A mystery at the Sunday school Christmas party
WMN nostalgia writer David Hill recounts a Christmas long past, when Father Christmas at the Sunday School party was not quite how he seemed
LATE on a Saturday afternoon. Party Time. The party for Sundayschool members held in the two Sunday-school teachers’ house at the bottom of the village, (my two great aunts who were really second cousins). “Day school is real school,” said my school mate, Kenny the gorilla Harris, earning his nick-name through his stooping gait and his arms swinging below his knees as he walked. “Sunday school is pretend school.”
Needless to say he wasn’t a regular attendee. As I approached the front door of their house who should come sneaking around the corner but...... “Psssst. Us’ll see if us can solve the mystery. Us’ll go in together, ‘n’ makin’ sure no one is lookin’ us’ll see what the smell is that’s always on the summer outing seaside coach when the old farmers gets on.”
We approached the front door slowly, Kenny gently nudging me in the back to ensure that if there was trouble with a capital ‘T’ he could say it was all my fault because I was in the lead. Opening the door quietly, we walked into hall where we were confronted by a wall of children’s overcoats and those belonging to the older parishioners. Kenny sniffed and puckered up his nostrils.
“It’s here again just like in the summer and last year’s party. Right check the pocketses. Whatever it is, it gotter be in their pocketses.” “But we can’t go looking in their pockets.” “We’re not going to, you are. I’m keeping cavey.” His right hand clenched into a knuckle fist sandwich. “Go on, what are you waiting for? I placed my hand carefully into the pocket. My fingers touched a small round object. “I think I’ve found it.”
I withdrew my hand and revealed a white object the size of a marble. And that was when my old Aunt’s proverbial penny, that she was always on about dropping, dropped. “It’s only a moth ball.” Kenny leaned over to make a closer inspection, Crumbses, they’m really big, never knew they wuz that big, and cor, it really pongs. Put it back quick. But how do little mothses fly with ballses that size. ‘N’ why should anybody want to carry ‘em around in their pocketses?”
After a belly-buster of a Christmas treat tea we waited full of expectation for the visit from... “Wonder who it’ll be
this year? whispered Kenny in my ear. “Bet I’ll guess before you do? The bell rang. One of my great Sunday school teacher aunts went to answer it and returned, leading in a hunched-over figure, with wellington boots protruding from beneath the hem of the hooded red robe, a face obliterated by a massive white cotton wool beard and carrying a bulging hessian corn sack over the shoulder. Getting into the part as best the unknown villager could, a cotton wool muffled voice said, “Ho! Ho! Ho! Hullo Boys and girls.” The figure opened the mouth of the hessian sack. “Have I got a surprise for each of you.” It was a surprise all right, but not the sort intended by the red robed figure, because this wasn’t the deep masculine voice of a local farmer, but a high pitched gentle voice. “And I hope you’ve all been good little boys and girls, and turned up for Sunday School every week,” added the red robed figure in the same almost squeaky voice. “Yes, Father Christmas,” came back the reply. “No,” called out Kenny. “And you b’aint Father Christmas.” A strange silence filled the room. “You b’aint a man, you’m a woman wot is pretendin’ to be a man.” And then he uttered his piece de resistance, “You’m a Mother Christmas. You b’aint a real Father Christmas Man. You’m a Mother Christmas Woman and you b’aint from the North Pole.”
A couple of the small children began to whimper. One of my great aunts stood up and chastised him. “Don’t be so silly Kenneth Harris. Of course it’s Father Christmas.” “‘Snot Father Christmas and ‘snot bein’ silly. Just tellin’ the truth like wot you says us ‘ave to do in Sunday School,” moaned Kenny in his best ‘why am I being picked on voice,’ which he had honed to perfection over years of being told off in real school. A sense of normality resumed. The small children were told that Kenny was just having a little joke. Father/Mother Christmas distributed the gifts in the fastest time ever, the actions accompanied by a rush of muffled words. He/ she then hitched up his/her robe, gathered up his/her empty sack and made a very quick exit. Minutes later on my way upstairs to the flushing lavatory, I met my second cousin Priscilla carrying a brown paper carrier bag. I caught a brief glimpse of red material. Giving me a big wink, she placed her index finger to her lips, smiled and exited through the front door. The Father Christmas mystery solved.
‘The bell rang. My Sunday school teacher led in a hunched-over figure in a hooded red robe’