Page 37 of Not Just for Christmas

‘So you need a favour, Mrs Wheeler?’ Dylan said to the head teacher, wishing she wasn’t escorting him quite so enthusiastically from the school hall.

He couldn’t tell how many sets of eyes were on him, but it was a lot. He was used to people looking at him, it sort of went with the job, but not like this, like he was trying to force his way into the gig without a ticket. I was invited, he felt like telling everyone.

‘Indeed. This is very cheeky of us, but it was too good an opportunity to miss, Mr Wilde.’ Mrs Wheeler twinkled her eyes at him.

‘Call me Dylan please, and you are?’

‘Mrs Wheeler.’ She gave him a no-nonsense smile.

‘Got it.’ He was going to charm his way into finding out her first name if it took him all day. ‘So ask away.’

‘It’s our donkey.’ She shook her head fondly. ‘As is often the way.’

‘The donkey?’ He blinked at her.

‘And one of the sheep,’ she added. ‘Nausea, tears, endless toilet trips … we thought you might have some tips. I think Mary’s having a wobble too.’

‘Stage fright, the show, right.’ He grinned. ‘For a second there I thought we were talking about livestock. Not my area of expertise, I’ve already been closer to cows than I normally like today.’

Up ahead he could hear the sound of kids chattering and shouting and women’s voices trying to shush them.

Mrs Wheeler stopped abruptly, pulled out her phone and flicked it to camera. ‘Selfie?’

‘Er, sure?’ said Dylan as Mrs Wheeler checked her teeth for lipstick, smooshed her face to his and took a selfie of them.

‘Thanks. I saw you in Berlin. Queued for hours in the rain. You were marvellous.’

‘I remember you,’ Dylan teased, pinching his brow between his fingertips. ‘Amanda, right?’

‘Nice try,’ she gave him a sly smile. ‘Anyway, it’s always the same story. As soon as the children see the hall filling up with their loved ones, some get the collywobbles. Would you have a word, perhaps share some of your wisdom? Tell them how you deal with nerves before a performance.’

‘Well, Angela …?’

‘Not even warm.’

‘A pre-show beer and a shoulder massage usually works for me.’

‘I’m sure it does,’ Mrs Wheeler said, pressing a hand to her warm cheek. ‘But maybe something more child-friendly in your pep talk.’

‘Got it. I’m an expert when it comes to handling nerves. But any chance of a coffee? Extra shot, no milk?’

‘Leave it with me while I hand you over to Miss Cooper.’

Mrs Wheeler led him past classrooms to a crowded cloakroom. The space was piled with a tangle of school uniforms, crates full of props, children in their costumes and adults doing up shoes, tying up hair and in the case of Sam’s teacher, comforting several trembling children. It was hot, noisy and chaotic, the atmosphere shimmering with excitement. It took Dylan straight back to his own school days thirty or so years ago.

‘Uncle Dylan!’ A flash of brown tunic barrelled into him and clasped him tightly. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Dude,’ Dylan replied, tipping the boy’s head back to check it was in fact Sam. Blue eyes, freckled nose, missing tooth at the bottom which had given him the cutest hint of a lisp. ‘Just coming to check you’re all good.’

‘Oh my …’ Miss Cooper tried to stand up, peeling limpet-like children from her legs. ‘Dylan. Gosh. Massive fan, massive.’

A little girl with what looked like a cushion hidden under her blue gown took a step behind her teacher, tears brimming in her wide eyes. ‘I want my mum.’

‘So do I,’ murmured Miss Cooper. ‘She’s a fan of yours too, as is my sister.’

Mrs Wheeler clapped her hands and the children immediately snapped to attention. ‘Now listen, everyone, we have a special guest who has got an important message for you.’ She gestured to him. ‘Shall we give a big clap for Mr Wilde?’

While the kids all clapped with great enthusiasm, the head teacher marched away, and Dylan made a space for himself on the bench.