The Christmas Mouse Page 9

  The smells of home were all about him. There was a faint whiff of the mince pies Mrs Rose had made on Christmas Eve mingled, from the open door of the bathroom, with the sharp clean smell of Lifebuoy soap.

  Noiselessly, he turned the handle of the bedroom door. Now there was a stronger scent – of the liniment that Jim used after football, boasting, as he rubbed, of his swelling muscles. The older boy lay curled on his side of the bed, dead to the world. It would take more than Stephen’s entry into the room to wake him.

  Peeling off his clothes, Stephen longed for bed, for sleep, for forgetfulness. Within three minutes, he was lying beside the sleeping boy, his head a jumble of cake tins, fierce old ladies, stormy weather, sore feet.

  And somewhere, beyond the muddle, a hazy remembrance of a promise to keep.

  CHAPTER TEN

  It was light when Mrs Berry awoke. She lay inert in the warm bed, relishing its comfort, as her bemused mind struggled with memories of the night.

  The mouse and Stephen! What a double visitation, to be sure! No wonder she was tired this morning and had slept late. It must be almost eight o’clock – Christmas morning too! Where were the children? Where was Mary? The house was uncommonly quiet. She must get up and investigate.

  At that moment, she heard footsteps outside in the road, and the sound of people greeting each other. Simultaneously, the church bell began to ring. Yes, it must be nearly eight o’clock, and those good parishioners were off to early service!

  Well, thought Mrs Berry philosophically, she would not be among the congregation. She rarely missed the eight o’clock service, but after such a night she would be thankful to go later, at eleven, taking the two little girls with her.

  She struggled up in bed and gazed at the sky. It was a glory of grey and gold: streamers of ragged clouds, gilded at their edges, filled the world with a luminous radiance, against which the bare twigs of the plum tree spread their black lace.

  She opened the window, remembering with a shudder the last time she had done so. Now the air, fresh and cool, lifted her hair. The bells sounded clearly, as the neighbours’ footsteps died away into the distance.

  ‘Awake then?’ said Mary, opening the door. ‘Happy Christmas!’

  She bore a cup of tea, the steam blowing towards her in the draught from the window.

  ‘You spoil me,’ said Mrs Berry. ‘I ought to be up. Proper old sleepyhead I am today. Where are the children?’

  ‘Downstairs, having breakfast. Not that they want much. They’ve been stuffing sweets and the tangerine from their stockings since six!’

  She put the cup on the bedside table and closed the window.

  ‘They wanted to burst in here, but I persuaded them to let you sleep on. What happened to the mouse? Is it still about? I see the trap’s sprung.’

  ‘I let it out of the window,’ said Mrs Berry. She could not keep a touch of pride from her voice.

  ‘You never! You brave old dear! Where was it then?’

  ‘On the sill. I got so tired by about three, I risked it and came up. I don’t mind admitting I fair hated reaching over the little creature to get at the latch, but it made off in no time, so that was all right.’

  ‘That took some pluck,’ said Mary, her voice warm with admiration. ‘Can I let those rascals come up now, to show you their presents?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Mrs Berry, reaching for her cup. ‘Then I’ll get up, and give you a hand.’

  Mary called down the staircase, and there was a thumping of feet and squeals and shouts as the two excited children struggled upstairs with their loot.

  ‘Look, Grandma,’ shouted Frances, ‘I’ve put on my slippers!’

  ‘Look, Grandma,’ shouted Jane, ‘Father Christmas brought me a dear little doll!’

  They flung themselves upon the bed, Mary watching them with amusement.

  ‘Mind Gran’s tea,’ she warned.

  ‘Leave them be,’ said her mother lovingly. ‘This is how Christmas morning should begin!’

  Smiling, Mary left the three of them and went downstairs.

  On the door mat lay an envelope. Mary’s heart sank, as she bent to pick it up. Not another person they’d forgotten to send to? Not another case of Mrs Burton all over again? Anyway, it was too late now to run about returning Christmas cards. Whoever had sent it must just be thanked when they met.

