Christmas is for Children

by Rosie Clarke

  Flo served them and Honour went through to the pantry to bring in replacements for the truffles they’d sold that morning. They’d made them fresh the previous evening but would run out before the day was over if everyone wanted the same thing.

  However, these ladies had come for previously ordered iced cakes, some marzipan fancies and the children had two sugar mice each. The boy bit the head off one of his immediately and continued eating it while his mother settled the bill.

  Flo thought about the way Ben had saved all his hard-earned money to buy his sister two of the sweet treats for Christmas – and of all the children at the mission party who wouldn’t even get an orange in their stocking this Christmas: the difference between those who had and those who had not made her suddenly angry. As Honour had remarked, they were luckier than most. Flo had her own business and they lived comfortably, though she would never be rich, but she never had to worry about a shilling for the gas; she didn’t have to wonder whether she could afford to buy a meal for her family.

  There was so much poverty that no one person could ever change it, but perhaps Flo might do something small to help a few children. It was the children that tugged at her heartstrings. She thought that perhaps she might make a large batch of the sugar mice and take them to the mission. John would know where the children lived – probably some of them would be at the mission on Christmas Day.

  Flo would have liked to help with the lunch that day, but she had Honour and her father to think of. She’d ordered a cockerel for their Christmas dinner, because her father preferred the taste to goose or chicken and she would spend the day here with him and her daughter – but there was nothing to stop her making cakes and other things to take to the mission. John could distribute them as he saw fit…

  Flo smiled as she thought of all the money she’d taken that day. She and Honour had worked hard for it and her daughter would have her share of the profits this year, but Flo didn’t need anything personally; she’d made up her mind, she was going to make sure that this year Christmas came to some of the houses it would otherwise have missed…

  *

  ‘I’m really pleased with your work, Mr Graham,’ the butcher said as Robbie finished the new cutting block for him. ‘My old block was falling apart; it belonged to my father and I knew it was wrong to keep it, because it was no longer hygienic, but I couldn’t get around to buying a new one. When I saw your work and you offered to make me another, I knew it was the right time to get rid of the old one – and this looks as if it will last at least fifty years.’

  Robbie looked at the solid cutting block he’d made with pride. ‘The problem with your old block was that the water you scrubbed it with soaked in and rotted it inside,’ Robbie told him. ‘This is just as solid as yours was once, Mr Jones, but when you scrub it, the water will drain off through those runnels and stop it rotting for longer.’

  ‘I’ll be able to scrub it thoroughly and have it ready to use again by morning,’ the butcher said. ‘When you repaired those window sashes for me and I complained about the old block, I never thought you could make me something better.’

  ‘It only needs a bit of thought and time,’ Robbie said. ‘I was happy I could find the right wood and create something you needed.’

  ‘What do I owe you?’ Bill Jones asked.

  ‘The wood was expensive,’ Robbie said and added it up with a pencil on a scrap of paper. ‘I paid four pounds for it – and the work I’ve done here is another five pounds and fifteen shillings altogether, so that’s nine pounds fifteen shillings.’

  ‘I looked at prices in a catalogue I sent for,’ Bill Jones said. ‘The cheapest I could get was ten pounds and it wasn’t anywhere near as good as the one you’ve made for me, and you’ve done all those other jobs as well.’ He took ten pounds from his pocket and thrust it at Robbie. ‘I don’t want any change. I’m very satisfied and I’ll be recommending you to my friends…’

  Robbie hesitated and then nodded and thanked him. He’d earned the money but he’d charged as little as possible, because he wanted this man to recommend him. Bill Jones was a member of the Chamber of Commerce locally. He met the other members regularly and a word from him should bring any work that was going Robbie’s way.

  So far the jobs had not exactly been flowing in. He’d done a couple of days’ work here and there since finishing at the mission, but this was the most he’d earned. For the moment he was able to pay for food, gas, and buy a few things for Christmas, but what happened when the work dried up?

