by Rumer Godden
‘Mr Blossom trusted me,’ said Peter. His wide smile was gone and his face looked quite pale. I don’t like boys, thought Ivy, but Peter was saying, ‘He trusted me. He’ll never trust me again,’ and though Peter was a big boy, when he said that he looked as if he really might burst into tears.
A boy cry? asked Ivy. She had never seen Barnabas cry. I didn’t know boys could, thought Ivy.
The toys had all wakened again. ‘Poor Peter. Poor Peter’; and the whisper ran around:
‘Wish. Wish Peter may find the key. Wish.’
‘For that careless boy?’ said Abracadabra. ‘Why, he might have had us all stolen.’
Peter was saying that himself. ‘A thief might have picked it up,’ he said.
‘It w-wasn’t a th-thief. It was m-m-me,’ said Ivy and put her hand in her pocket and pulled out the key. ‘S-so you n-needn’t c-c-cry,’ said Ivy to Peter.
Can you imagine how Peter’s tears disappeared and his smile came back? ‘Cry? Who’d cry?’ said Peter scornfully, and Ivy thought it better not to say, ‘You.’
Mr Jones put the key in the lock, and it fitted. ‘I suppose I had better go in,’ said Peter, ‘and see if everything’s all right.’
‘Well, I’m going home,’ said Mr Jones. ‘You know where I live. If anything’s wrong, pop in.’ It was as he turned to go home that Mr Jones saw Ivy. ‘So – there was something green,’ said Mr Jones.
Ivy knew how she must look; her coat and her hair, her socks and her shoes were dusted with flour from the sacks, she had not been able to comb her hair because she had no comb, her face had smears across it from the toffee apple; and, ‘I think you are lost,’ said Mr Jones.
His voice was so kind that the empty feeling ached in Ivy; it felt so empty that her mouth began to tremble. She could not shut her lips, but, ‘I’m n-not l-lost,’ said Ivy. ‘I’m g-g-going to m-my g-g-g-grandmother.’
‘I see,’ said Mr Jones. He looked at Ivy again. ‘Where does your grandmother live?’ asked Mr Jones.
‘H-here,’ said Ivy.
‘Show me,’ said Mr Jones and held out his hand.
Ivy took his hand and led him down the street to the Joneses’ house. ‘This is m-my g-g-grandmother’s,’ said Ivy.
Mr Jones seemed rather surprised. ‘Are you sure?’ asked Mr Jones.
‘Qu-quite sure,’ said Ivy. ‘She has m-my b-breakfast ready.’
‘Did you say . . . your breakfast?’ asked Mr Jones.
‘Of course,’ said Ivy, ‘l-look in at the w-window. There,’ she told him. ‘Th-there’s my Ch-Christmas t-tree.’
Mr Jones thought a moment. Then: ‘Perhaps it is your Christmas tree,’ he said.
‘Sh-shall we kn-knock?’ asked Ivy, but, ‘You needn’t knock,’ said Mr Jones. ‘You can come in.’
*
The toys were all in their places when Peter opened the door. ‘No thanks to you,’ said Abracadabra.
Perhaps Peter heard him, for Peter said, ‘Thanks to that little girl.’
I do not know how it was, but Peter had the idea that Ivy was Mr Jones’s little girl. ‘He was kind to me,’ said Peter, ‘and so was she.’ Peter was very grateful, and, ‘What can I do for them?’ he asked. Then: ‘I know,’ said Peter. Mr Blossom had told him to take any toy, and, ‘I’ll take her a doll,’ said Peter. ‘I can slip it into their house easy, without saying a word, but – what doll would she like?’ asked Peter.
‘A bride doll,’ said Abracadabra with a gleam of his eyes.
A bride doll was standing in the corner, and Peter went to pick her up, but he must have put his hand on the pin of her price ticket or a wire in the orange-blossom flowers on her dress, for, ‘Ow!’ said Peter and drew back his hand.
