A Sixpenny Christmas (9 page)

‘Right,’ Molly said briskly, whilst Nonny, who had been doing a jigsaw on a tray set out on the hearthrug, jumped to her feet and clutched the postman’s trousered knees.

‘Jones, Jones, have you seen Father Christmas?’ she asked anxiously. ‘He’s bringing me a doll’s pram. I need it, really I do, Jones.’

Mr Jones laughed. He often stopped at the farm for a cuppa and a chat, even unbending enough to pass on bits of gossip; the other day he had related how a child had made a slide in the school playground and the teacher had not seen it until too late. ‘Ten feet on his bum, he
must have travelled,’ Mr Jones had told her. ‘And him a man who guards his dignity!’

Molly had laughed. ‘Is he that funny little man with very thick black hair which touches his collar?’ she asked. ‘I suppose I’ll get to know all the teachers in time, but though I’ve lived here for years I still get confused.’

Right now, Mr Jones was assuring Nonny that Sion Corn – ‘Welsh that is for Father Christmas,’ he added – was having a hard time making Christmas presents for all the children. ‘Too little you are to remember the war, but what with rationing and shortages poor old Santa has his work cut out just to fill the children’s stockings,’ he explained. He took the cup of dark brown tea which Molly was offering and sat down at the table, then clapped a hand to his head. ‘Forget my own head next I will! There’s a letter for you and a couple of Christmas cards. Open them you can, while I drink this good strong brew.’

Molly took the three envelopes, recognising the writing on each. The Christmas cards came from an aunt and a former neighbour, both in Liverpool, but the letter, she saw with delight, was from Ellen and must be the reply to a missive she had sent her friend the previous week. She picked it up eagerly, slit open the envelope and pulled out three wonderful pages. It was odd, she thought, how close the two of them had grown despite not having met since their daughters were born. But Mr Jones was looking at her bright-eyed, and she smiled at him, realising that she did not want to read the letter with his eyes upon her. He was extremely curious – Rhys said all the Welsh were – and no matter what the letter might say she did not want Mr Jones guessing at the contents from her expression as she read.

She tucked the letter into her skirt pocket. At the kitchen table Nonny and Mr Jones were discussing Christmas. Unfamiliar words such as mince pies and roast chicken were being translated from the English into the Welsh so that Nonny could add them to her already extensive vocabulary, and Mr Jones was telling his small friend of the skating which would take place on the nearby lake when the ice was strong enough, and of the parties and fun which would follow the breaking up of school which would happen the very next day.

Molly half listened, but as so often happened she was actually scanning Nonny’s small face, bright with laughter, looking for a likeness . . . but to whom? Hard though she had tried, Molly had never managed to completely forget Flossy’s words. ‘I thought someone switched two of the babies . . . the last two to be born,’ the girl had said. Molly was almost sure the girl must have been dreaming, or misinterpreted something half seen and not truly understood – it had to be nonsense, after all – but she had not quite managed to convince herself. She thought it was odd that Chris resembled his father so closely that folk remarked on it, whereas Nonny did not seem to take after anyone in particular. Sometimes Molly looked at her and just for a second thought she caught a fleeting likeness to her friend Ellen; at other times she thought that Nonny resembled her own mother. But children change with every passing day, she told herself . . .

But now Mr Jones had finished his tea and was getting to his feet and Nonny, as she always did, was clutching her friend’s trousers and trying to stop him from leaving. ‘Please, Jones, stay with me and Mummy. We get lonely
when you’re gone,’ she said. ‘Wish I was in school, like Chris. Wish I had a little sister as well as a big brother. I want someone to play with.’

The postman gently detached the child’s hands from his navy serge trousers. ‘When you get to school . . .’ he began, but was swiftly interrupted.

‘I can’t go to school for ages and ages and ages,’ Nonny wailed. ‘I wanted to ask Father Christmas for a brother or even a sister but Mummy says whichever you have it’ll come as a baby first, and she can’t be doing with another baby anyhow. Oh, it’s not fair!’

Molly picked Nonny up and squiggled a kiss into her soft little neck. ‘Never mind, Nonny darling, never mind,’ she soothed. ‘Shall we wrap up warm after we’ve had our dinner and go into the village for some shopping? We might find something nice for you to have for your tea. But we can’t go buying toys or Father Christmas might think we were a greedy family and decide not to come calling.’

Nonny saw the sense in this, and when her father came in for elevenses she urged her mother to get dinner at once, so they could collect Egg and go down to the village to meet Chris out of school. If it would not displease Father Christmas, they might buy a tiny tiny bar of chocolate for her and another for Chris. So as soon as dinner was over, Molly, Nonny and Egg set off.