  She took it into the living room and stood with her back to the fire, studying the face of the envelope with some bewilderment. Most of the cards were addressed to ‘Mrs Berry and Family,’ or to ‘Mrs Berry and Mrs Fuller,’ but this was to ‘Mrs Bertie Fuller’ alone, and written in a firm hand.

  Wonderingly, Mary drew out the card. It was a fine reproduction of ‘The Nativity’ by G. van Honthorst, and inside, beneath the printed Christmas greetings, was the signature of Ray Bullen. A small piece of writing paper fluttered to the floor, as Mary, flushing with pleasure, studied the card.

  She stooped to retrieve it. The message it contained was simple and to the point.

  I have two tickets for the New Year’s Eve concert at the Corn Exchange. Can you come with me? Do hope so!

  RAY

  Mary sat down with a thud on the chair recently vacated by young Jane. Automatically, she began stacking the girls’ bowls sticky with cornflakes and milk. Her hands were shaking, she noticed, and she felt shame mingling with her happiness.

  ‘Like some stupid girl,’ she scolded herself, ‘instead of a widow with two girls.’

  She left the crockery alone, and took up the note again. It was kind of him – typical of his thoughtfulness. Somehow, he had managed to write the card after seeing her yesterday, and had found someone in the village who would drop it through her letterbox on the way to early service. It must have taken some organizing, thought Mary, much touched. He was a good sort of man. Bertie had always said so, and this proved it.

  As for the invitation, that was a wonderful thing to have. She would love to go and knew that her mother would willingly look after the children. But would she approve? Would she think she was being disloyal to Bertie’s memory to accept an invitation from another man?

  Fiddlesticks! thought Mary robustly, dismissing such mawkish sentiments. Here was an old friend offering to take her to a concert – that was all. It was a kindness that would be churlish to rebuff. Of course she would go, and it would be a rare treat too!

  Calmer, she rose and began to take the dishes into the kitchen, her mind fluttering about the age-old problem of what to wear on such a momentous occasion. There was her black, but it was too funereal, too widowlike. Suddenly she wanted to look gay, young, happy – to show that she appreciated the invitation, she told herself hastily.

  There was the yellow frock she had bought impulsively one summer day, excusing her extravagance by persuading herself that it was just the thing for the Women’s Institute outing to the theatre. But when the evening had arrived she had begun to have doubts. Was it, perhaps, too gay for a widow? Would the tongues wag? Would they say she was ‘after’ someone? Mutton dressed as lamb?

  She had put it back in the cupboard, and dressed herself in the black one. Better be on the safe side, she had told herself dejectedly, and had felt miserable the whole evening.

  Yes, the yellow frock should have an airing, and her bronze evening shoes an extra shine. Ray Bullen should have no cause to regret his invitation.

  She turned on the tap, as the children came rushing into the room.

  ‘Why, Mummy,’ exclaimed Frances, wide eyed with amazement, ‘you’re singing!’

  Upstairs Mrs Berry put on her grey woollen jumper and straightened the Welsh tweed skirt. This was her working outfit. Later in the morning she would change into more elegant attire, suitable for church-going, but there was housework to be done in the next hour or two. Last of all, she tied a blue and white spotted apron round her waist, and was ready to face the day.

  Once more, she opened the window. The small birds chirped and chatted below, awaiting their morn
ing crumbs. A grey and white wagtail teetered back and forth across a puddle, looking for all the world like a miniature curate, with his white collar and dove-grey garments. The yellow winter jasmine starred the wall below, forerunner of the aconites and snowdrops soon to come. There was a hopeful feeling of spring in the air, decided Mrs Berry, gazing at the sky. How different from yesterday’s gloom!

  The children’s happiness was infectious. Their delight in the simple presents warmed the old lady’s heart and set her thinking of that other child, less fortunate, who had no real family of his own and who had wept because of it.

  How was he faring? Had he, after all, found a watch among his parcels? Mrs Berry doubted it. The Roses had spoken truly when they told the child that a watch was too much to expect at Christmas. No doubt, lesser presents would make him happy, assuaging to some extent that fierce longing to have a watch like Patsy’s and Jim’s. A passionate child, thought Mrs Berry, shaking her head sadly. Pepe all over again! It made life hard for the boy, and harder still for those who had to look after him. Would he ever remember any of the good advice she had tried to offer? Knowing the ways of children, she suspected that most of her admonitions had gone in one ear and out of the other.

