When a Child is Born by Sally Angell, Chinotto

We’re here. What a trek! I can’t believe it.  So exciting. My brothers have been plotting the charts and checking calculations for months.  Now, after all the preparations and tribulations, we have been led to this destination, to witness a momentous birth.

       So why this sense of unease? I’m tired of course, so it could be nothing. I take a short nap but still can’t settle. While my brothers stay at our lodgings, I decide to venture out.

      ‘Don’t gossip,’ Balthasar had warned, as I exchanged my robes for common clothes. In other words; You’re a woman. Don’t loosen your tongue.

      We have travelled far, from a land that has fair relations with this country. But even my brothers do not know exactly where the special star in their predictions will direct us. There was much discussion when we arrived just outside the city walls, about whether we had got the right location.

     ‘The Heavens don’t lie.’ Caspar insisted. And Balthasar agreed.

      They are educated and men of learning, and have studied in all the sciences, and I too have much knowledge.

      Out on the streets, people are buzzing. Change is afoot and they know it.

I act as a naive girl, but I’m keeping my ears open for information that will help us. There is talk everywhere of an important census, for which families have journeyed long distances; but when I make light enquiries, there’s nothing about an imminent royal birth. Trying to shake off my mind’s worries, I make my way back to get ready for our appointment.

      We have been invited to meet with the king of this country we are visiting, due to my brothers’ high social positions. We know little about him, except that his name is Herod, and he is the king of Judea.  

 

‘King Herod will see you now.’ The palace is gorgeous, but there’s so much security. I thought we’d never get past the guards. They were speaking sharply to each other (not realizing I speak many languages) about the need for caution, with Herod getting so nervous because of enemies that are trying to oust him. So we’ve had to go through many questions, but here we are.    

      I’m in awe. My brothers go first and I follow. I sense Herod is uneasy. He keeps rubbing his face until red marks appear. But he welcomes us, and leads us to an inner sanctum.

    ‘So where is he, the new born king of the Jews?’ Casper asks, bowing low. ‘We have come to honour him.’

    Herod sits down. He does not look well. One of his advisers bends forward to speak in his ear. The king tells us to be seated, and someone will bring refreshments. Then both men leave the chamber. We wait.

      When Herod comes back, we learn that this is not the location of the  birth. Bethlehem, a smaller place, not far, his advisers are saying. That’s where we should look.

      ‘And when you find him, you must return to tell me,’ Herod insists. ‘So I too can pay homage to him.’

      Why do I shiver?

 

‘This can’t be the right place.’ I’m exhausted. My brothers have looked at their maps, and there is a star we have been following that seems to have stopped over an inn. I had a word with the landlord, and we have been led round the back.

      ‘Look!’ The star is blindingly bright, illuminating figures inside the outhouse. And a cry rings out. Inside, as I step forward to bring my gift, earthy scents overwhelm me, of the animals and bodily smells, mixed with the sweet balm of the oils in my hand.

      I see the mother is just a girl. There’s blood on her gown, and she’s crying. But energy dances in her face. There’s magic when a child is born. I’ve seen it before. Parents’ hopes and dreams for the new life, remembered from their own beginnings of time. How they will grow, who they will become.

      There cannot be any doubt that this is he. Jesus, his mother whispers.There’s a strange, unearthly light that’s different from the star, and its coming from the baby himself. We are elated, my brothers and I. It will soon be daybreak, and we must head back to Jerusalem with the good news. We have drinks in the back room of the inn.

      I must have fallen asleep, and I don’t know if it was vision or dream, but the three of us woke shaking with fear. We have been told not to go back to Herod.

      The soldiers will be out when Herod realizes we are not coming back. So we leave by a back road, and lie low until we feel it is safe to return back home. I keep thinking of the girl, and the older man with her, and the danger they’re in. And most of all their son. What have we done? What will become of him?

 

Years later a woman is travelling through the region when she hears that a Jesus of Nazareth who has performed miracles and says he is the son of God, the king of the Jews, has been arrested and sentenced to death.

      And she starts to remember.

