Christmas is for Children

by Rosie Clarke

  Mick’s feet and hands were frozen. He tucked his hands under his arms and stamped his feet. Inside, he could start a little fire in the old can his father boiled their kettle on – but to get there he had to get past that filthy brute and he would rather freeze.

  ‘What yer doin’ out ’ere, yer daft lump?’ the sound of his father’s voice made Mick smile and he dodged the cuff round the ear Taffy aimed at him and breathed a sigh of relief. He knew his father had come home sober for once and that made him happy.

  3

  It was the beginning of December now and the cake shop had pretty coloured lights in its windows when the two children approached hand in hand. They pressed their noses up against the glass, looking longingly at the delicate glass stands with their offerings of delicious cakes. There were all kinds of mouth-watering treats: sponge cakes dusted with icing sugar and filled with buttercream, soft buns covered in sticky pink icing, almond tarts, madeleines and rock cakes, crisp meringues filled with buttery cream, as well as the beautiful iced Christmas cake right in the centre. Also, piled up in little glass dishes, were chunks of coconut ice, chocolate truffles, fudge and, the best of all, right at the front of the window, two sugar mice: a pink one and a white one.

  ‘Look, Ben,’ Ruthie cried. ‘Sugar mouses… pink for me and white for you…’

  ‘It’s sugar mice, Ruthie,’ Ben said, looking at the sweet treat as longingly as his sister. ‘Perhaps Dad will get us one each for Christmas …’

  Ruthie looked up at him, her eyes large and dark blue like her late mother’s but filled with knowledge that a child of her age should not have. A single tear slid down her cheek, because she knew they wouldn’t get a stocking this year. Their dad was out of work again; last night he hadn’t even had a shilling for the gas and he’d lit a candle to see them to bed. She knew he lined up down the docks every morning hoping to be given a job, because Ben had told her that was why he was so miserable.

  Everything was horrible in Ruthie’s world. Ma had died nearly nine months ago and since then things had got steadily worse. The house was often cold and empty, no food in the pantry. No one looked after her any more; her clothes split and got dirty, and her pale hair tangled; she needed someone to brush and comb it and put it into plaits, because it was so fine that otherwise it went all over the place in the wind.

  Mum had done her best while she was able. She’d cooked and scrubbed and looked after her kids, but over the last two years her cough had got worse and worse. The doctor said it was bronchitis and wanted to send her away to a place at the sea where she might get better, but they didn’t have any money and there was a long waiting list for such places if you were poor. Mum had finally died in March, and that had left them alone with their father. He did his best but it wasn’t the same without Mum.

  Dad got up early to give them breakfast before he went down to the docks to stand in line, but the work was scarce and more often than not he came home without even a shilling in pay – and when he did, he often stopped at the pub at the end of Fettle Street to have a drink. His mates who had worked that day shared a few pence when he was broke and so when he had work he repaid them by buying drinks he could not afford. Sometimes, when he was very down he didn’t stop at one drink, and when he came home, he was laughing but couldn’t stand up properly – and those days there was never any money for the gas meter and very little to eat.

  Ben told his sister it didn’t matter. Their Dad wasn’t a bad man; he wasn’t a violent man who knocked his kids about and deliberately neglected them. Robbie did as much as he could for his kids, but recently he’d been passed over for all the better jobs. Ben had heard him telling Fred at the fish shop that the Gaffer didn’t like him because he’d stood up for one of the older men.

  ‘You should go to Mr Penniworth,’ Fred had told him. I’m sure he doesn’t know how unfairly the Gaffer treats the men.’ Mr Penniworth was the overall manager for the East India Docks, but the men hardly ever saw him on the dock and no one went to his office unless invited.

  ‘I couldn’t do that, Fred,’ Robbie had sighed. ‘I’d be marked as a troublemaker and then I wouldn’t get work anywhere in London.’

  ‘Well, it’s a rotten shame, that’s all I can say. You’re a decent man, Robbie Graham, and you deserve a bit of luck.’

  Dad had laughed and thanked him for his kind words, paying a shilling for two fishcakes and sixpence worth of chips. Fred had filled the bag right to the brim and Ben, his sister and their father had eaten well that night, but that was days ago now and it had just been bread and dripping since.

