The Christmas Play
By Martin Lake

My father went to the door, returning to the living room to say that a woman was asking for me. Surprised, I went into the kitchen. On the doorstep was a woman who I guessed to be in her late twenties. ‘I’ve come to see if you can help me,’ she said.

I asked her to come in, catching the scent of her perfume as she stepped close.

‘I’m putting on a medieval mystery play for Christmas,’ she said before she had even sat down, ‘and need to get together an acting troupe. Your drama tutor at college thought you might be interested and also that you might know other people who could join.’ She held out her hand. ‘My name’s Susan Green.’

I didn’t question that my tutor would so cavalierly give my name and address to a stranger. At least not one as captivating as Susan Green. She had a pretty face with flawless skin, dark eyes and jet-black hair. Even better, she spoke in a breathy voice and her breasts swelled in time with her words. I must have been mesmerised by this movement for I immediately agreed to help.

‘So, is this a nativity play?’ I asked, trying and failing to avert my eyes from her chest. ‘With shepherds and angels? Like little kids perform in school?’

‘We will start with the birth of our Lord but much of the play is about his life, death and resurrection.’

‘Can I play one of the Three Kings?’ I asked.

She peered at me, thoughtfully. ‘I imagine you in other roles, to be honest.’

My friends at the drama club were reluctant to join a temporary group to perform a medieval play in a church in the middle of winter. But their doubts evaporated when they met Susan.

She lived in a semi-detached house with her husband, Peter. She overwhelmed us with her enthusiasm. She gushed and giggled and clearly demonstrated her passion for the play. My friends agreed to take part there and then.

She clapped with joy and proceeded to hand out tea and cakes. For some strange reason she waited until we had cups and plates in our hands before coming round with a bowl of sugar. As none of us had free hands, she was obliged to put the sugar in our cups and stir.

She had to bend over to do so. She was wearing a very low-cut dress.

I had recently given up sugar but told her that I wanted two spoonfuls. My friends asked for three.

At the end of the evening, Susan told me with much earnest heaving of her bosom that she was eternally grateful for my help. ‘I’d never have put the group together without you.’ I blushed terribly.

We spent the next three months freezing to death rehearsing in a village church. Susan was the only thing giving out any heat - which more than compensated for the cold.

I was not cast as one of the Kings, nor even as a shepherd or donkey. Instead I had two parts in the scenes concerning Easter, the Second Torturer and Judas Iscariot. Type-cast my friends said.

On Christmas Eve, the night of the first performance, we struggled into our costumes in the nearby vicarage. I shivered with cold as I crossed the graveyard in my threadbare medieval gown.

Susan rushed over to me the moment I stepped inside. ‘There’s been a problem,’ she said. ‘The Three Kings have been arrested for drug-dealing and violent affray at the Scrabble Club. Apparently, there was a turf war between them and some school dinner-ladies. It got very ugly, with flick-knives and knuckle-dusters.’

‘So, who will take their parts?’

‘I was hoping you would.’

‘But there’s only one of me.’

‘You’ll have to improvise.’

I was to wait for my cue in a broom cupboard at the rear of the church. I was forced to back into it for once inside it was too small for me to turn around. It was fortunate I wasn’t claustrophobic.

I had only been there ten minutes when the door opened. It was Susan, and she wanted to give me some last-minute, absolutely vital stage directions. ‘I’ll have to squeeze in,’ she whispered.

She pressed herself against me, her face so close I breathed in her spearmint breath. She pressed still closer.

I was sixteen for God’s sake and wearing only underpants beneath my gown. My feelings for her loomed large. I bit my lip in embarrassment. Surely, she must be able to feel my feelings looming large against her.

But she was so intent on giving me instructions she seemed oblivious to the looming.

‘Do you understand what I want?’ she whispered.

‘Yes,’ I gulped.

She slid out of the cupboard. I breathed a sigh of relief. Then I groaned. I couldn’t recall a single thing she had said. Every word had been obliterated by the feeling of her warm body pressed against mine.

I opened the door a crack. I heard my cue. Oh no, I thought, suddenly aware of a problem. I couldn’t walk in front of the audience now - my feelings for Susan were still looming visibly beneath the gown. So, I decided to adopt a bent, rather Uriah Heep shuffle as I made my way up the aisle.

I was congratulated by everyone for such an inspired performance. Susan was so delighted she gave me a hug. ‘You’ll have to do the same tomorrow,’ she said.

‘You might need to remind me,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to come and see me in the broom cupboard.’

The things I do for amateur dramatics.

Martin Lake