  The thought of having to join the jobless queues again would haunt him, Robbie knew. He was determined not to go back to the docks, but he might have to be prepared to do other work.

  The ten pound notes were burning a hole in his pocket. He wanted to get Ben something nice, because he knew his son had been helping him out for months, putting a few pence in the jar on the mantle when he earned them from his errands, and Robbie hadn’t noticed. He’d taken the money for a half of bitter more than once without wondering how it came to be there and now he wanted to make up for it – but what did Ben want?

  Stopping in front of the toy shop, Robbie looked at the display in the window. There was a pretty doll that Ruthie would like; it cost thirty-five shillings and he felt a warm glow inside as he realised that he could buy it for her. The extra money Bill Jones had paid would more than cover it… But what about Ben?

  What was it his son had said about his ambition to build things… mechanical things? Robbie’s eye lighted on a large Meccano set at the back of the window. It was three pounds, sixteen shillings and eleven pence… very nearly four pounds. More than he could afford to pay at the moment, Robbie decided. He would go inside and ask the man to reserve the doll. He might as well pay for that, though he wouldn’t take it home until the last minute – but he couldn’t afford that big set of Meccano. It would leave him with not much more than four pounds to pay for everything else, because at the moment he had no more work lined up.

  He paid for the doll and asked the man behind the counter if there were any smaller sets of Meccano in stock.

  ‘We had a few,’ the man said sadly, ‘but I didn’t stock too many this year. I wasn’t sure how many I could sell with things the way they are. All the thirty shilling and two-pound sets have gone, but that bigger one is still here, because most people can’t afford it.’

  ‘I can’t either,’ Robbie said and sighed. ‘I could pay thirty-five shillings and come in after Christmas to pay a bit more…’

  ‘I’ll knock it down to three pounds and ten shillings,’ the man offered. ‘I’d let you take it and pay over time, but I can’t afford to lose the money if you find you can’t manage it.’

  ‘No, I shan’t do that,’ Robbie said. ‘Look, I’ll give you thirty-five shillings if you’ll put it by until I can pay you the rest.’

  ‘All right, I’ll do that – and you can have it for three pounds and ten bob, like I said.’ He smiled now. ‘I’ll wrap the doll for you so it’s ready when you come in. What is your name, sir?’

  ‘Robbie Graham. I’m a carpenter lookin’ for work if you hear anythin’.’

  ‘I’ll pass it on,’ the man said and took Robbie’s money. He gave him a receipt and wrote the purchases down in his book. ‘I’ll see you on Christmas Eve then…’

  ‘Yes, thanks. My little girl is going to love that doll…’

  Leaving the shop, Robbie walked home. He’d spent more money than he ought but he was pleased with himself. If another job came along before Christmas, he could get Ben that Meccano set and if it didn’t… well, he’d have to make do with the boots and a packet of sweets. Ben wouldn’t complain. He wouldn’t expect anything, but Robbie really wanted to buy that set for his son this Christmas – but if not, he’d just have to try and get it for his birthday in January.

  He began to think of what he had that he might sell. All the small trinkets that he’d had when in full time work had been pawned or sold when he was out of work all those month
s. After his wife died, he’d sold the rest of her parents’ silver to keep food on the table. Madge’s clothes were still in the wardrobe upstairs. Robbie hadn’t felt able to touch any of his wife’s personal things. He’d always managed somehow, though sometimes they’d only had bread and jam for their tea, but the memory of that Meccano set was like a stone in his shoe and it wouldn’t leave him. He just needed to earn a few more pounds and he could get Ben a present he would love…

  Robbie shook his head. It would feel wrong to buy Ben’s present by selling anything of his wife’s. First thing in the morning, he would make a round of the shops and factories he hadn’t tried yet, though with only a few days until Christmas it was unlikely he would find anything before then…

  *

  Bert Waters rubbed at his chest. The pain was more persistent now and getting worse. He’d put it down to indigestion at first, but now his instinct told him that it was something more. It worried him that he might be ill, but he knew he couldn’t be ill, not while his Millie was sick. All the traipsing upstairs with trays wasn’t helping him, Bert knew, but he didn’t have much alternative. He would break Millie’s heart if he told her she had to go into the infirmary. He wasn’t going to let that happen, but he was so tired.

