by Miss Read
These were powerful allies, and Jane was conscious that Frances had some support.
‘Grownups hang together,’ said Jane darkly. ‘Don’t forget we saw two Father Christmases this afternoon in Caxley. What about that then?’
‘They was men dressed up,’ replied Frances stolidly. ‘Only pretend Father Christmases. It don’t mean there isn’t a real one as ’ll come tonight.’
A huge yawn caught her unawares.
‘You stay awake if you want to,’ she murmured, turning her head into the delicious warmth of the uneaten pillow. ‘I’m going to sleep.’
Secure in her faith, she was asleep in five minutes, but Jane, full of doubts and resentful of her sister’s serenity, threw her arms above her head, and, gripping the rails of the brass bedstead, grimly began her vigil. Tonight she would learn the truth!
Downstairs, the two women assembled the last few presents that needed wrapping on the big table.
They made a motley collection. There were three or four pieces of basketwork made by Mary, who was neat with her fingers, and these she eyed doubtfully.
‘Can’t see myself ever making a tidy parcel of these flower holders,’ she remarked. ‘D’you think just a Christmas tag tied on would be all right?’
Mrs Berry surveyed the hanging baskets thoughtfully.
‘Well, it always looks a bit slapdash, I feel, to hand over something unwrapped. Looks as though you can’t be bothered—’
‘I can’t,’ said Mary laconically.
‘But I see your point. We’d make a proper pig’s ear of the wrapping paper trying to cover those. You’re right, my girl. Just a tag.’
Mary sat down thankfully and drew the packet of tags towards her. The presents were destined for neighbours, and the tags seemed remarkably juvenile for the elderly couples who were going to receive the baskets. Father Christmas waved from a chimney pot, a golliwog danced a jig, two pixies bore a Christmas tree, and a cat carried a Christmas pudding. Only two tags measured up to Mary’s requirements, a row of bells on one and a red candle on the other. Ah well, she told herself, someone must make do with the pixies or the cat, and when you came to think of it the tags would be on the back of the fire this time tomorrow, so why worry? She wrote diligently.
Outside the wind still screamed, rattling the window, and making the back door thump in its frame. The curtains stirred in the onslaught, and now and again a little puff of smoke came into the room from the log fire, as the wind eddied round the chimney pot.
Mrs Berry looked up from the jar of honey she was wrapping.
‘I’ll go and see if the rain’s blowing in under that door at the back.’
She went out, causing a draught that rustled the wrapping paper and blew two of Mary’s tags to the floor. Mrs Berry was gone for some minutes, and returned red-faced from stooping.
‘A puddle a good yard wide,’ she puffed. ‘I’ve left that old towel stuffed up against the crack. We’ll have to get a new sill put on that threshold, Mary. It’s times like this we miss our menfolk.’
Mary nodded, not trusting herself to speak. Hot tears pricked her eyes, but she bent lower to her task, so that her mother should not see them. How was it, she wondered, that she could keep calm and talk about her loss, quite in control of her feelings, for nine tenths of the time, and yet a chance remark, like this one, pierced her armour so cruelly? Poor Gran! If only she knew! Better, of course, that she did not. She would never forgive herself if she thought she had caused pain.
Unaware of the turmoil in her daughter’s mind, Mrs Berry turned her attention to a round tin of shortbread.
‘’Pon my word,’ she remarked. ‘I never learn! After all these years, you’d think I’d know better than to pick a round tin instead of a square ’un. I’ll let you tackle this, Mary. It’s for Margaret and Mary Waters. They’re good to us all through the year, taking messages and traipsing round with the parish magazine in all weathers.’
Mary reached across for the tin, then checked. The eyes of the two women met questioningly. Above the sound of the gale outside they had heard the metallic clink of their letter box.
‘I’ll go,’ said Mary.
An envelope lay on the damp mat. She opened the door, letting in a rush of wind and rain and a few sodden leaves. There was no one to be seen, but in the distance Mary thought she could see the bobbing light of a flash-light. To shout would have been useless. To follow, in her slippers, idiotic. She pushed the door shut against the onslaught, and returned to the light with the envelope.
‘For you, Mum,’ she said, handing over the glistening packet.