About the author

  

Sally Angell has always loved writing. She has won competitions and had short stories in magazines and anthologies. She has run writers groups, and been involved with library activities in Northamptonshire. She likes to explore the truth of emotions and the possibilities of words in her writing. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

Mother Christmas Sally Angell, black coffee

The tree near the town clock twinkled. A figure, teatowel on head, and carrying a crook, hurried to his Christmas play. Red-nosed singers belted out carols on an icy street corner. And the delicious scent of cinnamon drifted from a hot mince pie stand. All the mood-boosting reminders of magical possibilities, in the run up to the big day.

     But Amy saw it all through a grey veil No magic, no joy. And the question circled endlessly in her mind.

      What am I going to do?

      The children were hyper. Bribed with sweets, they were sky-high on sugar. But she’d had to find a way of making them sit still in the depressing room they’d just come out of. The upset in Mia’s voice rang in her head.

      ‘I don’t like it in here, Mummy.’

      Me neither. Amy tried to shake off the last half hour. She just had to grab a few offers from the bargain store, and then face the walk home. No money for bus fare.She couldn’t wait to get away from the seasonal razzmatazz.

      The children spotted it first, were drawn like a magnet. Amy recognized the small building next to Card Factory. The Newborough Centre resented retail spaces left empty, so this was used as a hub for various purposes. Today’s was obvious, from the board outside; the manically beaming smile, red coat, beard, a sack of presents. Santa’s Grotto. A mother’s dread. Excited kids were trying to get in.

      Ignoring the howls, Amy marched her two past.

      ‘Not today.’

      Shit shit shit. Wilf was screwing up his face: I’m going to lie down on the floor and scream.

      Amy flinched at reactions from passing strangers. ‘These millennial mums,’ the smug looks said. ‘Can’t control their crotch fruit.’ Message received. Bad mother.

      ‘Excuse me, madam.’ A hand clamped her shoulder. A man’s voice. What now?

      Inside Santa’s abode it was cold and gloomy. On the wall someone had scratched out the last letter of Grotto and replaced it. And yes, this dive was indeed grotty. There was a tatty square of carpet on the floor, and some old-style lights drooped on a tree, although most of the bulbs weren’t working.

      ‘Santa’s had a stroke!’

      Amy’s ambusher had been in a panic. He needed someone to grotto-sit (you don’t mind do you?) while he checked on his pensioner employee (aka Santa), who’d been removed via the rear door, to an ambulance outside the Centre.

     Amy did mind. Not my monkey. Not my story. But he’d gone.

     A woman’s head poked in the back entrance of the grotto. The front door was fastened. The thumps from outside echoed painfully with each heartbeat. She wished she was anywhere else. A notice had been taped to the board outside. Santa gone to feed reindeer. Back soon.

      The woman came in, dragged by a small boy in reins.

      ‘I just need to sit down. Little bugger  refused to come out unless I promised Santa. I can’t go another step.’

      ‘I know.’ Amy sighed. I know.

      Mia and Wilf had pounced on the Lucky dip, and seized two packages. Oh can we open them. Can we?

      Well, why not?

      Opposite Santa’s stool, where Amy was perched, greetings cards were tacked to the wall, one a nativity scene. The usual players were gathered, and in the centre, the new mother. Mary sat there in her impossibly pristine sapphire blue dress, just after giving birth in an outbuilding, a stable. The straw was shiny and golden, the animals clean and beaming. Of course it was image, not reality. Amy knew that. Like the pretence mothers have to keep up. A secret club. Only we know what it’s really like.

      Amy gazed at Mary as if the radiant figure would give her an answer. A way out of her predicament.

      ‘You don’t look so good.’ She realized the woman with the boy was speaking.

      That did it. The whole drama replayed; the split from her partner a few weeks ago.. and her parents were living abroad so… the cost of the private rental…needing a job.

      A cough interrupted her flow. Grotto man again. How long had he been there, earwigging? Her confidante untied the boy’s reins, and charged out after him, with a thumbs up to Amy.

      Grotto man rubbed his face, leaving an angry mark. ‘Santa, I mean Brian, is being admitted for tests.’

      Amy almost envied Brian. What she wouldn’t give for a lie down. Her body thought she’d done a day’s work already. Don’t think about work. Her schoolboy job adviser hadn’t laughed when he asked about her employment history. But she wouldn’t have blamed him. This woman with egg down her coat didn’t look as if she could manage anything, never mind the sales department of a well-known store.