Egg was five months old, and was already showing signs of being as good with the sheep as his mother, Feather. Chris had had the naming of the pup, the one they had picked from Feather’s last litter, and though everyone had laughed when Chris had christened the little dog Egg he had stuck to his guns and the name
had stuck to the puppy. Feather’s previous litter had produced Caspar and Herbie, each excellent at his work but without that special something which might one day make him into a champion; for Rhys took his dogs to the trials even when they were held at a considerable distance from Cefn Farm and came home with a good few prizes.

As she walked slowly along, picking her way through the deep ridges and hollows, Molly’s mind went back to a visit to the nearest town which had been Rhys’s surprise present for her. She had revelled in the brightly lit shop windows, the clean pavements and the friendly faces of both shop assistants and other shoppers. They had taken the children to see Father Christmas, and though Chris had thought the water pistol he was given a rather silly present, Nonny had loved every moment and her parents had enjoyed the wonder on her small fair face. Father Christmas had promised that he would bring Chris a bicycle, which had made Molly truly cross. Silly old fool, she thought, where the devil did he expect a hill farmer to find money for a bicycle, let alone somewhere for the child to ride it? Molly had asked herself the same question a hundred times since that day, but now, as she made her way along the track admiring the beauty of the frosted trees, it no longer seemed important. Chris might be disappointed when no bicycle arrived down the chimney on Christmas morning, but she and Rhys had done their very best to fill his stocking with small objects which they thought he would like. All would be well, Molly was sure of it, as she slogged along with Nonny’s warm little hand in hers.

Thinking about Ellen, she realised how very lucky she
was. To be sure, Ellen and Lana had friendly and helpful neighbours, lots of wonderful shops and the market stalls which had once entranced Molly herself, but they did not have her darling Rhys, who was such a wonderful support, or the beauty of Snowdonia which surrounded Cefn Farm. She decided she would reply to Ellen’s letter that very evening. She longed to ask her friend to pop over for a couple of days, but the distance was too great for casual visiting and anyway Ellen’s mother had already invited the O’Mara family for Christmas dinner. Ellen had written exuberantly that there was always a neighbourhood party on the afternoon of the twenty-fourth, ending in a wonderful high tea and many silly but exciting games. And what do I have to offer, Molly asked herself ruefully. The farm is too remote for parties, and when we meet at the gatherings, either to dip the sheep or to tag the lambs, everyone is far too busy to sit down and chat or play games. It wouldn’t be fair to expect Ellen and little Lana to come to stay when they’d be alone at Cefn Farm with only Molly and the children for company. To be sure, Chris had lots of friends in his class and Molly was sure that Nonny, when she started school the following autumn, would also make friends easily. She was a pretty little girl with light brown curls, round blue eyes and a scattering of freckles, and like her brother she was friendly and easy-going.

Thinking of the entertainment she could offer her friend, Molly had to smile, though as her own grasp of the language improved, so did her social life. She had joined the Women’s Institute and made a point of attending the monthly meetings. Rhys drove her down in the little car, often giving Mrs Pritchard a lift as well,
for the older woman was plagued by arthritis and would not otherwise have been able to attend, since the long walk into the village was out of the question, especially in inclement weather. Also, when she could be spared, Molly went to the monthly whist drives. These were a bone of contention amongst the villagers, some of whom still clung to the belief that playing cards was somehow sinful, but all the younger women and quite a few of the men enjoyed the evenings in the small community hall attached to the chapel, and Molly knew that mixing with people who spoke Welsh and rarely broke into English was a tremendous help.

Nonny had been gambolling ahead of her, but slowed as the school gates came into view. Already the children were emerging from the small stone building and Chris, spotting them, shouted and waved, then raced up to them and skidded to a halt inches away, rosy-cheeked and breathless. Molly saw that he was only wearing one mitten and that the muffler which should have been wound carefully about his neck had somehow slid off and was hanging off the shoulder of his duffel coat. Molly rewound the muffler, reflecting that children simply did not seem to feel the cold. Her own hands were not only gloved but had been plunged into her pockets for extra warmth, yet here was Chris, losing a mitten and not even appearing to notice.

‘Mummy, can I ask Owen to come back to the farm for tea?’ Chris said eagerly. ‘We could ask his sister as well so Nonny would have someone to play with.’ He put his head on one side and smiled beguilingly. ‘It would be nice for her to have a friend when she starts school, don’t you think?’

