Angela and the Baby Jesus

by Frank McCourt

When my mother, Angela, was six years old, she felt sorry for the Baby Jesus in the
Christmas crib at St Joseph’s Church near School House Lane where she lived. She
thought the Baby Jesus was cold and wondered why no one had put a blanket over his
plump little body. He looked happy enough, smiling up at his mother, the Virgin Mary,
and St Joseph and the three shepherds carrying little lambs all cosy in their fur. Even if
he was cold he’d never complain because the Baby Jesus would never want to make his
mammy the slightest bit unhappy.

Little Angela wouldn’t let it go at that. She was often cold herself, hungry too, but never
complained for fear of being told by her mother and brothers and sister to stop the
whingeing. (That’s what they called whining and complaining in Ireland.) No, she’d have
to do something about the poor little Baby Jesus and she wouldn’t tell a soul in the
world.

A few days before Christmas she hid in a confession booth, the middle part where the
priests sits, and peeked out from time to time to see if the church was empty. Old
people like Mrs. Reidy and Mr. King knelt in the pews praying, snuffling, and thumping
their chests, and Angela wondered why they didn’t go home and have a nice cup of tea
with lots and lots of sugar. When she let out a little sneeze herself, the old people
looked frightened, wondering where that sneeze came from. They whispered to one
another there must be a ghost in the church and shuffled away as fast as they could.

Little Angela waited a while till she was sure the church was empty. All she could hear
now was the talk of people passing outside and the clop clop of horses on the street.

She thought about what she was going to do, but she knew from lesson in school that
stealing is a bad thing and you cold be punished. You could be sent to bed without even
a cup of tea. Even if you took a penny from your mother’s purse you could be punished,
so what would be the punishment for stealing the Baby Jesus? Her own mother would
surely slap her bottom, but she didn’t want to think about that. She had to take care of
that poor little Baby Jesus before he turned blue with the cold altogether.

She was surprised at how cold and stiff he was, not soft like the babies in her lane.
When she lifted him from the crib, he kept on smiling at her the way he smiled at
everyone else, the Virgin Mary, St Joseph, and the three nice shepherds with their lambs
and the Three Wise Kings with all their presents. She felt sorry for them that they
wouldn’t be able to look at the Baby Jesus any more, but they didn’t seem to mind.
Besides, making him warm was the important thing and they’d never begrudge him
that.
She had to be careful. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her carrying the Baby to her
house. She trotted quickly down the aisle and outside where it was now dark. The
gaslights flickered along the streets and she could hide and wait in the deep shadows
between. It was cold and people passing by were not in the mood to be looking at a
little girl carrying something white in the dark. People wanted to be home sipping a nice
hot cup of tea and warming their legs by the fire.

Then she stopped. How was she going to take the Baby Jesus into her house with
everyone gawking and wanting to know who was that and what she was doing? She
wouldn’t go in the front door. There was a lane behind her house where she could carry
the Baby over the wall and into her back yard. No, the wall was too high. She could
climb over herself, but not with the baby. She talked to him. “Will you help me, little
Baby? Will you help me?”

He did. Her told her in her head to throw the Baby over the wall and recover him on the
other side. That was hard. She threw and threw and he wouldn’t go over till she threw
the third time and over he went.

Then the terrible thing happened. When she climbed up and looked into her back yard,
there was no sign of him. Now what was she going to do? Where did he go? She was
only six, but she knew how serious it was to lose the Baby Jesus. If she didn’t find him,
he’d be cold and calling for his mother.

Ah, there he was, all white in the dark, lying in the back yard of the blind woman next
door, Mrs Blake.

Now, perched on the wall, she talked to him sternly. Here she was trying to help him
and there was no excuse for the way he was behaving, flying around like a bird and
landing in a back yard where he wasn’t supposed to be. She told him, “Baby Jesus, I have
a good mind to leave you there in Mrs Blake’s back yard.” But she couldn’t. If God ever
found out, he’d never let her have a sweet or a bun for a whole week. She told the Baby,
“When I throw you over the wall you’re not supposed to land in Mrs. Blake’s back yard.
You’re not to be flying around like an angel.”

She climbed down to Mrs Blake’s back yard and picked him up. This time, in one throw,
he went over the wall into her own yard and that proved he was paying attention even
if he had the same smile. She loved the way his hands and arms still reached out the
way they did in the crib. She climbed into her own back yard, told him he was a good
Baby for going where he was thrown, and hugged him to warm him up in that cold, dark
December night.

She nearly died of fright when the back door of her house creaked and out came her
brother, Pat, going to the lavatory. He stopped and stared at her and the Baby, but she
didn’t mind because he was like a baby himself and often said foolish things even she
wouldn’t say.

“Is that the Baby Jesus you have there?”

“’Tis.”

“He’s supposed to be sleeping in his crib abroad in the church an’ you have him
here in the freezing cold. “

“I’m warming him up,” she said.

“His mother will be roarin’ an’ bawlin’ when she sees him gone.”

“She won’t mind. She wants him to be warm, too.”

“All right so.”

He went into the lavatory and she stepped quietly along the little hall and up the stairs.
She stopped at the top when she heard Pat’s voice.

“Mammy, Angela do have the Baby Jesus up the stairs.”

“Ah, now, Pat, love,” said his mother. “You have a great imagination. Sit there
an’ have your tea.”

“She do, Mammy. She have the Baby Jesus above an’ he’s all white an’ shiverin’.”

“All right, Pat. We’ll talk to her.”

