A Christmas to Remember

by Katie Flynn

  As she entered the kitchen, Gran, who was baking, looked up from the sheet of pastry she was rolling out and smiled encouragingly. ‘Well?’ She peered into the basket. ‘Ah, I see you’ve delivered the biscuits. Was she pleased with them? Or did you simply hand them over and run?’

  Tess giggled. ‘That’s more or less what I did,’ she acknowledged. ‘But she called me back and gave me this. Then she went back into the house and slammed the door.’

  Tess held out the small packet, then carefully began to unwrap the screw of paper whilst Gran watched with her nose only six inches from Tess’s outstretched hand. And when the tissue was peeled back, there, in Tess’s palm, were what appeared to be two smooth white pebbles, of the sort Tess vaguely remembered collecting at the seaside when Mrs Bell had taken her and Jonty down to the nearest beach before it had been closed to the public. Tess knew she would never forget her very first visit to the seashore, and in her little room at the farm she had treasured the pebbles, shells and seaweed she had found there.

  But now she said ‘Stones!’ in a disgusted voice and was about to chuck the pebbles down on the table when Gran began to laugh. ‘They’re not stones, you silly girl,’ she said. ‘They’re sugared almonds; haven’t you seen sugared almonds before?’

  Tess snorted, then began to giggle helplessly. ‘Oh, Gran, didn’t I tell you that I’d heard one of the girls saying that Marilyn had given Clackem a box of sugared almonds? Oh, wouldn’t Marilyn be furious if she knew Clackem had passed part of her present on to me!’

  Gran laughed too, but when Tess offered her one of the sweets she shook her head. ‘I love them, but Miss Cracknell meant you to have them,’ she observed. ‘You eat them up, chuck; I reckon you deserve them.’

  ‘I’ll leave them for later,’ Tess decided. ‘Is there anything you want me to do around the flat, Gran? Only if not there’s still a chance I might get delivery work of some sort. If I had a pal who wanted work as well we could deliver carpets for old Abraham’s, but I couldn’t manage that on my own. Still, there’s a heap of shops which might employ me just for the last couple of days before Christmas. So if you don’t mind, I’ll go off and see what I can find.’

  Gran beamed at her. ‘Don’t worry too much, queen, because I’ve got myself some work which will pay quite nicely,’ she said. She indicated the large sheet of pastry which, now she looked at it closely, Tess realised almost covered the top of the kitchen table. ‘I’m making luxury mince pies for the baker down the road, and they’re paying me pretty well because it’s a rush job, a party for a couple of dozen people. The baker’s asked me to make sausage rolls and some fancy cakes as well, so we’ll be able to afford a small chicken even if we can’t run to a turkey, and after all, who wants a turkey? But I’m afraid you won’t be getting a cooked dinner until Christmas Day, queen, because I’ll be too busy baking to start making meals.’

  ‘In that case if I get work as well we’ll be rolling in cash,’ Tess said gaily. She was delighted with the news, because since Gran would be earning, and would undoubtedly spend such earnings on special food, her own money could be saved for Gran’s present, which must be a good one. Accordingly, she set off for the market, and, having earmarked a pair of pale blue mittens and a matching hat which she knew Gran would love, she hung around by the stall until the owner began to pack up. Then she bargained briskly and got both for ten bob, and on her way back to the flat was asked by a fat little woman who lived in one of the courts off the Scotland Road to carry her bulging canvas bag home for her, being promised a sixpence if she would take it right into the kitchen. As though this job had brought her to the attention of other shoppers, Tess carried bags, parcels and boxes from six in the evening until past ten o’ clock, when she returned to the flat well pleased with herself and able to contemplate the great day ahead with excitement and pleasure.

  As Gran had foreseen, by Christmas Eve they had not had a cooked meal for three days and had worked like slaves to make sure that their Christmas would be a good one. When Tess had finished hanging up the paper chains she had made in school she was very tired and knew Gran must feel the same, but she knew also that this did not matter. What mattered was having a Christmas to remember – a grand peacetime Christmas – which they could enjoy talking about during the long, cold days of winter.

