A Christmas Story

A Christmas Story.

We lived in the parish of Busbridge which was once owned by the Squire of Busbridge Hall who thankfully fell upon hard times and had to sell off large areas of his estate. Our house and garden rested in part of what was
once a large orchard , hence all our old apple trees that we climbed and from which came all the huge Bramley apples that my mother served up to us , baked or stewed until the season was over. I still hate baked apples!
The parish of Busbridge was a very respectable area , full of snobs and people pretending to be wealthier than
they actually were. Our little school stood opposite the church . Every year, for Christmas, the children were forced to put on a nativity play which was much rehearsed , then performed , in the church , for adoring parents
and local residents.
In those days, one had to be seen to go to church and I can still picture the miserable little women in their black hats , tight faces and primly pursed lips, walking up to the church every sunday.
We, my brothers and I,were looked upon with barely concealed dislike, disgust and distrust by these pitiful crones because we were scruffy urchins dressed in cut down, altered clothes that had recently belonged to an uncle who was killed by the Germans in the war whilst fighting for the freedom of these paragons of virtue and the vicar, who despised me.
Anyway, this one year we assembled in the church to decide which child should have which part in the Christmas play. The vicar sent me out for laughing and told me not to come back. Rehearsals got under way and the days passed and it came to pass that they needed someone to operate a machine which turned on the sun which was a large light bulb in a biscuit tin. There was a sliding lever which when moved slowly up it's slot, made the bulb glow and become gradually brighter to represent the rising sun. I volunteered to operate this and without the vicars knowledge, was reluctantly given the job with many warnings to behave.
So the big day arrived, the church filled and Jesus prepared to be born. The three wise men were waking , ready to find the baby in the stable . When one of them uttered the words "Ah, the sun", I was supposed to begin sliding the lever to make the sun rise, slowly bathing the darkened stage in light.
Unfortunately I had gone to the other side of the church so that I could peer through a gap in the curtains to watch proceedings. "Ah, the sun" said the wise man . Nothing happened. "The sun" he said again in a louder voice, tinged, it must be said , with a hint of panic. A titter was heard from the audience. Probably my brother.
A voice hissed at me . "The sun , you idiot!" Realisation hit me and, my hobnailed boots clattering on the marble floor of the aisle, I flew across, threw the lever fully along it's slot and dawn exploded on the sacred scene.
There were splutterings of mirth from the less reverent watchers , the vicar was sobbing quietly behind the stable and I fled to the vestry , out of the side door and walked home.

The vicar was made an arch deacon and left for new pastures soon after this and his son , who played Joseph in the play became a vicar and I heard recently that he is in prison, a convicted paedophile!