A Family Christmas

by Katie Flynn

  ‘Everyone will know we spent the night together,’ she said, her voice shaking a little. ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to invent some story which will save my reputation?’

  Sam laughed. ‘We’ll pile up the newspapers in a corner and spread the hay out all over the floor and say we staggered in here at the height of the blizzard, lay down on the hay and slept until it grew light. Will that satisfy you?’ He smiled at her and she read understanding and a little amusement in his face. ‘My dear Glenys, you really mustn’t be so prudish. Of course it would have been a good deal nicer had we discovered two beautiful beds with blankets and pillows and a pair of pyjamas for myself and a nightdress for you, but things like that only happen in fairy stories.’ He looked her up and down with a critical eye. ‘No one would dream that you’d not spent the night in your dress, nor I in my denims and jersey, so stop worrying that your reputation is ruined, because it’s nonsense.’ He walked over to the window, no longer hidden by their clothing, and bent down to peer out. He stared around him for a moment then straightened up once more. ‘I can’t recognise anything, I’m afraid; snow changes a landscape completely. But presently I’ll climb the nearest hill and no doubt see some landmark I recognise.’ He turned to smile at his companion. ‘I’m sure you’ve read The Wind In The Willows by Kenneth Grahame. Do you remember the bit where Mole goes off by himself into the Wild Wood? He curls up inside a hollow tree because he’s afraid of the Faces, and in the night it snows . . .’

  ‘. . . and it completely changes the look of everything,’ Glenys finished for him.

  Somehow the simple fact that they both knew the children’s classic made it easier to laugh with him when he said, longingly: ‘And after that they found Badger’s front door and sat down to an excellent supper in his kitchen, and next morning there was oatmeal porridge and buttered toast for breakfast. What a pity we aren’t Mole and Rat, for I fear we’ll have to do without any breakfast at all today.’

  As they talked Glenys had been following his suggestion that they should dismantle the bed so that the cottage would look as it had done on the previous day, though judging from the look of the place no one had been here for many weeks. Now she dusted her hands and stood back. ‘My mouth waters even at the thought of a cold drink,’ she admitted. ‘Aren’t you thirsty, Sam? My mouth is so dry it’s like a desert. In fact as soon as I’ve got my boots back on I shall go outside and eat some snow.’

  Sam, shrugging himself into his duffel coat, nodded agreement. ‘There’d have been a well within a few yards of the back door,’ he observed. He caught her arm and pulled her over to the window. ‘See that mound? That, I’m sure, will be all that’s left of the well, and the mound next to it will be the shed where the good man who once lived in this cottage kept his tools.’

  ‘I see,’ Glenys said. She looked shyly up at the man beside her. ‘Or perhaps it was the privy.’

  Sam looked down at her, a grin hovering. ‘I doubt that there ever was one; such niceties do not always extend to a solitary cottage,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to do as the cottagers once did; see the other mound, the much shorter one? I reckon that’s the muck heap. If you go round the far side of it you’ll be out of sight – not that I’d dream of peeping, mind you.’

  Glenys glared. ‘I should hope not,’ she said tartly. ‘And as soon as I’ve – I’ve taken advantage of the facilities I think I should come with you to the hill. Then, if there are still no landmarks, we can simply keep walking until we see something that we do recognise.’

  Sam agreed with this infinitely sensible plan, and as soon as Glenys was ready they set off, closing the cottage door behind them. ‘Because if anyone else is benighted and lost in a blizzard I wouldn’t like to think we had ruined the only shelter for miles,’ he said. Turning to take one last look at the cottage, Glenys realised for the first time that others had come this way in the night, for she saw a great many slotted footprints where sheep had taken advantage of whatever shelter the broken-down walls of the cottage afforded, and some human footprints, too.

  ‘It’s a good thing we were still sleeping when the shepherd came for his flock,’ Glenys remarked as they pushed their way through the thick snow towards where they hoped the road would be. ‘What an adventure we shall have to tell Jimmy and Mo when we see them! Only I expect they will say that we should have made ourselves some sort of shelter in that thicket,’ she added, pointing.

  ‘Yes, and that we should have snared a rabbit or fished a trout out of the nearest stream,’ Sam agreed. He grinned down at her. ‘I shall put all the blame on you and say that you were too finicky to start building a cabin of willow wands. Not that there are any willows around. Oh, look.’ They had reached the top of a small hillock, and saw below them a forest of closely packed trees which stretched for some considerable distance.

