When they’re all assembled, Lucas flicks a switch and lights come on all over the barn. It’s late afternoon now and is getting dark, so they shine out brightly. The star twinkles and the stable is bathed in a mellow and suitably holy glow. Behind us is a painted backdrop of a city nightscape with little fairy lights peeping through the windows. Even the blond, blue-eyed Baby Jesus doesn’t seem so freaky now he’s in context. It all looks so much better than I’d hoped and I wonder how I ever doubted that we could pull this off.
Bev comes to the front of the barn and addresses the people who’ve braved the cold to be here.
‘Thanks, everyone, for coming along today. I hope you’ve enjoyed some mulled wine, played some games, visited our sequined Santa, won something you want on the tombola and, last but not least, have learned something of the work we do here. If you haven’t, then do speak to one of our staff or our students who are here today and are happy to tell you all about us.’
Everyone gives a big clap.
‘The students are going to sing a couple of Christmas songs for you and then our resident poet, Lucas Dacre, will read his festive poem.’
Next to me, Lucas fidgets uncomfortably. I admit to being worried by this as I still haven’t heard it.
The rest of the students come into the barn and gather round. Bev gives them the signal to start singing and, as one, they launch into a chorus of ‘O, Holy Night.’ It’s beautiful and tuneful and I had no idea that our motley crew of badly behaved, troubled and autistic kids were capable of making such a wonderful sound. I don’t know when they’ve been practising this – behind my back, obviously – but they’ve nailed it. By the time they finished, word and note-perfect – well almost – there’s not a dry eye in the house.
Buoyed by success, they then launch straight into ‘Jingle Bells’ with equal aplomb. It’s breathtaking – and I’m not just being biased because they’re my miraculous misfits. The applause is enthusiastic and heartfelt. Encouraged by cheering, they do another round of ‘Jingle Bells’ and everyone sings along at the top of their voices. When the collection buckets go round the crowd, they jingle with spare change.
Across the barn, I see Matt standing with Victoria and he winks at me. Job well done. I smile back in acknowledgement and see Victoria take note of the exchange between us.
Then it’s Lucas’s turn and my heart is in my mouth. It’s so disappointing that Shelby isn’t here to see this and I grumble to myself under my breath.
Bev shouts out. ‘Please put your hands together for our own award-winning poet, Lucas Dacre, with a specially written Christmas poem.’
‘Take this,’ Lucas says and hands me Tina’s halter. Our diva also does a merry dance in a circle, nearly knocking me over. What on earth is wrong with them today?
‘Woah,’ I say, trying to calm her down.
Bev comes up next to me and takes Johnny and Rod.
‘They’re a nightmare,’ I tell her. ‘Even more twitchy than usual.’
‘Performance pressure,’ Bev says.
‘I hope Lucas doesn’t suffer from it. Now, I mean. Not . . . you know . . .’
She laughs at me. ‘Do you ever stop worrying?’
‘No.’
Lucas goes to the front of the barn and pulls a sheet of paper from his back pocket.
He looks squarely at the crowd. ‘This is called “Nativity Schmativity”’.
Then he takes a deep breath and launches in, spitting it out in his usual style.
‘You’re forgetting the true meaning of Christmas!’
She said,
‘I am?’
I replied,
‘You mean that kid in the shed?’
‘Our lord and our saviour was born in a stable.’
‘Are you sure?’
I baited,
‘I thought that was fable?’
It was pagan tradition to decorate trees,
At the solstice of winter,
their gods to appease.
The Roman god Bacchus said:
‘Eat, drink, be merry,
Feast of the beast and the vine and the berry’.
The Americans stole European folklores,
creating the hybrid they called ‘Santa Claus’.
Mix it all up with commercial allusions
And the meaning of Christmas is lost
. . . to confusion.
The crowd applaud and Lucas does a mock bow.
Bev turns to me. ‘An interesting take on “write us a lovely, festive poem please, Lucas.”’
‘He always sounds so angry and unhappy,’ I say, concerned.
Bev shrugs. ‘That’s poets for you. Miserable buggers.’
‘Yeah.’ I have limited experience of poets, but can only agree.
‘We do have one extra surprise, though.’ Bev claps her hands and shouts out, ‘Is everyone ready for the big finale?’
My heart is in my mouth. A surprise? Oh, my goodness. What now?
Chapter Sixty-Four
Lucas takes centre stage again and this time he’s wearing the most tasteless Christmas jumper I’ve ever seen. It has a tiny elf outfit on the front and mulit-coloured pom-poms all down the arms.
He gives me a wry smile and then turns to the kids. ‘Ready to do your bit?’
They all shuffle about excitedly.
‘This is called “Everybody, It’s Christmas”.’
Everybody, it’s Christmas!
And the kids shout out their echo of, ‘Christmas!’
Everybody, it’s Christmas!
Christmas!
the happiest day of the year,
where everyone gathers together;
their hearts full of goodwill and cheer.
Everybody, it’s Christmas!
Christmas!
that most wondrous day of the year,
the time for peace and celebration
and over-indulgence, draws near.
Everybody, it’s Christmas!
Christmas!
that most magical day of the year,
children rapt in anticipation,
as they wait for St Nick to appear.
Everybody, it’s Christmas!
Christmas!
the high point in everyone’s year,
fifty-two weeks,
we’ve been waiting,
well, that day
it is finally here.
The atmosphere’s intoxicating,
’cause that day
it is finally here.
Everyone’s here celebrating,
’cause Christmas is finally here!
All the kids, now quite giddy with excitement, shout and cheer ‘Christmas!’. The audience go into a frenzy of applause once more. Lucas grins across at me and I blow him a kiss. His look says, I can fake Christmas if required. And he has. That poem was totally out of Lucas’s comfort zone, but he delivered it at perfect pitch. I couldn’t be more proud of him. He’s even managed to put his anti-Christmas sentiments aside to do something for the students.
‘I need to get the mayor to turn on the lights now,’ Bev whispers to me. ‘Still no sign of Shelby?’
‘No.’ No text either.
‘I’ll give him a piece of my mind when I see him,’ Bev says. ‘Do you want to leave the alpacas with the kids?’
‘I’m not so sure. They’re a bit of a handful today.’