‘Bloody ’ell, I reckon I can feel a headache comin’ on,’ Cissie groaned as she began to ladle vegetables from a large tureen onto the nearest children’s plates.
‘At least they’re happy.’ Sunday winked at her as she served the children at the other end of the table and eventually when their plates were full, they quietened a little in order to wolf down their food. The way they saw it, the sooner the meal was over the sooner they could get back to decorating the tree – hence the food disappeared at an amazing rate.
‘So much fer tryin’ to teach ’em good table manners,’ Cissie remarked as she helped herself to a succulent piece of roast pork and crackling, and popped it into her mouth.
Sunday didn’t comment. As well as Christmas, she had other things on her mind. Exciting, wonderful things that she daren’t even think about too deeply. Her monthly course was now two weeks late and she was praying that at last she might be carrying the longed-for baby. She hadn’t mentioned it to Tom as yet. The way she saw it, there was no sense in raising his hopes until she was sure – but she had confided in Cissie, who was almost as excited as she was. The roast pork dinner was followed by Mrs Rose’s delicious jam roly-poly and jugs of thick creamy custard, which again disappeared at an alarming rate.
‘May we stay up to finish decorating the tree before we have our baths?’ one little boy asked Sunday’s mother hopefully and after glancing at her daughter, Lavinia Huntley smiled.
‘I should think so, just so long as you promise to go up as soon as it’s finished,’ she agreed.
The children were then excused from the table and they raced off for the boxes of baubles in the hall again, leaving the adults to enjoy their coffee in peace.
‘Em’ly, make sure none of them tries to climb the stepladder!’ Sunday shouted after her, as the girl shepherded the smaller children into the corridor. Em’ly nodded and closed the door as Cissie leaned back in her seat.
‘Eeh, they’ve fair worn me out today,’ she yawned. ‘If they’re this excited now, goodness knows what they’ll be like come Christmas morning!’
‘I thought I’d carry on with wrapping some more of the presents this evening when they’ve all gone up to bed,’ Lavinia said as she poured herself more coffee. ‘Are there any volunteers to help?’
‘Well, much as I’d like to, I can’t. I have me own brood to get to bed,’ Cissie said. ‘George is lookin’ after ’em at the moment, but they won’t go to sleep without me bein’ there.’ Cissie, George and their brood lived happily in Primrose Cottage, which lay in the grounds of Treetops Manor.
Tom hastily made his excuses too but Sunday offered, ‘I’ll help. I quite like wrapping presents as it happens.’
‘Huh! It’s a complete waste o’ time if yer ask me,’ Cissie snorted. ‘The first thing they do is rip ’em open.’
‘Yes, but opening the present and not knowing what’s inside is half the pleasure,’ Sunday argued. Then, ‘Are we going to let them open them first thing Christmas morning or when we get back from church?’
‘Well, seeing as their stockings are going to be hanging on the end of their beds I think you’ll have a bit of a job on to try and make them wait,’ Lavinia chuckled. ‘Although I dare say you could put them all under the tree and hand them out when we get back from church. That way, they’d have no choice but to wait.’
A heated debate then took place about what they should do. Lavinia and Tom thought it best for the children to open their stockings in their rooms. Sunday was keen to see them all open their presents downstairs, but eventually she was outvoted and it was decided that the children should hang their stockings on the ends of their beds as they had on previous years.
‘Makes sense to me,’ Cissie muttered, spooning sugar into her coffee. ‘It’s allus worked that way before.’
Sunday shrugged, conceding that her old friend was right.
An hour later, the tree was finally finished and stood in all its somewhat haphazard splendour. The tiny candles clipped to the branches in their tin holders were twinkling. Zillah had lit them, but had warned the children in no uncertain terms that they must never attempt to light them if there wasn’t an adult present. Now the children gazed at the sight in awe and Sunday felt a lump rise in her throat as she watched their faces. At times like this she was more determined than ever to try and make their childhoods as happy as she could, unlike her own, with its terrifying memories. She only wished that she could take in even more orphans, but she knew that to do that would not be fair on the ones who already lived here.
