A Family Christmas

by Katie Flynn

  The brown paper concealed a large white box reinforced with sticky tape, and though from where she was hidden it did not look particularly strong appearances were obviously deceptive, because in the end Cyril, with a curse, had to take his knife to it, wrenching it open with little regard for the contents. Mo, craning her neck, saw that her guess had been right. The parcel contained presents: a soft toy, a teddy so fluffy and sweet that Mo’s susceptible heart went out to it, and a harmonica.

  She gasped; Jimmy was musical, had longed for a real mouth organ, and here it was, his heart’s desire! More important, these gifts could only have come from their father, for only he would remember Jimmy’s passionate desire for a proper instrument rather than the tinny little pipe her brother played in the school orchestra.

  Mo gave a small moan. She remembered her mother apologising to Jimmy a couple of years earlier for her inability to buy the present he most wanted, saying that a really good harmonica was way beyond their means. Even if Cyril did not recognise its value, Aunt Huxtable would take it away and sell it for sure. She had to rescue the parcel before that happened; taking a deep, silent breath, Mo waited to see what Cyril would do.

  At last, frowning heavily and taking swigs from his bottle every now and then, he seemed to make up his mind. ‘Load of rubbish, that lot. Won’t get nothin’ for them down the market.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘It’s lucky I’ve got other plans for making gelt.’ And he took what looked to Mo like a sparkling string out of his pocket. She had never seen anything so lovely as it glittered in the firelight. As she watched, entranced, Cyril pulled a face and hollered, ‘Ma! Where’s my dinner?’

  There was no reply; Mrs Huxtable, Mo knew, was not in the house, having gone over to Mrs Grimshaw’s for a chat. Grumbling, Cyril shambled across the kitchen, still clutching the children’s presents as well as the pretty string, which Mo could now see was a jewelled necklace. He must have stolen it, she thought. ‘Well, I’m for a spot of shut-eye until the pubs open,’ he mumbled. He gave a last bellow of ‘Ma, where the devil’s you at?’ and lurched towards the stairs.

  As soon as he had gone, Mo gave a little moan of despair and crawled out from her clothes-horse shelter. She could hear Cyril still muttering as he crashed on to his bed. ‘I’ll get them bloody Trewins if it’s the last thing I do, and if they give me any trouble I’ll top the pair of ’em,’ he slurred. ‘Mam hates ’em, I hates ’em, anyone with a grain o’ sense hates ’em. I’ll catch ’em and shove ’em into the dock as soon as I’m sober.’ He chuckled hoarsely. ‘They’re a burden on us Huxtables, that’s what they are.’

  Mo sat quite still for a few minutes, wondering whether Cyril’s threat was real. Then common sense came to her aid. If he attacked her or Jimmy he would be in real trouble when their father came home, and besides, if he suspected she was listening it was just the sort of threat he’d use to frighten her. Oh, how she hated him! But she must go and warn Jimmy that he was home, and maybe they would be able to keep out of his way. First, though, she must rescue their presents, and perhaps take another look at the sparkly necklace. He would be deep in a drunken sleep by now, but might wake at any moment. However, she knew a way to slow him down if he tried to follow her, if she dared to do it. Softly, she stole up the stairs and crept silently into Cyril’s room. He was snoring.

  ‘I did right, didn’t I, our Jimmy?’ Mo asked anxiously. ‘You always say come to you if I’m in trouble, and oh, Jimmy, I’m in trouble now!’

  ‘I don’t see why, kiddo,’ Jimmy said after a thoughtful pause. ‘You had every right to take our presents, and I’m sure you can’t have killed Cyril. What makes you think you did? You’ve played the same trick before just to slow him down, and it worked.’