  It didn’t matter to Ben that he had shoes that were down at the heel, holes in his socks and didn’t get a threepenny piece for sweets on a Saturday like some of his friends. He knew that times were hard and money was tight. Ben wasn’t the only boy in school with trousers bought off the second-hand stall and cut down to fit. Nor did he mind that he and Ruthie had to come home to an empty house after school. He could get their tea, a bit of bread and jam or some chips if Dad gave them three pennies. What made Ben unhappy was the way his father’s shoulders hunched when he came home at night with a few coppers in his pocket after working hard all day.

  The old cottage belonged to Ben’s father, because it had been left to them by his grandfather, who had been a seaman all his life, and it was the reason they’d all come to live here, leaving the rooms they’d rented near his mother’s home in Yarmouth. It wasn’t really much of a place, but it was somewhere warm to sleep, because the range in the kitchen heated that room and the rooms above it. The only time they ever used the parlour was when Ben’s mother died and her coffin stood there for three days before the funeral.

  ‘Look,’ Ruthie pulled at Ben’s sleeve as the door of the sweet shop opened and the nice lady came out. ‘It’s Miss Flo…’

  ‘Hello, you two,’ Flo Hawkins greeted the children with a smile. ‘It’s cold this evening. You should hurry home, because I think it might snow.’

  ‘I like your sugar mouses,’ Ruthie said and gave them a last lingering look before Ben took her hand firmly. ‘When I see them, I think it will soon be Christmas.’

  ‘Yes, it will,’ Flo agreed. She held out a brown paper bag to them. ‘It’s almost time to close – and these won’t keep until the morning. I thought you might like them.’

  ‘Oo, thank you,’ Ruthie squealed in excitement and took the bag quickly before Flo could change her mind. ‘It’s ever so kind of you, Miss Flo.’

  ‘It’s perfectly all right,’ she said. ‘Perhaps your father will buy you a sugar mouse for Christmas.’

  Ruthie shook her head sadly. ‘Dad can’t find a proper job,’ she said and pulled at Ben’s hand. ‘Miss Flo gave us buns with icing on top. I love your buns, Miss Flo.’

  ‘You’re very kind, miss,’ Ben thanked her a little stiffly, because it wasn’t the first time the cake shop lady had given them a cake she claimed wouldn’t last until the morning, but every time it was fresh and delicious. ‘I’ll clean yer windows for yer if yer like, miss.’

  ‘Thank you, Ben, but my sister does them every morning herself,’ Flo said. ‘One day I’ll find a job for you, but you don’t have to work to pay me for a cake I can’t sell…’

  With that she went back into the shop and closed the door.

  Ben took his sister firmly by the hand. ‘Don’t eat yer cake until we get home, Ruthie. It’s rude to eat in the street.’

  ‘I’m ’ungry,’ Ruthie grumbled and her tummy rumbled to prove it, but she kept the bag shut, holding on tightly so that she wouldn’t lose it.

  ‘Dad wouldn’t like us taking charity,’ Ben said. His eyes were stinging with the tears he was fighting. Miss Flo’s kindness always made him want to fling his arms round her and hug her, but his pride held him back.

  ‘It isn’t chari— whatsit…’ Ruthie said and pulled on his hand. ‘Miss Flo is just a nice lady and she told us the cakes wouldn’t last until the mornin’…’

  Ben didn’t bother
to answer her. He was nearly ten but Ruthie was only six. She could be stubborn and if she didn’t want to understand that it was wrong to keep staring in the window until Miss Flo brought her a cake, she wouldn’t listen.

  ‘Shall we visit Mrs Millie and Mr Bert?’ Ruthie asked him. ‘It’s Friday night and Dad warned us he might be late…’

  Ben nodded. It would be cold in the cottage, because they couldn’t afford to keep the range going all the time now. Dad soon got a little fire going with wood logs when he got home, but Ben couldn’t quite manage it on his own.

  ‘All right,’ he said. ‘We’ll visit and see how they are – and then we’ll go home.’

  The terraced house in Silver Street where the elderly couple, Mr and Mrs Bert Wright, lived was just round the corner from their home. Ben knocked at the door and it was cautiously opened just a crack by Millie. As soon as she saw them, a big smile appeared on her wizened face and she opened her door wider.

