The Christmas Mouse

by Miss Read

  He carried a bunch of pink roses, and at the sight of them Amelia felt suddenly shy.

  ‘You shouldn’t have bothered,’ she began, but the young man hastily put her at ease.

  ‘My ma sent them, to thank you for what you did, and for washing the handkerchief. She said you’re quite right. She’d have had the devil’s own job to get out the stain if I’d left it till evening.’

  Amelia took the bunch and smelled them rapturously.

  ‘Please do thank her for them. They’re lovely. I’ll put them in my room.’

  Stanley gave her a devastating smile again.

  ‘I picked them,’ he said gently.

  ‘Then, thank you too,’ said Amelia, handing over the handkerchief.

  They stood in silence for a moment, gazing at each other, loath to break the spell of this magic moment.

  ‘Best be going,’ said Stanley, at length. He gave a gusty sigh, which raised Amelia’s spirits considerably, and set off, stuffing the handkerchief in his pocket. He had not gone more than a few steps when he halted and turned.

  ‘Can I come again, Amelia?’

  ‘Please,’ said Amelia, with rather more fervour than a well-bred young lady should have shown. But then Amelia always spoke her mind.

  There was no looking back, no hesitation, no lovers’ quarrels. From that first meeting they trod a smooth, blissfully happy path of courtship. They were both even-tempered, considerate people, having much the same background and, most important of all, the same sense of fun. There were no family difficulties, and the wedding took place on a spring day as sunny as that on which they had first met.

  They lived for the first few years at Beech Green, in a small cottage thatched by Dolly Clare’s father, who was one of their neighbours. The first two girls were born there, and then the house at Shepherds Cross was advertised to let. It was considerably bigger than their first house, and although it meant a longer cycle ride for Stanley, this did not deter him.

  Here Mary was born. They had hoped for a boy this time, but the baby was so pretty and good that the accident of her sex was speedily forgotten.

  Amelia and Stanley were true homemakers. Amelia’s early training at the vicarage had given her many skills. She could make frocks for the children, curtains, bedspreads, and rag rugs as competently as she could make a cottage pie or a round of shortbread. The house always looked as bright as a new pin, and Stanley saw to it that any stonework or woodwork was in good repair. They shared the gardening and it was Mrs Berry’s pride that they never needed to buy a vegetable.

  The longing for a son never left Amelia. She liked a man about the place, and it was doubly grievous when Stanley died so suddenly. She lost not only her lover and husband, but the comfort of all that a shared life meant.

  Mary’s Bertie brought back to the cottage the feeling of comfort and reliability. The birth of her grandson had meant more to Mrs Berry than she cared to admit. It was the continuance of male protection that subconsciously she needed. The baby’s early death was something she mourned as deeply as Mary and Bertie had.

  A piece of wood fell from the fire, and Mrs Berry stirred herself to reach for the tongs and replace it. Not yet midnight! She seemed to have been lying there for hours, dreaming of times passed.

  Poor Stanley, poor Bertie, poor baby! But what a blessing the two little girls were! Mary knew how to bring up children. Plenty of fun, but no nonsense when it came to doing as they were told. Say what you will, thought old Mrs Berry, it didn’t do people any harm to have a little discipline. You could cosset them too much, and give in to their every whim, and what happiness did that bring?

  She remembered neighbours in the early days of her marriage at Beech Green. They were an elderly pair when their first child arrived, a pale sickly little fellow called, much to the ribaldry of some of the Beech Green folk, Clarence.

  The baby was only put out into the garden on the warmest days, and then he was so swaddled in clothes that his normally waxen complexion was beaded with perspiration. The doctor harangued the doting mother; friends and neighbours, genuinely concerned for the child’s health, proffered advice. Nothing was of any avail. Clarence continued to be smothered with love.

  Not surprisingly, he was late in walking and talking. When he was at the toddling stage, his mother knitted him a long pair of reins in scarlet wool, and these were used in all his walks abroad. Mrs Berry herself had seen the child tethered by these same red reins to the fence near the back door, so that his mother could keep an eye on him as she worked.