“His mammy will be roarin’ an’ bawlin’.”

“Don’t worry your poor head, Pat.”

Little Angela knew she wouldn’t be able to keep the Baby in the bed she shared with her
sister, Aggie, all nights. She’d let him rest there a while, all nice and warm in a blanket,
and when it was time to go to sleep she’s put him under the bed and hope he was
comfortable till morning.

Her mother was surprised to see her coming down the stairs at tea time instead of in
the front door.

“Was it having a bit of a rest you were?”

After tea she was allowed to sit by the fir listening to the talk of her family. She always
wanted to say something, but she was told she was too young and to shush up. She was
only six, so what would she ever say that was important?

Tonight she didn’t mind one bit. She had a big secret: Baby Jesus above in the bed nice
and warm. It was hard for her to keep that secret, but she could not say a word or
they’d all want to see him and play with him like any old doll. She had a doll once which
she still cried over when she remembered how her sister, Aggie, pulled its head off and
laughed.

Her family laughed again when Pat told them how he’d seen Angela with the Baby Jesus
in her arms out in the back yard, but when they laughed, he cried, “She have God in the
bed, so she do.”

“All right, Pat. All right,” his mother said. You could see she wanted to humour
him. “We’ll all go up and see if the Baby Jesus is in the bed.”

Little Angles was terrified there by the fire. What would she do if the family went
upstairs and found the Baby Jesus in the bed? Her mother would surely slap her bottom
and make her go to sleep without her tea and bread.

She followed her mother and her brother, Tom, and her sister, Aggie, and her brother,
Pat, the cause of all the trouble, up the stairs.

It was dark in the room but still you could see the Baby Jesus in the bed, his head on the
pillow, his arms stretched out, though it was almost too dark to see that lovely smile.

“Mother o’ God!” said Little Angela’s mother. “Is that the Baby Jesus from St
Joseph’s?”

When everyone said “Tis,” Little Angela stayed silent.

Her mother turned to her. “Angela. Did you put that Baby in the bed? Tell the truth
because if you tell a lie in the presence of the Baby Jesus it’s worse than any sin in the
world.”

Little Angela wanted to cry, but she didn’t. There was something in her head that told
her crying was useless at a time like this.

“I did,” she said.

“And why, for the love of God?”

Tom and Aggie laughed and their mother told them be quiet. Little Angela noticed that
Pat, the cause of all her trouble, didn’t laugh. He said, “I love the Baby Jesus. I’ll mind
him so he won’t be cold.”

“Ah, Pat, ah, Pat,” said his mother. “Sure, we have to take him back to his poor
mother, the Virgin Mary, abroad in the chapel.”

Now Pat started to cry. “Please, Mammy, please, Mammy. I’ll warm him and I’ll tell his
mother we have him safe in the bed.”

Little Angela wanted to tell Pat that she was the one who had brought the Baby Jesus
here and he had no right to talk about telling the Virgin Mary where her son was.

“Mammy,” she said.

“What?” said her mother in a sharp way.

“I want to warm the Baby Jesus. I don’t want Pat to be doing anything.”

“He’s your brother. He loves the Baby Jesus.”

“I don’t care.”

“Anyway, the Baby Jesus has to go back to his mother this very minute.”

Now the tears burst from Little Angela’s eyes. “Please, please, oh, please.”

“Back he goes, Angela, and we’ll be lucky if there isn’t trouble with the parish
priest.”

Her mother wrapped the Baby in her black street shawl and they all walked round the
corner to return him to his mother and St Joseph and the shepherds with their nice
warm lambs and the Three Wise Kings.

But they were shocked when they found the door of the church locked and shocked
even more when the door opened and there was the parish priest, Father Creagh,
coming out with a policeman.

“Mother o’ God,” said Little Angela’s mother.

“What’s this?” asked the parish priest.

“I can see that. Here we are the past two hours frantic over that empty crib. Who took
him? We have to know and there will be an arrest. Who took him?”

Little Angela tugged at the priest’s sleeve. “I did. He was cold in the crib and I took him
home to warm him up.”

The priest looked at the policeman and the policeman shook his head. “Lord save us,”
said the policeman. He put hi hand on the Little Angela’s shoulder and said to the priest,
“Should we arrest this one, Father. Put her into the Limerick jail?”

“No,” said Pat. “No, no, no, no. You won’t put my sister in jail. She was only
warming the Baby Jesus. You can put me in the Limerick jail.”

Poor Pat didn’t know what he was talking about, but whatever it was his mother began
to cry herself. “Oh, Pat,” she said. “Oh, Pat.” She had the Baby Jesus in one arm, but she
pulled Pat towards her, into her skirt. “Oh, Pat. Oh, Pat. You’d go to jail for your little
sister?”

“I would. I would. I love the Baby Jesus and I love my little sister.”

The strange thing now was the tears twinkling on the cheeks of he priest in the
December moonlight. The policeman coughed and gave his baton a bit of a twirl.

The priest stepped back into the church, cleared his throat, and told everyone to come
in out of the cold. “We have to put the Baby back with his poor mother,” he told Little
Angela.

They walked up the aisle and when they arrived at the altar rail the priest took the Baby
Jesus from Little Angela’s mother. He handed the Baby to Little Angela and guided her
to the crib.

“You can put him back in his little cradle now,” he said in a low, gentle way.

“But he’ll be cold,” said Little Angela.

“Ah, no,” said Father Creagh. “When we’re not here, his mother, Our Lady,
makes sure he’s nice and warm.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am.”