CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Christmas Day
To the universal satisfaction of Hobartians, Christmas morning greeted Hobart with sun, blue skies and chirping birds. Little Jack Maycroft took a special delight in this, and since dawn of that morning he had been tarrying near the window, in an attempt to catch the elusive Santa Claus flying across the brilliant morning sky. In vain the pyjama-clad boy had waited, and by the time George Brearly discovered him later that morning by the fireplace, he was looking particularly glum.
‘Jack,’ George said, falling onto his knees before the child, ‘why are you so sad, my little whipper snapper?’
‘Santa didn’t come, Uncle George,’ the child declared mournfully. ‘Daddy said that Santa would come down the chimney, but I’ve been waiting here forever, and he didn’t come!’ He began sniffling.
‘Do you know how many chimneys there are at Wintersleigh, Jack? Perhaps he came down another one this year.’
‘No!’ cried the distraught boy. ‘Daddy said he’d come down this chimney!’ Tears began to course down his cheeks. ‘He forgot about me, Uncle George!’ Jack exclaimed. ‘How could he forget me? I wrote him a letter, and everything!’ The last part of his sentence was muffled by a sob. ‘I told him not to visit me at Daddy’s house, ’coz I’d be here.’
‘I see,’ was all George could say. For the first time in his life, it seemed, George Brearly was lost for words. He looked helplessly into his nephew’s pleading eyes. ‘Santa moves in mysterious ways, Jack,’ he said at last.
Jack was clearly disappointed by this assertion, but just before he burst into a fresh round of tears, the shrill voice of Louisa Wentworth roused him from his miseries. He looked up hopefully and saw Louisa standing near the drawing room door.
‘Jack!’ she cried with an unusual display of enthusiasm, ‘have you seen what is on the end of your bed? Have you seen what Santa has brought you?’
Again Jack was confused, but when the penny finally dropped, he let out a squeal of joy and darted upstairs to his room, which he shared with his father. Minutes later, he raced downstairs with his beloved, yet modest present in his arms. He proudly showed it to George and Louisa.
‘Well, who is a lucky boy, then?’ Louisa asked, secretly mystified by the meagreness of Jack’s gift: a tiny wooden rocking horse.
Jack said nothing. He had just spotted the other presents under the Christmas tree, and he was eager to get his hands on them. ‘When do I get to open the other presents?’ he asked, quickly casting his father’s present aside on a nearby table.
‘Now, now, my little man,’ George remonstrated, ‘don’t be too greedy.’
‘When can I have the other presents?’ Jack repeated, ignoring his uncle and looking up expectantly at Louisa.
‘Not until everyone else has risen from bed and has had their breakfast.’
Armed with this new knowledge, Jack dashed towards the staircase. Climbing the stairs as fast as his little legs could carry him, he burst into the rooms of each sleeping occupant, and attempted to rouse them with the cries of, ‘Wake up or I won’t get my presents!’
Not surprisingly, this blatant type of persuasion had little or no effect on the people he was trying to drag out of bed. His father, for one, took no interest in his son’s impetuous behaviour. ‘You’re breathing in my ear,’ he murmured through an abundance of sheets, ‘now get out!’
Frances, however, had a more creative way to combat Jack’s behaviour. She feigned sleep throughout the duration of the onslaught, and to her relief, Jack quickly lost interest with her.
Jack was in no way discouraged by his unsuccessful encounter with Frances and scampered jauntily along the corridor until he reached the next room. Unwittingly, he entered the doctor’s bed-chamber. If he had been expecting any form of cooperation from the normally placid Doctor Brearly at seven o’clock in the morning, little Jack Maycroft was to be sadly mistaken. In what was now a well-rehearsed performance, Jack catapulted himself onto Michael’s bed, and began to shake the bed’s occupant.
Michael woke quickly from his slumber, and spotting Jack through his sleepy eyes, he groaned and rolled over to the other side of the bed. Jack, however, was not at all perturbed by his uncle’s indifference. He continued shaking him.
‘Wake up, Uncle Mike!’ Jack shouted. ‘Get up now or I won’t get my…’
In the blink of an eye, Michael sat up in his bed and grabbed a firm hold of Jack’s pyjama collar. ‘Now listen to me, you little terror,’ he began, ‘my name is Uncle Michael, not Uncle Mike.’
‘But Uncle George told me to call you Uncle Mike,’ Jack explained.
After a moment of consideration Michael loosened his grip slightly on his nephew’s collar. ‘I don’t care what your Uncle George said. I know what my name is, and that’s all that matters.’
At this point, Jack caught sight of Michael’s ruffled hair. It was standing on end as though it had been buffeted by cyclonic winds. Jack broke down into a fit of giggles. ‘You look like a rooster, Uncle Mike!’ he squalled excitedly.
Michael again tightened his grip on Jack’s collar. ‘Call me Uncle Mike again,’ Michael warned, ‘and I swear to God, Jack, I’ll rip your arm off and hit you with it! Now leave me in peace!’
Jack stared. ‘You wait ‘til I tell Daddy about you,’ he said, his lip quivering with emotion.
‘Please yourself,’ Michael retorted, ‘and while you’re at it, give my regards to your father.’
Jack burst into tears. ‘I hate you!’ he screamed, and without looking back, fled from the room, slamming the door shut behind him.
‘God, I hate Christmas!’ Michael muttered, and with a loud sigh, he fell back onto his pillows.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 22