  ‘We’ve reached the Wild Wood, and beyond the Wild Wood is the wide world,’ Glenys said, and just as she said it the clouds parted and the sun gleamed gold on the snow-laden branches, turning the scene into a thing of beauty.

  ‘Isn’t that something?’ Sam said softly. ‘And of course that must be the forest you can see from the back bedroom window in Weathercock Farm. It used to be Grace’s room, but she moved out whenever I was staying with the family because, bless her, she was always generous and thought her room a good deal nicer than the little one in the attic into which I would have had to squeeze my six foot two.’

  ‘That’s the room Jimmy will be having once Nain has got things sorted out,’ Glenys said. ‘She sounded as though she really wanted the children to live on the farm. I do like your mother-in-law, Sam.’

  Sam nodded. They had been standing side by side staring out across the glittering scene, but now he put an arm round her waist and turned her towards a tiny point of golden light which the sun had just illumined. ‘See that? It’s the weathercock on the big barn. We’re lucky that it’s a clear day, because it must be all of five miles away, but now we know which way to walk we’ll be there in no time.’

  ‘It’s all very well for you, with your great long legs; it will take me a good deal longer than “no time” to walk five miles,’ Glenys said apologetically. ‘However, when I think of last night’s delicious smell of frying bacon I do believe I might actually run to keep up with your long strides. And there’ll be a kettle jumping on the hob, and a jug of creamy milk from the dairy . . .’

  ‘Shut up,’ Sam said laughingly. ‘I’m sure we needn’t waste time eating snow, because I believe it doesn’t quench your thirst, so we’ll put all our energy into walking, if you please. You’ll find it easier going if we link arms.’ He looked down at her, the smile lurking once more. ‘Having spent the night together, linking arms seems pretty tame.’

  They set off, Glenys remarking that she hoped he would keep the way they had spent the night to himself, but presently she had other things to think about, for the snow was more than a foot deep and hid all sorts of obstacles for the unwary. One moment her boot sank into soft snow and the next she was banging her toes on a hidden rock. But they kept their eyes fixed on the weathercock, and sooner than she would have believed possible they saw the sunken lane which they knew led directly to the farm.

  ‘It’s just occurred to me to wonder whether there were search parties out looking for us last night,’ Sam said suddenly. ‘Mrs Buttermilk will have expected you and the children to arrive on her doorstep and my in-laws must have assumed that I would leave you at your lodgings and then return to the farm. Goodness, I hope to God they didn’t alert the police, or the neighbours, otherwise we shall be unpopular.’

  ‘And there will be talk,’ Glenys said resignedly. ‘Oh dear, and talk is what I most want to avoid. Not that it will really matter, come to think, because I’ll be on my way as soon as the snow clears.’

  Sam was beginning to answer when she checked him, a hand on his arm. ‘Listen!’ she commanded. ‘It’s the children!’ And sure enough, rounding the next bend and tearing towar
ds them, well muffled up in coats and scarves, came Jimmy and Mo.

  ‘Where have you been?’ Mo shrieked as she panted up to them. ‘I went into your room, Dad, as soon as I woked up this morning and you weren’t there. But I didn’t cry, and I went back up to our room and shook Jimmy and he said you’d have stayed with Mrs Buttermilk, else you’d have got lost, ’cos there were a great blizzard, you know, and Nain said you don’t know the country well enough to walk around when it’s under snow. She said only a idiot would have come home in them conditions.’

  ‘Very true, my bright little button,’ her father said, winking at Glenys. ‘But we’re starving hungry, ’cos we got lost in the Wild Wood on our way back, so we’ve had no breakfast. You know the book Miss Glenys has been reading to you?’

  ‘Yes, I remember it,’ Mo said. ‘It snows in the Wild Wood . . .’

  Jimmy, who had stopped to examine a deserted bird’s nest in a thicket, came galloping up and interrupted his sister. ‘I ‘spect Mrs Buttermilk gave you both breakfast,’ he said, ‘but our Nain says you’ll be hungry all over again after your long walk, so she told us to run ahead of you and she’ll start cooking at once.’

