by Rumer Godden
‘Would what be silly?’
‘Would it be silly to buy . . . a little doll?’
‘What is the matter with you today?’ asked Mr Jones, and he said again, ‘You’re daft.’
Soon it was time for him to go on duty.
‘I shall be out all night,’ he told Mrs Jones.
‘Two of the men are away sick. I shall take a short sleep at the police station and go on duty again. See you in the morning,’ said Mr Jones.
He kissed Mrs Jones goodbye and went out, but put his head round the door again. ‘Have a good breakfast waiting for me,’ said Mr Jones.
*
In the toyshop it was closing time.
‘What does that mean?’ asked Holly.
‘That it’s over,’ said Abracadabra.
‘Over?’ Holly did not understand.
Mr Blossom pulled the blind down on the door and put up a notice: ‘Closed’.
‘Closed. Hoo! Hoo!’ said Abracadabra.
Mr Blossom was so tired he told Peter to tidy the shop. ‘And you can lock up. Can I trust you?’ asked Mr Blossom.
‘Yes-sir,’ said Peter.
‘Be careful of the key,’ said Mr Blossom.
‘Yes-sir,’ said Peter proudly. It was the first time Mr Blossom had trusted him with the key.
‘You have been a good boy,’ said Mr Blossom as he was going. ‘You may choose any toy you like – except the expensive ones like air guns or electric trains. Yes, choose yourself a toy,’ said Mr Blossom. ‘Good night.’
When Mr Blossom had gone, ‘A toy!’ said Peter, and he asked, ‘What does he think I am? A blooming kid?’
*
Peter swept up the bits of paper and string and straw and put them in the rubbish bin at the back of the shop. He was so tired he forgot to put the lid on the bin. Then he dusted the counter, but he was too tired to do any more, so he put on his overcoat to go home. He turned out the lights – it was no use lighting the window now that the shopping was over – stepped outside, and closed and locked the door. If he had waited a moment he would have heard a stirring, a noise, tiny whimperings. ‘What about us? What about us?’ It was the toys.
‘Go home and good riddance!’ said Abracadabra to Peter; but the toys cried, ‘Don’t go! Don’t go!’
Peter heard nothing. He put the key in his jacket pocket to keep it quite safe and turned to run home.
The key fell straight through the torn pocket into the snow. It did not make a sound.
‘Hoo! Hoo!’ said Abracadabra, and the snowflakes began to cover the key as Peter ran off.
The market was over as well. The crowd had gone, the stalls were packing up, the last Christmas trees were being sold. Ivy had spent all her money, the blue balloon had burst, her legs ached with tiredness, and she shivered.
Then the lights went out; there were only pools of yellow from the lamp posts, with patches of darkness between. A bit of paper blew against Ivy’s legs, making her jump. Suddenly the market place seemed large and strange; she would have liked to see Miss Shepherd.
You might think that Ivy cried, but she was not that kind of little girl. Though the empty feeling ached inside her she pressed her lips tightly together, then said, ‘It’s time I looked for my grandmother,’ and started off to look.
*
She walked up the cobbled streets between the houses.
How cosy they seemed, with their lighted windows; smoke was going up from every chimney. ‘There are fires and beds and supper,’ said Ivy. Some of the houses had wreaths of holly on their front doors, paper chains and garlands in their rooms; and in almost every window was a Christmas tree.
When Ivy looked in she could see children. In one house they were sitting round a table, eating; in another they were hanging stockings from the chimney shelf; in some they were doing up parcels, but, ‘I must look for a house with a tree and no children,’ said Ivy.
She knew there would be a tree, ‘Because my grandmother is expecting me,’ said Ivy.
The toyshop was still and dark. ‘Thank goodness!’ said Abracadabra.
‘But people can’t see us,’ said Holly.
‘Why should they see us?’ asked Abracadabra. ‘It’s over. People have all gone home. The children are going to bed.’ He sounded pleased. ‘There will be no more shopping,’ said Abracadabra, and the whisper rang round the toys, ‘No shopping. No shopping.’
‘Then . . . we are the ones not sold,’ said a doll.
There was a long silence.
‘I can be sold any time,’ said a bride doll at last. ‘Weddings are always.’