      Amy struggled up.

      ‘Wait,’ grotto man said awkwardly. ‘Thanks for stepping in. I owe you.’

      Amy shrugged.

      ‘The name’s Ben. Actually, I have a proposition for you.’

      Not likely. Amy got ready to tell him what to do with his suggestion. But why not? She’d be sitting down. And the children were happy, playing in a corner with a tall man in an Elf teeshirt.

      ‘Security.’ Ben tapped his nose. ‘From the office upstairs.’

      But why would they need someone for that? Oh! Anyone working with kiddies had to be supervised.

      ‘What a world we live in!’ Amy addressed Mary silently, mother to mother. And she would know about that, a young girl who had lived in uncertain times, her son’s very life in danger from a king who meant him harm. It put things in perspective. Amy made a decision.

      ‘Throw in coffee, hot chocolates, sandwiches, some paracetemol, and it’s a deal.’ She’d skipped breakfast. Not enough milk.

      Five minutes later Amy was climbing into a too-big red costume. The sleeves hung down over her wrists. Luckily the beard and the wig were separate, so the pile of white curls was plonked on her head. Best not to think who had worn it before.

      Was this a good idea? But cash in hand, he’d promised. It wouldn’t be much, but if she stuck it out, hopefully enough for a proper present for each of the children. And some festive treats. There was a quick debate about her role. Santa’s Missus? Ms Claus?

      The amended poster on the board outside now read:

      SPECIAL   MOTHER CHRISTMAS!  ONE DAY ONLY

      Elf was seated just inside the grotto, at a table, ready to take the three pounds each for the chance to see Mother Christmas, and a Lucky Dip present. Ben unlatched the door and the queue of eager mini-customers stampeded in. Amy swallowed a paracetemol, and forced her mouth into a toothpaste-advert smile. Deep breath. Now.

      ‘And what do you want Santa to bring you for Christmas?’

      A whisper and a grubby hand dived into the bucket.

      ‘And what do you want…?’

      Ben scrutinized for a minute, then left. He’d be back at Closing.

 

 ‘La – a – arst Christmas!’

      Amy and Elf screeched to canned music from outside, loud in the afternoon lull, and giggled. In Amy’s case, more of a struggle for air. Because it wasn’t funny. Last year. It seemed another world, a different planet. What had been and what is. Don’t think about it. Stay in the now.

      She had her children. They were what mattered. Wilf was asleep on the floor, Mia crayoning. Amy glanced over at the mother, father and baby on the card she’d been eyeballing all day to keep awake. There was trusty Joseph, keeping watch over his new family. And he wasn’t even the daddy.

      ‘Have you met modern man, Mary?’

      Amy had cancelled the date, arranged on an app in a bad moment when she’d wanted to remember what it felt like to be a woman, as well as a mum. But it wasn’t the right time.

       A vibration made her jump. She fished out her phone from under the red coat. An email: further to your interview today…… after time period…. sanctions..benefit reduced.

      No. that wasn’t correct. They hadn’t said that!

      How to keep going? But mothers had to. Even that innocent girl led into early parenthood, all those centuries ago.

      ‘Ready?’ Elf checked, gently, as he unlatched the door for another lot of parents and their offspring.  

They’d all gone. The grotto was quiet, just Amy and the children.  She needed to get them home. Elf had been summoned to the office. Criminal gangs were targeting the Centre, stealing the Christmas stock.

      She could just go too. The box with the day’s takings was on the table. Not a fortune, but enough to see her through, until she’d sorted something out

She could just tip the cash into her shopper. They’d blame the gangs.

      Amy walked over to the table. She saw her hand pick up the box. She paused. Don’t take anything that isn’t yours, she’d taught the children. But she herself had played by the book and look at that fiasco.

      Wilf woke up. Mia was staring at her with huge eyes.

      Amy slowly put the box down, just as Ben swung in, to close up. He looked at her steadily, and she got ready to leave.

      ‘Wait.’

      He sifted through the takings and handed over the amount agreed for the hours. And added another note. Something else. He had a shop on the High Street, staff vacancies for after the holiday. If she was interested?