Abracadabra looked at Holly. Holly smiled.
‘All little girls like baby dolls,’ said Abracadabra. ‘Take her a baby doll.’
There was one baby doll left. She was in the window; Peter reached to take her out, but the safety-pin on the baby doll’s bib must have been undone, for, ‘Ow!’ cried Peter and drew back his hand.
‘Hsst! T-whoo!’ said Abracadabra to Holly. Holly smiled.
It was the same with the primrose bridesmaid.
‘Ow!’ cried Peter. The same with the rose. ‘Ow!’ And, ‘Here, I’m getting fed up,’ said Peter. ‘Who’s trying this on?’ I do not know what made him look at Abracadabra. Abracadabra’s eyes gleamed, but in her place just above Abracadabra, Peter saw Holly.
‘Why, of course! The little red Christmas doll,’ said Peter. ‘The very thing!’ But as he stepped up to the glass shelf Abracadabra was there.
Peter said that Abracadabra must have toppled, for a toy owl cannot fly, but it seemed for a moment that Abracadabra was right in his face; the green eyes were close, the spread wings, the hooked beak, and the claws. Peter let out a cry and hit Abracadabra, who fell on the floor. ‘Out of my way!’ cried Peter, and he gave Abracadabra a kick. Then Abracadabra did fly. He went sailing across the shop and landed head down in the rubbish bin.
‘Oooh! Aaah!’ cried the toys in terror, but Peter sprang after him and shut the lid down tight.
Then he picked up Holly from the shelf in the window and ran pell-mell to the Joneses’.
When Mr Jones and Ivy came in Mrs Jones was in the kitchen with a fork in her hand, turning the sausages. Mr Jones told Ivy to wait in the hall.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said Mr Jones to Mrs Jones and kissed her.
‘Merry Christmas,’ said Mrs Jones, but she sounded a little sad.
Mr Jones had a present in his pocket for Mrs Jones, a little gold brooch. He took it out, unwrapped it, and pinned it to her dress. ‘Oh, how pretty, Albert!’ said Mrs Jones, but she still sounded sad.
‘I have another Christmas present for you,’ said Mr Jones and laughed. ‘It has two legs,’ said Mr Jones.
‘Two legs?’ asked Mrs Jones, and Mr Jones laughed again.
‘It can walk and talk,’ said Mr Jones and laughed still more, and then he brought Ivy in.
When Mrs Jones saw Ivy she did not laugh; for a moment she stood still, then she dropped the fork and knelt down on the floor and put her hands on Ivy’s shoulders. ‘Oh, Albert!’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Albert!’ She looked at Ivy for a long time and tears came into her eyes and rolled down her cheeks. Ivy, with her glove, wiped the tears away and the emptiness went out of Ivy and never came back.
‘Dearie me!’ said Mrs Jones, getting to her feet, ‘what am I thinking of? You must have a hot bath at once.’
‘Breakfast first,’ said Mr Jones, and Ivy asked, ‘Couldn’t I see my Christmas tree?’
Mrs Jones’s living room was as bright and clean as it had looked through the window. The fire was warm on Ivy’s legs, the table was close to her now, and in the window was the tree – ‘With a star on the top,’ whispered Ivy.
‘But why, oh why,’ Mrs Jones was saying to Mr Jones outside the door, ‘why didn’t I buy that little doll?’
‘And the shops are shut,’ whispered Mr Jones. ‘We shall have to explain.’
Ivy did not hear them. ‘Red candles!’ she was whispering. ‘Silver crackers! Glass balls . . . !’
‘Well, I’ll be danged!’ said Mr Jones, for, at the foot of the tree, by the parcel of handkerchiefs, stood Holly.
Though Mrs Jones was a little young to be a grandmother, she and Mr Jones adopted Ivy, which means they took her as their own and, of course, Holly as well. Miss Shepherd came to visit them and arrange this. ‘Please tell Barnabas,’ said Ivy.