  Mo gave a doleful sniff. ‘Ye-es, but this time I stayed too long looking for the sparkly necklace – I really wanted to see it again, ’cos it were real pretty, but I never did find it – and I’d barely got back into the kitchen when Cyril started hollerin’. He come shufflin’ to the top of the stairs, never noticin’ I’d tied his bootlaces together, and saw me in the kitchen and his eyes sort of slithered sideways to the sack of sprouts and the clothes horse and he guessed I’d been spying on him. He roared like a bull, Jimmy, and screamed that he’d kill us both when he got his hands on us and then he took a big step forward, so of course he came down the stairs head first. I were hopin’ he’d bruise himself like he’s bruised us so many times, but then Mrs Grimshaw and Aunt Huxtable came running to see what had caused the commotion, an’ Cyril were still lying at the foot of our stairs. Aunt Huxtable began to scream that he were dead and whiles everyone were clusterin’ round – I saw Johnny Latimer give him a real good kick – I sneaked in and tried to undo the laces. Only the old girl must have seen, ’cos she began to screech that it were bound to be the work of the Trewin kids, you an’ me, Jimmy. I tried to say that you were at the wash house and I were too little to hurt anybody but Aunt Huxtable just kept screechin’ we’d killed her son and tellin’ someone to fetch the scuffers. “They’ll hang you from the yard arm,” she said, and tried to grab me, so I lit out and come to you.’ She looked at him anxiously. ‘That were the right thing to do, weren’t it, Jimmy?’

  ‘Yes of course,’ Jimmy said positively. Now that he thought about it he realised that his little sister had taken a step which he, as the older, should have taken long since; she had run from the Court and the Huxtables. Jimmy supposed that he had stayed with the old woman because when his father came for them he would naturally expect them to be at the Court. And then there was the problem of where Jimmy would run. Sam Trewin had married Grace against his parents’ wishes and had cut himself off completely from his family; Jimmy did not even know where they lived. He gnawed his lip thoughtfully. His mother was Welsh, and had grown up on a farm, but that was all he knew. He could only assume that, like his father’s family, the Griffiths had not approved of their offspring’s marriage and wanted to cut the connection.

  ‘Jimmy?’ Mo’s small piping voice sounded as though she was on the verge of tears. ‘Oh, Jimmy, what’ll we do when morning comes? Did I really kill Cyril? I didn’t tie the knots real hard; I just meant to give me time to get to you at the wash house. I’s frightened when Cyril’s drunk, ’cos he don’t know his own strength, do he, Jimmy? But will the scuffers believe me, or will they take Aunt Huxtable’s side and hang me from the yard arm?’

  Jimmy gave Mo a reassuring squeeze. ‘Don’t you mention tying the laces together, not to anyone but me,’ he ordered. ‘As for what we ought to do, I think we’ll lie low for a bit. No point in going back to number four. Oh, I know there are some people who’ll take our side, but there’s bound to be trouble, and you know what a liar old Huxtable is. If only we had relatives who would take us in . . .’

  Mo gave a squeak. ‘If only we could go to our mam’s mam. Do you remember, Jimmy? Mam said they lived in a house with roses round the door.’

  Jimmy stared. ‘But that were years ago; you can’t possibly remember Mam sayin’ that,’ he objected. ‘Why, I couldn’t have been more than three or four – you weren’t even born then!’

  A cold little hand reached out of the darkness and patted his cheek. ‘No, of course I don’t remember; but you’ve told me over and over that we had relations what lived in the country. Why, only last week you were tellin’ me about how one day you hoped to be a farmer too, and you said I could help with the work, feed the animals and that, when I’s growed.’

  ‘Well I’m damned. Wharra memory you’ve got, little ’un,’ Jimmy said admiringly. ‘I think you’ve had a really good idea. We could catch a train and go into Wales. We could tell folk we’re lookin’ for our Griffiths relatives; someone would be bound to know ’em. Wales isn’t very big, is it?’

  ‘I dunno,’ Mo said sleepily. Then her voice sharpened. ‘But we’ve got no money, Jimmy; they wouldn’t let us on the train with no money, and we’d need to buy food and things until we find our fambly.’