‘I am in yellow, with primroses,’ said a bridesmaid. ‘I shall be sold in the spring.’
‘I am in pink, with roses,’ said another. ‘They will buy me in the summer.’
But Holly had a red dress, for Christmas. What would be done with her?
‘You will be put back into stock,’ said Abracadabra.
‘Please . . . what is stock?’ whispered Holly.
‘It is shut up and dark,’ said Abracadabra, as if he liked that very much. ‘No one sees you or disturbs you. You get covered with dust, and I shall be there,’ said Abracadabra.
Holly wished she could crack.
‘This is my grandmother’s house,’ said Ivy, but when she got to the house it was not. That happened several times. ‘Then it’s that one,’ she said, but it was not that one either. She began to be very cold and tired.
Somebody came down the street. Even in the snow his tread was loud. It was a big policeman. (As a matter of fact, it was Mr Jones.)
Ivy knew as well as you or I know that policemen are kind people and do not like little girls to wander about alone after dark in a strange town. ‘He might send me to the Infants’ Home,’ said Ivy and, quick as a mouse going into its hole, she whisked into a passage between two shops.
‘Queer!’ said Mr Jones. ‘I thought I saw something green.’
At the end of the passage was a shed, and Ivy whisked into it and stood behind the door. There was something odd about that shed – it was warm. Ivy did not know how an empty shed could be warm on a cold night, but I shall tell you.
The shed belonged to a baker and was built against the wall behind his oven. All day he had been baking bread and rolls for Christmas, and the oven was still hot. When Ivy put her hand on the wall she had to take it away quickly, for the wall was baking hot.
Soon she stopped shivering. In a corner was a pile of flour sacks, and she sat down on them.
A lamp in the passageway outside gave just enough light. Ivy’s legs began to feel heavy and warm; her fingers and toes seem to uncurl and stretch in the warmth, while her eyelids seemed to curl up. She gave a great yawn.
Then she took off her coat, lay down on the sacks, and spread the coat over her.
In a moment she was fast asleep.
The toyshop was close by the passage. It was too dark to be noticed, though Abracadabra’s eyes shone like green lamps.
‘Shopping is over. Hoo! Hoo!’ said Abracadabra.
‘Over. Over,’ mourned the toys.
They did not know and Abracadabra did not know that it is when shopping is over that Christmas begins.
Soon it was not dark, for the snow had stopped and the moon came up and lighted all the town. The roofs sparkled with frost as did the snow on the pavements and roads. In the toyshop window the toys showed, not as bright as day, but bright as moonlight, which is far more beautiful. Holly’s dress looked a pale red, and her hair was pale gold.
Dolls do not lie down to go to sleep; they only do that when you remember to put them to bed and, as you often forget, they would be tired if they had to wait; they can sleep where they stand or sit, and now the dolls in the toyshop window slept in their places, all but Holly. She could not go to sleep. She was a Christmas doll and it was beginning to be Christmas. She could not know why, but she was excited. Then all at once, softly, bells began to ring.
Long after most children are in bed, on Christma
s Eve, the church bells in towns and villages begin to ring. Soon the clocks strike twelve and it is Christmas.
Holly heard the bells and – what was this? People were walking in the street – hurrying.
‘Hsst! T-whoo!’ said Abracadabra at them as they passed, but they took no notice.
‘Then . . . it has started,’ said Holly.
‘What has started?’ said Abracadabra.
‘It,’ said Holly. She could not explain better than that for she did not know yet what ‘it’ meant – this was, after all, her first Christmas – but the bells grew louder and more and more people passed. Then, it may have been the pin of Holly’s price ticket, or a spine of tinsel come loose from the shelf, but Holly felt a tiny pricking as sharp as a prickle on a holly leaf. ‘Wish,’ said the prickle. ‘Wish.’
‘But – the shop is closed,’ said Holly. ‘The children are in bed. Abracadabra says I must go into sto—’ The prickle interrupted. ‘Wish. Wish!’ said the prickle. ‘Wish!’ It went on till Holly wished.