Mrs Berry withdrew a Christmas card, bright with robins and frosted leaves, and two embroidered white handkerchiefs.
‘From Mrs Burton,’ said Mrs Berry wonderingly. ‘Now, who’d have thought it? Never exchanged presents before, have we? What makes her do a thing like this, I wonder? And turning out too, on such a night. Dear soul, she shouldn’t have done it. She’s little enough to spare as it is.’
‘You did feed her cat and chickens for her while she was away last summer,’ said Mary. ‘Perhaps that’s why.’
‘That’s only acting neighbourly,’ protested Mrs Berry. ‘No call for her to spend money on us.’
‘Given her pleasure, I don’t doubt,’ answered Mary. ‘The thing is, do we give her something back? And, if so, what?’
It was a knotty problem. Their eyes ranged over the presents before them, already allotted.
‘We’ll have to find something,’ said Mrs Berry firmly. ‘What about the box of soap upstairs?’
‘People are funny about soap,’ said Mary. ‘Might think it’s a hint, you know. She’s none too fond of washing, nice old thing though she is.’
They racked their brains in silence.
‘Half a pound of tea?’ suggested Mrs Berry at last.
‘Looks like charity,’ replied Mary.
‘Well, I wouldn’t say no to a nice packet of tea,’ said Mrs Berry with spirit. ‘What about one of our new tea towels then?’
‘Cost too much,’ said Mary. ‘She’d mind about that.’
‘I give up then,’ said Mrs Berry. ‘You think of something. I must say these last-minute surprises are all very fine, but they do put you to some thinking.’
She tied a final knot round the honey pot and rose to her feet again.
‘Talking of tea, what about a cup?’
‘Lovely,’ said Mary.
‘Shall I cut us a sandwich?’
‘Not for me. Just a cup of tea.’
The old lady went out, and Mary could hear the clattering of cups and saucers, and the welcome tinkle of teaspoons. Suddenly, she felt inexpressibly tired. She longed to put her head down among the litter on the table and fall asleep. Sometimes she thought Christmas was more trouble than it was worth. All the fuss and flurry, then an empty purse just as the January bills came in. If only she had her mother’s outlook! She still truly loved Christmas. She truly celebrated the birth of that God who walked beside her every hour of the day. She truly loved her neighbour – even that dratted Mrs Burton, who was innocently putting them to such trouble.
Mrs Berry returned with the round tin tray bearing the cups and saucers and the homely brown teapot clad in a knitted tea cosy. Her face had a triumphant smile.
‘I’ve thought of something. A bottle of my blackcurrant wine. How’s that? She can use it for her cough, if she don’t like it for anything better. What say?’
‘Perfect!’ said Mary. In agreement at last, they sipped their tea thankfully.
Still awake upstairs, Jane heard the chinking of china and the voices of her mother and grandmother. Beside her, Frances snored lightly, her pink mouth slightly ajar, her lashes making dark crescents against her rosy cheeks.
Jane’s vigil seemed lonelier and bleaker every minute. What’s more, she was hungry, she discovered. The thought of the blue biscuit tin, no doubt standing by the teacups below, caused her stomach to rumble. Cautiously, she slid her skinny legs
out of bed, took a swift glance at the two empty pillowcases draped expectantly one each end of the brass bed rail, and crept to the door.
The wind was making so much noise that no one heard the latch click, or the footsteps on the stairs. The child opened the bottom door, which led directly into the living room, and stood blinking in the light like a little owl caught in the sunshine.
‘Mercy me!’ gasped Mrs Berry, putting down her cup with a clatter. ‘What a start you gave me, child!’
‘Jane!’ cried her mother. ‘What on earth are you doing down here?’ Her voice was unusually sharp. Surprised and startled, she could have shaken the child in her exasperation.
‘I’m hungry,’ whispered Jane, conscious of her unpopularity.
‘You had a good supper,’ said Mary shortly. ‘Time you was asleep.’
‘Let her come by the fire for a minute,’ pleaded Mrs Berry. ‘Shut that door, my dear. The draught fairly cuts through us. Want a cup of tea, and a biscuit?’
The child’s face lit up. ‘Shall I fetch a cup?’