  Jimmy sighed. Sh
ifting a little to find a comfortable position, he was about to suggest that they should follow his original plan, to cut holly and sell it at the market, when something jabbed into his side, and he remembered not only the biscuits, to which he had not given a thought, but also the money that the tearoom lady had paid for the linen delivery. He plunged his hand into his shirt front and produced the biscuits, handing a couple to Mo and taking one for himself. ‘Broken biscuits from Mr Theaker, and we have got money,’ he said triumphantly. ‘It’s what the tearoom paid for their laundry. I ought to give it to the old girl, but she’s cheated us often enough, so she can whistle for it.’

  Mo gave a sleepy chuckle. ‘Serve her right,’ she said dreamily. ‘Then I’m a murderer and youse a thief . . . Cor, won’t old Huxtable like that!’

  Jimmy chuckled. ‘Tomorrer mornin’, right early, before anyone is up, I’ll go back to the Court and find out whether Cyril’s dead or alive,’ he said. ‘I’d take a bet that someone as horrible as him is all right, but I dare say you’ll feel better if you know you’ve not killed him. I’ll leave the washing outside the door. Do you want to come with me, or would you rather stay here? You can duck down under the stall if anyone from the Court comes by.’ He waited for a reply, and presently smiled to himself. Mo, bless her, was fast asleep, and he decided that if the weather was bad next day she would be best tucked away under Mr Theaker’s careful eye. The friendly stallholder would not let her down.

  Outside on Great Homer Street the rain began to fall once more, and Jimmy, like a little mouse in its nest, heard the rain pattering on Mr Theaker’s stout canvas and felt happy. He had money in his pocket, the sweet taste of broken biscuits in his mouth and the prospect of cutting enough holly next day to make a nice little sum. Life, it seemed, had taken a turn for the better, for though the idea of setting off to find their Welsh relations might seem unrealistic in the cold light of day, he had made up his mind on another score. It was bad enough being bullied, taunted and half starved by Mrs Huxtable; why should his little sister feel physically threatened as well? No, he would sneak back to No. 4 whilst it was still dark, check on Cyril and dump the washing, and then he and Mo would stay clear of Solomon Court until Cyril was on the high seas once more.

  Miss Glenys Trent, until recently deputy headmistress at the Peabody Academy for girls, came out on to the pavement without looking in either direction, and almost bowled over a passing boy. For a moment she just stood there in the rain feeling as though her legs were made of jelly, but then she remembered her umbrella, unfurled it and turned rather blindly away from the school. She must take hold of herself and face the awful truth that she was now one of the great army of unemployed. There were a number of things she would have to do: pay her landlady, settle any bills – for at least the board of governors had had the decency to pay an extra month’s salary for breaking their contract – and go to the labour exchange to see what the prospects of work for an experienced teacher might be. Fortunately she had always lived well within her means, so she still had most of her salary for that term’s teaching, tucked away in her post office savings book. Slogging along without the faintest idea of where she was going, the erstwhile deputy headmistress of the Peabody Academy could have wept with rage and frustration. She had held the post for one term and had received many congratulations on her work, yet the board had merely stared stonily at her as they gave her the bad news.

  She had protested, of course; her initial contract with the school had been for a year’s employment, provided she was satisfactory. And she had been, as at least two members of the committee had told her after the meeting. They had been sympathetic but powerless, and when they tried awkwardly to express their sympathy pride had come to Miss Trent’s aid. She had said loftily that she expected to be given an excellent reference and would doubtless soon find employment more to her taste than that offered by the Peabody Academy.

  They had been brave words but she had not believed them herself; a teacher who had been contractually bound for a year would have to grow accustomed to raised eyebrows when prospective employers saw that she had only worked for one term. Indeed, she was bitterly regretting now that she had ever seen the deputy headship advertised. She had been happy enough in the small rural school where she had taught the seven- to eleven-year-olds. The children had liked her and enjoyed her approach to lessons, which she had managed to make fun rather than chores to be got over as quickly as possible.