  Ah well! One could only hope, she thought, descending the staircase.

  Mary had set a tray at the end of the table for her mother. Beyond it stood the pink cyclamen and a pile of parcels. The two children, hopping from leg to leg with excitement, hovered on each side of the chair.

  ‘Come on, Gran! Come and see what you’ve got. Mum gave you the plant!’

  ‘Mary,’ exclaimed Mrs Berry, hands in the air with astonishment, ‘you shouldn’t have spent so much money on me! What a beauty! And so many buds to come out too. Well, I don’t know when I’ve seen a finer cyclamen, and that’s a fact.’

  She kissed her daughter warmly. Why, the girl seemed aglow! Christmas was a comforting time, for old and young, thought Mrs Berry, reaching out for the parcels.

  ‘Open mine first,’ demanded Frances.

  ‘No, mine,’ said Jane. ‘I’m the oldest.’

  ‘I’ll open them together,’ said the old lady, taking one in each hand. ‘See, I’ll tear this bit off this one, then this bit off that one—’

  She tugged at the wrappings gently.

  ‘No, no!’ cried Jane, unable to bear the delay. ‘Do one first – don’t matter which – then the other. But read the tags. We wrote ’em ourselves.’

  Mrs Berry held the two tags at arm’s length. Her spectacles were mislaid amidst the Christmas debris.

  ‘“Darling Grandma, with love from Jane,”’ she read aloud. She shook the parcel, then smelled it, then held it to her ear. The children hugged each other in rapture.

  ‘Why do you listen to it?’ queried Frances. ‘Do you think there’s a bird in it?’

  ‘A watch perhaps,’ said Mrs Berry, surprised by her own words.

  ‘A watch?’ screamed the girls. ‘But you’ve got a watch!’

  ‘So I have,’ said Mrs Berry calmly. ‘Well, let’s see what’s in here.’

  Wrapped in four thicknesses of tissue paper was a little egg-timer.

  ‘Now, that,’ cried the old lady, ‘is exactly what I wanted. Clever Jane!’

  She kissed the child’s soft cheek.

  ‘Now mine!’ begged Frances. ‘Quick! Undo it quick, Gran.’

  ‘I must read the tag. “Dear Gran, Happy Christmas, Frances.” Very nice.’

  ‘Undo it!’ said the child.

  Obediently, the old lady undid the paper. Inside was a box of peppermint creams.

  ‘My favourite sweets!’ said Mrs Berry. ‘What a kind child you are! Would you like one now?’

  ‘Yes please,’ both said in unison.

  ‘I hoped you’d give us one,’ said Frances, beaming. ‘Isn’t it lucky we like them too?’

  ‘Very lucky,’ agreed their grandmother, proffering the box.

  ‘Let Gran have her breakfast, do,’ Mary said, appearing from the kitchen.

  ‘But she’s got lots more parcels to open!’

  ‘I shall have a cup of tea first,’ said the old lady, ‘and then undo them.’

  Sighing at such maddening adult behaviour, the two children retired to the other end of the table where they had set out a tiny metal tea set of willow pattern in blue and white.

  ‘This is my favourite present,’ announced Frances, ‘and the teapot pours. See?’

  Mary and her mother exchanged amused glances. The set had been one of several small toys they had bought together in Caxley to fill up the stockings. The chief present for each girl had been a doll, beautifully dressed in handmade clothes worked on secretly when the girls were in bed. It was typical of children the world over that some trifle of no real value should give them more immediate pleasure than the larger gifts.

  At last, all the presents were unwrapped. Bath cubes, stockings, handkerchiefs, sweets, a tin of biscuits, another of tea, and a tablecloth embroidered by Mary – all were displayed and admired. Mary’s presents had to be brought from the sideboard and shown to her mother, to please the two children, despite the fact that Mrs Berry had seen most of them before.

  ‘Now, what’s to do in the kitchen?’ asked Mrs Berry, rising from the table.

  ‘Nothing. The pudding’s in, and the bird is ready, and the vegetables.’

