Notting Hill in the Snow. Jules Wake
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as if I were the crazy person. ‘It’s all right dear; I’ll just go and ask someone.’
I looked through the windscreen at several stern-faced police officers, their hands resting on large black guns. ‘We’re not allowed to stop here; it’s just dropping off.’
‘They won’t mind. I’ll just …’ I leaned over and tried to grab at his seat belt, catching the eye of one of the police officers who was looking at the registration plate and talking into the radio just below his shoulder.
‘But,’ said Dad, opening the car door and putting one foot out as the policeman advanced. God, he was going to get us arrested.
‘It’s Terminal Three,’ I hissed as the answer magically appeared on my screen. ‘Virgin Atlantic fly from Terminal Three.’
‘Well, that’s good,’ said Dad, hauling himself back into the car. ‘It must be just next door.’
‘As the crow flies and if we were allowed to drive across the runway, yes. But by road it’s twenty minutes back round.’ Holding my phone up, I shoved it towards him to show him the map on the screen.
‘You seem a bit tense, Viola. It’s all right. I’ve got plenty of time. In fact, I could have got the tube, you know, or the Express from Paddington. You didn’t need to drive me.’
I bit the inside of my cheek and didn’t say a word.
‘You’re very late,’ observed the receptionist, once I’d spent another five minutes on the laborious sign-in process, waiting for my escaped prisoner photo printed badge. When had schools become like Fort Knox?
‘Traffic,’ I said tightly.
‘I understood you were local,’ she said, reading the address on the DBS certificate I’d handed over. She didn’t seem in any kind of hurry to let me through the big glass maglock doors.
Finally I breached Security and was led into the big assembly hall. The wall bars and ropes, the parquet wood floor and the blue carpeted stage with the piano in the corner immediately brought back memories of my own primary school days.
‘That’s Mr Williams,’ said the school secretary, gesturing towards a familiar figure standing on the stage surrounded by small children. At the sight of him, my heart did its funny flutter thing again.
‘M-Mr Williams?’ I stuttered. I certainly hadn’t expected to see him here today.
‘He’s our parent volunteer, also helping with the nativity. And there’s Mrs Roberts, our head. I’ll introduce you.’
He glanced over, just as handsome as ever, my imaginings over the last week had not let me down, but there were no smiles this morning; he was too busy gripping a clipboard with grim determination. Even so my heart did another one of those salmon leaps of recognition and stupidly I suddenly felt a lot better about this whole nativity project.
‘Miss Smith.’ Mrs Roberts strode over on long thin legs, looking a lot more glamorous than any headteacher I remembered, to pump my hand. ‘What a result. We’re so delighted the London Metropolitan Opera Company –’ she pronounced the name with great delight ‘– is helping us like this. Our nativity is one of our biggest and best events of the year. And when our usual teacher, Mrs Davies, went down with appendicitis, we thought it was all going to be a disaster but now you’re on board and can take charge …’ She clapped her hands and beamed at me.
‘Er … um. Right.’ Take charge? Me? That wasn’t quite what I’d signed up for.
‘Of course, Mr Williams here, one of our dads and a governor, will be here to assist you. And Mrs Davies had made a good start. She’s allocated most of the parts already and started the script. This morning Mr Williams is taking the children through the opening scene with the armadillo, Joseph, Mary and the flamingos.’ She looked at her watch. ‘I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got a meeting.’ And with that she hurried off.
Armadillo, Joseph and flamingos? What the …?
I went over to stand near the stage, feeling a touch like Alice in Wonderland. Who needed Mad Hatters when you had armadillos and flamingos?
‘You’re late.’ He barely looked up from the clipboard at me. ‘Right. Can I have Jack, the flamingos and Mary and Joseph to run through the first scene?’
The five children, two of whom were identical twins, shuffled on stage, four of them in school uniform grey shorts and skirts and green sweatshirts sporting the school logo, a golden tree. They all carried a single sheet of A4 paper which I assumed was the script. The fifth child wore a Buzz Lightyear outfit stretched lumpily over his school uniform.
‘OK, do you want to start?’
The five of them looked at one another and inched closer to each other, ducking their heads down behind the sheets of paper. A reluctance of children.
‘Jack, off you go.’
Jack looked up from under his eyebrows, his face full of surly suspicion. ‘I am the Christmas armadillo,’ he declared with stout, if stolid, wooden authority. I bit back a snigger; that sounded horribly familiar. ‘I am here. To guide. You. Across the far. Vast desert. It is a very long journey.’
I looked at the floor. Friends, that was it. The holiday armadillo. Ross in fancy dress. I swallowed the smile because Mr Williams definitely wasn’t seeing the funny side of anything this afternoon.
‘Joseph, you must follow me,’ continued Jack. ‘Our good friends, the flamingos …’ The twins looked at each other and immediately, with Midwich Cuckoos’ style telepathy, both stood on one leg, the other bent at the knee. They wobbled precariously. ‘… Will accompany us on this perry … perry louse journey where we will face many challenges. We have to cross the river of a thousand crocodiles …’ There was a pregnant pause and he looked meaningfully at several children seated on the edge of the stage, who looked towards Mr Williams and then one child began to clap her hands together and the others followed suit. ‘Climb the mountains of a hundred bears …’ Cue a group on the other side of the stage to start growling. ‘And navigate the shifting sands full of snakes …’ A storm of hissing broke out which went on for a good few seconds until Jack glared at the offending group and raised his voice. ‘Come. Follow. Me.’ He began to march around in a circle, the flamingos hopping after him.
The boy in the Buzz outfit stood there, looking down at the floor, while Mary, less of the virgin and more of the exhibitionist, had her skirt hoicked up and was flashing her knickers quite happily at the front row.
‘Come follow me,’ said Jack again, doing another circuit of the stage.
Still the boy didn’t move. On his third circuit, Jack gave him a sharp nudge. ‘Come follow me.’
The boy started. ‘To affinity and …’ he frowned and raised one arm in classic Lightyear pose ‘… to affinity and Bethlehem.’ With that he and Mary followed Jack and the flamingos, the five of them marching and hopping off stage.
‘Sir, sir …’ One of the boys in the audience had shot his hand up straight in the air. ‘You forgot the song.’
‘Yes,’ piped up another voice. ‘The crocodiles sing the song.’
Mr Williams – still no first name – peered down at his clipboard and winced. If I’m honest he looked slightly sick. Then he looked up and over at me with pure panic and desperation written all over his face.
‘Miss Smith, perhaps you might be able to help with this one?’
I crossed to his side, almost immediately aware of his masculinity. His business uniform, the jacket and tie, had been abandoned, tossed casually over the back of one of the wooden chairs on the other side of the hall, and his shirtsleeves were rolled back, revealing strong forearms covered in dark hairs, something I’d never considered the least bit sexy before. I could smell the faint scent of cologne and I was horribly conscious of the fineness of his cotton shirt, the broadness of his chest