  ‘You never know who is about these days,’ she said. ‘I’ve had three men round askin’ ter clean me winders this week – and I ’ad ter send ’em all away. I give them a sandwich ’cos I was sorry fer ’em like, but I can’t afford ter pay ’em.’

  ‘I’ll clean yer winders, Mrs Millie,’ Ben offered. ‘I don’t want sixpence. I’ll do ’em fer nuthin’.’

  ‘Bless you, lad. I know you would,’ Millie said. ‘Come and sit by the fire and I’ll give you a cup of tea and a piece of my carrot cake…’

  ‘Miss Flo gave us a bun with icing,’ Ruthie told her and took one out to show the elderly lady.

  ‘Well now, there’s a thing,’ Mille exclaimed, her wrinkled face creasing so much that her watery grey eyes almost disappeared. ‘Wasn’t that kind of her, Ruthie? Well, you keep that for when you get home. Your dad might like a piece of something like that.’

  ‘Ruthie can eat hers,’ Ben said. ‘I’ll share mine with Dad when he gets home. I like your cake, Mrs Millie – if you can spare it?’

  ‘Of course I can, lad,’ Millie said. ‘My Bert has gone out the back to chop some wood and fetch a bucket of coal…’

  ‘I’ll help him fetch them in,’ Ben offered, jumped to his feet and went out of the back door, leaving his sister by the fire. He’d brought in coal and wood many times and enjoyed helping Bert Waters with little jobs in his back yard. Bert’s eldest son, Terry, had once been a car mechanic and Bert had lots of interesting bits and pieces in his shed that Terry had collected. He’d finished chopping the wood and had filled the log box. He was shovelling coal into a pail when Ben reached him. ‘Can I help you, Bert?’

  ‘You can carry the wood in for me if you will. I’ve got enough wood and coal to last us for a day or so…’ He looked up at the sky. ‘I think it will snow before long…’

  ‘Yes, that’s what Miss Flo thinks,’ Ben replied and grinned as he picked up the heavy box of logs. ‘I’ll come round on Sunday and help you stock up with wood and coal again so you don’t have to go out if the snow comes.’

  ‘You’re a good lad, Ben,’ Bert told him. ‘I’ll bet your dad is proud of you…’

  Sighing, because Dad was always working or looking for work and had no idea what his son got up to, Ben followed his elderly friend back into the large warm kitchen. The walls had a dark green distemper to them, but they had been washed to remove the mould so many times that it had gone streaky and was black in some places. The furniture was scarred pine and old, the sofa sagging, its springs sticking through the material in one place, but the sturdy wooden rocking chairs by the fire were comfortable with bright cushions on the seats and backs. Little ornaments and fairings were crammed on the mantle and on the pine dresser, mixed with odd plates and cups, mostly blue and white, and there was a pair of imposing brass candlesticks complete with candles in case they ran out of shillings for the gas.

  ‘Shall I get your shoppin’ in the mornin’, Mrs Millie?’ Ben asked and the old woman smiled.

  ‘Yes, lad,’ she said. ‘You and Ruthie can go down to the market fer me in the mornin’. Come round first thing and I’ll give yer me list and the money.’

  ‘I’ll be here,’ Ben promised. He took the slice of cake he was offered and sat on the peg rug in front of the fire munching it and sipping from the mug of hot tea sweetened with condensed milk.

  A warm fire, good friends and something to eat: for the moment Ben was in heaven…

  4

  ‘Givin’ the profits away again?’ Honour Hawkins teased as Flo came back into the shop clapping her hands on her arms to instil some warmth into them. ‘If you give cakes to all the kids who press their noses to that window, you’ll end up broke.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Flo said. ‘I don’t give all the children cakes – but those two…’ She shook her head, because she didn’t know why those two pulled at her heartstrings so much, because it shouldn’t mean anything to her that they were Robbie’s and yet she knew it did. ‘I just can’t resist those eyes somehow.’

