Chapter Sixteen
Cerrie
I’m always nervous before the Christmas production performance, but this year other emotions are vying for the spotlight. Tom and I are barely on speaking terms, all with fixed smiles to keep it from the children. David has been trying to talk to me, so I’m doing my best to avoid him. I’m scared, too – that this might be my last Christmas play. Tom hasn’t tried to explain his behaviour from the other day and I don’t reckon he thinks he’s done anything wrong. The sense of entitlement sickens me.
But this is the event we have all worked so hard to make. For the next hour – until Jimbob the Angel realises how important he’s been to the Christmas story just by leading Little Star across the sky to Bethlehem, and my bright-eyed, gorgeous Class 4 superstars have taken their final curtain call – we are a team. What happens afterwards doesn’t matter now.
As we wait in the classroom next to the hall, the buzz of arriving parents and family members steadily builds. I make final costume adjustments and reshape bent halos, surrounded by a class of excited angels, Wise Men with foil crowns, various assorted Nativity story characters and a very nervous donkey. Mary is sniffling in the classroom assistant’s arms because I told her off for stealing Joseph’s beard, while Joseph is no longer on speaking terms with Shepherd 1 because he couldn’t share her crook and toy sheep. Meanwhile in the corner, two angels are choreographing their own dance routine to the opening song.
I love the craziness of these moments before our production begins. The excitement is palpable in the air, nerves and pride and the fear of forgotten lines forming a heady mix that has us all enthralled.
I glance over to the door that leads to the side of the stage. Tom is there, straightening a tea towel on a stoic-faced shepherd’s head. He looks up as he finishes – and I look away. We aren’t the important ones now. I can’t let myself be drawn into another argument.
Jo appears from the hall door and hurries over. ‘I think we’re ready.’
I clap my hands. ‘Okay, everyone, it’s time for your big performance. Are you ready?’
‘Yes!’ the chorus of young voices replies.
‘That wasn’t very loud. Are you ready?’
‘YES!’
‘Right, let’s do this!’
Tom stands by the entrance to the stage and high-fives every child as they climb the steps to go and take their places. When I reach him, he keeps his hand up – an invitation.
‘Go for it,’ he says.
I lightly tap his hand with mine and we manage a smile each. It’s the closest to an apology I think I’ll ever get.
The hall erupts in enthusiastic applause when I take to the stage to introduce the performance.
‘Welcome to St Piran’s Primary and happy Christmas to you all. I’m Miss Austin, and it is my great pleasure to present the story of Jimbob and the Little Star. Music is going to be performed by Tom Keller and everything else by my wonderful Class 4. So please sit back and enjoy our Christmas play . . .’
And it’s wonderful.
So many things mirror that of other plays in past years, but I love the unique mix of personalities in my class this year. Ruby Jarvis sings her heart out, glowing when the audience applauds her as loudly as her mother. Nessie Dixon’s solo is flawless and I see Gloria Masters dabbing her eyes with a hanky in the front row. Joshua Levens trips over the manger when he brings his sheep, but receives a huge cheer when he saves the baby Jesus from a drastic tumble off the stage. And Reuben Giles, my absolute hero, reduces me to tears with his crystal clear, confident line. There are in-fights amongst the angels over a stray halo and my Joseph spends most of his time on stage with one finger up his nose, but it’s all part of what makes the Christmas production magical for me.
When the last song ends and my class forms a slightly wonky line at the front of the stage, the whole hall rumbles with loud cheers and applause. Some parents even lead a standing ovation, causing open-mouthed surprise from my young performers. I hope the kids remember this for the rest of their lives, as I remember school productions from my childhood.
Thrilled, I lead the children off the stage to their waiting families, to be hugged and squeaked over, have photos taken and run around their friends saying their Christmas holiday goodbyes.
And then, it’s over. The hall empties, chairs are put away and the school falls silent again. Tired but so proud of my class, I gather my things together and smile at Jo, who has come to my classroom to congratulate me.
‘Awesome as ever. Did you hear that applause? They loved it!’
‘Thank you. The kids were amazing, weren’t they?’
‘The best. And Thor played beautifully . . . I take it you thanked him?’
I knew this question was coming. ‘I would have done, if he’d stuck around long enough.’