*
Ivy thought the bells woke her or perhaps the passing feet, but then why did she feel something sharp like a thistle or a hard straw in one of the sacks? She sat up, but she was half-asleep and she thought the feet were the St Agnes’s children marching down to breakfast and the bells were the breakfast bell. Then she saw she was still in the shed, though it was filled with a new light, a strange silver light. ‘Moonlight?’ asked Ivy and rubbed her eyes. She was warm and comfortable on the sacks under the green coat – though there were great white patches on it from the flour – too warm and comfortable to move, and she lay down, but again she felt that thistle or sharp straw. The light seemed to be calling her, the bells, the hurrying feet; the prickle seemed to tell her to get up.
Ivy put on her coat and went out.
Outside in the passage the footsteps sounded so loud that she guessed it was the policeman. She waited until they had passed before she dared come out.
In the street the moonlight was so bright that once again Ivy thought it was morning and she was in St Agnes’s and the bells were the breakfast bell. ‘Only . . . there are so many of them,’ said sleepy Ivy.
She walked a few steps to the toyshop. She did not know how it came to be there and she thought she was in her St Agnes’s bedroom and it was filled with toys. Then: ‘Not toys,’ said Ivy, ‘a toy,’ and she was wide-awake. She did not even see Abracadabra glaring at her with his green eyes; she looked straight at Holly.
She saw Holly’s dress and socks and shoes. She is red and green too, thought Ivy. She saw Holly’s hair, brown eyes, little teeth, and beautiful joints. They were just what Ivy liked and, ‘My Christmas doll!’ said Ivy.
Holly saw Ivy’s face pressed against the window as she had seen so many children’s faces that day, but, ‘This one is different,’ said Holly.
Ivy’s hands in their woollen gloves held to the ledge where it said, BLOSSOM, HIGH-CLASS TOYS AND GAMES. Holly looked at Ivy’s hands. Soon they will be holding me, thought Holly. Ivy’s coat even in the moonlight was as beautiful a green as Holly’s dress was a beautiful red, so that they seemed to match, and, ‘My Christmas girl!’ said Holly.
Ivy had to go to the shed again to get warm, but I cannot tell you how many times she came back to look at Holly.
‘My Christmas doll!’
‘My Christmas girl!’
‘But the window is in between,’ said Abracadabra.
The window was in between and the toyshop door was locked, but even if it had been open Ivy had no money. ‘Hoo! Hoo!’ said Abracadabra, but, remember, not only Holly but Ivy was wishing now.
‘I wish . . .’
‘I wish . . .’
The toys woke up. ‘A child,’ they whispered, ‘a child.’ And they wished too.
Wishes are powerful things. Ivy stepped back from the window and Abracadabra’s eyes grew pale as, cr-runch went something under Ivy’s heel. It was something hidden just under the snow.
‘Hisst!’ said Abracadabra.
‘T-whoo!’ But Ivy bent down and picked up a key.
In the moonlight it was bright silver. ‘Peter’s key. Peter’s key,’ whispered the toys.
Footsteps sounded in the street, people were coming from church; Ivy put the key in her pocket and quickly ran back to the shed.
She had to wait a long time for the people to pass as they stopped to say ‘Merry Christmas’ to one another, to give each other parcels; and Ivy sat down on the sacks to rest. Presently she gave another great yawn. Presently she lay down and spread her coat over her. Presently she went to sleep.
The toys had gone to sleep too. ‘But I can’t,’ said Holly. ‘I must wait for my Christmas girl.’
She stayed awake for a long time, but she was only a little doll . . . and presently she fell asleep where she stood.
Ivy dreamed that the shed was hung with holly wreaths and lit with candles. The berries were the colour of the Christmas doll’s dress and the candle flames were as bright as her hair. ‘A-aaah!’ said Ivy.
Holly dreamed that two arms were cradling her, that hands were holding her, that her dress was beginning to be rumpled and her eyes made to open and shut. ‘A-aaah!’ said Holly.
Abracadabra kept his green eyes wide open, but he could not stop the moon from going down, nor the coming of Christmas Day.
*
Very early on Christmas morning Mrs Jones got up and tidied her living room. She lit a fire, swept the hearth, and dusted the furniture. She laid a table for breakfast with a pink and white cloth, her best blue china, a loaf of crusty bread, a pat of new butter in a glass dish, honey in a blue pot, a bowl of sugar, and a jug of milk. She had some fresh brown eggs and, in the kitchen, she put sausages to sizzle in a pan. Then she set the teapot to warm on the hob, lighted the candles on the Christmas tree, and sat down by the fire to wait.