Molly smiled and rumpled her son’s thick black curls. He and his father were so alike! Nonny had her own colouring, and Molly’s hair had darkened as she got older and was now what Rhys told her could be described as chestnut. But Chris was staring up at her, waiting for her answer. ‘That’s a very good idea, Chris. But what’s happened to your mitten? If you’ve lost it I’ll be really cross. I’m not the world’s best knitter but I was rather proud of those mittens. Isn’t your hand freezing cold?’

For answer, Chris plunged his hand into his duffel coat pocket and produced the mitten. ‘I took it off so’s not to get it wet when I picked up some ice off the puddle to suck,’ he told her. ‘But my hand’s not cold, truly it’s not.’ He looked accusingly at his mother. ‘You shouldn’t dawdle; if you ran about like me and Nonny you’d soon be toasty-warm.’ He seized Molly’s hand in his own and even through the wool she could feel his warmth. ‘Can we have Owen to tea, Mummy? And his little sister?’

‘I just said it was a good idea, which means “yes” if their mummy will let them,’ Molly said. ‘Now sober down, both of you. If Mrs Enfys the shop has some of those candy walking sticks, I mean to get some to hang on the Christmas tree. We’ve still got a few baubles left over from last year, but the walking sticks are pretty and taste good as well.’

Ellen was making a cake when the postman rattled on the front door, pushed it open and shouted through the gap. ‘Letter for you, missus! There’s a couple of cards as well. Want me to bring ’em through?’

Ellen smiled to herself. What the postie meant was did she have the kettle on, but he was far too polite to put
his request so frankly. So she just shouted: ‘Yes please, Freddie. D’you fancy a cuppa? And there’s some biscuits in the tin; just rich tea or digestive, but they fill a gap.’

Freddie, entering the kitchen, slung his mailbag on the floor and then frowned at his hostess. ‘Cup of tea would be grand, and I’m rare fond of digestive biscuits,’ he said. ‘But it’s perishin’ cold in here, girl. Where’s that sausage thing what you made to keep the draught out?’

Ellen sighed and touched her eye, which was still sore, with a fingertip. ‘Sam chucked it on the perishin’ fire, and blacked my eye when I tried to hook it out with the poker,’ she said glumly. ‘But it won’t happen again, ’cos I’ve got one of them court injunctions agin him. I were determined he shouldn’t ruin another Christmas for me and Lana so I went and saw a solicitor. I wish I’d done it long ago, but like a fool I believed him every time he vowed he were a changed man. Still an’ all, me and Lana are rid of him at last. He knows he’ll go to prison if he sets foot inside this house and the bobby on the beat – Constable Jamieson – has promised to keep an eye on us. You know what Sam’s like: drinks like a fish and then fights like a wounded rhinoceros, especially at Christmas.’ She poured the strong brew of tea into two cups, handed one to Freddie and pulled the other towards herself, sitting down in the creaking wicker chair with a sigh of satisfaction. ‘He come down the jigger, screamed abuse at Lana and her friends who were playin’ at shop there, and then sloped off, muttering threats that he’d not be turned out of his own home by no bleedin’ woman. I tell you, Freddie, getting that injunction was the best thing I ever did in my whole life.’

Freddie sipped his tea and helped himself to another
biscuit. ‘I’ll be bound it was,’ he said rather thickly. ‘But why did he burn that sausage thing, what I seen you making only three or four weeks back? You said it kept the draughts out lovely. I don’t see no point in chuckin’ it on the fire ’cos all it would do was douse the flames and make a heap of smoke.’

Ellen chuckled. ‘He didn’t do it to make up the fire, he did it out of spite,’ she explained. ‘He said it was because he’d come in and not found his dinner on the table, but it weren’t that at all really. I’ve been hiding a bit of money away towards Christmas out of my wages and when I came down to the kitchen, having settled the child for the night, I found him going through the dresser drawers. I’m not such a fool as to keep cash there, but like an idiot I laughed and asked him what he were looking for. He gave a sort of growl and demanded any money I’d got, ’cos he was skint. I was in the middle of telling him I were skint meself and bending over to lift the casserole out of the oven – it were his meal – when he suddenly gave a sort of roar, grabbed up me lovely draught excluder – that’s the real name for the sausage – and poked it into the fire. Then he punched me in the face and crashed out again. By the time poor little Lana came down to see what the noise was about I were picking meself up off the floor and deciding that Sam had belted me for the last time. Me mum cleans for a solicitor, so she took me to see him the next day and the rest you know.’