Mrs Jones made Ivy a green dress like Holly’s red one but with a red petticoat and red socks. She made Holly a red coat like Ivy’s green one and knitted her a pair of tiny green woollen gloves so that they matched when they went out.
They pass the toyshop often, but there is no Abracadabra.
‘Where is the owl?’ Mr Blossom had asked when the shop opened again, and Peter had to say, ‘I put him in the rubbish bin.’
‘Good gracious me!’ said Mr Blossom. ‘Get hi
m out at once,’ but when they lifted the lid Abracadabra was not there.
‘Sir, the dustman must have taken him away,’ said Peter, standing up stiff and straight. I do not know if that was true, but Abracadabra was never seen again.
‘Never seen again,’ said the toys. They sounded happy. ‘Never seen again,’ and long, long afterward in the toyshop they told tales of Abracadabra.
Sometimes Holly and Ivy meet Crumple, who waves his trunk at them. Once they saw Mallow and Wallow put out on a windowsill. They often see Peter and Mr Blossom; in spite of Abracadabra’s disappearance, Mr Blossom trusts Peter.
‘But if you had not found the key,’ says Peter to Ivy.
‘If I had not come to look at Holly,’ says Ivy.
‘If I had not gone to Mr Jones,’ says Peter.
‘If Mrs Jones had not bought the Christmas tree’ – but it goes further back than that. If Ivy had not slept in the shed . . . If the baker had not lit his oven . . . If Ivy had not got out of the train . . . If Barnabas had not laughed at Ivy . . . If Holly . . .
‘If I had not wished,’ says Holly.
I told you it was a story about wishing.
Turn the page to read an extract of
The Fairy Doll,
another wonderful Christmas tale from Rumer Godden
Nobody knew where she came from.
‘She must have belonged to Mother when Mother was a little girl,’ said Father, but Mother did not remember it.
‘She must have come from Father’s house, with the Christmas decorations,’ said Mother, but Father did not remember it.
As long as the children could remember, at Christmas every year, the fairy doll had been there at the top of the Christmas tree.
She was six inches high and dressed in a white gauze dress with beads that sparkled; she had silver wings, and a narrow silver crown on her dark hair, with a glass dewdrop in front that sparkled too; in one of her hands she had a silver wand, and on her feet were silver shoes – not painted, stitched.
‘Fairies must have sewn those,’ said Mother.
‘Or mice,’ said Christabel, who was the eldest.
Elizabeth, the youngest, was examining the stitches.
‘Fairy mice,’ said Elizabeth.
You may think it is a lucky thing to be the youngest, but for Elizabeth it was not lucky at all; she was told what to do – or what not to do – by her sisters and brother all day long, and she was always being left out or made to stay behind.
‘You can’t come, you’re too young,’ said Christabel.
‘You can’t reach. You’re too small,’ said Godfrey, who was the only boy.
‘You can’t play. You’re too little,’ said Josie. Josie was only two years older than Elizabeth, but she ordered her about most of all.
Christabel was eight, Godfrey was seven, Josie was six, but Elizabeth was only four and she was different from the others: they were thin, she was fat; their legs were long, hers were short; their hair was curly, hers was straight; their eyes were blue, hers were grey and easily filled with tears. They rode bicycles; Christabel’s was green, Godfrey’s was red, Josie’s dark blue. Elizabeth rode the old tricycle; the paint had come off, and its wheels went ‘Wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze.’
‘Slowpoke,’ said Christabel, whizzing past.
‘Tortoise,’ said Godfrey.
‘Baby,’ said Josie.
‘Not a slowpoke, tortoise, baby,’ said Elizabeth but they did not hear; they were far away, spinning down the hill. ‘Wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze, wh-ee-ze,’ went the tricycle, and Elizabeth’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Cry-baby,’ said Josie, who had come pedalling back, and the tears spilled over. Then that Christmas, Elizabeth saw the fairy doll.