Jo’s smile fades. ‘What happened with you two? One minute you’re best buddies, the next you’re barely speaking.’
‘Creative differences,’ I reply.
‘Hmm. Nothing to do with him being decidedly cosy with your ex lately?’
‘That hasn’t helped.’ I don’t want to go into it further, but I should tell Jo what happened. ‘I overheard them talking, actually. David was telling Tom he should make changes to the play. Because he was apparently capable of getting a performance from the kids that I couldn’t. Tom seemed to agree.’
‘What? Are you sure?’
I nod. ‘I know you like Tom, and I have to say he did well today. But I don’t know if he might be planning to take over next year.’
‘I can’t see it. He seems so impressed by you.’
‘He’s a former actor. Maybe he’s pretending to like me.’
Jo folds her arms. ‘Seems a bit convenient to me. Look at what you achieved together.’
She’s right. Tom and I made this production happen. But I don’t want to think about that a moment longer. ‘Anyway, term’s over. I guess I’ll see him when we get back and maybe we’ll talk about what happened.’ I don’t know if that will be possible, but it’s best to head off Jo’s questions now. I don’t need a lecture today. I want to preserve this post-performance feeling for as long as I can.
I stop at the supermarket in Hayle on my way home, picking up a basket full of festive treats I’ve promised myself this year. Stollen and Lebkuchen that I remember from family trips to Germany for the Christmas markets; dark chocolate mint thins, red-and-white peppermint canes to hang on my tree and a bottle of red wine I want to mull at home for when my friends visit. I’m trying to capture the festive feeling that usually arrives on the day of the Christmas production. It feels muted right now. I think I know why.
‘Hey, stranger.’
David has appeared from nowhere, an empty wire basket in his hand.
‘Hello.’
‘The production was magical. Truly. The governors were blown away by it.’
I want to leave, but without being rude I can’t. I really don’t want any more battles today. ‘That’s good.’
‘You’re so talented, Cerrie. I’m sorry I never told you when we were together.’
‘David, you don’t have to . . .’
‘No, please, let me say this. You’re an incredible person. Everyone sees it. I should have realised before I made my mistake. I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you.’
It’s really time to go now. ‘What’s done is done. I hope you can be happy, David.’
‘That means a lot. I wish things were different with us. But congratulations on the production. You did a great job.’
In all the time we were together, David never said that to me about my Christmas plays. It takes me by surprise and I find myself staring at him. ‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’
‘You’re welcome.’ He takes a small step towards me. ‘And between you and me, I think you held your ground magnificently.’
‘Sorry?’
He gives a broad grin. ‘With Keller. I heard what he tried to do. Muscle in on your production? Not likely!’
I can’t even begin to process what I’m hearing. ‘But he didn’t . . .’
‘Don’t be coy, darling. I know he tried to change keys, assign singing parts to other kids . . . Terrible. I would never have done that, I hope you know. You and I didn’t always agree on the Christmas thing, but I wouldn’t have taken it away from you, ever.’ He gives a dramatic sigh. ‘Just goes to show, all that muscle and tan doesn’t make for a nice bloke.’
And there, in the wine aisle of Hayle Asda, I have a revelation. If I hadn’t overheard David’s conversation with Tom, I might have been flattered by this apparent display of loyalty. I might have believed him. But now I see it for what it is: he tried to set Tom up by encouraging him to change my music. Was he jealous of the new teacher? Had he seen us working together and felt threatened?
‘That’s rubbish. I heard you, David. Last week, in the hall.’
His expression clouds. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I heard you telling Tom Keller to make changes to my show. That I wouldn’t mind, not really, because St Piran’s is going places and needs the best people.’
Every word of his I repeat back seems to deliver a body blow. He can’t deny any of it.
‘I want us back together . . .’ he begins. But I’m done with listening to him.
‘I don’t. Merry Christmas, David.’
Elated, I walk past him, feeling like I’ve dodged a bullet.
It’s only when I reach my car that I realise the disservice I’ve done to Tom. First day back at school after the Christmas holidays, I’m going to seek him out and apologise. He didn’t deserve my anger.
But first, I have Christmas to look forward to – beginning with the lantern parade tomorrow. Despite everything this year, I feel hopeful again. And that is the best gift.