  One member of the board, a woman who had taught at the university in her time and whom Glenys Trent had never much liked, had stopped her in the corridor as she was leaving the building. ‘Nepotism,’ she had hissed. ‘If you need a personal reference, my dear, just send me a letter.’ She had thrust a sheet of paper on which she had printed her name and address at the younger woman. ‘Mr Jenkins and myself voted against the decision to ask you to leave, but the others were like a flock of sheep, so eager to please the chairman that they would have agreed with anything he suggested. But they’ll regret it; it’s not easy to keep lively young ladies happily occupied once they’re old enough to leave school and take their place in the world of work, but you managed it. So if you need that reference . . .’

  Miss Trent had thanked her and taken the sheet of paper, noting with a small inward smile that it was a page torn from a school exercise book. Then she had gone to her room and been doubly disgusted by the hypocrisy of those who had only days earlier been congratulating her on her success with the senior girls. There on her desk in a sizeable cardboard box were all her possessions: the fountain pen – a Parker – which had been a leaving present from her former employers, a neat pencil box containing a big squashy rubber and a variety of different lead pencils; even the box in which she brought her cold lunch to school and the teacup with her name painted on it, presented to her by her former pupils, had been put in the box. It seemed suddenly like the cruellest insult of all, that she was being dispossessed in such a public and unpleasant manner. She realised that the chairman had followed her into the room, almost as though he expected her to steal something, and turned to face him. ‘I shall call for my things tomorrow . . .’ she began, only to be swiftly interrupted.

  ‘The school will be closed tomorrow,’ Mr Coleman had said coldly. ‘Please take your things away at once, otherwise I shall be forced to leave them on the front steps to await collection.’

  It would have been lovely to gather up the box and crown him with it before hailing a taxi and leaving with her pride more or less intact, but it was also out of the question. Money was going to be extremely scarce in the weeks to come; she must save such luxuries as humiliating Mr Coleman until she had a job once more. If she could get one, that was. In two more days it would be Christmas Eve, and unless she could get temporary work in one of the big stores in the city centre she would be having a poor holiday indeed.

  So she had picked up her cardboard box and without a word to anyone else had left, telling herself that she had had a lucky escape. At least no one had even suggested that she was not suitable for the post. They had merely said that the school was overstaffed, that salaries were too high, so management had decided to retrench. I’m better off without them, Miss Trent told herself, sloshing along the pavement. Oh, and I’ll have to tell Myrtle that I can’t share that lovely little flat over the greengrocer’s shop after all. Oh, dear, and Myrtle’s been begging furniture and bits and pieces from her family . . . gracious, and I put down the deposit on a bed and a square of carpet for my bedroom floor from that nice Mr Isaacs on Brownlow Hill. I wonder if I can explain to him, get him to give my money back, since I won’t be needing carpets or beds. She felt a sob rising in her throat and stopped short for a moment, determined to regain control. She dreaded having to tell her friend what had happened, but after all it was not her fault and she was sure Myrtle would understand. There must be another staff member who would jump at the chance of sharing with Miss Taylor, who was very popular, but it was out of the question for Miss Trent herself.
She simply could not move in with Myrtle on the first of January knowing that she would be moving out, possibly within days. The trouble is, Liverpool is a busy port, and that means accommodation is expensive, she told herself. When I was working in the Yorkshire Dales my room cost me five shillings a week, but even a half share in the flat was going to be twice that. If I were to move out of the city it would save me quite a lot.

  At least her new spectacles had not cost very much. When she had first taken up the position of deputy head at the Peabody Academy she had heard one of the staff commenting on her looks. ‘All that fluffy blonde hair! She looks more like a chorus girl than a deputy head,’ the woman had complained. ‘I don’t deny she’s got all the right qualifications, but really! I can’t see the girls doing what she tells them to do, even when she scrapes her hair back and knots it into that sort of bun arrangement – is it called a French pleat? She just doesn’t look the part.’

  Glenys had seen her point and had promptly gone out in her lunch hour and bought a pair of tortoiseshell spectacles with lenses of blank glass. She was glad she had, because not only did they make her look older and more – oh, more responsible – but when she wanted time to think she took off the spectacles and thoughtfully polished them, keeping a little cloth especially for the purpose. Yes, she would continue wearing the spectacles; she thought it quite possible that she might need to look older and more responsible when she tackled the labour exchange the next day.