Monday: The final week of term and the first rehearsal of the carol concert - written, arranged and led by our head. Before we begin she speaks softly to the children about the frenetic nature of Christmas preparations and how, when things go wrong, it is better to stay calm.
Our ancillary, a lady of talent and fortitude, picks out the tune of the opening carol with two fingers, which is one more than the rest of us can manage. The children do well with the first verse but are fading fast by the third. “It will be better by Friday”, the head says firmly. I mentally adjust the afternoon timetable and remind myself to stay calm.
Tuesday: Rehearsal first thing minus the head who is called away to speak to two new families. I stand before the assembled school and lurch into the first carol. It is immediately clear how everyone spent yesterday afternoon. No head reappears so I make encouraging noises and congratulate the recently arrived Venezualian and Pakistani girls for their quick grasp of new words. The head sweeps in, bringing an Indian Hindu, newly arrived off the plane and, with parental approval, straight into their first British experience, the Christmas practise. “Don’t worry”, I tell them brightly, “just stay calm”.
Wednesday: The first carol sounds really good now but staff seem to be losing their voices. Christmas colds or too much classroom singing? I assume the timetable has been abandoned completely to the learning of words. The head has decided that the top infants should speak - loudly. They have words to learn and a microphone to pass along one to the other. The words arrive on strips of paper. The literary challenged begin to look strained. Their teacher begins to look strained. “Stay calm”, I hiss.
Thursday: The singing is about right now but the speakers are having problems. The microphone inhibits some while others fight for possession. In the middle of one particularly moving speech, the end drops off. The child stops and stares in guilty horror. His teacher nudges him and the ancillary grovels on the floor for the missing part. “Carry on Simon”, calls the head, perhaps a little too cheerfully, “just stick it back on”.
“But there are bits of wire sticking out, Miss,” offers Simon. Teacher and ancillary grab at the mike and I go for the off switch. Calm, stay calm.
Friday: The hall is full of mums with toddlers, grans with hankies, and dads with camcorders. The microphone has been replaced and the Year 3 teacher knows everyone’s words by heart. Staff are telling each other it’s nearly all over and there is wine in the fridge for later. Karly is crying because her mum can’t come and I’m trying to explain the meaning of a carol service to a bemused overseas parent.
A mum confronts me. She is holding a huge poinsettia. “My Jason says you’re his best teacher and he likes the songs you learned him.” My throat dries and my eyes prickle. A startled Jason is clutched to my bosom.
The ancillary ducks in to say we’re late for the hall. I lead the class down the stairs, smiling inanely, Christmas calm and goodwill filling my soul.
May you have a peaceful one.
Rosalind Peacocke lives in Camberley, Surrey.