  ‘Well, you won’t arrive at the farm much before we do, because your nain was right, and we’re hungry as hunters,’ Sam said. ‘We’ve also got pretty wet, and as soon as we reach the farm we shall want to borrow a couple of dressing gowns and dry our clothes out before the kitchen fire, so you two run ahead and tell Nain we’re not far behind you.’

  When Sam and Glenys, closely following the two children, burst into the kitchen at Weathercock Farm, they received a grand welcome. ‘We realised you must have taken shelter during that blizzard, for how on earth you managed to reach Mrs Buttermilk’s we could not imagine,’ Nain said. ‘As soon as it was light Taid fought his way to the Evans farm to telephone her from there, only the lines were down so he got no response. We were just talking over what best to do when the children came panting in to say you were on their heels.’ She turned to Glenys. ‘I take it Mrs Buttermilk gave Sam a bed for the night?’

  Glenys began to speak, but Sam overruled her. ‘We got hopelessly lost, to tell you the truth,’ he said frankly, ‘so we took shelter in a cottage. I couldn’t tell you where it was save that it was sheep country. I hope Mrs Buttermilk wasn’t worried; with any luck she will assume that Glenys and the children found their relatives and stayed with them, but when the telephone wires are restored I’ll ring her from the Evanses’ to set her mind at rest. I’ll ring Frank, too, and let him know their story has had a happy ending!’

  ‘There we are then; everything settled,’ Nain said placidly. She looked at her dressing gown-clad guests. ‘Sit yourselves down; you must be starving indeed. And Taid and I have a suggestion to make.’ She turned to Glenys. ‘I know you’re a schoolteacher and I know you want a proper job, but whilst this dreadful weather lasts you have little option but to remain with us and I can tell you we need all the help we can get.’ She smiled at her husband, already seated at the table and about to address a large plate of bacon and eggs. ‘Considering our age we think we’ve managed quite well. We’ve always kept pigs, half a dozen milch cows and a pedigree Hereford bull at stud. What we have chiefly lacked is workers to milk, to feed, to doctor when necessary and do a thousand and one others things. If we’d had more ready cash we could have employed a labourer or two, but as it was we dared not spend the money because we needed it for foodstuffs for the animals, as well as ourselves. So you see, if you are prepared to work alongside Taid and me you’ll be more than paying for your keep.’ She slid a plate of bacon, eggs and fried bread down in front of Glenys and another in front of Sam. ‘Is that fair?’

  ‘It’s more than fair, it’s extremely generous,’ Glenys said, picking up her knife and fork. ‘But you must remember I’m a totally unskilled worker so far as farming is concerned. You might find that I was more of a nuisance than a help.’

  Nain shook her head. ‘That’s not important. Taid and I can manage the milking, but carting fodder into the fields, carrying the swill across to the pigsties, searching out the hens if they get lost in the snow and don’t return to the henhouse are all jobs which you and the children should be able to tackle. Winters are always hard, so we keep a stock of food in, but money being so tight means that it’s largely what you might call staples: flour, lard, sugar and so on – enough to keep Taid and me until the weather breaks. But this year we shall be providing for four extra, so there will be trips into Ruthin to be made, too many for an old couple like Taid and myself to tackle even after the snow melts. So if you and Sam were willing to stay on, why, you’d be doubly welcome. Will you consider it, my dear?’

  The children had joined them at the table and were eating slices of homemade bread spread with homemade jam, and now Jimmy smiled at Glenys. ‘You ain’t the only one who’ll be learning, Auntie Glenys,’ he told her. ‘We ain’t going to be supercargo, we’re going to be real good helpers, ain’t we, little sister?’

  Mo turned towards Glenys, and spoke through a mouthful of bread and jam. ‘That’s right, Auntie Glenys, we’s going to be workers same as you and our dad,’ she said. ‘Supercargo is what they call someone who pays to travel on a working ship; ain’t that right, our dad?’

  ‘That’s right, button,’ Sam said, spearing a piece of bacon and winking at Jimmy. ‘But we’ll start working our passage the moment I finish this grand breakfast, by beginning to clear the yard.’