      Another decision. A hundred difficulties. But Mia was down for pre-school in the New Year, a crèche might take Wilf. It was a start. An energy surged through Amy. Somehow she would cope, because that’s what mothers did. They came to the edge, they dug deep inside, and they found resources and a strength they didn’t know they had.

      As Amy left the grotto, the card on the wall tipped forward. The light caught Mary’s face. And could that be…? Amy was sure it was.

      A wink.

About the auhtor

Sally Angell has had her writing published in magazines and anthologies, and read on radio. She has run writing groups and been involved with writing activities in Northamptonshire. Living a quieter life now, Sally has time to observe life and write more stories. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

September Blues by Sally Angell, bitter lemon soda with honey

 She’s late. Of course she is. One day I’ll give her a taste of her own tardiness and see if she likes it, sitting there waiting like a Mrs-no-mates.

      We’ve arranged to meet, have a catch-up, and browse round the shops. That’s today sorted. My diary pages are as blank as my mind. I did have an entry for this evening, Back to Camera Club gave me a purpose, but my lift cancelled. He can’t make it. So a quick call to friend Jenny last night meant I have something to occupy my day.

      She couldn’t do later on unfortunately. Mornings are tricky for me, as I find social interaction difficult before lunch. But I needed to get out. The wooden seats in the precinct are taken when I get there so I have to lean against the Home Bargains window until a couple get up and move on.Then it’s bum on seat, and spreading my bags to save the space next to me.

      The heat through the high transparent roof is sickly and I’m zonked. It’s like that song: “Nothing older than time, nothing sweeter than wine – nothing physically, recklessly hopelessly mine - nothing rhymes.”

      I know. It’s the end of the summer holidays. My children and grandkids are all going back to busyness, and their lives. We did go away, but the trains were delayed and muddled, which was stressful. Still, apart from all the crying and sunstroke, it was a change, and I didn’t have time to think.

      A shout breaks into my doze. ‘Joy!’     

      And here she comes, at a snail’s pace, up the mall. “Well, don’t hurry yourself,” I mutter as Jenny stops and puffs. I remove my bag and she lowers herself into the space beside me. Still a bit of a squeeze, with all the people from the sheltered housing flats round the corner sitting like statues for hours. It’s frightening.

      ‘I can’t stay long,’ Jenny announces.

      Typical! Swans up according to her own body clock, and then has to go. Talk about a sense of entitlement.

      ‘No retail therapy then?’

      ‘Well I need some comfy slip-ons We could pop into the shoe place.’

      By the time we have popped into Shoes 4 Us, (her trying on the whole lot, me leaning, sweating, against the shelves), she’s fussing about her next appointment.

      Then she’s gone. I am left even more alone and unlistened to than before. I click on my phone but all that comes up is a meme, telling me to fill my heart with gratitude. I should be thankful. Give thanks. Er - for what, exactly?

      ‘I’ve missed my bus.’

      I jump. She’s back, Jenny, moaning she’ll have to get a taxi.

      ‘My daughter’s starting chemo this afternoon. She needs her mummy with her.’

      Jenny hasn’t got a mobile. No, really. So I phone for a cab and wave her off, calling Good Luck after it.

      I decide to go into the pocket park down a side road to calm down and sort my head, before trekking back. It will be getting on when I reach my front door, then there’s the radio, a nap perhaps before supper and the telly drama.

      A woman with a toddler rushes by, rams me with the buggy, shouts, ‘Come on, Hermione! We have to get to the food bank before it closes.’

      I turn into the sidewalk. My phone pings.

      “Sorry about tonight,” the text reads. “I’m in hospital. Had an operation.”

      Winded, I sit down on a bench in the park in the quiet; because I can. Neither I nor my children are having chemo; I can afford to eat well; I haven’t got to have surgery which would leave me in pain.

      The warm sun kisses my shoulders. There will still be moments. But I can draw strength here, now, from the tall shady trees, smell the sweetness of the grass. And breathe.

 

About the author

 Sally Angell has had her writing published in magazines and anthologies. Now she has time to observe life and continues to enjoy getting ideas and writing stories. 

 

 Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)