Christmas With the Chrystals Other Stories

by Noel Streatfeild

  ‘Here you are, sir.’

  Mr Stibbings looked over his glasses in a hurt way.

  ‘All right, my boy. All in good time. Speed is the curse of the age.’

  Peter looked so much as if he was going to say something which might sound rude, and, anyway, Santa knew that Mr Stibbings was the sort of man whom hurrying made slow, so she broke in. She asked about an ostrich egg on the hall table. It did what she wanted, in that it stopped Peter speaking or Mr Stibbings feeling annoyed at being rushed, but it took six minutes before they got away from ostriches, and Mr Stibbings dressed and out of the front door.

  ‘You are a fool,’ Peter whispered. ‘Fancy asking about that then.’

  Santa did not answer, because she knew Peter knew why she had done it, and that, in a way, he thought it a good idea. It came natural to him to answer back and it never helped in the end.

  When they got back to the house Mr Stibbings opened the letter. He opened it very slowly, because whatever he did he was slow at. Then he put his spectacles straight. Then he did what the children thought an awfully mean thing. He read the letter to himself. Peter turned red and looked so angry that Santa slipped round to him and whispered: ‘Don’t ask what’s in it, because they will.’ She jerked her head at the three women at the table.

  She was quite right; even before the letter was finished Mrs Ford was crying. Directly Mr Stibbings stopped reading she said in a choked voice: ‘That I should live to see the day when what concerns the welfare of the nephew and niece of my oldest friend was kept from me!’

  Luckily Mr Stibbings hated crying as much as Peter and Santa did. He made the sort of cough people make when they are looking for the right words. Then he turned to the children.

  ‘My dear young people, I fear it is not good news. It seems that all the money the duchess left is held in trust for a grandson who is a minor. He is …’ He opened the letter again and started to look through it; but before he found the name Peter broke in:

  ‘I know. It’s that Lord Bronedin.’

  Mr Stibbings looked up, surprised.

  ‘That’s quite right. The name is Lord Bronedin. You know of him?’

  Peter and Santa made each other a very understanding face. Then Peter said:

  ‘I’d just about say we do.’

  Mr Stibbings was too interested in other things to ask them what they meant; instead he sat down in the armchair and looked like people look when they know nobody is going to like what they have to say. He rearranged his spectacles to a better position on his nose, put the tips of his fingers together, then looked at the children.

  ‘I was afraid that this was the reply we should receive. But thanks to those whom I may call your good friends’ – he turned to the three women – ‘other arrangements are in train. We have arranged for you, Peter, dear boy, at Saint Bernard’s Home for Boys. You, Santa, are going to Saint Winifred’s Orphanage.’

  ‘What!’

  Santa was so startled that the word came out in a shout. ‘We aren’t going together?’

  Mrs Ford made clicking sounds with her tongue.

  ‘Don’t shout, dear. There are different homes for boys and girls.’

  Santa turned on her.

  ‘Not always there aren’t.’

  ‘Grammar! Grammar!’ Mrs Ford wagged her finger at her. Then she took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. ‘This is not the arrangement I wished for –’

  Santa was so upset she felt she would scream if she had to hear about being the niece and nephew of her oldest friend again. So she interrupted:

  ‘If you don’t like the arrangement, don’t let it happen. It needn’t. There must be somewhere we could go together if only you looked for it.’ She came to Mrs Ford and shook her arm to be sure she was listening. ‘Peter and I couldn’t live in two different places, you must see that.’

  Miss Fane leant across the table. She held out her hand, plam upwards, as if she expected Santa to put her hand into it.

  ‘I understand how you feel, little one. Separation is terribly hard. But, believe me, your violin will help.’

  Santa stamped her foot. She sobbed while she spoke:

  ‘How can you say that? Why should it make it better if I played “Art thou weary?” six hundred times a day?’ She turned desperately to them all. ‘You must find a place for us. Here you sit, and all you say is it can’t be helped. But it’s got to be helped. I won’t live somewhere else than Peter. And he wouldn’t either. Would you, Peter?’

