The winter solstice was drawing near and the staff members of Monks’ Chapel Primary School in Colwyn Bay were planning the forthcoming Nativity play. The subject under discussion was which of the little darlings should be cast in the starring roles. The mood in the staff room was tense.

Miss Laura Lawson, PE and Drama, said, “I won’t tolerate a repeat of last year’s fiasco and I don’t care who we upset, so let’s look through the list of suggestions and make appropriate choices without fear or favour.” Laura was dramatic by nature.

While she was distributing copies of the list, new staff member George Jeffers, Geography, whispered to Rita Reece, Maths, English, and Welsh, “What happened last year?”

She rolled her eyes, “How long have you got?”

“As long as it takes. Spill.”

Rita spilled. “Bribery and corruption all round. Mary was played by a young lady built like a female wrestler and twice the size of Joseph. She got the part because her mother was having a clandestine affair with one of the school governors.”

“Nothing new there,” he said. “Couldn’t you find a more robust Joseph to match? I’ve only been here a few weeks, but I’ve spotted plenty of possible candidates.”

“True enough, but wee Joseph’s dad was the local loan shark and the Head Teacher had a gambling problem and owed him a packet, so he had to keep him sweet.”

Laura was watching the conversation taking place. “There’s no need to whisper, Rita,” she said. “We all need reminding of what happened.” She turned to George. “The problem started a week before the play, when the selected Mary beat up the innkeeper and he bore a grudge.”

The sorry tale unfolded: When Joseph had knocked on the flimsy cardboard door representing the inn, the innkeeper told him in language unbecoming in one so young, to go away and do something physically impossible. Mary broke the fourth wall in more ways than one by kicking down the door and giving him a slap before stomping offstage with Joseph’s head in a stranglehold under one arm, leaving the donkey alone on centre stage. Making the most of the opportunity, the twin boys who provided the donkey’s limbs and innards performed the tap dance they’d been practising at home for weeks. The audience applauded with enthusiasm and made their way home smiling but somewhat confused.

Laura concluded her tale and with purposeful intent picked up her list of candidates.

George said, “We’d better get the twins back in the donkey just in case.”

*     *     *
Meanwhile, Gwynn ap Nudd, king of the Otherworld, was sitting on a layer of stratus above his domain with his one-time-human wife Creiddylad. She was peeling a tangerine and he was trimming his toenails. Their trusty hound Dormarch lay between them, snoring.

Gwynn said, “Yuletide’s approaching, Dyl. It’s time we started planning the Wild Hunt, look you.”

Dyl groaned. “Oh, not again, Gwynn. It’s the same old thing by yur. Couldn’t we go away for Yuletide for a change, like? You knows I gets the urge to visit my old home town occasionally.”

He raised his eyebrows. “And it doesn’t escape my notice that you comes back with a neck covered in hickies, isn’t it?”

She scowled. “Get over yourself, big man, you’re in dangerous waters there. We had a pact. You has your secrets, I has mine, and we don’t stick our noses in.”

Gwynn knew when it was in his best interest to tread carefully. “Fair enough, Dyl, my nose is staying well out, but what about Dormarch? He’ll not want to miss the hunt.”

She glanced at the sleeping hound. “Seems to me he’s more in favour of a quiet life.”

Gwynn shook his head, nudged the hound with his pedicured foot, and said. “You loves the thrill of the chase and tearing the catch to pieces, doesn’t you boyo?”

Dormarch opened one eye, looked from Gwynn to Dyl, and responded with a noncommittal shrug, which isn’t easy for a hound, but this one had considerable talents.

Gwynn saw he’d get no support from that quarter. “You win Dyl. We’ll give the Wild Hunt a miss this year. What’s occurring in Colwyn Bay?”

“I knows where there’ll be a crackin’ party. You up for it?”

“I’m up for it.”

She passed him a segment of her tangerine. “Tidy.”

*     *     *
Gwynn ap Nudd and Creiddylad passed through a portal into the mortal realm, emerging in Meini Hirion, a stone circle situated on the granite slopes behind the town of Penmaenmawr. Gwynn summoned a wisp of Cirrus from the darkening winter sky. They grasped its tail and it carried them along the coast to Colwyn Bay. Following Dyl’s directions the cloud dropped them off outside a long-abandoned army barracks now in use as a community hall for wedding receptions, wakes, and other festivities. A sign on the door read, “Rock You Sinners” and the unmistakeable boom of Bo Diddley rattled the windows.

Gwynn said, “What’s ‘Rock You Sinners’?”

“It’s a rock ‘n’ roll club. Been goin’ since the fifties. Most of the members are in their dotage but they refuses to lie down and die.”

They entered the premises and while their ears were adjusting to the onslaught of sound waves, they surveyed the jiving “sinners.”. Octogenarian Teddy boys had taken their drapes and drainpipes out of mothballs and completed the ensemble with bootlace ties and beetle crushers. The ladies had tied up their thinning locks into ponytails and were resplendent in flared skirts, waspie belts, and shirt-waster blouses with the collars turned up. The DJ, who Dyl informed Gwynn was Whiplash Wilson, known as Whip, followed Mr. Diddley with Little Richard, Chuck Berry, and Jerry Lee, great on the piano but best avoided on a dark night.

The “sinners” rocked and bopped, assisted by surgically augmented hips and knees. Dyl said, “Come on, Gwynn, I’ll teach you how to jive.”

“No need,” he said. “I’ve got the gist.” He swirled her onto the dance floor as Dion Dimucci, the reprobate from The Bronx, belted out his forgotten gem “Hey Suzie” (immortalised on YouTube).