  Sitting down, Bert closed his eyes and immediately fell asleep. When he woke, it was to find that it was almost teatime. He got up to put the kettle on and felt the pain in his chest again. Rubbing it with his hand, he turned the tap on and let the kettle fill. He set the kettle on the fire and started to take plates from the dresser.

  Damn this pain, it made everything twice as hard. Bert wasn’t getting any younger, but he’d always been strong. At least he had a little pension from his work at the jam factory, which made his life and Millie’s just about bearable. They could pay their rent and the gas and put decent food on the table, and Bert thanked God for it. When he saw the reports of men fighting with the police because their families were starving, he wondered what the world was coming to.

  Bert had worked all his life, most of the time in the same place – except for the years he’d spent in the ammunitions factory during the Great War. Bert had risen through the ranks to become foreman and he’d taken his turn on fire watch; he’d helped to put fires out when the doodlebugs came over with their death and destruction, and he done all he could because he had sons fighting out there on the Somme. Bert had never stopped thinking about his sons risking their lives. He knew that lots of men had sons fighting but many of them had come back after the war: Bert’s sons hadn’t.

  At first it seemed they bore a charmed life. Terry and Jamie wrote regular letters home. They’d told their parents all about what it was really like out there and about how they longed to come home.

  Bert recalled the first Christmas of the war. They’d called it the war to end all wars and the men who had made it back carried such terrible memories that they’d sworn it must never happen again. Because of Terry’s letters, sometimes, Bert thought he could smell the stench of the trenches; the awful odour of death and rotting flesh trodden into the mud by countless feet. Even worse was the rats feeding on bloated bodies that lay in no man’s land and couldn’t be buried until there was a ceasefire. Bert had seen it all through his son’s eyes and he’d wished he could change places with him, but Bert was considered too old, even then, for the trenches.

  Yet that first Christmas, the soldiers had come together regardless of orders and faceless generals that dictated what went on from somewhere far in the rear. It had started with someone singing carols. Terry was sure it had begun on the German side, though other people said it was theirs – what mattered was that it did start. Then one of the German soldiers came out of the trench and the British men emerged from theirs and suddenly in the spirit of Christmas they were giving each other toffees and cigarettes, exchanging little things and someone – Terry had never said who – had brought out a ball and they’d started kicking it about…

  Bert’s eyes were damp as he thought about that respite in a bitter war. Jamie had been killed earlier and then Terry, his boy that he loved more than life, had died just a few weeks before it all ended – finishing the destruction of Millie’s heart and nearly killing his father, but Bert was strong. He’d hung on for Millie’s sake and she’d become his reason to live. He wasn’t sure what he would do if she left him alone…

  Bert had made the tea when he heard the little tap at his door and then Ben and Ruthie entered, their small faces red with the cold and eager at the thought of somewhere warm to sit with their friend. They were like a little ray of sunshine, the grandchildren he would never have. Feeling an easing of his loneliness, he poured tea for them and his wife; his own could wait in the pot until he came down.

  ‘There’s a new loaf Effie from next door fetched for me this mornin’,’ he told the children. ‘And we’ve always got jam. They send me some from the factory once a month because I worked there all those years…’

  He picked up the tray and took his wife’s tea and a custard cream biscuit in the saucer. Millie might have a bit of bread and jam later if she fancied it, but often she only wanted her tea and a biscuit…

  The pain in his chest had gone off a little as he climbed the stairs, taking it slowly, careful not to spill the tea for his Millie. She was still as precious to him as she had been the day he met her. He recalled it now and smiled as he thought of the years that had been so good for them – except for losing their boys.

  Bert’s eyes misted. He supposed the war wasn’t truly God’s fault. Men made wars. And those children of Robbie Graham’s – well, sometimes, he thought they were a gift from God.