  They all looked at Peter. He was leaning against the mantelpiece. His hands were in his pockets and he was staring at the floor, not seeming interested in what was going on. Santa could not see him clearly because she was crying so hard that everything was out of focus. But she felt a cold feeling inside. Peter was not going to fight. Ordinarily he was so much more quickly angry than she was that if he were going to be angry he would have been by now. Mr Stibbings looked at him with approval.

  ‘Peter is sensible, Santa. He knows what must be must be.’

  Peter looked up. He came over to the table and stood beside Santa.

  ‘That’s right, sir.’ As he spoke he dug his elbow into Santa’s side. If ever a dig in the ribs meant ‘Don’t be a fool, trust me’, that one did. He turned to Mrs Ford: ‘I shouldn’t worry. I expect it won’t be bad at Saint Bernard’s Home for Boys and Santa will get used to Saint Winifred’s Orphanage. Won’t you, Santa?

  After the dig in the ribs Santa felt better, and she knew from the way he said she would get used to the orphanage that he had a plan, and she guessed it would help if she seemed to cheer up. She dried her eyes.

  ‘No. I suppose it will be all right. It was just I was so surprised. I had never thought of us not going together.’ As she said this she could not help a wobble in her voice. She was sure Peter meant to do something, but after all they were only children, and probably police and people like that would be on the side of Mr Stibbings, Mrs Ford, Madame Tranchot, Miss Fane, Saint Bernard’s, and Saint Winifred’s. She tried to look brave, but she did not feel it.

  Peter pulled two chairs up to the table. He pushed Santa into one and he sat on the other.

  ‘There’s just one or two things, sir. When do we go?’

  Mr Stibbings looked at Mrs Ford, Mrs Ford looked at Madame Tranchot, Madame Tranchot looked at Miss Fane. They all looked embarrassed. Mr Stibbings cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m afraid, dear boy, it will have to be tomorrow. Your lamented aunt only left a few pounds in ready money. That is exhausted. We are all poor people or –’

  ‘I know,’ Peter broke in. ‘You’ve all been awfully kind.’ He paused a moment. Then he said firmly: ‘My aunt left some jewellery and stuff. If we are going tomorrow Santa and I would like it tonight.’

  Mr Stibbings was a stupid man in a lot of ways, but he meant to be kind. He was very worried at what Peter asked. The duchess had given Aunt Rebecca quite a lot of bits of jewellery, many of them not very beautiful, but all of them good in their way. But should the children be trusted with them? Besides which, except for the money that would be raised by selling the furniture, the little bits of jewellery were all the children had. Having appointed himself guardian he had to do what he could to look after them. Allowing them their jewellery was hardly doing that.

  ‘I am afraid, my boy, that would not be wise. I think it should be kept for you until you are out in the world.’

  Peter shook his head.

  ‘No, thank you, sir. We’ll take it with us.’

  Santa was amazed. It did not sound a bit like Peter talking. Such a grand, quiet, that-is-my-last-word-I-don’t-want-to-be-argued-with kind of voice, just like a grown-up person.

  Mrs Ford began to cry again.

  ‘What a man he sounds. Brave little boy. When I first knew you, Peter, you were such a baby. Let them have their dear aunt’s things, Mr Stibbings. It will be a comfort to them, poor pets.’

  At the thought of how much the children would need comfort, Miss F
ane clasped her hands and looked at the roof, and Madame Tranchot gave so deep a sigh that it nearly blew over a teacup. Mr Stibbings made up his mind.

  ‘There are several little trinkets, dear boy, few of which would be any good to you. But there is a watch which you may have and Santa shall choose something as a keepsake. The rest I will deposit in my bank until you are older.’

  Aunt Rebecca’s jewel case had been locked in the corner cupboard when she died. Mr Stibbings had the key. He went now and unlocked it. While he was doing this Peter leaned down as if he had dropped something and whispered to Santa:

  ‘Choose the one I tell you.’

