There was an atmosphere of excitement at the little village school I attended as a child. The reason being, Christmas was almost here again. We'd file into the hall each morning and sit crossed legged in packed rows on the cold wooden floor of the tiny, ancient school hall. The Headmaster stood tall and majestic next to the modern record player in it's pale wooden box with shiny, brass hinges. An angelic choir from St Paul's Cathedral sang "Deck The Halls" as the needle worked it's way through the grooves in the vinyl ... "Hosanna in Exchelsis" - I always wondered who Hose Anna was, what she had to do with Chelsea Football Club and what any of it had to do with Christmas. It never occurred to me to ask anyone.
After Assembly, we'd file upstairs to our classroom. We were the "big kids" and had been awarded the coveted honour of one of the two upstairs rooms. The corridors were decorated with all manner of glitter and tinsel, hand painted pictures and collages depicting Christmas scenes - Three Wise Men walked single file, as we did to class, following our Teacher as purposefully as the Kings followed the bright star. We listened attentively as she explained how after lunch we would be watching the Christmas production at All Saints village church. The Nativity was traditionally staged by the Infants so we all had our turn. My heart always sank each year when the role of Mary was given to yet another pretty little blonde. However, it never stopped me hoping and believing it might be me next year, though it never was. I wonder how many times we have to be disappointed before we no longer expect the prize.
The walk to the church was short and so were our legs. I've taken that walk many times since and it always surprises me how much closer to the school it is in reality. When I was a child hats, gloves, mittens and scarves were a necessary part of our winter wear. We'd wrap up warm, hold our partner's hand and walk quietly to the church, whispering animatedly to one another. Just the sight of the pretty little church, the sun shining on the frosty ground or a damp mist lifting from around the grave stones was enough to conjure up the Christmas spirit.
How we all squeezed inside that tiny church I'll never know. The lucky ones got the pews but others had to sit crossed legged in the aisle or stand under the bell tower. The temptation to pull the ropes was almost irresistable, but the wrath of the Headmaster we secretly called Hitler, was enough to stop us. In those days, a Teacher could spank a naughty child, though they rarely did. It was always the same couple of attention seeking boys who risked having their hides tanned yet again.
The same, tried and tested Nativity took place every year, complete with fluffed lines, bottom scratching, day dreaming, yawning, giggling, stage fright, tears and unintentional up-staging. Invariably someone on stage or in the audience would wet their pants and never live it down. I remember thinking I'd have to move to another county, or maybe another country, if it ever happened to me, thankfully it never did. We had to stand to sing caroles, which helped relieve the pins and needles for the crossed legged, and it wasn't long before we were heading back into the cold, another Christmas play over for another year.
Back in class it was time to hand out the cards we'd posted to our friends in the specially provided red post box. I remember making a mental note of who seemed to get the most cards and, not surprisingly, it was the most popular boy and girl in class. I was happy with the amount I received, I wasn't popular, but I wasn't an outcast either. So silly how important that seemed at the time. Even though they weren't my favourite people I always felt sorry for the smelly kid, the dirty one who always had snot hanging from his nose, or the one who regularly wet themselves in class. I'm pretty sure they didn't look forward to the handing out of the cards as much as the rest of us.
We then collected our hand made Christmas lanterns and crackers to take home, put our chairs on top of the desks and said the "going home" prayer one last time before school broke up for the Christmas holidays. After the bell, we'd rush to the cloakroom, retrieve our coats and scarves and find our parents waiting at the gate ... our Teacher's words "Merry Christmas, and DON'T RUN!" ringing in our ears.
... to be continued ...
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