A Family Christmas

by Katie Flynn

  Jimmy opened his mouth to speak but was hushed by a tall slim woman in a neatly belted mackintosh, who must have been hiding in the porch. She smiled in a very friendly way at Mo, but sank her voice to a whisper. ‘It’s far too late to go to the Williamses’ now. Mr Bloggs here will let them know you’re safe in the morning. Now, no more talking until we’re indoors.’

  Mo nodded dumbly; she did not understand what was happening, but the man in uniform and this tall and beautiful lady seemed to be on their side, and that was all that mattered. Adrenalin had kept her going, fear and excitement lending her strength, but now she was beginning to realise how very tired she was, and how she longed for her bed, either the one which awaited her at Major Williams’s or the cosy dormouse-nest beneath Mr Theaker’s second-hand clothes stall. Being Mo she would naturally have died rather than admit her total weariness, but she was grateful enough for the arm which Jimmy put round her shoulders as they walked. She would have liked to whisper ‘Is it much further?’ but pride kept her silent and soon she was glad she had not complained, for really it was only a short way to Orange Street, where the beautiful lady lived. The young man seemed to live there too, for he put his own key in the lock, opened the door and ushered everyone inside. Mo noticed that he did this very quietly, and looked all round as though to satisfy himself that no enemy lurked in the long shadows before he closed the door again.

  Once they were all in her room, the tall lady – Miss Trent – lit the gas fire and went across to a cupboard, producing from its depths a large tin of Heinz vegetable soup. She poured the soup into a pan, lit the Primus stove and returned to the cupboard to bring out four bowls and a loaf of bread. ‘I think we all need something warm after our adventure,’ she said cheerfully. ‘And now, Jimmy, I think you should explain to your sister exactly what happened to you, and then Maureen can tell us how she came to be out in the middle of the night when she was supposed to be in bed and asleep in Major Williams’s house.’

  Chapter 6

  WHEN THE VARIOUS stories had all been told, Mo, as well as Jimmy, knew they had found two new good friends.

  ‘Lucky for us that I blundered into Miss Trent’s back yard, and she realised that I was in desperate need of help, and not simply searching for someone to buy my holly,’ Jimmy told his sister impressively. ‘Heaven knows what Cyril would have done if he’d caught me.’

  ‘And lucky for all of us that Mr Bloggs is a Salvationist and knew both the major’s name and his address,’ Miss Trent put in. ‘Of course we went there first, Mo, in case you were sound asleep and not worried at all, but you had already left. The Williamses were very concerned, of course, but Jimmy assured them he had a pretty good idea of where we were likely to find you, and Mr Bloggs promised to go back tomorrow and tell them how we got on. Oh yes, luck has been on our side tonight, but we mustn’t assume that we’re safe, or that luck will always be with the righteous – by which I mean you Trewins, of course.’ She glanced at the two children, and then at the railway worker. ‘You note I say we and not you, because I’m sure Mr Bloggs will agree that we’re on your side, and will do everything we can to help you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Frank said, but he sounded uneasy. ‘Only I shan’t be much use to anyone after the holiday because I’ll be back on the engine, learning the road from Liverpool to Manchester.’

  Mo had been sitting on the edge of Miss Trent’s bed, eyes half closed and on the verge of sleep, but at Frank’s words her eyes shot open and she stared across at him. ‘Road? But I always thought trains ran on rails!’ She eyed the young man seated opposite doubtfully. ‘Ain’t that right? That puffer-trains run on rails?’

  Frank grinned. ‘I’m what you might call apprenticed to the railways,’ he explained. ‘One day I’ll be an engine driver, if I pass all my exams and learn the roads – which is just another word for rails, really – but until then I’m only a fireman. Do you understand, queen?’

  ‘Ye-es,’ Mo said slowly. ‘So you won’t be able to look after us except when your engine brings you back to Liverpool.’ She twisted round towards the older woman. ‘What about you, Miss Trent?’

  ‘I shall have to look for a job, even though teachers who have been dismissed after only one term aren’t exactly sought after,’ Miss Trent admitted. ‘In fact I’m not at all sure yet what is best to do. You see, apart from luck we have other advantages on our side, one of which is that the Huxtables have never seen either me or Mr Bloggs. That may be useful, but I don’t see that we can do anything until the Christmas holidays are over. I have to move out of this house on New Year’s Eve, so we shall need to think about our moves after that extremely carefully.’