‘Not with those bare feet,’ said Mary. ‘I’ll get your mug, and then you go straight back to bed as soon as you’re finished. Your gran’s too good to you.’
She hurried kitchenwards, and the child sat on the rag rug smiling at the flames licking the log. It was snug down here. It was always snug with Gran.
She put a hand on the old lady’s knee. ‘Mum’s cross,’ she whispered.
‘She’s tired. Done a lot today, and you know you should really be abed, giving her a break.’
They always hang together, these grownups, thought Jane rebelliously; but she took the mug of weak tea gratefully, and the top biscuit from the tin when it was offered, even though it was a Rich Tea and she knew there were Ginger Nuts further down.
‘Is Frances asleep?’ asked Mary.
‘Yes. I couldn’t get off.’
‘You told me you didn’t intend to,’ replied her mother. ‘Trying to see Father Christmas, silly girl. As though he’ll come if you’re awake! The sooner you’re asleep the sooner he’ll come!’
Torn with doubts, the child looked swiftly up into her grandmother’s face. It told her nothing. The familiar kind smile played around the lips. The eyes looked down at her as comfortingly as ever.
‘Your mother’s right. Drink up your tea, and then snuggle back into bed. I’ll come and tuck you up this time.’
Jane tilted her mug, put the last fragment of biscuit into her mouth, and scrambled to her feet.
‘Whose presents are those?’ she said, suddenly aware of the parcels on the table.
‘Not yours,’ said Mary.
‘Neighbours’,’ said her grandmother in the same breath. ‘You shall take some round for us tomorrow. And I want you to carry a bottle of wine very carefully to Mrs Burton. Can you do it, do you think?’
The child nodded, hesitated before her mother, then kissed her warmly on the cheek.
‘You hussy!’ said Mary, but her voice was soft, and the child saw that she was forgiven. Content at last, she followed her grandmother’s bulk up the narrow stairs.
The flame of the night light was burning low in the little hollow of its wax. The shadows wavered about the room as the old woman and the child moved towards the bed.
‘Now, no staying awake, mind,’ whispered Gran, in a voice that brooked no argument. ‘I don’t know who’s been stuffing your head with nonsense, but you can forget it. Get off to sleep, like Frances there. You’ll see Father Christmas has been, as soon as you wake up.’
She kissed the child, and tucked in the bedclothes tightly.
Jane listened to her grandmother’s footsteps descending the creaking stairs, sighed for her lost intentions, and fell, almost instantly, into a deep sleep.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘My! That was a lucky escape,’ said Mrs Berry. ‘Good thing we hadn’t got out those pillowcases!’ Two pillowcases, identical to those hanging limply upstairs, had been hidden behind the couch in the cottage parlour for the last two days. Most of the presents were already in them. A doll for each, beautifully dressed in handsewn clothes, joint presents from Mary and her mother; a game of Ludo for Frances and Snakes and Ladders for Jane; and a jigsaw puzzle apiece. All should provide plenty of future pleasure.
The American aunt had sent two little cardigans, pale pink and edged with silver trimming – far more glamorous than anything to be found in the Caxley shops. The less well-off aunt at Taunton had sent bath salts for both, which, Mary knew, would enchant the little girls. There were also gifts from kind neighbours – a box of beads, a toy shop (complete with tiny metal scales), and several tins of sweets, mint humbugs and homemade toffee among them.
A stocking, waiting to be filled with small knickknacks, lay across each pillowcase. As soon as the children were safely asleep, the plan had been to substitute the full pillowcases for the empty ones.
‘I thought she might reappear,’ admitted Mary. ‘She’s twigged, you know, about Father Christmas. Some of the children at school have let it out.’
‘She won’t come down again, I’m certain,’ replied Mrs Berry comfortingly. ‘Let’s fill up the stockings, shall we? We can put the last-minute odds and ends in when we carry up the pillowcases.’
Mary nodded agreement and went to the parlour, returning with the limp stockings. They were a pair of red and white striped woollen ones, once the property of the vicar’s aunt, and reputedly kept for skating and skiing in her young days. Mary had bought them at a jumble sale, and each Christmas since they had appeared to delight the little girls.
