And His cradle was a stall.’
And all the Christmases before came flooding back: the Christmases when I was little, standing between Mum and Dad in Grafton Underwood village church on Christmas Eve, waiting for Santa Claus; the Christmases when I was a teenager, Dad and I suppressing giggles as Mum and Una warbled overly loudly in ridiculous sopranos; the Christmases in my thirties, when I was single and so sad, because I thought I’d never have a baby of my own to lay in a manger, or more precisely a Bugaboo stroller; last winter in the snow when I was tweeting Roxster, who was probably at this moment dancing to ‘garage house’ music with someone called Natalie. Or Miranda. Or Saffron. Dad’s last Christmas before he died, when he staggered out of hospital to go to Midnight Mass in Grafton Underwood; the first Christmas when Mark and I went to church, holding Billy in a little Santa Claus outfit; the Christmas when Billy had his first Nativity Play at nursery school, which was the first Christmas after Mark’s brutal, horrible death, when I couldn’t believe that Christmas would be so cruel as to actually try to happen.
‘Don’t cry, Mummy, pleathe don’t cry.’ Mabel was gripping my hand tightly. Billy was looking over. I wiped the tears away with my fist, raised my head to join in:
‘And He feeleth for our sadness,
And He shareth in our gladness.’
. . . and saw that Mr Wallaker was looking straight at me. The congregation carried on singing:
‘And our eyes at last shall see Him.’
. . . but Mr Wallaker had stopped singing and was just looking at me. And I looked back, with my face covered in mascara and my coat covered in hot chocolate. Then Mr Wallaker smiled, the slightest, kindest smile, the one smile that understood, over the heads of all those boys he’d taught to sing ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. And I knew that I loved Mr Wallaker.
As we came out of the church, it had begun to snow, thick flakes, swirling down, settling on the festive coats, and on the Christmas tree. There was a brazier lit in the churchyard and the senior boys were handing out mulled wine, roast chestnuts and hot chocolate.
‘May I pour some more of this down your coat?’
I turned and there he was, holding a tray of two hot chocolates and two mulled wines.
‘This is for you, Mabel,’ he said, putting down the tray and crouching to hold out a hot chocolate.
She shook her head. ‘I spilt it before, on Mummy’s coat, you see.’
‘Now, Mabel,’ he said solemnly, ‘if she had a white coat on, without chocolate, would she really be Mummy?’
She looked at him with her huge, grave eyes, shook her head, and took the chocolate. And then, quite unlike Mabel, she put down her drink and suddenly threw her arms around him, buried her little head in his shoulder and gave him a kiss: chocolatey, on his shirt.
‘There you go,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you tip a little bit more on Mummy’s coat, just for Christmas?’
He stood up, and pretended to lurch towards me with the mulled wines.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he said. We touched paper cups and our eyes met again and, even with the mess of kids and parents thronging around us, somehow neither of us could look away.
‘Mummy!’ It was Billy. ‘Mummy, did you see me?’
‘’Tis de season to hate Billy!’ sang Mabel.
‘Mabel,’ said Mr Wallaker. ‘Stop it.’ Which she did. ‘Of course she saw you, Billy, she was waving at you, as she was specifically instructed not to. Here’s your hot chocolate, Billster.’ He put his hand on Billy’s shoulder. ‘You were great.’
As Billy grinned the fantastic ear-to-ear, sparkle-eyed grin, the old grin, I caught Mr Wallaker’s look, both of us remembering how close Billy had come to— ‘Mummy!’ Billy interrupted. ‘What did you do to your coat? Oh, look, there’s Bikram! Did you bring my bag? Can I go?’
‘Me too, me too!’ said Mabel.
‘Where?’ said Mr Wallaker.