  Jimmy turned appealing eyes upon Miss Trent. ‘This here room of yours has been a real refuge in a time of trouble; if we can just stay here until Cyril’s ship sails . . .’

  ‘Of course you can,’ Miss Trent said at once. She hesitated. ‘Look, it’s very late. Why don’t we all go to bed – you can share with me, Mo, and perhaps Jimmy can sleep on the sofa in your room, Frank? – and tomorrow we’ll start to make plans: not least for ensuring that we all have a jolly good Christmas!’

  By six o’clock on Boxing Day the oddly assorted group had enjoyed what they all agreed had been a splendid Christmas. Jimmy gave Mo the toy dog with its torn ear, and she gave him the stick of nougat that Miss Trent, on her behalf, had managed to buy. Despite the lure of bright lights, cheap prices and a delicate covering of snow, neither Mo nor Jimmy had dared to leave Miss Trent’s cosy room, but on Christmas Eve the three of them had cut Jimmy’s holly into saleable bundles, which Frank had taken to Great Homer Street as soon as his shift had ended. He had sold the lot, and had returned triumphant to the house in Orange Street bearing all the essentials for a delicious Christmas dinner.

  Jimmy had wondered aloud how Miss Trent would manage to cook everything on the Primus stove, but it soon appeared that Frank knew more than railway engines. With the help of Miss Trent’s nail file he managed to get into their landlady’s beloved kitchen, and on Christmas Day itself they feasted on chicken, sprouts, roast potatoes and gravy, followed by Christmas pudding and custard. Miss Trent had bought a box of Christmas crackers for a paltry sum at the very end of trading on Christmas Eve, and these had been pulled with much hilarity. Soon everyone was wearing a colourful paper hat, reading each other’s mottoes and jokes with many a groan, and feeling that the party mood was made all the sweeter by the fact that they were on forbidden ground. Afterwards they pushed the big table out into the corridor and played games, though despite the fact that the streets were almost deserted Mo insisted upon drawing the curtains, fearful of watching eyes.

  When the twenty-seventh dawned, Jimmy realised how sensible Miss Trent had been to insist on a break to enjoy themselves and revel in the spirit of Christmas. When they had restored the kitchen to its normal state and were sitting round the table eating cold chicken, potatoes baked in their jackets and slices of the ham which Mr Theaker had contributed, via Major Williams, to the holiday fare, they were all relaxed and each was eager to air his or her ideas. Miss Trent had made a large trifle, and as the spoon was scraped around the last smears of fruit and sponge cake she stood up and rapped on the table. ‘Right; I’m afraid that for us Christmas is over, and serious life must begin again. I know we’ve all been thinking frantically how best to solve the Trewins’ problem, and I mean to lead off with my own theories, if nobody minds.’

  Everyone thought this was sensible, so Miss Trent began. ‘Mo and Jimmy are in a very unfortunate position,’ she pointed out. ‘In normal circumstances I should advise them to go to the nearest police station and demand protection; but from what? For one thing, their father let them stay in the Huxtables’ charge; he even agreed to the Huxtables moving into number four and letting their own house, and everyone in the Court knows he sends Mrs Huxtable his allotment at the end of every month. She has never allowed the children to write to their father, nor given them any letters that might have come for
them. Unfortunately, neither Jimmy nor Mo ever went to the authorities to complain of their treatment. Mrs Huxtable no doubt saw to that. And now we have a situation which has made everything even more difficult. Mo says she saw Cyril open a parcel addressed to you both—’

  ‘I did see him,’ Mo cut in. ‘It had our Christmas presents in it, and then he took them upstairs. And he had a glittery necklace too,’ she added. ‘Don’t you believe me, Miss Trent?’

  Miss Trent laughed and ruffled Mo’s curls. ‘I’m just telling it as you would have to tell it to the scuffers,’ she explained. ‘You see, darling, there were no witnesses apart from yourself who could be called upon to give what is known as “corroborative evidence”. It would be your word against Cyril’s, and the police might well think a six-year-old could be mistaken. And why would they think there was anything special about a parcel of toys? As for the necklace, it could just be glass, and a present for his mum. They might even think you’d been asleep and dreamed the whole thing.’