  During the last years of her life the duchess had made it a practice to give her faithful maid a piece of jewellery every Christmas. They were an odd-looking collection. There was the gold watch and chain for Peter. Aunt Rebecca had thought it very handsome, but she had never worn it because she was afraid of losing it. There were several heavy brooches, and there was one bracelet. It was plain gold, very dull and solid-looking.

  Santa liked a brooch with turquoises, and hoped Peter remembered that she liked it. She had often said so when Aunt Rebecca wore it.

  Peter fingered all the things in turn. He looked at Mr Stibbings.

  ‘I don’t suppose they are worth much, are they, sir?’

  Mr Stibbings shook his head.

  ‘In actual value, no. In sentiment, yes.’

  Mrs Ford sniffed.

  ‘Yes, indeed.’

  ‘What I mean is,’ Peter explained, ‘if some day we wanted to sell them, would we get much money?’

  ‘Sell them!’ Mrs Ford’s voice showed she was going to cry again.

  ‘Well, we might have to. I mean, we might need the money for food.’

  Mr Stibbings smiled.

  ‘I hope not, dear boy. I think we can trust Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s to fit you for careers that will keep you from want.’

  Peter nodded.

  ‘Of course, sir. But I only said “supposing”. You see, I want to know.’

  Mr Stibbings looked vaguely at the jewels. But Madame Tranchot, who understood money, was turning them over.

  ‘If it should be that you ’ad to sell them, Peter, it will be just the weight of the gold you would get. No more.’

  ‘Well, Santa?’ Mr Stibbings smiled at her. ‘What do you choose?’

  Santa looked at Peter.

  ‘What would you have if you were me?’

  Peter was still fingering the things. Suddenly he picked up the bracelet.

  ‘This. You’ll be less likely to lose it.’

  Santa tried not to show what she felt, but the bracelet really was very ugly. She took it and held it out to Mr Stibbings.

  ‘I’ll have this.’

  It seemed ages before bedtime, when Santa could be alone with Peter. Mr Stibbings stayed on and on in order to make last arrangements with Mrs Ford, and it was clear he would be there until quite late. But at half past eight Mrs Ford looked at the clock, and before she could say ‘Bedtime’ Santa had jumped up. Peter got up, too.

  ‘I think I’ll start my packing.’

  Mrs Ford gave a knowing glance at Mr Stibbings as much as to say: ‘Want to be together their last night, poor little things.’ Then she kissed them both.

  ‘Run along. Happy dreams.’

  Peter and Santa went upstairs. At the top Peter said in a very loud voice:

  ‘Goodnight, Santa.’ He opened and banged shut her bedroom door. Then he opened his and dragged her inside. He shut the door and beckoned her over to the bed. They sat side by side and talked in whispers.

  Santa began.

  ‘Have you a plan?’

  ‘Yes. We’re going to run away.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Our uncle. The one Aunt Rebecca had the card from every Christmas. We might stay with him.’

  ‘We don’t know where he is, and we haven’t any money.’

  ‘That’s what the watch and bracelet are for. We’ll sell them. And perhaps the card says where he is. I’ll get it.’

  Santa looked doubtful.

  ‘Don’t want them to hear you creeping about.’

  Peter got up.

  ‘They won’t.’

  Luckily the doorhandle turned very quietly. Peter stood in the passage and listened. Mr Stibbings and Mrs Ford were talking hard. Aunt Rebecca’s room was at the end of the passage. Very quietly he opened the door. Would Mrs Ford have moved the card? He hoped not. Softly he crept across the room and felt round the mirror. There it was in the top left-hand corner. In a moment he had shut the door and was back in his room. Without a word he sat down beside Santa and they read the card.

  It was a Christmas postcard with a picture of a church covered in snow on it. On the back it said:

  Cob’s Circus.

  Just a line, old dear, for the festive season. Hoping this finds you in the pink. Doing a four weeks’ season with above and tenting with same April.

  Love,

  Gus.

  Peter and Santa stared at each other. They hardly knew what the word ‘circus’ meant. At some time or other they had seen a poster advertising one, and some vision of that had remained in the back of their heads.