  He was a docile child, too languid to protest against his restrictions and, never having known freedom, he accepted his lot with a sweet meekness that the other mothers found pathetic.

  Clarence reached the age of six, still cosseted, still adored, still forbidden the company of rough playmates who might harm him. But one bleak December day he fell ill with some childish infection that a normal boy would have thrown off in a day or two. Clarence drooped and died within the week, and the grief of the parents was terrible to see.

  Poor Clarence and his red reins! thought Mrs Berry, looking back over the years. She thought of him as ‘the sweet dove’ that died, in Keats’ poem. Long, long ago she had learned it, chanting with the other children at the village school, and still, seventy years on, she could remember it.

  I had a dove, and the sweet dove died;

  And I have thought it died of grieving:

  Oh, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied

  With a silken thread of my own hand’s weaving;

  Sweet little red feet! Why should you die—

  Why should you leave me, sweet bird, why?

  You lived alone in the forest tree,

  Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me?

  I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;

  Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

  Yes, that was Clarence! ‘Tied with a silken thread’ of his poor mother’s weaving. The stricken parents had moved away soon after the tragedy, and very little was heard of them, although someone once said that the mother had been taken to the madhouse, years later, and was never fit to be released.

  Thank God, thought Mrs Berry, turning her pillow, that children were brought up more sensibly these days. She thought of Mary’s two vivacious daughters, their glossy hair and round pink cheeks, their exuberance, their inexhaustible energy. Well, they were quiet enough at the moment, though no doubt they would wake early and fill the house with their excitement.

  Mrs Berry rearranged the eiderdown, turned her cheek into the pillow, and, thanking God for the blessing of a family, fell asleep at last.

  CHAPTER SIX

  An unaccustomed sound woke the old lady within an hour. She slept lightly these days, and the stirring of one of her granddaughters or the mewing of a cat was enough to make her instantly alert.

  She lay listening for the sound again. The wind still moaned and roared outside, the rain pattered fitfully against the windowpane, and the fire whispered as the wood ash fell through the bars of the grate.

  It was a metallic noise that had roused her. What could it be? It might possibly be caused by part of the metal trellis which she and Mary had erected against the front porch to aid the growth of a new rose. Could it have blown loose?

  But she could have sworn that the sound was nearer at hand, somewhere inside the house. It was not the welcome click of the mousetrap at its work. Something downstairs . . .

  She sat upright in the chair. The fire had burned very low, and she leaned forward to put a little more wood on it, taking care to make no noise. Her ears strained for a repetition of the sound.

  Now she thought she could hear a slight scuffling noise. A bird? Another mouse? Her heart began to beat quickly. And then the tinny sound again, as though a lid were being lifted from a light saucepan, or a cake tin. Without doubt, someone was in the kitchen!

  Mrs Berry sat very still for a minute. She felt no fear, but she was cautious. She certai
nly did not intend to rouse the sleeping family above. Whoever it was, Mrs Berry felt quite capable of coping with him. Some rough old tramp probably, seeking a dry billet from the storm and, if left alone, on his way before the house stirred at daybreak. Mrs Berry began to feel justifiable annoyance at the thought of some wastrel making free with her accommodation, and, what was more to the point, rifling the larder.

  She bent to pick up the poker from the hearth. There was only one chance in ten that she would need to use it, but it was as well to be armed. It gave her extra confidence, and should the man be so silly as to show fight, then she would lay about him with energy and leave him marked.

  Tightening her dressing-gown cord round her ample waist, Mrs Berry, poker in hand, moved silently to the door of the living room. This door, then a short passage, and then the kitchen door needed to be negotiated before she came face to face with her adversary. Mrs Berry determined to take the obstacles at a rush, catching the intruder before he had a chance to make his escape.

  For one brief moment, before she turned the doorknob, the battered face of an old woman swam into Mrs Berry’s mind. The photograph had been given pride of place in the local paper only that week, and showed the victim of some young hooligans who had broken into her pathetic home to take what they could. Well, Mrs Berry told herself sturdily, such things might happen in a town. It wouldn’t occur in a little homely place like Shepherds Cross! She had dealt with plenty of scoundrels in her day, and knew that a stout heart was the best defence against bullies. Right would always triumph in the end, and no good ever came of showing fear!

