Nicht Afore Christmas

THE NICHT AFORE CHRISTMAS

The Christmas party had been sillier than usual, and I felt some
satisfaction that it would be my last. In September Joe and I'd come to
the parting of the ways, at least temporarily, as he strode off with
all the confidence in the world to the school on the hill.

You could see Ancrum Road Primary School if you stood on the wall
outside St Mary's Catholic Church where the High Street became the
Lochee Road. I had no idea what Alcatraz was then, but if I had, I
would certainly have named that institution of junior learning
'Alcatraz on the Hill'.

Party hats, home-made, crackers, home-made, and lumpy jelly, home-made,
whistles, clackers, rattles, zylophones, tin drums, and abortive
attempts at carol singing accompanied by the up-right, out-of-tune
piano produced scenes of frenzied, frantic mayhem across the main hall
of the nursery. Snowballs sneaked in under pinafores had reduced the
wooden floor to a soggy, slippery mess, unimproved by the urine of
several little girls taken short by the excitement of it all. The tree
tipped over at an unlikely angle, bulbs exploding at the rate of one
every five minutes, chocolate novelties long since ripped off, and the
fairy looking as bedraggled as the nurses who fought half-heartedly for
control of their pinafored charges.

All other doors were locked against us, including, outrageously, the
door to the Quiet Room where I could have found solace in a Wizard or
Hotspur, or even in these desperate circumstances a Dandy or Beano
though my contempt for Dennis the Menace and Desperate Dan were
legendary. Little surprise then that my participation in the Hokey
Cokey ended after I'd three times put the boot, or at least the sandal
into three toddlers who had the temerity to shake their limbs at me.
Thrown across the room, I slid arse-first into the Christmas tree and
was rewarded by the sound of three bulbs exploding simultaneously and
the fairy falling into my lap. I would have left there and then, but
the presents were still to come.

"Ho ho ho!"

If the voice hadn't given it away, the streaky moustache and the
gin-tainted breath did. Santa was Matron. Santa was always Matron, I
hadn't needed Joe to tell me that. But was I the only one who
recognised her? The others, even my fellow five-year-olds screeched in
delight and were only hindered from mauling Santa by the serried ranks
of nurses who secured her path to the Christmas tree where Santa, as
God is my witness, kicked me out of her way.

Santa's armchair was hauled into place. She dropped her Christmas sack
with a thud and dropped herself into the chair which sagged beneath her
not inconsiderable bulk, none of which was made up of pillows.

"Line up. Sparrows first. Then seagulls. Now you blackbirds, and then
the tits." Nurses smiled, screamed and herded us into some semblance of
order. I was four years old and therefore a tit. At the time I did not
understood why mum laughed when I told her.

In the prescribed order infants, toddlers and juniors mounted Matron,
were breathed upon, exchanged whispers, and given their Christmas
present. They scrambled down and were led away by nurses who then
man-handled the presents from them and piled them on a table near the
door. As usual we were not to be allowed to open our presents until
going-home time; previous experiments at letting the children open
their presents had led to jealousy, bickering, arguments, fighting and
worse. All of the infants, most of the toddlers and several of the
juniors burst into inconsolable tears, not that anyone tried to console
them, the piano just got louder.

My turn came. I looked up into Matron's eyes. Little black raisins
embedded in a purple pudding. I wanted to put a match to her. Did gin
burn like brandy? Never mind. That ratty beard would do.

"Get up here, Paul."

"My mother says you have to call me Jean-Paul."

"Get up here, Jean-Paul." I could feel the hostility, the gin must be
wearing off.

"I don't answer to Jean-Paul."

"Get up here, you."

Immovable object met irresistible force.

"Here, take it." She thrust a small parcel into my chest.

"What about my Christmas wish?"

She snorted like the walrus in the nature film we'd watched the day
before and stuck her ear into my face. I whispered my Christmas
wish.

"No."

"What do you mean 'no'?"

"I mean 'no'. Now go and play."

I stood my ground until I was hauled away by a nurse. I hardly felt my
present slip out of my arms. I was in a state of shock and did not come
to until I found myself in a conga that twisted, turned and staggered
its away around the hall, children slipping, sliding and falling on the
treacherous linoleum. I disengaged myself from this travesty and
returned to the tree. Santa had gone. I scrambled onto the armchair,
slung my legs over the side and looked up into the tattered branches. I
had some thinking to do. Above my head another bulb exploded.

At five o'clock I stood at the entrance to the nursery waiting for my
grandmother to take my home. Light snow was falling. It spun and
swirled through the lamplight. Although I was not cold, I shivered and
pulled the canvas bag that held the history of my three nursery years
closer to me.

Gran came zigzagging down Flight's Lane in that curiously distracted
way that suggested her mind was not entirely at one with her body. She
began several possible conversations before hitting upon one that
continued long enough to make some sense. I thrust one rope handle of
the bag towards her, kept a tight grip on the other and dragged her up
the lane.

"Dae you no want tae say cheerio tae the nurses?"

"No, come on."

"Did you ha'e a guid perty?"

"No."

Disappointment flitted across her ruddy cheeks, but Gran could never be
unhappy for more than a moment. A lady of the old school, she was born
to serve and please others, especially menfolk. Her misery melted like
an ice cream cone at the Ferry in August.

"We'd better get hame quick. It's Christmas eve, ye ken, an' yer mlanning to do with the money,
And I've a kind of feeling
that you'll want to do your little bit, too.

SANTA leads CAST, CHORUS &; AUDIENCE in
'FEED THE WORLD'
(backed by the recorded version)

AFTER SONG:

SANTA: Merry Christmas, folks.

CAST: Merry Christmas, everybody!
Merry Christmas!

MUSIC
BOWS
LIGHTS DOWN
CURTAIN

Author's Note: Any school who can make use of this little play are
welcome to it, free, gratis and for nothing. They may also make any
changes that suit them. Jamie Cameron