  ‘That’s where people stand on horses,’ Santa said.

  ‘And a man sits on a lion,’ Peter added.

  Santa studied the card.

  ‘Do you suppose our uncle’s called Gus? What an awful name.’

  ‘I don’t see how it can be our uncle,’ Peter objected. ‘What would he be doing with a circus?’

  Santa read what was written again.

  ‘I wonder what “tenting” means. That’s what he’s doing now. It says April.’

  Peter leant over her shoulder.

  ‘So it does. I hadn’t thought of that.’ He got up. ‘Look. Go to your room. Pack as little as you can in your case. Get into bed with all your things on except your shoes. Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep. As soon as Mrs Ford’s asleep, and she snores so loud I’ll be sure to hear if I listen in the passage, I’ll come and fetch you.’

  Santa crept to the door.

  ‘You’ll bring my bracelet?’ Peter nodded. ‘Where’ll we go to?’

  He shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I don’t know where we’ll go tonight. Tomorrow we’ll find Cob’s Circus.’

  12. Christmas Parties

  In London for many years we have been pitiably short of carol singers and bands which play carols. Maybe there are more in other parts of the country. When I was a child there seemed never a minute, in the evenings before Christmas, when some group was not on the doorstep singing ‘Away in a Manger’ or ‘Good King Wenceslas’. Near the shops there were bands supposed to have come from Germany who played carol after carol to the great joy of the shoppers. Of course now there are loudspeakers in many shops blaring out carols, but to me loudspeakers have not the charm of live people.

  The high spot of our carolling came on Christmas Eve when the handbell ringers came to play carols to us. The handbell ringers played in the hall and everybody in the household sat on the stairs to listen. When it was over the players were served with mince pies and ginger wine. They left in a gust of ‘Merry Christmas’ and, as the front door closed on the last of them, one could feel the spirit of Christmas creep into the house. It was all done. The decorations were up, the tree was trimmed. Every present lay under it. In the kitchen the turkey was waiting for tomorrow and so was the plum pudding. Upstairs our stockings were ready to be hung up. It was a time to feel and just to soak in what Christmas meant.

  In those faraway days, before we went to bed there was reading out loud of some Christmas story. Often Dickens’s A Christmas Carol. It is of course a terribly sentimental story, but I would swear there are few who by the end cannot hear the Christmas bells pealing and see the boy running to fetch the biggest turkey in the town.

  Lots of you have more than human beings to remember at Christmas. Presents are of course wa
nted for pets. I had a black miniature poodle called Pierre, and I cannot tell you what Christmas presents meant to him. His, not so much prettily packed, as made difficult to open, were piled under the tree with everyone else’s. In his were simple things like a little squeaky toy, a biscuit or a piece of cheese: he did not care what, his fun was to open his own parcels. Each time he was handed one he carried it to a corner of the room and only when he and everyone else had received all their presents would he unpack his. Then what an orgy of unpacking went on. Many people said watching Pierre and his parcels was one of the high spots of their Christmas Day.

  I remember as clearly as if it happened yesterday my sisters and I being asked to a party. The card said ‘7–11 dancing’.

  In those days many people gave dances, for all that was needed was to roll up a carpet and provide someone to play the piano. What was different was clothes. Today you go as you are, but in my childhood you wore a party dress. We were the daughters of a poor parson so we only had two party dresses each. Our best were white, so very much kept for best to keep them clean. Our second best were pink, of cheap material, and we hated them.

  I cannot remember now why but my mother had decided that party would be a second-best so we were sent wearing our pinks. Unknown to us the party givers were being visited by their only rich relations. Because of their arrival they had laid on the grandest party they ever gave. The carpets were not just rolled back, workmen had carted them away and polished the floors so they shone like a skating rink. The children of the house all had new frocks and so did those of their friends who were in the know. There was a buffet served by proper waiters. Every light in the house was turned on. But the final touch was a band. Truly only three-piece but renowned throughout the whole county and very expensive. Imagine the glory that we three saw and the shame of our second-best pinks.