  She took a deep breath, a firmer grip on the poker, and flung open the door. Four quick determined steps took her to the kitchen door. She twisted the knob, and pushed the door open with her foot.

  There was a stifled sound, something between a sob and a scream, a scuffle, and an unholy clattering as a large tin fell upon the tiles of the kitchen floor.

  Mrs Berry switched on the light with her left hand, raised the poker menacingly in her right, and advanced upon her adversary.

  Upstairs, Jane stirred. She lay still for a minute or two, relishing the warmth of her sister’s back against hers, and the delicious warm hollow in which her cheek rested.

  Then she remembered, and sat up. It was just light enough to see that the two empty pillowcases had vanished. She crept carefully out of bed, and went to the foot. There on the floor stood two beautifully knobbly pillowcases, and across each lay an equally beautiful striped stocking.

  He had been! Father Christmas had been! Wild excitement was followed by a wave of shame. And she had not seen him! She had fallen asleep, after all her resolutions! It would be a whole year now before she could put Tom Williams’ assertion to the test again. She shivered in the cold draught that blew under the door.

  Her hands stroked the bulging stocking lovingly. There was the tangerine, there were the sweets, and this must be a dear little doll at the top. If only morning would come! She did not intend to undo the presents now. She would wait until Frances woke.

  She crept back to bed, shivering with cold and excitement. She thrust her head into the hollow of her pillow again, leaned back comfortably against her sister, sighed rapturously at the thought of joys to come, and fell asleep again within a minute.

  Mrs Berry’s stern gaze, which had been directed to a point about six feet from the ground, at a height where her enemy’s head should reasonably have been, now fell almost two feet to rest upon a pale, wretched urchin dressed in a streaming wet raincoat.

  At his feet lay Mrs Berry’s cake tin, luckily right way up, with her cherished Madeira cake exposed to the night air. The lid of the cake tin lay two yards away, where it had crashed in the turmoil.

  ‘Pick that up!’ said Mrs Berry in a terrible voice, pointing imperiously with the poker.

  Snivelling, the child did as he was told, and put it on the table.

  ‘Now the lid!’ said Mrs Berry with awful emphasis. The boy sidled nervously towards it, his eyes fixed fearfully upon the menacing poker. He retrieved it and replaced it fumblingly, Mrs Berry watching the while.

  The floor was wet with footmarks. The sodden towel had been pushed aside by the opening door. Mrs Berry remembered with a guilty pang that she had forgotten to lock the door amidst the general excitement of Christmas Eve.

  She looked disapprovingly at the child’s feet, which had played such havoc upon the kitchen tiles. They were small, not much bigger than Jane’s, and clad in a pair of sneakers that squelched with water every time the boy moved. He had no socks, and his legs were mauve with cold and covered with goose pimples.

  Mrs Berry’s motherly heart was smitten, but no sign of softening showed in her stern face. This boy was nothing more than a common housebreaker and thief. A minute more and her beautiful Madeira cake, with its artistic swirl of angelica across the top, would have been demolished – gulped down by this filthy ragamuffin.

  Nevertheless, one’s Christian duty must be done.

  ‘Take off those shoes and your coat,’ commanded Mrs Berry, ‘and bring them in by the fire. I want to know more about you, my boy.’

  He struggled out of them, and picked them up in a bundle in his arms. His head hung down and little droplets of water ran from his bangs down his cheeks.

  Mrs Berry unhooked the substantial striped roller towel from the back of the door and motioned to the boy to precede her to the living room.

  ‘And don’t you dare to make a sound,’ said Mrs Berry in a fierce whisper. ‘I’m not having everyone woken up by a rapscallion like you.’

  She prodded him in the back with the poker and followed her reluctant victim to the fireside.

  He was obviously completely exhausted and was about to sink into one of the armchairs, but Mrs Berry stopped him.

  ‘Oh, no you don’t, my lad! Dripping wet, as you are! You towel yourself dry before you mess up my furniture.’

