A Sixpenny Christmas (8 page)

Reassured, Ellen was able to thank both women most sincerely for the shop pie and the jacket potatoes they had baked in her oven so that she could feed Sam when he came in without effort. She was equally grateful for the fact that they jumped to their feet the moment the hooter went, indicating that it was leaving-off time, exclaiming that they would be round first thing in the morning to give a hand both with the new baby and with any messages she might need.

‘You are good, both of you,’ Ellen said gratefully. ‘When I come home first I were a bit scared ’cos I don’t know much about new babies, but now you may be sure I’ll come runnin’ if things get on top of me.’

Both women laughed and Mrs Rathbone went over to where the baby lay and spoke admiringly. ‘Ain’t she sweet? I well remember how scared I was when I brung my Cyril home, and I’d no need to be afraid ’cos me mum lived with us in them days and knew everything there was to know about babies. So if you need a hand just stick your head out the back door and holler.’

Ellen promised to do so and bade her new friends goodbye. Then she set the table, put the pie in the oven to warm and awaited Sam’s arrival, determined to greet him with a cheerful smile and tell him how good their neighbours were. By the time she heard his step in the yard she was ready; the baby, having been fed, slept soundly, and all was in readiness for her husband’s return.

Sam came in and crossed the kitchen in a couple of strides. ‘Good to have you back, you and the little ’un,’ he said gruffly. He thrust a newspaper-wrapped parcel into her hands. ‘Brung you a bit of a present,’ he muttered.
‘I meant to give it to you t’other night when I come hospital visiting only I were late and the bastards wouldn’t let me in. So you might as well have it now.’ He hesitated for a moment, then spoke so low that she had to bend forward to catch the words. ‘I bin talkin’ to the fellers at work and they say a kid makes all the difference. They say a feller what falls out wi’ the mother of his child has to bite on the bullet and stay away from the house till he’s conquered his temper. That’s wharr I mean to do now I’m a dad.’

‘If you mean it then I’ll do everything I can to help you,’ Ellen said. She indicated the parcel between her hands. ‘Can I – can I open it now?’ She took Sam’s grunt for agreement and unwrapped the newspaper slowly, half expecting to find something horrid inside. She remembered being told by one of the men on Sam’s shift that he had found a bird-eating spider, its body six inches long and its legs twice that length, still alive and kicking after its journey in a crate of bananas. There had been other incidents as well, but common sense told her that Sam was just as frightened of snakes, alligators and other such creatures as she was herself, so she tried to look excited and not apprehensive. Inside the newspaper was a white leather case and when she opened it she saw a truly beautiful necklace made up of crystal drops. She guessed that it had once been part of a cargo intended for a jeweller’s shop, possibly in Liverpool, but more probably further away. Sam’s nickname on the docks was ‘Snatch’ and often he would return from work with goods which he had managed to get past the dock police. But right now his eyes were upon her so she gasped with real delight, picked the necklace out of its white satin
bed and tried it on, then gave Sam a chaste kiss upon the cheek. ‘It’s beautiful; thank you so much,’ she breathed, carefully replacing the necklace in its case. ‘And now, if you’d like to have a wash, we can start our meal.’

As he ate, Ellen told Sam about their neighbours, stressing the fact that both women had offered help. She thought that if Sam knew she had support, he might think twice about coming home drunk and attacking her. He had looked at the baby as she lay cuddled in her blankets and Ellen thought she had detected a slight softening of his grim and deeply seamed face. She thought she could put up with any amount of bad treatment herself – she had grown good at dodging drunken blows – but knew she must make it clear that Lana must never so much as hear Sam’s voice raised in anger, far less feel the touch of his huge fists.

But judging by the present he had given her and his whole attitude, perhaps he really was going to change, to become a husband who supported his wife and did not merely take it out on her whenever he was in a bad mood. Crossing her fingers that this would prove to be so, Ellen began to eat.

Chapter Three

MOLLY WOKE EARLY
because her feet were cold, and her feet were cold because Rhys, sliding silently out of bed in an endeavour not to wake her, had not tucked the blankets at the bottom in properly, leaving a small gap through which an icy draught whistled.