  They had a frugal supper of Spam sandwiches, made themselves hot water bottles and took to their beds, and as she cuddled beneath the blankets Tess realised that she had scarcely thought about the farm all day. Startled, she sat bolt upright in bed, then lay down slowly, realising for the first time that she no longer felt that her home was the farm. Her home was here now, with Gran, and the two of them were a proper family. The Bells had been kind to her, had made her welcome – she remembered how good Jonty had been about sharing – but they were not her own family; that was just her and Gran.

  The realisation gave her a warm glow, for though she would continue to miss her friends from the village as much as ever, it was perfectly natural to do so. What had not been natural was the sore, uncomfortable feeling in the back of her mind that she had been rejected by the Bells. She had wondered whether Gran, being a relative, had been forced to take her in . . . perhaps would not have done so had the Bells wanted to keep her. But now she knew she was in her right place, and she snuggled down, already sure that the following day would be a good one.

  Chapter Two

  CHRISTMAS DAY DAWNED, icy but clear, and Tess got up early to take Gran a cup of tea in bed and wish her a happy Christmas, handing over the neatly wrapped parcel and watching as she opened it to reveal the hat and mittens. Gran was clearly delighted with the gift and promptly fished under her pillow for an even smaller parcel which she gave to Tess. ‘I didn’t buy it, but I don’t wear it any longer so I thought you’d like it,’ she said, as Tess unfolded the paper to reveal a tiny silver locket in the shape of a heart.

  Tess gasped. ‘It’s the best Christmas present in the world, but how can you bear to part with it?’

  ‘I’ve had it for years and thought it was about time you took it on instead of me,’ Gran said. ‘My husband – only he wasn’t my husband then – gave it to me instead of an engagement ring. Now mind you take care of it, because it’s what you might call irreplaceable. If you wear it under your clothes it’ll be safe enough. Only you’d best take it off at night because the chain’s a very fine one and could easily snap if you turned over quickly, or had a bad dream and tugged at it.’

  ‘I’ll be very careful,’ Tess promised, fastening the chain round her neck. ‘Oh, Gran, I wish I had something as good to give to you.’

  Gran’s eyebrows rose. ‘You couldn’t have given me anything I’d like more than these,’ she said, promptly putting on the mittens. ‘After we’ve had our dinner we’ll take a walk, and judging by the frost on the window pane these will keep me a lot warmer than even the prettiest locket.’

  ‘Right. Now, while you drink your tea I’m going into the kitchen to light the stove and start the porridge,’ Tess said gaily. ‘It’s too early to put the chicken on and I prepared the sprouts and peeled the potatoes last night, so if you like we can have our walk after breakfast.’ She beamed at her companion. ‘If you want the truth, Gran, I reckon we shan’t feel much like moving after our Christmas dinner. At the farm we always stayed in and played games, and listened to the king’s speech.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ Gran said, looking stricken. ‘I knew you’d miss the Bell family and all your friends from the village on Christmas Day. I’m afraid I’m not much company for a girl of your age.’

  Tess could have kicked herself. Here was Gran, straining every nerve to make their first peacetime Christmas a memorable one, and she had scuppered her efforts by thoughtlessly talking of the farm. She went back to the bed and took Gran’s hands, still mittened, in her own, shaking them gently up and down. ‘Listen, Gran, you and me are all the family I want, and though I was happy at the farm I always knew I was never really part of the Bell fami
ly, though they were very nice to me, and Jonty was a real pal. But I wasn’t even a villager, though I kidded myself that I was. You could blame the government, because they plonked children down anywhere they chose and no one could do anything about it. I admit it’s taken me a while to get used to living in a city, and being in a small family, but if you want the truth I wouldn’t go back to the Bells even if they asked me to, which they won’t.’ She looked at Gran’s face and was pleased to see that the anxious look had faded. ‘Now no more grumbling or regretting times past; let’s get on with being our own proper little family!’