From the dresser drawer, Mrs Berry collected the store of small treasures that had been hidden there for the last week or so. A few wrapped sweets, a curly stick of barley sugar, a comb, a tiny pencil and pad, a brooch and a handkerchief followed the tangerines that stuffed the toe of each stocking. Then, almost guiltily, Mrs Berry produced the final touch – two small wooden Dutch dolls.
‘Saw them in the market at Caxley,’ she said, ‘and couldn’t resist them, Mary. They reminded me of a family of Dutch dolls I had at their age. They can amuse themselves dressing them up.’
The dolls were tucked at the top, their shiny black heads and stiff wooden arms sticking out attractively. The two women gazed at their handiwork with satisfaction.
‘Well, that’s that!’ said Mrs Berry. ‘I’m just going to clear away this tray and tidy up in the kitchen, and I shan’t be long out of bed.’
‘I’ll wait till I’m sure those two scallywags are really asleep,’ answered Mary. ‘I wouldn’t put it past our Jane to pretend, you know. She’s stubborn when she wants to be, and she’s real set on finding out who brings the presents.’
The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece stood at ten o’clock. How the evening had flown! Mary tidied the table, listening to the gale outside, and the sound of her mother singing in the kitchen.
She suddenly remembered her own small presents upstairs still unwrapped and crept aloft to fetch them. The door of the girls’ room was ajar. She tiptoed in and looked down upon the sleeping pair. It seemed impossible that either of them could be feigning sleep, so rhythmically were they breathing. What angels they looked!
She made her way downstairs and swiftly wrapped up the necklaces and handkerchiefs. The very last, she thought thankfully! Just a tag for Mum’s cyclamen, and I can write that and tie it on when I go to bed.
She selected the prettiest tag she could find, and slipped it into her skirt pocket to take upstairs.
Mrs Berry reappeared, carrying the glass of water that she took to her bedroom every night.
‘I’ll be off then, my dear. Don’t stay up too long. You must be tired.’
She bent to kiss her daughter.
‘The girls have gone off, I think, but I’ll give them another ten minutes to make sure.’
‘See you in the morning, then, Mary,’ said the old lady, mounting the stairs.
Mary raked the hot ashes from the fire and swept up the hearth
. She fetched the two bulging pillowcases and put the stockings on top of them. Then she sat in the old armchair and let exhaustion flood through her. Bone-tired, she confessed to herself. Bone-tired!
Above her she could hear the creaking of the floor-boards as her mother moved about, then a cry and hasty footsteps coming down the stairs.
The door flew open and Mrs Berry, clad in her flannel nightgown, stood, wild eyed, on the threshold.
‘Mum, what’s the matter?’ cried Mary, starting to her feet.
‘A mouse!’ gasped Mrs Berry, shuddering uncontrollably. ‘There’s a mouse in my bedroom!’
The two women gazed at each other, horror struck. Mary’s heart sank rapidly, but she spoke decisively.
‘Here, you come by the fire, and let’s shut that door. The girls will be waking up.’
She pushed up the armchair she had just vacated and Mrs Berry, still shuddering, sat down thankfully.
‘You’ll catch your death,’ said Mary, raking a few bright embers together and dropping one or two shreds of dry bark from the hearth on to the dying fire. ‘You ought to have put on your dressing gown.’
‘I’m not going up there to fetch it!’ stated Mrs Berry flatly. ‘I know I’m a fool, but I just can’t abide mice.’
‘I’ll fetch it,’ said Mary, ‘and I’ll set the mousetrap too while I’m there. Where did it go?’
Mrs Berry shivered afresh.
‘It ran under the bed, horrible little thing! You should’ve seen its tail, Mary! A good three inches long! It made me cry out, seeing it skedaddle like that.’
‘I heard you,’ said Mary, making for the kitchen to get the mousetrap.
Mrs Berry drew nearer to the fire, tucking her voluminous nightgown round her bare legs. A cruel draught whistled in from the passage, but nothing would draw her from the safety of the armchair. Who knows how many more mice might be at large on a night like this?
Mary, her mouth set in a determined line, reappeared with the mousetrap and went quietly upstairs. She returned in a moment, carrying her mother’s dressing gown and slippers.