Molly curled into a tight little ball and began trying to rub some warmth back into her cold feet, but after ten fruitless minutes she sighed and gave up. She might just as well get up; heaven knew, with Christmas only days away, she had plenty to do. Now that the children were older – Chris was seven and Rhiannon just five – she and Rhys had saved every penny they could so that the children might have a really good Christmas. Last year both Chris and Rhiannon had had the measles and Molly still remembered that Christmas Day if not with revulsion, at least without much pleasure. Scarlet-faced and feverish, Chris had been cross and aggressive and Nonny had cried every time things did not go her way, which was often. Toys which had been urgently desired were greeted with lethargy, and the thing Chris wanted most – a bicycle – had been sought for all over the house, for Chris still believed in Father Christmas and was sure that his careful note, written some days before, had sailed up the chimney on its way to the land of snow and reindeer, so there was no possible excuse for the absence of his present.

Even this year, the bicycle would not materialise on Christmas Day. For one thing, the Robertses could not afford it – even second-hand bikes were beyond them – and for another thing the country in which they lived, as they had frequently explained to Chris, was not really suitable for cycling. Their lane was a morass when it rained, and carved into ridges of iron-hard mud when it was dry. The farmyard was cobbled and though Chris had pointed out that Daddy could drive the tractor down to the village with the bicycle in the trailer, even he realised that this would be a tedious business.

Rhiannon wanted a doll’s pram and they had found one advertised in the village shop for a small sum. Rhys had painted and polished, mended the hood and replaced the brakes whilst Molly had cut an old sheet and blanket to fit and stuffed a neat little pillow with feathers collected from the hen house. They had bought Chris a scooter and would try to explain on Christmas morning that Santa brought bicycles when children got into double figures.

For a moment she clung to the warm bed and then, with the air of a Channel swimmer plunging into the briny on Christmas Day, she threw back the blankets and slid on to the floor. Her feet met one of the three sheepskin rugs that meant she could undertake the journey from bed to washstand without stepping on the lino. Today, however, she bounded briskly past the washstand, grabbed her clothes and stole quietly out of the room. She knew from bitter experience that the water in the ewer would be frozen solid so she had best descend to the kitchen. Rhys would have boiled the kettle, so she could use some of that to wash herself and the rest to
make them both a good strong cup of tea. She hurried down the stairs which led straight into the kitchen, but hesitated and turned back when she heard her son’s voice. ‘Mummy! Wait for us; we’re awake so we are!’

Molly laughed and began to retrace her steps, but there was no need; Chris and Nonny, hand in hand, were descending at a good rate, so that they entered the lamplit kitchen together. The previous evening Molly had draped the children’s garments on the clothes horse before the range, and now they struggled into them whilst Molly washed at the sink. Then she padded across to the pantry, cut two slices of bread, smeared them thickly with honey and handed them to her offspring. By now she was beginning to shiver and hastily dressed, glad of her thick woollies and the old tweed skirt which still fitted her despite the fact that it had been bought when she was still a bride.

She refilled the kettle and stood it over the flames. Then she began to prepare breakfast, for any minute now Rhys would be coming in and the porridge could simmer while she laid the table. She was cutting and buttering the loaf when Nonny swallowed the last of her bread and honey and jerked at Molly’s arm with sticky fingers.

‘Mummy, is it Christmas?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Has Father Christmas been? It was so cold that I didn’t even stop to see if there was a stocking on the end of my bed.’

Chris, who had been staring at the flames as though mesmerised, spun round, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘Of course it’s not Christmas Day, you little silly,’ he said scornfully. ‘Don’t you remember? We went out with Daddy yesterday to cut holly, and we’re still making a paper chain long enough to go right the way round the
kitchen. Besides, if it was Christmas Day my bicycle would have arrived.’

Molly sighed. She thought that in his heart her son had no expectation whatsoever of receiving a bicycle, but she supposed that hope springs eternal in the human breast and Chris could not help hoping. Perhaps there was also a degree of cunning in the way he harped on about his bicycle. He probably thought that if he nagged hard enough his parents would redouble their efforts to procure for him the present he wanted more than anything else in the world. So Molly smiled at him, for of course he was absolutely right. One of these days, when money was a little easier or a bicycle was advertised for sale at a sum they could afford, then it would be the very first thing they would buy. Smiling to herself, Molly tipped oats and milk into the big porridge pan and set it on the back of the range, glancing up at the clock as she did so.