  After Christmas things seemed rather flat, for the weather remained extremely cold, and though Tess tried to offer her services to anyone who wanted a delivery person or counter hand she had no luck. She and Gran, having splashed out for the festive season, now had to tighten their belts, and when a letter came from Jonty Bell suggesting that they might like to visit the farm there was no possibility of their going, even if they’d wanted to. The train fare was out of the question, and anyway they were just beginning to settle down in Heyworth Street and Tess did not want to spoil things. Of course she would have loved to see Jonty and her other friends, but she knew instinctively that it was not the right thing to do. Norfolk was full of airfields and the Bells entertained members of the air force from time to time, and one of the things the young airmen had said was that during initial training no leave was allowed. At the time Tess had thought this was rather mean, but now she felt she understood the reasoning behind it. If she went back to the farm whilst still not completely at home in Liverpool the visit might merely increase her discontent. If, however, she and Gran saved their visit for the summer, when of course there would be much more to do on the farm, they would both enjoy the holiday but would return to the city without too many regrets.

  Jonty’s letter was a long and interesting one and it must be confessed that Tess felt a pang when she imagined her old friend sitting at the kitchen table, one hand pushing his sandy hair into a tuft on top of his head whilst the other gripped the pen and held it poised over the pad of paper. It was the second letter he had dispatched from Norfolk and Tess did her very best to reply as entertainingly, but it was difficult. For a start, she knew all the people Jonty was writing about: the teachers at the village school, the other pupils, and of course the entire Bell clan. On the other hand, the only people Jonty had heard of in Liverpool were Gran and herself. She could scarcely describe all the members of her class to him, and it would not do to admit she had no school friends, so her own letters had tended to be about the odd trip to the cinema, or shopping expeditions with Gran.

  Now, having penned a polite refusal to Jonty’s invitation, she looked up from addressing the envelope and glanced across at Gran, who was sitting in the creaking old basket chair near the fire, knitting industriously. She and Tess had gone to Paddy’s Market a couple of days earlier in search of an old jumper or cardigan which they could unpick in order to use the wool to make Gran a scarf the same shade as her Christmas present. Tess waved the letter between Gran’s spectacles and her flying needles. ‘Gran, is there anything you want from the shops? Only I’ve written back to Jonty asking him to thank his mother for her invitation and saying that we’d like to come in the summer if that’s all right with them. Have you got a stamp? I’d like to send it off straight away, just in case Mrs Bell would like to ask someone else instead of us.’

  Gran put her knitting down and picked up the big black handbag at her feet. Tess often teased her by saying that the bag contained everything but the kitchen sink, and now it disgorged some pennies which Gran handed to Tess. ‘You’ll have to buy a stamp, chuck; I’ve used up all the ones I got for Christmas cards,’ she explained. She shivered, glancing towards the kitchen window, where the frost flowers were still in evidence in the corners of the pane. ‘Tell you what, if you pop into the corner shop and buy some margarine – I’ve got some coupons in here – we’ll have hot buttered toast when you get home.’

  She held out her purse and Tess went to take it, then hesitated. ‘But that means visiting Mrs Thomas’s shop, and Marilyn helps in there sometimes,’ she pointed out. ‘You’ve never sent me in there before, Gran. Suppose she just grabs the book and rips out all the coupons? What’ll I do then, eh?’

  Gran giggled. ‘Don’t be so daft, queen. If she did such a mad thing I’d have the scuffers on her tail before you could say Sir Stafford Cripps,’ she said, twinkling at Tess, and for the first time it occurred to Tess that Gran looked awfully young to be anyone’s grandmother. To be sure she had a thick thatch of curly snow-white hair but her skin was soft and young-looking and her sparkling blue eyes could have belonged to someone half her age. Taking the purse, Tess asked the question which hovered on her lips. ‘How old are you, Gran? I’ve never thought to ask, but apart from your white hair you could be almost any age.’

  ‘I’m the same age as me tongue and a few years older than me teeth,’ Gran said, chuckling, then sobered up. ‘Why do you want to know? You’ve never asked before.’

  Tess shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Go on, Gran, how old are you?’

  ‘Old enough to know better,’ Gran said smartly, picking up her knitting once more and pushing her spectacles, which had slid down her straight little nose, back into position. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Mm-hm,’ Tess said. ‘Oh well, you’re jolly young to be a grandmother anyhow. Is there anything else you want from Mrs Thomas’s shop?’