  ‘But what about the threats?’ Jimmy said after a longish pause. ‘That isn’t a perishin’ dream, I can tell you. Oh, Miss Trent, are you sayin’ we’ve got to let Cyril beat the pair of us to a pulp before the scuffers will listen to our story?’

  Miss Trent leaned across the table and patted his cheek. ‘What I’m trying to say, dear Jimmy, is that without an independent witness we have no proof that Cyril ever had the necklace, and only you and Mo have heard him threaten you with violence for taking it – or whatever it is he thinks you took. I think it would be difficult to persuade the police to help you when there is no evidence that any crime has been committed.’ She looked around the table; Jimmy and Mo looked frustrated and on the brink of tears, whilst Frank looked very thoughtful indeed. He was frowning heavily, but the frown cleared suddenly and he spoke.

  ‘I think our best bet is to wait until Cyril’s ship sails. Then we will ask Jimmy to appear openly in the Court and do anything he can think of to get Mrs Huxtable in a temper. Then he must run away, not too fast, so that Mrs Huxtable waddles after him and the rest of us can get into the house, lock all the doors and have a really good search for the necklace. What do you think of that idea?’

  They all agreed that this might well work, for who could say that it was not the fall down the stairs which had caused Cyril to forget completely that it was he himself who had hidden the jewels, if jewels they were?

  Much enamoured of their plan, Jimmy rose early on the morning Cyril was due to sail and went down to the kitchen, where Frank was already making breakfast. Outside, the brief spell of mild weather had been replaced by a bitter wind, and when they had cleared away the dishes Jimmy wrapped the thick scarf which Mr Theaker had given him as a Christmas present around his mouth and nose, meaning to walk up to Lime Street station and see Frank off to work.

  They had only walked a few yards when Jimmy spied Nutty walking purposefully ahead of them, a box beneath his arm. There were few people about, so Jimmy told Frank it was an old friend and the two of them hurried to catch the other boy up. When they reached him, however, they got a nasty shock. ‘Wharron earth are you doin’ here, Jimmy?’ Nutty asked, glancing around him. ‘Haven’t you heard? Cyril Huxtable’s ship sailed without him. He’s been effin’ and blindin’ ever since, sayin’ it’s all your fault, though how he could possibly blame you no one can imagine. But if I were you I’d steer clear of the Court until he calms down.’ He stared inquisitively into Jimmy’s face. ‘What’s his problem, anyhow? What can a kid like you do to a feller what’s twice your size and has three times your strength? Or is it summat you knows? My mam cleans the Cuckoo’s Nest and hears all the gossip. She says as the captain of the Sugar Trader don’t trust Huxtable because of summat what happened on their last voyage; don’t know what, but I spec he prigged some cash and the cap’n found out.’

  ‘Sounds possible,’ Jimmy said thoughtfully. ‘He won’t get another berth, though, if he’s been caught thieving, will he?’

  Nutty shrugged. ‘Dunno; it’s probably just gossip anyway. His shipmates hate Cyril and would like to see him taken down a peg.’

  ‘But you’re sure he hasn’t sailed?’ Jimmy said, voicing the thought uppermost in his mind. ‘So what does we do now? Don’t tell anyone, Nutty, but the fact is Cyril hates us because he thinks we took summat of his. Oh, oh, oh, whatever ought I to do?’

  Nutty grinned. ‘Glad it’s your problem and not mine,’ he said cheerfully. ‘That Huxtable will kill someone one of these days; just make sure it ain’t you, old pal.’ And with that and a cheery wave he left them.

  ‘Well, that’s our plan done for,’ Frank said, causing Jimmy to jump, for he had completely forgotten the other man. ‘If you ask me you’ll be best away from Liverpool, for the time being at any rate. If you stay here you’ll be waiting the whole while for a hand on your shoulder or a blow on the back of the head. And poor little Mo is nervous enough already. Is there anything keeping you in Liverpool? That horrible old woman half starves you; she takes your father’s money and never passes on a groat, and Cyril, now that he might not get another berth, will be constantly on at you. You can’t pretend you and your sister can live under a cloud like that. I tell you, Jimmy, clear out while you’ve still got your health. You talk it over with Miss Trent, and I’ll see you when I come back from work tonight.’