She had seen her before, of course, but, ‘Not really,’ said Elizabeth; not properly, as you shall hear.
Every year there were wonderful things on the Christmas tree: tinsel and icicles of frosted glass that had been Father’s when he was a little boy; witch balls in colours like jewels and a trumpet of golden glass – it had been Father’s as well – and bells that were glass too but coloured silver and red. Have you ever rung a glass bell? Its clapper gives out a ‘ting’ that is like the clearest, smallest, sweetest voice.
There were silvered nuts and little net stockings filled with gold and silver coins. Can you guess what the coins were? They were chocolate. There were transparent boxes of rose petals and violets and mimosa. Can you guess what they were? They were sweets.
There were Christmas crackers and coloured lights and candles.
When the lights were lit, they shone in the dewdrop on the fairy doll’s crown, making a bead of light; it twinkled when anybody walked across the room or touched the tree, and the wand stirred in the fairy doll’s hand. ‘She’s alive!’ said Elizabeth.
‘Don’t be silly,’ said Christabel, and she said scornfully, ‘What a little silly you are!’
Thwack. A hard small box of sweets fell off the tree and hit Christabel on the head.
The fairy doll looked straight in front of her, but the wand stirred gently, very gently, in her hand.
In the children’s house, on the landing, was a big chest carved of cedar wood; blankets were stored in it, and spare clothes. The Christmas things were kept there too; the candles had burned down, of course, and the crackers had been snapped and the sweets and nuts eaten up, but after Christmas everything else was packed away; last of all the fairy doll was wrapped in blue tissue paper, put in a cotton-reel box, laid with the rest in the cedar chest, and the lid was shut.
Nona has left her home in sunny India to live in a chilly English village with her aunt’s family.
She is homesick, and nothing can make her feel better. Until a package arrives for Nona containing two dainty Japanese dolls called Miss Happiness and Miss Flower. To stop the dolls feeling lonely and sad Nona builds them their own traditional Japanese house. Soon Nona has created a home – not just for the dolls, but for herself too.
The sequel to Miss Happiness and Miss Flower
When a new girl, Gem, moves in next door, Nona and Belinda think she’s stuck up and vow to have nothing to do with her. But the beautiful Japanese doll in Gem’s window soon attracts their attention – she is just like Nona’s dolls Miss Happiness and Miss Flower! They name the doll Little Plum because of the plum blossom decorating her clothes – but Little Plum seems sad and unloved. Nona and Belinda decide to do something about it. Will the three girls ever become friends?
Tottie is a little wooden doll who lives with her family in a shoe-box owned by sisters Emily and Charlotte. They are very happy, except for one thing: they long for a proper home.
When Emily and Charlotte fix up a Victorian dolls’ house for the family, Tottie’s wish has come true. It’s perfect. Until a new arrival starts to cause chaos in their lives . . .
The Story of
Holly and Ivy
Rumer Godden was one of the UK’s most distinguished authors. She wrote many well-known and much-loved books for both adults and children, including The Dolls’ House, The Story of Holly and Ivy and The Diddakoi, which won the Whitbread Children’s Book Award in 1972.
She was awarded the OBE in 1993 and died in 1998, aged ninety.
Other books by Rumer Godden
Miss Happiness and Miss Flower
Little Plum
The Dolls’ House
The Fairy Doll
The Diddakoi
First published 1958 by Macmillan London Limited
This edition published 2016 by Macmillan Children’s Books
This electronic edition published 2016 by Macmillan Children’s Books
an imprint of Pan Macmillan
20 New Wharf Road, London N1 9RR
Associated companies throughout the world
www.panmacmillan.com
ISBN 978-1-5098-0506-8
Text copyright © Rumer Godden 1958
Illustrations copyright © Christian Birmingham 2004
Cover illustration by David Wardle
The right of Rumer Godden and Christian Birmingham to be identified as the author and illustrator of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
You may not copy, store, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
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