  Millie was sitting up against the pillows. She looked a little better and he smiled as she looked at him.

  ‘Are you ready for your tea, love?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I think tomorrow I might start to come down… save you up and down those stairs so much…’

  ‘Well, we’ll see,’ Bert said and took her tea to her. He bent and kissed her cheek. ‘Don’t get up too soon, love. I can manage a bit longer…’

  She nodded. ‘I know. I heard Ruthie’s voice. I think I might fancy a slice of bread and jam, Bert. Send the girl up to me with it. I do like to see them. It makes me think…’ Her voice died away on a sigh.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ Bert said. ‘I was just thinking what a blessing they are to us. We’ve got a little bit saved in the housekeepin’ pot. Would you mind if I gave them two shillings each for Christmas?’

  ‘Give them half a crown each,’ Millie said. ‘We’ve got everythin’ we need, Bert. Yes, give them a nice present. We’ve been blessed since they started coming.’

  ‘I’ll give it to them on Christmas Eve,’ he said, pleased. ‘The poor little mites haven’t had much luck since their mother died…’

  ‘No, they haven’t and no one but us and their father to care for them. Go down and have your tea with them,’ Millie said, ‘and then ask Ruthie to come up to me…’

  17

  Ruthie spread her jam thick on the fresh crusty bread. It was strawberry, her favourite, and she loved it. She loved Granda for letting her have it as thick as she liked. He was lucky because the jam factory gave him two big tins a month.

  At home, they didn’t always have the jam Ruthie liked so much. Ben told her that Dad couldn’t always find the work he needed and that was why he sometimes had a little bit too much to drink; she sort of understood it because of the sadness in his eyes. He tried to give them what they needed, but Ruthie longed for a new doll and a pretty dress. Her mum had made her dresses, but Mum was dead and Ruthie’s dress was too tight. Ruthie missed her mum so much! Her teacher said she needed new dresses for school, because hers had split under the arms and the other girls had taunted her. Dad had mended Ruthie’s dress twice, but it kept splitting because it was too small.

  She ate all her slice of bread. When Granny was well, she made a lovely seed cake or sometimes a jam sponge, but Granda couldn’t make cakes. Still, it
didn’t matter, Ruthie had filled up with the lovely sweet jam. She smiled at Granda as he spread jam thinly on Granny Millie’s bread and cut the crusts off for her. He always cut the slice into four little bits, to tempt Granny’s appetite, he said.

  ‘Can you take this upstairs for me, Ruthie?’ he asked. ‘Granny Millie wants to see you.’

  ‘Yes, of course I can,’ Ruthie said and beamed at him. She loved the elderly lady and missed her now that she wasn’t well enough to come down. ‘I’ll sit with her if she wants, Ben.’

  Ben nodded. He was well into his second slice of bread and jam but spread half as thickly as Ruthie liked hers. He grinned at Granda when he asked if he wanted another cup of tea.

  ‘Yeah, love one,’ he said. ‘How is Granny Millie?’

  ‘A little better,’ Granda was saying as Ruthie closed the kitchen door and went carefully up the stairs. Granny called out to her to come in and she took the small china plate to her friend, who was sitting up and looked a little brighter.

  ‘What a good girl you are, Ruthie. Both you and Ben are good to us – and your dad was kind to mend our window. I don’t know what we’d do without you all…’

  ‘I like to help,’ Ruthie said. ‘Ben is goin’ ter clean yer windows in the mornin’. I heard him tell Granda. I’ll come round too and help if I can…’

  ‘Yes, you do that,’ Granny Millie said and smiled. ‘I’ve got something you might like. If you look in the top drawer of that chest…’ She pointed across the room at a big mahogany chest.

  Ruthie hesitated and then went over to open the drawer. It was heavy and she found it hard to shift, but in the end she managed it. Lying on the top was a picture book. She knew at once it must be what Granny Millie was talking about and lifted it out, bringing it back to the bed.

  ‘Is this what yer mean?’ she asked uncertainly.