A Little Christmas Carol

A long time ago when I was still living with Mr S, eldest son had just started school and middle son was only a baby, we all moved together into the village where the children and I still live today. It was around September time, cold, and in all my memories I am spattered with paint, rushing around trying to get the house decorated and ready for our first family christmas in our new home.

We didn’t know anybody in the village so when Mr S saw a flyer advertising the Christmas Eve Christingle service at the local church he suggested we go, you know, to join in with a community event, make our faces known, maybe meet some people. For gods sake there would be loads of candles stuck in oranges, he said when I made a face. It would be really pretty and christmassy and I would like it ok?

Middle son must no doubt have performed his usual trick of doing a spectacularly messy crap in his nappy precisely two seconds before we were due to leave the house (his uncanny knack for timing remains to this day) because I clearly remember us running late, hurrying with the pram down the dark, shiny wet road leading to the stone chapel on the corner.

We spent a while trying to work out which door led the way in. In the end Mr S took pot luck and hefted one open to reveal a service already underway. All available surfaces glowed with what seemed like the light of a thousand flickering candles. I attempted, clumsily, to shunt the pram over the door frame and as I did so looked up to see one mass, but perfectly simultaneous movement. Multiple heads swiveled with faultless synchronicity to stare bemusedly at the slightly paint speckled woman and her noisy family entering the candle lit church…..   Entering the candle lit church to discover that the only available seats were right up at the front near the altar. The entire place sunk into an almost eerie silence as multiple pairs of eyes now watched us make our way up the full length of the aisle and settle into our pew.

I sank down gratefully into my seat. The service went on. And on. And on. Finally something snapped me out of my reverie – there was going to be a song. I heard the vicar say something about needing to stand for the next carol and so immediately stood up enthusiastically. I wondered why Mr S was still sitting down. Again I felt eyes on my back and turned my head slowly around. Myself and the vicar were the only people in the church standing. I promptly sat down again.

When it really was time to stand up and sing, I noticed two elderly people making their way slowly up the aisles from the back, each holding a kind of stiff felted container. People were dropping money – a few coins here, even a note or two there – into the containers and smiling their merry christmases at the collectors, before quietly resuming their slow, dignified rendition of Silent Night.  Ah.  I began to pat the pockets of my coat and jeans frantically. Nothing. I looked at Mr S who looked at me. And then – completely without thinking  – I exclaimed,

“Oh fuck, I haven’t got any change!”

The acoustics in that place were nothing short of amazing. They carried my voice high into the air, lifting it over and above the general hum of the singing, giving it an almost echo like quality. Mr S kicked me in the ankle. The baby whined. I teetered dangerously between hoping hell would swallow me up right then and there and dissolving into wild eyed hysterical laughter.

I have never been back to the Christmas Eve service at our local church. On reflection, it seemed best not to.

Merry Christmas everyone.