After they stopped for breath, the barmaid, wearing calf-length jeans and Bobbie socks, handed them each a bottle of Newcastle Brown. “From Whip,” she said. “He knows your poison, Dyl, and he figured your man would like the same.” She fluttered her eyelashes at Gwynn and sashayed back behind the bar.

He turned to Dyl. “Don’t we get glasses with it?”

“No, Newky Brown tastes better straight from the bottle.” She nodded to Whip, who saluted them.

Gwynn’s eyes were on the barmaid and Dyl sensed someone else’s eyes were on her. She scanned the floor and found him. He wore Levi’s and a black tee shirt with “Bop Till Ya Drop” emblazoned across the front. She said to Gwynn, “I’m off to say hello to an old friend.” She winked. “The barmaid’s name is Sharon. Have fun.”

She approached the black tee shirt. He said, “It’s been a long time, Dyl. You look as beltin’ as ever.”

“Good to see you, Eddie. You look – old.”

He nodded. “Side affect of being human. I was young and fit at the Yuletide bash 1958, as I remember.”

“Spot on.” She gave a husky laugh. “That was a night not to be forgotten.”

“Yeah, but you kinda took the edge off by tellin’ me Buddy Holly only had six weeks to live.”

She nodded. “Sorry about that. It was insensitive, I grants you.”

“You’re forgiven. Lotta sewage under the bridge since then.”

“Thanks. How is you been, boyo? What’s occurrin’?”

“Life, Dyl. I married a good lady. We’ve got children, grandchildren and two great-grandsons, Aragorn and Theon.” He sighed. “Daft names they give kids in these times. Back in my day we were Eddie, Ronnie, and Mick if we were Scousers and Mancs, or Tegwyn and Llewellyn if we were of the Welsh persuasion.”

She closed her eyes. “I sees them in your mind, Eddie. Crackin’ little lads. Gotta theatrical bent, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, they get picked for the school nativity play every year. They always get the same parts though, front and back end of the donkey. They have good co-ordination with being identical twins. When the other kids try it they have the front and back legs headin’ in different directions.”

“You’ll be goin’ to cheer them on?”

He shook his head. “It was earlier this evening. We only get four tickets for the family. That’s for Mam, Dad, Granny, and Granddad. No room at the inn for Great Granddad Eddie.”

She saw the sadness in his eyes. “No problem. I can take a peek back in time and send it into your mind, isn’t it? Close your eyes and you’ll see what was occurring.”

“Dyl, you’re a star.”

He closed his eyes and they watched together. A fight had broken out on stage. Mary was swinging the plastic baby by its leg and beating Joseph over the head with it. Joseph, heftier than the previous year’s specimen, was retaliating with flying fists. The shepherds and the three wise men were pulverising each other while the angel stood between them trying to stem the violence and getting the worst of it. The donkey trotted clear of the line of fire and began executing a perfectly co-ordinated tap dance. Pre-pubescent voices from the donkey’s innards piped out in close harmony Brenda Lee’s perennial classic “Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree.” The audience clapped and sang along.

“I taught the twins that one,” Eddie said.

Out of curiosity Dyl peeked backstage. The teaching staff, surrounded by empty vodka bottles, were sprawled in various stages of unconsciousness across a heap of demolished theatrical props and backdrops. The only responsible adults left standing were George Jeffers and Rita Reece, who were furthering their acquaintance under the mistletoe.

Dyl broke the psychic link and she and Eddie opened their eyes. She said, “I think we calls that ten points to the donkey, nil points everyone else.”

Eddie said, “I hope they’re always so lucky. It’s a tough world we’ve left those kids, Dyl.”

“I knows that, boyo. I keeps an eye on the mortal realm and I won’t lie to you, it’s not lookin’ good. I think the twins will be okay though. They shows initiative.”

“Could you take a peek into their future, just to make sure?”

“No problem.” She closed her eyes for a few seconds, then opened them and smiled. “By the time they’re twenty-five they’ll be darlings of stage and screen, and when they’re forty-five they’ll be millionaires with their own dance academy. Tidy.”

“That’s good to know. Pity I won’t live to see it.”

“I could grant you the extra years, Eddie,” she said, “but you is on the slippery side of eighty now. Would you really want to grow that much older, like?”

He shook his head. “When you put it that way I’d rather not. I suppose that means tonight is the last time we’ll see each other.”

“Not necessarily. Human souls are recyclable. One day you’ll come back in a new, fit, virile body.”

“Now there’s a thought to hang on to. Thanks, Dyl.”

“You’re welcome. Now I’d better get back to my other half before he makes a right twonk of himself with the barmaid.”

At her approach Sharon leapt off Gwynn’s lap. “All right, Dyl,” she said.

“All right Shaz. Off you goes, then.” Sharon picked up the empty Newky Brown bottles and fled.

Gwynn said, “The old folks is on their last legs, Dyl. It’s time they were tucked up in bed. You ready to go home yet?”

“Almost,” she said. “Just one more thing. It’s traditional.” She attracted Whip’s attention and pointed to the door, indicating they’d soon be leaving.

He gave her a thumbs up and selected an old shellac disc from his collection: Fats Domino’s “Blueberry Hill.” The “sinners” stopped rockin’ and everyone sang along.

After the renowned Fat Man had brought tears to all eyes, Gwynn and Dyl rose to their feet. Gwynn called, “Have a good one, everyone.”

The “sinners” called back, “See ya later Alligator.”

Eddie caught Dyl’s eye. He waved. She waved back and sent a silent farewell into his mind. “In a while Crocodile.”