‘All right, children, it’s really time for your baths now.’ Sunday clapped her hands and tried to ignore the disappointed young faces. ‘Don’t worry,’ she said kindly, ‘the tree will still be here tomorrow.’
And so somewhat reluctantly, the children began to file up the stairs.
At 10 p.m. Sunday retired to use the bathroom and was devastated to find that once again, her hopes of having a child of her own had come to nothing. Her monthly course had started.
When she entered the bedroom, Tom immediately noticed her downcast face and guessed what had caused it. She reacted the same way every month.
‘It’ll happen in its own time, pet,’ he assured her gently, taking her in his arms and planting a tender kiss on her sweet-smelling hair. ‘And it’s not as if we haven’t already got a rook of children to pour our love onto, is it?’
‘I know that.’ Sunday sniffed to hold the tears at bay. ‘But I so want to give you your very own child.’
‘Do you know what? So long as I have you, I don’t care.’ He gave her a squeeze. ‘A baby would be a bonus but it’s you that matters the most to me.’ And as she stared up into his expressive, deep brown eyes, she saw that he meant every single word he said.
On Christmas morning Treetops Children’s Home was a hive of activity and excitement. When the children woke, whoops of delight echoed around the house as they opened the stockings they had hung at the end of their beds and which Santa Claus had filled, during the night while they slept.
‘They sound happy enough.’ Tom grinned as he buttoned his shirt in their bedroom. Barney had caught the excitement and was barking loudly.
‘They certainly do.’ Sunday fastened the last of the pins into her hair and patted it into place before suggesting, ‘Should we go and be bombarded, then?’
‘I can’t think of anything nicer.’ He held his arm out to his wife and after hooking hers through it they ventured out onto the landing.
‘Sunday, Tom, look what Santa left for me! A wooden train. How did he know it was just what I wanted?’ Little Zeke hurtled towards them clutching the precious gift to his chest as Tom winked and tapped the side of his nose.
‘Ah well now, he must have got that letter you sent to him, and even if he didn’t, he’s magic, see? He knows just what every child wants.’
The little fellow nodded and toddled away hugging his treasure and almost colliding with Zillah as she came out of the nursery.
‘I’ve had a job to get them dressed this morning,’ she chuckled. ‘I think we can safely say they’re all happy with their presents. Even young Maggie has a smile on her face.’
‘Hallelujah! Long may it last,’ Tom said comically as Sunday playfully punched his arm.
‘Come along you,’ she scolded with a giggle. ‘We have to get the children in to breakfast or we’ll be late for church.’ And on that happy note they set off for the dining room.
The rest of the day was almost magical, as Sunday remarked to her husband when they finally retired to their room that evening. The morning service conducted by the Reverend Lockett at Chilvers Coton Church had been beautiful, and when it started to snow as they made their way home, the children were thrilled to bits.
‘Will we be allowed to get the sledges out?’ they cried. ‘Please, Tom!’
‘Yes, if the snow lies deep enough,’ he had agreed indulgently.
They arrived home to the appetising smell of roast goose and once
seated at the enormous table they had all done justice to Cook’s wonderful meal. It began with a thin leek soup accompanied by fresh-baked crusty bread, and was followed by roast goose, Cook’s home-made sage and onion stuffing and crispy roast potatoes, along with a selection of vegetables. Finally, they were served with an enormous Christmas pudding, which to their delight was brought into the dining room with flames licking around it from the brandy which Tom had lit with a spill from the fire.
Once the Christmas dinner was over, the adults organised a number of games to keep the children happy. The boys continuously crossed to the window, delighted to see that the snow had indeed begun to settle and they all sat and planned where they would take the sledges the next day. Eventually they had all come flocking in for their Christmas tea and Sunday and Tom were shocked to see how the children tucked in again after what they had eaten at dinnertime.
‘I’m sure they all have hollow legs,’ Lavinia commented with a grin.
