'Herod’s catapult has been confiscated': The Nativity play that might be alright on the night

It is the morning of the Nativity service in the village of Stockington-on-the-Moor and the Angel Gabriel has tonsillitis. The vicar’s wife, Mrs Cranberry, a retired drama teacher whose annual lot it is to direct proceedings, receives the disappointed parental call with weary resignation and wonders if she dares promote nine-year-old Carolla from her role as First Shepherd. The child is reserved, but possesses a sweet, true singing voice that would make angels weep.

Mrs Cranberry’s thoughts are also occupied by the mildly troubling issue of Herod, a country boy who has taken to inhabiting his part as the baddie of the story a little too keenly (‘Why can’t I bring a gun? Herod would definitely have had one, probably a Purdey’). ‘No, Joey, it’s all right. Get down from the pulpit, please. Mary and Joseph don’t want to be hit by a rocket.’

Mary is insisting that her Baby Jesus doll (‘He’s actually called Bruce, not Jesus’) wears a Batman outfit (‘He feels comfortable in it, Mrs Cranberry, and he’s out of nappies now’), and the innkeeper, son of the landlord at the Boar’s Head, has an unnerving tendency to ad lib: ‘You’ll love Room 8, Mary — it’s got a free-standing bath.’ Other minor crises include the loss of a tooth by one of the wise men, his piping ‘I bring francinthenth’ slightly diminishing the sense of occasion, a double booking by the organist (‘So sorry, I didn’t realise the St Agnes’s Nine Lessons and Carols was on this evening’) and the mislaying of a hearing aid by Mr Manger, genius creator of props. ‘I said let’s put the star above the door, not out on the moor… Oh, don’t worry, don’t worry.’

The tradition at Stockington — some would say high-risk strategy — has always been for real animals to attend the crib. This has led to some memorable incidents, including the accidental release of a ferret smuggled in by a previous Herod and a pet bantam noisily laying an egg underneath the altar. However, it is a policy that does at least mean there is no sulky inhabiting of the stifling rear end of a pantomime ox. Instead, Mrs Cranberry’s cast will include a real donkey, a sheep and an alpaca, the latter playing the part of the Three Wise Men’s camel and looking snooty in a gold paper crown. The long-suffering church warden, Mr Lamb, will be on duty with a shovel — it’s only a stone floor after all, and it doesn’t do any harm to provide urban incomers with a reality check.

Stockington’s Nativity is a rather far cry from the Cambridge Footlights with Sirs Nick Hytner and Stephen Fry, but Mrs Cranberry has never been one for dwelling on her brief RSC career, which ended when a young clergyman fell in love with her Ophelia at Stratford. She has long been content gently to encourage children’s talents to flower, at the same time as being marvellously firm with pushy parents and effortlessly batting off tiresome political correctness. She pulls on her Fair Isle beanie and walking boots and sets off to retrieve the Angel Gabriel outfit, a masterpiece of sequins, fruitcage netting and wire coathangers, from its stricken wearer. She has been wrestling with whether it would be best to spring the solo on Carolla in church — apparently, that’s what cathedral choirmasters do, to prevent the chosen child from becoming too nervous — but decides that would be unfair.

She arrives at Mistletoe Farm to find Carolla out on the quad feeding sheep with her father, Dave. Her co-shepherds, Stevie, seven, and Cas, five, are busy doing last-minute training of their star sheep, Frosty, who they insist doesn’t need a halter and will follow a bucket. This provides a great opportunity for a quiet word with their mother, Holly, who is in the kitchen, pulling yet another tray of mince pies out of the Aga.

‘I really think Carolla can do the solo,’ says Mrs Cranberry. ‘I’m hoping that she won’t have time to be nervous now and she’s got such a lovely voice.’

‘Well, it would be a wonderful boost for her and will make a change from worrying about what her little brothers are up to,’ replies Holly, retrieving clean striped tea towels from the linen basket for the junior shepherds to wear on their heads. ‘She so enjoys her music. We’d love her to go to a school where she could have some proper lessons, but everything’s so uncertain with farming right now and the fees are just beyond us at the moment.’

Listening to this, an idea occurs to Mrs Cranberry, but she keeps it to herself so as not to raise false hope. Back at the vicarage, she makes a telephone call. ‘Nick, I know you’ve got wall-to-wall services, and I’m sorry to be a pain, but I don’t suppose you could bear to play a few carols at our nativity? We’ve had the organ repaired since last time, I promise. Pleeaase! There’s mulled wine and a pheasant casserole in it for you.’

It is 4.45pm and the congregation, well layered against the lack of heating, with the odd hip flask of sloe gin nestled in pockets, is trooping towards the little 13th-century shepherds’ church, which is magically silhouetted in moonlight against the rising moorland, its windows twinkling with cheery yellow candlelight. Inside are magnificent swags of holly, jam jars of mistletoe and hellebores and the delicious aroma of mulled wine, hot chocolate and sausage rolls.

The cast is assembling outside. Miss Snow the smallholder has fluffed up the white coat of her prize alpaca, Sprout, who is well used to being the centre of attention as he is getting all sorts of employment as a ‘tranquillity animal’, visiting nursing homes and the like. Less reliable is Lord and Lady Berry’s elderly donkey, Carrots — Mrs Cranberry’s one concession to health and safety is for Carrots to be led into church, rather than ridden; Mary and baby Jesus being neatly bucked off is still fresh in the memory.

Herod’s catapult has been confiscated — the lisping wise man split on him: ‘He’s trying to hurt Baby Jethuth’ — Joseph has trodden in alpaca dung and the shepherds, tea towels slipping over eyes, have lost control of Frosty the sheep, who is cantering, sans halter, around the gravestones. Holly carefully tweaks Carolla’s golden tinsel halo and straightens her wings: ‘Just pretend you’re out in the fields singing to the lambs and it will be lovely.’

It is 5.30pm, and all has gone surprisingly smoothly. Mr Lamb’s shovel has been redundant, Herod and Joseph, suddenly overawed, stuck to their scripts, Carrots and Frosty behaved with solemnity and Carolla’s pure rendering of Once in Royal David’s City caused eyes to glisten.

Mrs Cranberry taps Holly on the shoulder. ‘Holly, Dave — I’d like you to meet my good friend Nick, who has been an absolute saint. He’s the choirmaster at St Wenceslas’s Cathedral school. He’s recruiting choristers, all fees paid. He’d like to have a chat.’