  Gran put down her knitting, got to her feet and crossed the kitchen to her store cupboard. ‘Tell her you’ll have anything she’s got off ration. I’m rare fond of bloater paste. But of course she doesn’t know you, so she’s unlikely to hand out any little extras.’ She returned to her chair, sat down and picked up her knitting once more, then glanced up at Tess over the tops of her spectacles. ‘Good Lord, girl, are you still here? Get off if you’re going, or the shops will all be closed. And that means the post office as well, so if you want that letter to go tonight . . .’

  ‘I’m going, I’m going,’ Tess said hastily, pushing Gran’s purse deeply into her coat pocket. ‘See you later, Gran. Margarine and bloater paste, and I just hope Marilyn isn’t in charge.’

  She gave Gran a cheery wave, shot out through the kitchen doorway, slammed the door behind her and hurtled down the steps, narrowly avoiding a nasty fall, for each stair was rimmed with ice. Despite the fact that it was mid-afternoon there were few people about. Tess made her way to the post office, bought a stamp, stuck it to her letter and popped it into the yawning mouth of the big red post box, then set off for the corner shop. Opening the door, she found a short queue waiting to be served and to her dismay realised that today must be the day Marilyn earned her pocket money, for the older girl was behind the counter wearing a smart pink overall and taking down an order from the customer at the front of the queue. She did not notice Tess, who when her turn came went straight to Mrs Thomas and asked for margarine and bloater paste. After receiving a small piece of margarine wrapped in greaseproof paper and a little pot of bloater paste, she paid the sum required, took the goods and set off for the door, just as Marilyn muttered something to her mother and grabbed her coat. Struggling into it, she slipped round from behind the counter. To Tess’s dismay, the older girl followed her out of the shop.

  Outside, dusk was already falling and when Tess turned to face her she saw that Marilyn was scowling. ‘What were you doing in my mother’s shop?’ she demanded angrily. ‘We don’t want the likes of you in there. No doubt you were looking for a few sweets or some biscuits to nick. Well, my mam knows how to treat people like you.’

  ‘Our ration books are with your mam so we’ve got no option but to shop there,’ Tess said, and even as she spoke she remembered the advice that both Gran and Albert Payne, the tobacconist, had given her. Clutching the paper bag in which reposed the tiny block of margarine and the jar of bloater paste, she took a deep breath and looked Marilyn in the eye. ‘Why do you hate me?’ she aske
d baldly, and even as she spoke she saw several members of her class, all hangers-on of Marilyn, congregating near the shop doorway. They were obviously meeting Marilyn out of work, and had she noticed them before Tess would not have acted quite so boldly. It was one thing to confront Marilyn alone and quite another to take on a whole gang, particularly on their own doorstep. But Tess knew that to show how she felt would be fatal, so she continued to stare straight up into Marilyn’s face and repeated her question. ‘Why do you hate me, Marilyn?’

  For a moment the older girl stared at Tess with her mouth dropping open, but then she pulled herself together. ‘Hate you? I don’t hate you, I despise you,’ she said scornfully. ‘And I’m not the only one; all me pals think the same. You come bargin’ into our class, showin’ off, pretendin’ to know better than the teacher . . .’

  Marilyn’s friends were drawing closer. Most of them were reputed to be bullies and Tess wished she was taller and stronger – in fact less of a victim, she supposed unhappily. She glanced at the horrible Matilda, who was edging closer, and saw that the fat girl was balling her hands into fists and obviously longing to hit someone, preferably Tess herself.

  Tess took a deep breath and pushed her mousy pigtails back over her shoulders. ‘That’s no reason to hate anybody, and I only queried Clackem’s figures once, even though . . . but it was only once. Go on, Marilyn; why do you hate me? There must be a better reason than you’ve given me so far.’

  Marilyn sighed. ‘I don’t have to have a reason, and I don’t have to tell you what it is,’ she said loftily. ‘But everyone else what lives around here has been here for ages. We all know each other, and each other’s mams and dads, and we’ve all heard tales about your mam, so we don’t want to get to know you. Understand?’