Because it was Christmas Day the children were allowed to stay up a little longer that evening, and when a band of carol singers walked down the drive and came to stand outside the front doors, singing the best-loved carols beneath the gently falling snow, the children were enchanted. The group were invited in for warm mince pies and a glass of Cook’s hot punch, and by the time they departed there were more than a few of the children yawning. Some had even fallen asleep on the chairs.
‘Come on, missie.’ Tom lifted Kitty, who was snoring softly, to carry her to her room and for the first time that day, Maggie’s face fell.
‘Come on, sweetheart, I’ll help you get ready for bed,’ Sunday said, offering her hand, and Maggie reluctantly took it. ‘I’ll tell you what, just for this once, seeing as it’s Christmas Day, I’ll let you off having a wash this evening,’ Sunday told the silent little girl. ‘We’ll just slip your nightdress on, tuck you in and I’ll tell you a story, eh? How does that sound?’
Slightly mollified, Maggie nodded but she kept her eyes fixed on Tom who was cradling Kitty in his arms as he mounted the stairs as if she weighed no more than a feather. Maggie wished now that she had pretended to fall asleep and then perhaps Tom would have carried her up to bed too, but at least Sunday was holding her hand. They found Cissie and Zillah already in the children’s rooms trying to bring some sort of order into bedtime, but today nobody minded and at last all the children were safely tucked in and fast asleep.
‘I think we adults ought to go down now and treat ourselves to a glass of port,’ Lavinia suggested, and they were all only too happy to agree. It would be the perfect end to a perfect day.
Chapter Three
There were only three days to go before the New Year when Zillah came down with a fever and was confined to her bed. Lavinia flew into a panic.
‘She hasn’t been looking well for some time,’ she fretted. ‘And I blame myself. She’s no spring chicken any more and I should have made her slow down.’
‘Huh!’ Sunday snorted. ‘That would have taken some doing. You know what’s she’s like, bless her, she’s always on the go and thrives on it.’ Knowing how close her mother was to her former maid, she felt sorry for her. Zillah had been like a mother to Lavinia and had gone through some of the darkest times of her young mistress’s life with her. Now Lavinia wrung her hands in dismay to see her beloved friend so ill and wondered why the doctor was taking so long to arrive.
‘He should have been here by now,’ she said, crossing to the drawing-room window for the tenth time in as many minutes.
‘I’m sure when he does turn up he’ll just say that she’s come down with a chill,’ Sunday placated her but Lavinia didn’t even appear to hear her as she paced restlessly about like a caged animal.
Tom was sitting smoking his pipe and trying to read the newspaper in one of the comfortable wing chairs that stood at either side of the fireplace; his stockinged feet were stretched out to the fire that was roaring up the chimney. This was his favourite room in the house, one of the very few forbidden to the children. Elegant, heavily fringed pelmets framed the deep-red velvet curtains that hung at the long windows overlooking the garden, and Turkish carpets were scattered about the polished parquet floor, giving it a cosy feel. Gold damask wallpaper gleamed on the walls. Sunday had chosen every single thing in this room shortly after she had come to live at Treetops Manor, and Tom knew that she loved it too, although today her thoughts were too full of Zillah to notice it. But then that was women for you – they always seemed to be worrying about something or another whereas he was very calm and tended to let the world go by. All Tom wanted was a quiet life and he was sure that Zillah would be all right. His wife and mother-in-law were just getting themselves into a flummox over nothing.
‘He’s here!’ Lavinia’s voice interrupted his thoughts as she saw Doctor Cushion’s pony and trap coming down the drive. She raced for the door with Sunday close behind her, leaving him to read his newspaper in peace.
When Sunday came back into the room an hour or so later, one glance at her face told him that something was seriously amiss. She was as white as a ghost.
‘The doctor thinks that Zillah may have pneumonia,’ she told him croakily and he was shocked. He hadn’t realised how ill she was.
‘Are they moving her to the hospital?’ he enquired.
Sunday’s head wagged from side to side. ‘No, he thinks it’s too cold to move her. She’s better here, he reckons, and there are enough of us to look after her.’