  Honour’s eyes met hers in understanding. There were nearly eighteen years between them, because Honour had been born when Flo was just seventeen. Yet they were close, loving each other as sisters, which Honour believed they were, working together and sharing the burden of looking after their father. Ernest Hawkins had been a sour-tempered man for as long as either of them could recall. Honour thought he’d treated his wife Faith abominably while she lived, acting as though he owned the property and the business despite them having been left to Faith by her grandfather. Faith, and after her death, Flo and then Honour as well, had run the shop for years. Ernest had been a ship’s carpenter until he had a stroke five years earlier, since which his temper had got worse and worse. A year previously he’d had a second stroke and this one had taken the use from his legs. Now, Honour thought resentfully, he lay upstairs in his bed and tried to dictate their lives, making them run after him time and again. They took it in turns to answer the little bell he kept by the bed.

  Honour liked making fancy things, like the sugar mice, iced buns with little sprinkles on and the beautiful iced cakes they took orders for at Christmas and sometimes for birthdays. They shared the baking and took it in turns to serve in the shop. In the evenings they scrubbed their little kitchen, cleaned the shop and prepared as much as they could for the next day. Flo got up first to begin baking for the day and Honour made breakfast for all of them, carrying her father’s up to him. He always demanded that Flo help him to the commode and if Honour tried he would throw things at her. So Flo had to leave the baking to her sister and go up to help him. It was always Flo who had to see to his needs for he would not allow Honour to touch him.

  ‘I think he hates me,’ Honour told Flo now as they began to tidy away empty cake stands ready to close the shop. ‘I tried to make his pillows more comfortable when I took him a cup of tea and a piece of your jam sponge and he pinched my arm.’

  ‘He does that to me all the time; it’s just that he’s so frustrated.’ Flo excused their father even though she knew he did not deserve it.

  ‘Father can be very cruel, Flo. Mum said he hit her a few times but always where it didn’t show. He is a bully and the stroke made him worse. I think his mind is affected…’

  ‘I’m not sure; I think he’s just angry…’

  ‘He was always cruel,’ Honour began, halting as the shop opened and a soldier entered. He was wearing his uniform as a sergeant and looked handsome with straight dark hair cut short, grey eyes and a generous smiling mouth. ‘Good evenin’, sir – how can I help you?’

  Honour smiled because Roy was her beau. He’d started coming in several times a week almost a year ago now, making sure that she was free to serve him. Then he’d asked her out. At first she’d just laughed and shaken her head, but then she asked Flo if it was all right and her sister told her she saw no harm in it. Since then he’d taken her to the flicks, for a drink and to a social at the church hall a few times.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you to behave and be careful,’ Flo had warned.
‘Don’t be later than ten o’clock – and don’t tell Father yet. Let him think you’ve been out with one of your girl-friends.’ Honour’s best friend Kitty lived next door; they’d been school friends and were often in and out of each other’s homes, though not as much since her father’s stroke, but Roy was Honour’s first boyfriend and Honour had been excited but nervous the first time he’d taken her for a walk and a coffee. Now when she saw him, some months after their first outing, her heart beat faster in anticipation of being asked somewhere nice.

  Flo took a cake stand through to the kitchen. She knew the young man by now and thought him respectable. He’d introduced himself as Sergeant Roy Sharp and he was quite obviously paying court to Honour. As yet, he hadn’t asked her to marry him, but it was possibly just a matter of time. Flo didn’t grudge Honour her happiness, but she dreaded losing her and hoped she would not marry for a long time.

  Flo lingered as long as she could before returning to the shop. Honour had just filled a box with sweet treats and the soldier was paying her. He smiled at Flo and looked pleased with himself as he left. As soon as Flo had turned the closed notice in the door and pulled the blind, Honour grabbed her round the waist and hugged her.

  ‘He asked me to go to the pictures with him tomorrow. It’s Charlie Chaplin and you know I love his films – I can, can’t I?’ Honour looked at her pleadingly.

  ‘You mustn’t let Dad know where you’re goin’,’ Flo warned. ‘I’ll tell him you’ve gone to the church hall with Kitty. He doesn’t mind either of us going there at nights – but if he knew you’d gone out with a soldier he would half kill you…’

  ‘He might have once,’ Honour agreed, ‘but he can’t get out of that bed without help…’

  ‘Don’t be too sure of that,’ Flo warned. ‘I caught him puttin’ his legs to the floor the other day. He made out he fell as he tried to stand, but I wouldn’t mind bettin’ he can do more than he lets on. He wants us runnin’ after him all the time.’