  ‘Then I’ll dust and tidy up,’ declared Mrs Berry. ‘Upstairs first. I can guess what the girls’ room looks like!’

  ‘At least there are no mice!’ laughed Mary.

  The children looked up, alert.

  ‘No mice? Was there a mouse? Where is it now?’

  Their grandmother told them about the intruder, and how she had settled by the fire, but at last gone up to bed and had let the mouse out of the window.

  What would they have said, she wondered, as she told her tale, if she had told them the whole story? How their eyes would have widened at the thought of a boy – a big boy of nine – breaking into their home and trying to steal their grandmother’s Madeira cake! As it was, the story of the real mouse stirred their imagination.

  ‘I expect it was hungry,’ said Jane with pity. ‘I expect it smelled all the nice Christmas food and came in to have a little bit.’

  ‘It had plenty of its own sort of food outdoors,’ Mrs Berry retorted tartly.

  ‘Perhaps it just wanted to see inside a house,’ suggested Frances reasonably. ‘You shouldn’t have frightened it away, Gran.’

  ‘It frightened me away,’ said the old lady.

  ‘Perhaps it will come back,’ said Jane hopefully.

  ‘That,’ said her grandmother forcefully, ‘I sincerely hope it will not do.’

  And she went upstairs to her duties.

  When the children and her mother had departed to church, the house was blessedly quiet. Mary, basting the turkey and turning potatoes in the baking dish, had time to ponder her invitation. As soon as the children were safely out of the way she would have a word with her mother, then reply.

  But where should she send it? There had been no address on the note, and although she knew the part of Caxley in which Ray lived, she could not recall the name of the road, and certainly had no idea of the number. Perhaps the best thing would be to send it to the office of The Caxley Chronicle, where he worked. He would be going into work, no doubt, on the day after Boxing Day. Plenty of time to spare before New Year’s Eve.

  Now that the first initial surprise of the invitation was over, Mary found herself growing more and more delighted at the thought of the evening outing. Caxley had produced a New Year’s Eve concert as long as she could remember, and she and Bertie had attended several of them.

  The Corn Exchange was always full. It was something of an occasion. The mayor came, all the local gentry sat in the front rows, and everyone knew that the music provided would be good rousing stuff by Handel and Bach and Mozart, with maybe a light sprinkling of Gilbert and Sullivan, or Edward German, or Lionel Monckton, as a garnish.r />
  It was definitely a social affair, when one wore one’s best, and hoped to see one’s friends and be seen by them. It would be good, thought Mary, to have a personable man as an escort instead of attending a function on her own.

  Kind Ray! Good Quaker Ray! How did that passage go in the library book – ‘Very thoughtful and wealthy and good’? She could vouch for two of those virtues anyway!

  She slammed the oven door shut and laughed aloud.

  At one o’clock the Christmas dinner – everything done to a turn – was set upon the table, and the two little girls attacked their plates with enviable appetite. Their elders ate more circumspectly.

  Nevertheless, at two o’clock it was the children who played energetically on the floor with their new toys, whilst Mary and her mother lay back in their armchairs and succumbed to that torpor induced by unaccustomed rich food.

  ‘We must take a turn in the fresh air before it gets dark.’ Mrs Berry yawned; Mary nodded agreement drowsily.

  They woke at three, much refreshed, donned their coats and gloves, and set off. The bright clouds of morning had gone; a gentle grey light veiled the distant scene.

  The four of them walked towards the slope where young Stephen had walked scarcely twelve hours earlier. Mrs Berry’s mind was full of memories of her Christmas visitor. She strode along, dwelling on the oddity of events that had brought one of the Amonetti family into her life once more.

  Ahead of her, holding a child by each hand, Mary was running a few steps, then stopping suddenly to bring the two children face to face in an ecstatic embrace. It was a game they had loved as toddlers, but it was years, thought Mrs Berry, since Mary had played it with them.

  Their delighted screams matched the calling of the flight of rooks above, slowly winging homewards against the evening sky.

  Now they had reached the top of the slope, and Mary, breathless, stopped to wait for her mother.

  They stood together looking across the shallow valley, already filling with the pale mist of winter.

  ‘That’s Tupps Hill over there, isn’t it?’ said Mary.