  Jimmy went straight back to Orange Street and was just in time to prevent Miss Trent and Mo from leaving the house, though as soon as they heard his story Miss Trent announced that they would go nowhere that day. ‘Your Nutty is a good friend, and so is Frank Bloggs,’ she said. ‘They could be very helpful; if we make up our minds to leave Liverpool we shall need someone in the city to stay in touch and let us know what is happening. There’s nothing else to keep you here, is there?’

  For a fleeting moment Jimmy thought of his father, who would not know where they were, and knew that the same thought had flickered across Mo’s mind, but he told himself firmly that his dad didn’t deserve any consideration. However grief-stricken he might have been after Grace’s death, he had behaved extremely badly in never checking that Mrs Huxtable was the right person to look after his children. And as for Cyril, Jimmy thought, agreeing that there was nothing to keep either him or his sister in Liverpool, their father probably had no idea that he even existed. He looked across at Mo. She was cuddling her teddy and did not seem to be taking much notice of what the others were about, but she must have felt Jimmy’s gaze upon her, because she looked up and answered Miss Trent’s question just as Jimmy would have liked to do. ‘We used to think our dad would come and rescue us,’ she said in a small voice. ‘But it’s ages since we’ve seen him. Jimmy don’t think he’s bothered about us much, so if it’s all right with you, Miss Trent, we’ll give Liverpool and Solomon Court the go-by. Only where will we go instead?’

  Jimmy laughed. ‘That’s a good question.’ He turned to the tall young woman. ‘Well, Miss Trent? What do you think?’

  ‘What about your mother’s family?’ Miss Trent asked. ‘You said she was Welsh . . . surely there must have been some coming and going between Liverpool and Wales? Why, they call Liverpool the capital of North Wales! Didn’t aunts and uncles or even grandparents visit you from time to time?’

  Jimmy shook his head. ‘Mam said her family wanted her to marry a neighbouring farmer. In fact, she meant to do so until she met our dad. They made a runaway match of it and cut themselves off from their relatives completely. The only thing we know is her maiden name – she was Grace Griffiths – and that she grew up on a farm somewhere in Wales, only I can’t remember where: Rith something, I think.’ He looked enquiringly at Miss Trent. ‘What about you, miss? Will you go back to your folks? You said you came here from Yorkshire, didn’t you?’

  There was a long silence before Miss Trent spoke. ‘I can see I shall have to come clean,’ she said resignedly. ‘I’ve always kept my past life a secret; as far as possible, that is. I reckoned it wouldn’t help my chances in life
to admit that I was – am – a foundling.’ She turned and smiled at Mo, who was staring at her in obvious puzzlement. ‘That means that one morning a housewife opened her front door and found a box on the top step. The box had a baby in it and that baby was me. The housewife thought that I must have been left on her doorstep by mistake, since there was an orphanage only a couple of doors further up the road. I don’t know anything about her at all except that she carried me in my little cardboard box along to the Sister Eulalia Home for Girls and handed me over. There was a note pinned to my blanket in true storybook fashion, but I didn’t know about that until much later, when I went to teacher training college. You see, when a child leaves an orphanage she’s given everything she possessed when she entered the establishment. Some orphans, of course, know all about their past and have relatives who visit them quite regularly, but foundlings are different, so all I was given was a little nightgown, a blanket and a note in a foreign language, which I couldn’t understand. At college I was in a dormitory with five other girls, and when I tipped my belongings on to my bed on the first night the girl standing next to me pounced on the note. “Are you Welsh, cariad?” she asked me. “This is yours, isn’t it?”

  ‘So naturally I said it was and asked her to translate it for me. I suppose I had hoped for a clue to my identity, but all it said was “Please take care of my baby. I will come for her as soon as I can. Bethan”.’ She smiled at the two children. ‘So if you go into Wales to search for your mum’s relatives, and since I have no work at the moment, I might do a lot worse than accompany you, and try to find my own roots.’

  ‘I say, that’s real romantic,’ Jimmy said, his tone awed. ‘So foundling means orphan! Gosh, Miss Trent, then in a way we’ve all got a connection with Wales. I know Mam could speak Welsh, although she never taught it to us, of course – Dad only spoke English – but it’s a clue, isn’t it? Or does everyone in Wales speak it?’