  Chapter 13

  ALTHOUGH GLENYS HAD assured her host and hostess that she would be quite happy to remain on the farm as a worker until the weather cleared, she was secretly worried that Sam’s first antagonism would rear its ugly head once more now that they were constantly with the children. Jimmy clung to his father, wanting to show him that all had been forgiven and forgotten, but Mo, Glenys thought, was still a little wary of a man she could scarcely remember. She tended to attach herself to Glenys, and though Glenys did her best to encourage the child to get to know her father it was uphill work. Mo chatted away to Nain and Taid and to Glenys herself, but she was still shy with Sam. At first, Glenys had thought that Sam might think she was deliberately encouraging Mo to work with her rather than with him, but Sam showed no signs of the jealousy which had upset her when she had first met him. And then one day, when she and Mo were in the kitchen baking scones whilst the men carried bales of hay out to the cows in the high pasture, she discovered at least one reason for Mo’s attitude to her father. Until now Glenys had avoided the subject, but that morning, after they had been snowed in for the best part of two weeks, Taid had sniffed the air and said there was a thaw coming. ‘Shan’t be shut in much longer,’ he said cheerfully. He turned to Mo. ‘You and Jimmy will be able to start school by the end of the week. See if I’m not right.’

  Mo’s obvious pleasure at the prospect of spending large parts of each day away from the farm prompted Glenys to try to find out why the child seemed so ill at ease in her father’s company. When they had finished cutting out a tray of scones and slid them into the oven to bake, Glenys asked the question on her mind. ‘Mo, my love, has your dad said anything to upset you?’

  Mo had been making a little figure out of the remains of the scone mixture, but now she looked up and shook her head, then dropped her eyes to her work once more. ‘Don’t know what you mean,’ she said. ‘This here scone boy what I’m making is for Jimmy. If there’s enough pastry over I’ll make one for Taid; I’ll make one for Daddy too if you like, so long as he doesn’t try to kiss me.’ She shuddered expressively. ‘I don’t like beardy kisses; they scratch.’

  Glenys laughed. ‘I’ve always thought your father’s beard looks very soft, but soft or bristly you can’t be frightened of a beard. I mean, it’s like saying you’re frightened of a finger, or a toe.’ She laughed and Mo laughed with her but, Glenys thought, a trifle uneasily.

  ‘I’m not frightened of anything,’ Mo said defiantly. ‘It’s just that horrible Cyril has a beard and �
�� and sometimes when my daddy’s worried or cross he looks a bit like Cyril.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ Glenys said, vastly relieved. So that was why Mo avoided her father’s company! But she would have to talk seriously to the child, because although he had said nothing on the subject she knew Sam was both hurt and puzzled by his daughter’s attitude. Glenys remembered that in the early days of their acquaintance she herself had tended to treat him with kid gloves: he was so big, so dark and, she supposed, so frightening to a small child, though she herself now knew him for what he was: a gentle giant. Indeed, she realised that when the snow cleared and the time came for her to leave it would be Sam that she missed the most. He had been everything that was good and kind to her, showing her how to carry out every task she undertook in a way which saved her strength. She had stood by and watched him learning to milk the cows and he had been delighted when she proved to be a better milker than he was, congratulating her and saying, with a twinkle, that she would make some lucky farmer an excellent wife.

  So now, in the warm kitchen, Glenys considered how best to tackle Mo’s lingering fear of her father. It was no use saying that Sam was nothing like the hateful Cyril Huxtable, because irrational fears can rarely be talked away. Instead, Glenys probed a little deeper. ‘But Mo darling, Cyril Huxtable is far away and you’re very unlikely to meet him again. It’s very hurtful to your daddy when you turn your face away when he gives you a goodnight kiss, or . . .’ her eyes settled on the manikins the child was making, ‘or when you make everyone else a scone boy and don’t make one for Daddy. What’s the reason, sweetheart? It can’t just be because Daddy and Cyril both have beards.’

  Mo heaved a deep sigh and began to put her family of little men on to the baking tray which Glenys had greased for her. ‘The night you and Daddy were lost in the snowstorm I had a terrible dream,’ she said reluctantly. ‘I dreamed that Daddy had strangled you and he carried you back and threw you down on the kitchen floor. He said you had kidnapped his children and he hated you, only then you weren’t dead and you sat up and your face was all purple and horrible and when you started to scream I looked at Daddy and he was laughing. I could see big black teeth in his black beard, and he said he would eat you up, and then I realised it wasn’t my daddy at all but horrible Cyril. And then I woked up and started to wail, so Jimmy woke too and I got in his bed and he cuddled me until I fell asleep.’