  The boy took the towel and rubbed his soaking hair and wet face. Mrs Berry studied him closely. Now that she had time to look at him, she saw that the child was soaked to the skin. He was dressed in a T-shirt and grey flannel shorts, both dark with rainwater.

  ‘Here, strip off,’ commanded Mrs Berry.

  ‘Eh?’ said the boy, alarmed.

  ‘You heard what I said. Take off those wet clothes. Everything you’ve got on.’

  The child’s face began to pucker. He was near to tears.

  ‘Lord, boy,’ said Mrs Berry testily, ‘I shan’t look at you. In any case, I’ve seen plenty of bare boys in my time. Do as you’re told, and I’ll get you an old coat to put on while your things dry.’

  She stood a chair near the fire and hung the child’s sodden coat across the back of it. His small sneakers were placed on the hearth, on their sides, to dry.

  The boy slowly divested himself of his wet clothing, modestly turning his back towards the old lady.

  She thrust more wood upon the fire, looking at the blaze with satisfaction.

  ‘Don’t you dare move till I get back,’ warned Mrs Berry, making for the kitchen again. An old duffel coat of Jane’s hung there. It should fit this skinny shrimp well enough. Somewhere too, she remembered, a pair of shabby slippers, destined for the next jumble sale, were tucked away.

  She found them in the bottom of the shoe cupboard and returned to the boy with her arms full. He was standing shivering by the fire, naked but for the damp towel round his loins.

  He was pathetically thin. His shoulder blades stuck out like little wings, and every rib showed. His arms were like sticks, his legs no sturdier, and they were still, Mrs Berry noticed, glistening with water.

  ‘Sit down, child,’ she said, more gently, ‘and give me that towel. Seems you don’t know how to look after yourself.’

  He sat down gingerly on the very edge of the armchair, and Mrs Berry knelt before him rubbing energetically at the skinny legs. Apart from superficial mud, Mrs Berry could see that the boy was basically well cared for. His toe nails
were trimmed, and his scarred knees were no worse than most little boys’.

  She looked up into the child’s face. He was pale with fatigue and fright, his features sharp, the nose prominent; his small mouth, weakly open, disclosed two slightly projecting front teeth. Mouselike, thought Mrs Berry, with an inward shudder, and those great ears each side of the narrow pointed face added to the effect.

  ‘There!’ said Mrs Berry. ‘Now you’re dry. Put your feet in these slippers and get this coat on you.’

  The child did as he was told in silence, fumbling awkwardly with the wooden toggle fastenings of the coat.

  ‘Here, let me,’ said Mrs Berry, with some exasperation. Deft herself, she could not abide awkwardness in others. The boy submitted to her ministrations, holding up his head meekly, and gazing at her from great dark eyes as she swiftly fastened the top toggles.

  ‘Now pull that chair up close to the fire, and stop shivering,’ said Mrs Berry briskly. ‘We’ve got a lot to talk about.’

  The boy did as he was bidden, and sat with his hands held out to the blaze. By the light of the fire, Mrs Berry observed the dark rings under the child’s eyes and the open drooping mouth.

  ‘Close your mouth and breathe through your nose,’ Mrs Berry told him. ‘Don’t want to get adenoids, do you?’

  He closed his mouth, swallowed noisily, and gave the most appallingly wet sniff. Mrs Berry made a sound of disgust, and struggled from her chair to the dresser.

  ‘Blow your nose, for pity’s sake,’ she said, offering him several paper handkerchiefs. He blew noisily, and then sat, seemingly exhausted by the effort, clutching the damp tissue in his skinny claw.

  ‘Throw it on the back of the fire, child,’ begged Mrs Berry. ‘Where on earth have you been brought up?’

  He looked at her dumbly and, after a minute, tossed the handkerchief towards the fire. He missed and it rolled into the hearth by the steaming sneakers.

  Mrs Berry suddenly realized that she was bone tired, it would soon be one o’clock, and that she wished the wretched child had chosen some other house to visit at such an hour. Nevertheless, duty beckoned, and she girded herself to the task.