‘Of course.’ Tom stood and took his wife in his arms and gave her a gentle hug. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘Not really. My mother will be doing most of the nursing. She insists on it, and the doctor is going to call by every day.’
‘Strangely enough, I was just reading in the newspaper that Queen Victoria is ill as well. She’s at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, but then she is eighty-one years old. I’m surprised she’s lasted this long without Prince Albert. Did you know it’s almost forty years since he died?’ He was trying to take Sunday’s mind off Zillah’s situation but it wasn’t working, and soon enough she was off again to see if there was anything that Zillah needed.
Peering from the window, Tom was just in time to see the doctor climbing into the trap, holding his medical bag, and for a few seconds he watched the children, who were all warmly wrapped up, playing out in the snow. They had built an enormous snowman and the boys were having a snowball fight, oblivious to how poorly Zillah was. I shall have to get them to keep the noise down when they come inside, he thought, then quietly left the room to go about his chores. It would be time to call the children in for their midday meal soon and no doubt a little help wouldn’t come amiss in the kitchen. He wondered then if he should speak to Sunday about cancelling the big party they had planned for New Year’s Eve, but then he thought perhaps he should look on the bright side. It was still a few days away and Zillah could well be on the mend by then.
Later that day, Em’ly answered the doorbell to find a well-dressed couple standing on the doorstep.
‘We do apologise for coming unannounced. I realise we should have written and made an appointment,’ the gentleman said sheepishly, removing his hat. ‘But my wife and I wondered if it might be possible to see Mrs Branning?’
‘Oh.’ Em’ly glanced worriedly towards the stairs. Sunday was upstairs with Zillah and probably wouldn’t want any distractions. But then the couple looked very respectable, so she ushered them into the drawing room, telling them, ‘I’ll just go and see if Mrs Branning is available.’
‘Thank you, my dear.’ The woman smiled at her nervously as Em’ly flitted away.
‘Who is it?’ Sunday asked impatiently when Em’ly tiptoed into Zillah’s room to tell her about the unexpected visitors. Sunday had just ordered her mother to go and have a lie-down, and she didn’t want to leave Zillah alone.
The young girl shrugged. ‘They didn’t say, but they look quite well-to-do and they were so polite I didn’t like to send them away,
especially when they’ve come here in the snow. Happen it’s sommat important?’
‘Oh, very well. I suppose I can spare them a few minutes, but will you wait here with Zillah until I get back?’
‘Of course.’ Em’ly took Sunday’s seat when she rose and taking the damp sponge from her hand she continued to gently bathe Zillah’s burning forehead.
Once out on the landing, Sunday shook out her skirt and patted her hair into place before making her way down to the drawing room.
‘Good afternoon.’ She held out her hand. ‘How may I help you?’
The couple looked genuinely surprised. They had expected Mrs Branning to be much older. The man swiftly shook her hand and explained the purpose of their visit.
‘My wife and I heard of your establishment and wondered if you ever allowed any of the orphans in your care to be homed with families?’
It appeared that Treetops’ reputation as a foundling home was spreading, Sunday thought to herself.
‘Well, it’s not impossible,’ she said cautiously. ‘But you must appreciate that I insist on stringent checks being carried out first. Are you looking to offer a child a home?’
The man glanced at his wife. ‘Well, yes, if it was possible. But do forgive me, Mrs Branning. We haven’t formally introduced ourselves. This is my wife, Stella, and my name is Victor Dawes. I own a number of shops in Nuneaton but we live in Witherley, not too far away at all as the crow flies.’
Sunday inclined her head. She was aware of one of his shops at least. Dawes Hardware. She had purchased a great number of things from there over the years.
Mr Dawes then licked his lips anxiously, and as he again glanced at his wife, Sunday saw tears spring to the woman’s eyes and her heart softened. She was a pretty woman, small and delicate, with deep brown hair and blue eyes. Sunday judged the couple to be somewhere in their mid-to late thirties.
The Little Angel Page 3