Page 70 of Five Gold Rings
‘We’re in church, I think he might have heard that,’ I tell her.
She giggles. ‘Don’t make me laugh either because then I will piss myself proper and I’m dressed in light blue. There’s no hiding that in pastels.’
‘I promise, wifey. Just get you away from Herod and entertain our guests.’
‘Not my uncle with the myrrh? I never know what to do with myrrh,’ she jests.
‘Straight to the charity shop, no?’
She looks me up and down, still trying to work me out. ‘Well, Joseph. I appreciate you loaning out your services today. Could you do up my shoelace?’ she asks me, and I bend down to see that she’s in Reeboks. I don’t know you, fake wife, but I like how practical you are, since we have a long night of walking ahead. I do up the lace and stand up straight again.
‘It will be my honour to be that baby’s fake father for fifteen minutes.’
I put a protective hand to my unborn child but lo and behold, a person suddenly appears next to us with a real-life baby. No pushing, no blood, not even crying, possibly wearing Pampers. Mary didn’t even break a sweat. It really is a Christmas miracle.
‘Oh no, you’re this baby’s father, too,’ she says, handing me a real-life child, swaddled in white flannel sheets.
‘Yours?’ I ask Mary.
‘Nope.’
I don’t know this baby and look around for its parent. I’m not your daddy, mate, but you are a cute baby. You have big cartoon eyes. I cradle him and he looks up at me. Hey, Son of God. He pulls a face and whimpers, but I start to sway and reassure him until he looks back at me and laughs. I know. We don’t look alike one bit. I’d question the parentage, too.
‘Someone’s got a fan club,’ Mary mumbles under her breath.
I look up and see a row of bridesmaids stood, looking over at me. Oh. Hi. I haven’t stolen this baby if that’s what they’re thinking but I also see Eve watching and hold the baby into the air. Look, I’m a proper dad now. And I have a… donkey?
‘Whatcha.’ A grown man in a donkey onesie comes over and shakes my hand, a roll of gaffer tape in his other hand.
‘Joseph.’
‘Obviously. I’m Donnie,’ he tells me. ‘Mary,’ he says, nodding to my wife. ‘You hopping on?’ he asks her.
Mary shakes her head, blushing and slapping his arm. ‘You’re the donkey? Is this some sort of joke?’
‘Aunty J obviously thought I had the right credentials for the part,’ he says, flexing his arms.
'What would they be then?’ I ask.
Donnie smirks.
Mary shakes her head at him. ‘Yeah, he’s a king ass. Come on, you two, Bethlehem is calling.’
‘I have brought you frankfurters,’ a mini King says, laying a gold box next to the crib on this church stage and the crowd murmur with laughter. I hope he bought buns, too. ‘I bring myrrh,’ another king says to me, and my Mary looks at me sniggering. Yep, we will put that to one side for the New Year.
I can’t lie. I’ve done some ridiculous things over the last two days, but this may be one of my favourite things I’ve subjected myself to so far this Christmas. I feel powerful playing Joseph. I think we overlook his role as guardian and protector far too much. And I’ll admit there is some sort of magic to be had in this church, too. From the majestic tree to the candles to the red and white wedding flowers that line the pews and altar. I have to admit, too, that I’m enjoying bringing the amateur drama to this wedding. It’s a homely inclusive put-together nativity: pet-shop hay strewn across the altar, the hand-cut stars stuck to the curtains, the kids sat cross-legged to the front, dressed as lambs, picking their noses. There have been gaps throughout to belt out some Christmas carols, sung at such volume it would possibly take the windows off this place. I don’t sing obviously, I mime with boyband feeling which makes Eve, seven pews back, giggle. Christmas is here. Eve is still here, too. As we all take our final tableau positions forAway in a Manger, I see her singing along, watching, smiling. I try not to stare. How do you turn off feelings for someone? I really wish I knew.
‘Joseph, be a babe and grab Jesus for me,’ Mary tells me. I feel like she would have said that a lot to her man. Oh, we’re done. I do as I’m told as people clap and cheer loudly and I hold my fake son to my chest, swaddled in his white flannelette smock and robes. We filter off the stage and I make a beeline for Eve, looking around to see if anyone wants to claim this baby. I only agreed to do this father thing temporarily.
‘It’s OK, buddy. I got you.’ Jesus doesn’t seem too bothered and places his palms face down on my chest, finding warmth and shutting his eyes. I scooch over next to Eve, who is looking curiously at me.
‘You have a baby…’
‘I do. Such is the nature of the nativity,’ I say wisely.
‘Does he have a name?’ she asks, pulling the blanket over to cover one of his chubby legs.
‘He’s not told me. I’m going with Jesus,’ I say, leaning my head back to examine his face. ‘I’ll know for sure if he starts turning the water into wine later on in the reception.’