Notting Hill in the Snow. Jules Wake
Crocodile Rock
‘OKaaaaay,’ I said. ‘Interesting choice.’
‘Mmm.’ His mouth twitched and I thought he was going to smile but then he went and spoiled it by saying, ‘Do you think you could play it?’
I gave him the look and rolled my eyes. ‘I think I can just about manage it.’ What did he think I was, some amateur? I could sight-read music from the age of eight. ‘If I had the sheet music.’ I looked at the clipboard in his hand hopefully. He shook his head.
‘Right, well, I suggest we practise the songs another time,’ I said in a bright, loud, this-is-so-much-fun voice for the benefit of the children before lowering it to say to him, ‘I’ll try and get the music for this for another day. Why don’t you carry on with the next scene?’
‘I can’t,’ he muttered under his breath.
‘Why not?’
‘The teacher only wrote the first scene. She was rushed into hospital with appendicitis last week and has been signed off for six weeks. The only other thing I’ve got is a cast list.’ He ripped a sheet from the clipboard. ‘Mrs Roberts has left the rest up to us.’
‘Oh, sh … shoot.’
‘Exactly. Shoot creek. Paddle-free.’ He handed me the sheet of paper. ‘It gets worse – read that. There are sixty kids.’
I scanned the sheet.
Armadillo – Jack
Bears – Sophie, Emily, Theo, Charlie, Oliver
And so it went on, every letter of the alphabet was covered; there were dolphins and elephants and marmosets and narwhals through to unicorns, yaks and zebus.
‘Oh, dear God and who organises the costumes?’
He looked at me. ‘We do.’
The end of the rehearsal couldn’t come quick enough. We managed to hook up my iPhone to the school sound system and had the children singing along very badly to Crocodile Rock. Thankfully, according to the snapshot of script we had, the crocodiles only had to sing one verse but even so I cringed. The words didn’t even come close to relating to Christmas.
As the children of Oak and Apple classes trooped back to their respective classrooms, I heaved a sigh. Mr Williams had slipped his jacket back on, tucked his tie in his pocket and was now shouldering into a heavy wool pea coat.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ I blurted out.
He nodded warily.
‘What is your name?’
Relief blossomed bright and sudden. ‘It’s Nate. God, I thought you were about to throw in the towel.’
‘Not sure I’m allowed to,’ I said with a disconsolate smile. ‘I’m stuck with it. Thanks to your mother-in-law, I believe.’
‘I’m stuck with it too. I’m a governor and … I promised my daughter I’d help with something. I assumed I’d be on crowd control duty.’
‘I assumed I’d be on Christmas carol duty.’
‘Looks like we’ve both been dropped in it from a bloody great height.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I could murder a coffee. Fancy one? Strategy meeting?’
‘Sounds like a plan.’
‘We’re going to need more than a plan. We’re going to need a Christmas miracle.’
All week the papers had been threatening a cold snap from the east with night-time temperatures expected to be sub-zero. They hadn’t been exaggerating; the light was dimming and the cold air bit sharply at my face with cruel icy teeth as we stepped onto the street. Like a swarm of ants, everyone funnelled out of the school gate and the pavement was now full of small children bobbing along next to adults, their features hidden by hats and scarves and bowed like turtles by the outsize school-logoed backpacks on their backs.
‘Sorry, do you have to work later? I just realised,’ he said, scanning the pavement quickly.
‘I do, but I don’t have to be at the theatre until seven; it’s only three-fifteen … although I’m paranoid about being late.’ Just like the first time we met, we fell into step easily, although there was none of that initial easy flirty banter. Now I knew he had a wife and child.
Your job must be so fascinating. Doing something that you love …’ He let out a self-deprecating laugh. ‘I’m assuming you love it and that it was a passion that has become your job, but maybe not.’
‘Music is my passion and I am incredibly lucky that I do something I love, but it can still be hard work.’
‘I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone that plays in an orchestra before.’
‘It’s still a job at the—’
‘Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!’
A little girl in a sparkly bobble hat that came down to the bridge of her nose, and bundled up in a dark pink down coat like a little wriggling caterpillar, came hurtling towards us and launched herself at Nate, throwing her arms around his hips, almost knocking him over before throwing her head up to look at him. ‘You’re still here! Can you take me home?’
He scooped her up and kissed her on the nose, her legs, in grey tights, hung around his waist, her little black Mary Jane shoes swinging in delight as she clung to his neck, a huge beam on her face.
‘Not just now. I need to speak with Miss Smith, pumpkin.’
Her lower lip poked out in a perfect pout, which Nate ignored.
‘Did you eat all your Weetabix this morning?’ he asked, tapping her scrunched-up nose.
‘Yes –’ she gave a long-suffering eye roll and Nate caught my eye and winked ‘– and my badnana. I was very good today,’ she said with an imperious lift of her head as she patted her father’s face with her wool-gloved hands.
‘Glad to hear it; then you’ll grow big and strong.’
She wrinkled her nose. ‘Do I have to? I don’t want to be strong –’ she pulled a bleurgh nasty medicine face ‘– but I do want to be big, like you.’
He ruffled her hair affectionately and kissed her on the cheek before sliding her down. ‘I think you’re a bit too big to be picked up like this, these days. You weigh as much as a … a camel, I think.’
‘A camel!’ she shrieked in disgust. ‘No, a crocodile,’ she shouted, snapping her teeth in exaggerated bites before collapsing against her dad’s hip, giggling, and then I realised she’d been one of the group on stage.
A small, rather dumpy woman with an unexpectedly plain face came bustling up.
‘Grace, don’t run off like that,’ she scolded in a heavy Eastern European accent.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Nate, ‘she’s safe.’ But he turned to the little girl and shook his head. ‘She’s right – you shouldn’t go running off, even if you do see someone you know. It’s not fair to whoever’s looking after you, is it?’
‘Sorry,’ said Grace, looking suitably contrite, and she leaned towards the woman and gave her a kiss on the cheek.
The woman’s face lit up and she patted Grace on the head with a gentle, familiar touch. ‘No worries, little one.’
‘Can I come with you?’ asked Grace, turning back to her dad and latching onto his hand, looking up at him with the most hopeful, irresistible pleading look.
I laughed and Grace looked my way, her eyes wide in innocent enquiry.
‘Svetlana, this is Viola; she’s helping with the nativity play. And we really need to go and talk about it.’
That