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A Sunday School Christmas

 

Connie ‘Should Be Fully Bedridden Any Time Now’ Presland waved from a day bed, snug in the St Francis alcove framed by green paper chains. 

A Dansette emitted a recessed blare of “Rock Around the Christmas Tree”. 

Orange squash, fried spam and wintering prayer books smells mixed with the twelve Delaney kids’ mildewed tent and sketchy pants stink. Aged from two to fourteen, they sported nit-aftermath skinheads and binman surplus formals. At table they were under parents’ orders to eat a little and doggy-bag a lot.

The Mission had fielded Mrs Mustin as representative on earth. In scratchy tweed the colour of turned beef, hairs on her chin combed for Jesus, she loomed in her small corner and made any child separated from the herd sing Sunday School Choruses. With full actions. Only a boy called David (no action to be done here) Only a rippling brook (don’t make it look too hula hula or God will be merciless) and the sling went round and round…round and round…(in the throes of religious fervour, we could so easily have punched Mrs Mustin in the stomach)

Father Christmas Ho Ho Ho'd in from the Prayer Room. His costume was sheet thin; he was holding his cotton wool beard in place; his eyes were possessed swine. The Delaneys, Heatons and MacNamaras scrambled to sit on his lap for their Don’t ask, won’t get told Monopoly sets, Tiny Tears dolls and Mars Selection Stockings. 

‘Thank you, Mr Edwards/Nice one, Tel/Where's the receipt so my mum can return it after I've had a play and it's fucked?’

I was finding Santa scary, and stayed well out of his range.

Too far out…

‘Iestyn Edwards, boy, you come and sing.’

I said, ‘Mrs Mustin, I should remind you, this is a flats' do, not Sunday School. And we children from the flats only sing with Lambeth Bridge Lil.’

That's for another blog. 

‘Only a boy called David…’ sang Mrs Mustin, the effort dimming her to ghoulish. I lurched away.

Father Christmas was puffing out laughs.

‘You’re the last to go, Iestyn.’ Eirwen was smiling lasciviously at him. ‘Collect your present. You’re fully entitled.’

‘No, thank you.’

‘Why not?’ She winked at him.

‘He’s frightening.’

‘He’s Father Christmas. He has elves and reindeer.’

He was bleary.

‘…only a rippling brook, child…’

‘Bet he’s getting something extra special, seeing…’ said the Delaney who’d asked for a receipt. (He follows me on Facebook.)

‘Go on,’ crooned my grandmother, Nancy Ak. ‘He’s ever such a jolly Santa, look!'

He was sicky.

‘If you don’t want your present, I’ll have it!’ said Grandshire Dai.

‘…five little stones he took…’

Blotchy.

‘Ungrateful sod.’

‘…and one little stone…’

Gingerish.

‘….round and round and round and round and round and round and round…’

‘Thinks he’s too good,’ said Peter Wilkinson.

‘Iestyn,’ Eirwen snapped. ‘Get to Santa!’

‘He’s not allowed to touch me.’ Then I ran for it. ‘He’s a monster bastard!'


All the other kids had recognised Santa, sitting on his lap; accepted their presents addressing him by his real name - Mr Edwards, Terry, or 'Tel'. 

AKA my dad. 





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