream about a solemn dark-haired
girl playing an angel. The vision was so vivid, she found she could examine every feature on the little girl’s face—more Imogen
than Nigel, everyone said—and see the white socks, one pulled up and one concertinaed around the ankle below a baggy white
smock.
Her mind on her inner eye, it was a second before she clocked that she was staring, unseeing, at Gabriel, who had snuck to
the front at the start. He gave her an unreadable look and then turned abruptly, pushing through the crowds to the door. She
blushed and was glad she was sitting down, as her heart began to pound. Even after he was gone, the image of his face seemed
burnt onto her retina.
Christmas Carol Sing-along at the Village Hall, trumpeted the notice by the post office counter. Rediscover the True Meaning of Christmas with Rudolph the Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman , it continued improbably.
Imogen smiled to herself and looked around for some thing a little more edifying. She failed. Instead, she found Genny scratching her head over a poor choice of Christmas wrapping paper. Spotting Imogen, Genny grinned conspiratorially and whispered so that Muriel couldn’t hear, “I’m torn between the fat Father Christmases jammed in the chimney and the one with red and green bells all over it.”
“Not sure I’d want to be confronted with either without a dimly lit room or a pair of sunglasses,” said Imogen.
“Simon’s such a kid, I think he’d probably be a bit disappointed if I presented him with something discreet and tasteful—just
as well, given this choice.” Genny sighed. “I should go into Exeter, but I just can’t face it.”
“I’m desperate to go in, actually,” admitted Imogen, “but not for Christmas shopping. I’ve really got to get big bulky stuff
like a cot for the baby, so I’m hoping to do it with my little car.”
“Have you passed your test?”
“Actually, it’s this afternoon.” She was so nervous about it the trip to the village store had been a ploy to push it to the
back of her mind.
“Ooh! Good luck. I’m sure you’ll be fine, though. Getting your wheels will certainly help with the Christmas shopping. Or
have you done it all? You’ll make me feel hideously disorganized if you have.”
“I have.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Don’t be. I sort of cheated quite a bit,” admitted Imogen. “I found this brilliant charity online that lets you buy stuff for underdeveloped countries. It’s all on the website, you choose something really vital for a village in Africa, pay for it, and the charity sends your recipient a card saying what you’ve bought.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Well, my mum really likes goats—”
“She does?”
“Oh yes, loves them, so I got a goat for a family in a country in Africa. You get to give it a name and everything, and it
changes their fortunes completely. They milk it, obviously, plus they can breed from it, so then they can sell the kids.”
“And then they can kill it and eat it,” Genny finished, nodding thoughtfully.
“Mm, yes, I suppose so,” said Imogen uncertainly, seeing Genny in a new light. Imogen had seriously considered getting Sally
a goat too. In the end, though, she decided on some lime and elderflower bath oil from Jo Malone. All mail order, conveniently.
“So, it’s true,” admitted Imogen, “I’ve done all my Christmas shopping, apart from local friends. I thought I might make some
chocolate truffles. I can pop them around to people on my bike if I don’t pass my test. Or even if I do, I suppose.”
“Yum! I hope we’re getting some,” said Genny, “although I’m not sure cycling it to people is a good plan.”
“How do you think I got here? I am starting to get a few funny looks, though.” She felt she looked a bit like Humpty Dumpty,
balanced on her bike with her huge tummy out in front of her. Also, admittedly, it was getting pretty uncomfortable, and she
found herself running out of puff at anything more than the most sedate pace.
“I think we had better hope you pass your test today. When’s your due date again?”
“Two to three weeks, pretty much, Morag reckons. A couple of days into the new year, although actually it would be nice if she came on New Year’s Day, don’t you think?”
“Yes and no,” said Genny thoughtfully. “On the one hand, she will always have her birthday on a bank holiday, which is nice,
but have you thought about having to organize all those noisy children’s parties with a post–New Year’s Eve hangover?”
“Good point, but Morag and Simon have both told me that first babies tend to be late, so I think I’m pretty safe.”
“Gosh, it really is about time you got the baby stuff in, though, isn’t it? I’m so excited. Aren’t you?”
Imogen smiled, not wanting to rain on Genny’s parade by admitting that she was worried sick, not least about what she and
the baby were going to do financially, with Gabriel out to ruin her. In truth, leaving shopping for the baby so late was mostly
because she worried about spending money.
“When are you and Simon going to hark to the patter of tiny feet?” Imogen asked, summoning up a smile.
“Simon would love to any time, but we’ve agreed to put the family thing on ice for a couple of years. The school is such a
big job—it’s like my baby, really,” Genny said, looking weary.
“How’s it all going?” said Imogen, feeling bad for not having asked sooner.
Genny glanced over to Muriel. Seeing her nattering contentedly to her sister Joan, she leaned in closer. “You remember me
saying about Mrs. Marshall being ill?”
Imogen nodded.
“Well, the truth is she’s dying.” Genny pressed her hand over her mouth to hide a sudden quiver. Imogen put a hand sympathetically on her shoulder, but Genny waved her away.
“No, don’t be nice,” she said quickly, dabbing the tears from the corners of her eyes. “She’s such an inspiration. She knows
she hasn’t got much time left, but all she wants to do is help with everything. She’s been so incredible getting us ready
for the inspection—did I tell you the Ofsted report was ‘outstanding,’ by the way? Don’t tell anyone. It’s not official yet—and
she said she wants me to apply for the head teacher job permanently. It’s a lot. We’re just hoping the LEA committee meeting
after Christmas will see sense. Of course, we will have the building work pretty much complete, so they can’t use the dilapidations
as an excuse to close us down. Bill’s been amazing, and Gabriel’s been there all hours laboring away. I went up at ten last
night with a flask of coffee, and he was there on his own, painting the corridor in the new toilet block. He looks exhausted.
But whether all this is going to do us any good...?”
Genny’s chin quivered again, and she brushed away another fat tear with her finger, sniffing.
“They’ve got to admire what’s been achieved,” said Imogen. “And of course , you should apply for the head teacher job. You’re doing it now anyway and doing really well from what I’ve seen. I’ve got
this little one signed up already,” she said, patting her tummy.
“Let’s hope we’re still open for her to attend,” said Genny bleakly.
“I just wonder if we will still even be here in the village at all,” Imogen fretted in turn.