Rhys would be checking on the sheep – his big flashlight was missing from its hook by the door – though heaven knew they did not want the ewes to lamb in the depths of winter. But with hill sheep it was impossible to say for certain that one or two of them might not have jumped the gun. Every lamb was precious and the sheep tended to return to the flock when the first pangs of birth made themselves felt, so Rhys would do his rounds as a careful shepherd should. And when he had satisfied himself that all was well, he would go into the cowshed and milk their two house cows, and bring the bucket into the kitchen for Molly to use.

Rhys had not drawn the curtains back when he had entered the kitchen but now Molly did so and thought
she could discern a faint greying of the light, for though frost flowers made it impossible to look through the glass her glance at the clock had told her morning was coming. Any minute now Rhys would be in for his breakfast, eager to get out of the cold, though even with the fire in the range alight one’s breath emerged from one’s mouth in puffs of mist.

‘Mummy, I don’t need porridge now that I’ve had bread and honey. Can I go and help Daddy with the milking?’

That was Chris, always eager to be with his father, helping to the best of his ability with any farm work of which he was capable.

‘No indeed. Porridge lines your stomach . . .’ Molly was beginning as the back door opened, letting in an icy blast before Rhys came in and slammed the door behind him.

He patted Chris’s head, then grinned at Molly. ‘It’s perishin’ brass monkey weather out there,’ he said. ‘But earlier on there must have been a mist; have you taken a peep?’

Molly shook her head. ‘Not yet; I’ve only just dressed and made the porridge,’ she told him. Then, eyes widening with dismay: ‘Oh, Rhys, don’t say it’s snowing! A white Christmas is all very well – there has been snow on the tops for days and days – but what with coal being rationed still and the wood pile getting low . . .’

Rhys went over to the back door and opened it a crack, then changed his mind as the icy wind screamed through the gap and slammed it shut once more. He went over to the window shedding coat, scarf and mittens and placed a hand firmly on the frost flowers, holding it there
until the glass had a clear porthole. Then he took his hand away and gestured to Molly to look out of the little window he had made for her.

Molly looked, and gasped. Every tree, every branch, indeed every twig and blade of grass, was dusted with frost. All the buildings were rimed with it, as were the cobbles of the yard, and icicles hung from the cowshed roof like the Christmas decorations she had once helped to put up back home in Liverpool, only those icicles did not sparkle and gleam like the ones she was looking at now.

She turned from the window, almost speechless with the beauty of it, and Rhys, looking at her face, was clearly satisfied with her reaction. ‘Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, Molly?’ he said. ‘You won’t see nothin’ like that in the big cities. Here, Nonny, let Daddy lift you up to look through the window . . .’

Nonny squeaked with excitement. ‘Pretty, pretty!’ she said, her button nose pressed to the pane. ‘Mummy, can I go out after breakfast?’ She wriggled out of her father’s arms and ran over to Molly, who was ladling porridge into four dishes. ‘It’s like the three bears, isn’t it, Mummy? Daddy gets the fullest bowl, you get the next and poor Chris gets a tiny one, and I’m Goldilocks and don’t get nuffin’.’

Both adults laughed. ‘So far as I remember, Goldilocks ended up by gobbling all Baby Bear’s porridge,’ Molly said. ‘I can just imagine the uproar if anyone tried to do you out of your grub, young lady.’ She turned to her husband. ‘I’m going into the village later to buy a few little extras; is there anything you want?’

Rhys waited until both children’s heads were bent over
their porridge, then mouthed, ‘Sweeties?’ which made Molly giggle, though she nodded vigorously. She had saved her coupons and though the toe of each child’s stocking would have the traditional orange – or possibly tangerine – the next thing would be a bag of brightly coloured sweets, then a little book and sundry other tiny gifts to swell the stocking into something magical.

Later that morning when Rhys had gone back to his work, taking his son with him, Molly was just thinking that she ought to walk into the village with Nonny when someone banged on the back door and, without waiting for her to cross the room, shot it open and came into the kitchen bringing a breath of icy air with him. Molly, who had been washing up, turned from the sink, dried her hands on the roller towel and jerked a thumb at the kettle. Mr Jones the post, she knew, would be glad of a hot drink. ‘Tea or coffee, Mr Jones?’ she asked and was not surprised when he gave her a toothy grin and said: ‘Oh, a cup of tea, please, missus, strong enough for the spoon to stand up in.’