The baker’s oven cooled in the night and Ivy woke with the cold. The shed was icy; Ivy’s eyelashes were stuck together with rime, and the tip of her nose felt frozen. When she tried to stand up, her legs were so stiff that she almost fell over; when she put on her coat her fingers were so numb that they could not do up the buttons. Ivy was a sensible little girl; she knew she had to get warm and she did not cry, but, ‘I m-must h-hop and sk-skip,’ she said through her chattering teeth, and there in the shed she swung her arms, in-out, out-in, and clapped her hands. Outside she tried to run, but her legs felt heavy and her head seemed to swim. ‘I m-must f-find m-my g-g-grandmother qu-qu-quickly,’ said Ivy.
She went into the street, and how cold it was there! The wind blew under her coat; the snow on the pavements had turned to ice and was slippery. She tried to hop, but the snow was like glass. Ivy’s fingers and nose hurt in the cold. ‘If-f I l-look at m-my d-d-doll, I m-might-t f-feel b-b-b-better,’ said Ivy, but she turned the wrong way.
It was the wrong way for the toyshop, but perhaps it was the right way for Ivy, for a hundred yards down the street she came to the Joneses’ house.
I must look for a house with a tree and no children. That is what she had said. Now she looked in at the window and there was no sign of any children but there was a Christmas tree lit. Ivy saw the fire – ‘To w-warm m-me,’ whispered Ivy, and, oh, she was cold! She saw the table with the pink and white cloth, blue china, bread and butter, honey and milk, the teapot warming – ‘My b-breakfast,’ whispered Ivy and, oh, she was hungry! She saw Mrs Jones sitting by the fire, in her clean apron, waiting. Ivy stood quite still. Then: ‘My g-g-grandmother,’ whispered Ivy.
Holly woke with a start. ‘Oh! I have been asleep,’ said Holly in dismay. ‘Oh! I must have missed my little Christmas girl.’
‘She won’t be back,’ said Abracadabra. ‘It’s
Christmas Day. She’s playing with her new toys.’
‘I am her new toy,’ said Holly.
‘Hoo! Hoo!’ said Abracadabra.
‘I am,’ said Holly, and she wished. I think her wish was bigger than Abracadabra, for when Ivy li
fted her hand to Mrs Jones’s knocker, a prickle from the bunch of holly ran into her finger. ‘Ow!’ said Ivy. The prickle was so sharp that she took her hand down, and ‘F-first I must g-get my d-d-doll,’ said Ivy.
If Ivy had stopped to think she would have known she could not get her doll. How could she when the shop was locked and the window was in between? Besides, Holly was not Ivy’s doll and had not even been sold. A wise person would have known this, but sometimes it is better to feel a prickle than to be wise.
‘Hullo,’ said Ivy to Holly through the toyshop window. ‘G-g-good morning.’
Holly could not say ‘Hullo’ back, but she could wish Ivy good morning – with a doll’s wish.
In the daylight Holly was even more beautiful than she had been by moonlight, Ivy was even dearer.
‘A little girl!’ sneered Abracadabra. ‘There are hundreds of little girls.’
‘Not for me,’ said Holly.
‘A little doll!’ sneered Abracadabra. ‘There are hundreds of little dolls,’ and if Ivy could have heard him through the window she would have said, ‘Not for me.’
Ivy gazed at Holly through the window.
She gazed so hard she did not hear footsteps coming down the street, heavy steps and light ones and a queer snuffling sound. The heavy steps were Mr Jones’s, the light ones were Peter’s, and the snuffling sound was Peter trying not to cry.
‘I put it in my pocket,’ Peter was saying. ‘I forgot my pocket was torn. Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do?’ said Peter.
Mr Jones patted his shoulder and asked, ‘What sort of key was it now?’
A key? Ivy turned round. She saw Mr Jones and jumped. Then she made herself as small as she could against the window.
‘A big iron key, but it looked like silver,’ said Peter. He and Mr Jones began to look along the pavement.
It looked like silver. Ivy could feel the edges of the key in her pocket, but – If I go away softly the policeman won’t notice me, thought Ivy.
