twirling the rope.
"I don't believe it," said Miriam stoutly, but a cold hand seemed to clutch at her stomach. Could it be true? Could her father and mother have told her lies? Could Lovell?
Never, she told herself! Lovell always told her the truth. If there were no Father Christmas Lovell would have said so. It was Ruby who told lies.
"You don't know what you're talking about," she told the skipper robustly. "I just know there's a Father Christmas, so there!"
"Better stay awake and find out," shouted Ruby to Miriam who was walking away.
And maybe I will, thought Miriam stubbornly, just to prove she's wrong.
In the few days left before Christmas she was often on the point of asking her mother about this problem. But, as always, the vicarage was fast filling up with elderly relatives who were coming to spend Christmas with the family, and Mrs. Quinn was fully occupied.
"Poor things," said that warm-hearted lady to her husband. "They've nowhere to go, and it's quite unthinkable that they should be alone at a time like this." The Reverend Horace Quinn, that staunch Christian, readily agreed.
Both parents replied kindly to Miriam's tentative enquiries about the authenticity of Father Christmas, but were vague and preoccupied. On the whole, though, she felt slightly reassured.
Among the Christmas guests was a recently widowed young aunt with her four-year-old son Sidney. The child was delicate, and made even more so by his mother's mollycoddling.
"Naturally she fusses over him," Miriam heard her mother say to one of the elderly second cousins. "He's all she has now, and he is a dear little boy."
Lovell and Miriam did not think so. They thought him spoilt, a cry-baby and a tale-teller. The fact that the poor child lisped only made him more ridiculous in their eyes. With childish heartlessness they teased the little boy, without mercy, whenever they had him alone.
It so happened that this particular Christmas Eve brought snow to bleak East Anglia, and the three children were wrapped up warmly and sent to play, with injunctions to make a snowman. Lovell and Miriam, strong and boisterous, threw themselves into the task joyfully, but Sidney, half-afraid of the bigger children and disliking the cold, did little.
"Come on, Thid," shouted Lovell, "lend a hand!"
"Thid, Thid, Thilly-Thid-Thid!" mocked Miriam, following Lovell's lead as usual.
The child shook his head unhappily, near to tears. Irritated by his apathy, the two young savages began to chase him round and round the half-built snowman. Within two minutes the little boy was sobbing, and struggling to escape from his tormentors. They pursued him ruthlessly, until at last he fell wailing into the snowman and the bigger children, incensed at the damage, rolled the child back and forth in the snow.
"Now look what you've done!"
"All our work spoilt! We'll pay you out for this!"
They began stuffing snow down the neck of the child's jersey, giggling now, but still enjoying the feeling of power over this weakling.
Sidney's cries attracted his mother. The three children were driven into the kitchen and the young Quinns were accused by Sidney's hysterical mother of gross cruelty. Mrs. Quinn banished her two to their bedrooms for an hour, after apologies all round, and Miriam spent the time wobbling the front tooth and thinking about the existence, or otherwise, of Father Christmas.
Called down to tea after their penance, Miriam spoke urgently to Lovell as they went into the dining room.
"Ruby Adair at school said there wasn't a Father Christmas. Is it true?"
An extraordinary look came over Lovell's face. It was as though Miriam had hit him. He stuttered when he replied, a thing he only did when very upset.
"You don't want to believe everything Ruby says," he managed to say. "I've never told you that, have I?"
The tension, which had screwed Miriam's inside into a painful knot, lessened at once, and the feeling of relief carried her through the hours until bedtime. She
"I don't believe it," said Miriam stoutly, but a cold hand seemed to clutch at her stomach. Could it be true? Could her father and mother have told her lies? Could Lovell?
Never, she told herself! Lovell always told her the truth. If there were no Father Christmas Lovell would have said so. It was Ruby who told lies.
"You don't know what you're talking about," she told the skipper robustly. "I just know there's a Father Christmas, so there!"
"Better stay awake and find out," shouted Ruby to Miriam who was walking away.
And maybe I will, thought Miriam stubbornly, just to prove she's wrong.
In the few days left before Christmas she was often on the point of asking her mother about this problem. But, as always, the vicarage was fast filling up with elderly relatives who were coming to spend Christmas with the family, and Mrs. Quinn was fully occupied.
"Poor things," said that warm-hearted lady to her husband. "They've nowhere to go, and it's quite unthinkable that they should be alone at a time like this." The Reverend Horace Quinn, that staunch Christian, readily agreed.
Both parents replied kindly to Miriam's tentative enquiries about the authenticity of Father Christmas, but were vague and preoccupied. On the whole, though, she felt slightly reassured.
Among the Christmas guests was a recently widowed young aunt with her four-year-old son Sidney. The child was delicate, and made even more so by his mother's mollycoddling.
"Naturally she fusses over him," Miriam heard her mother say to one of the elderly second cousins. "He's all she has now, and he is a dear little boy."
Lovell and Miriam did not think so. They thought him spoilt, a cry-baby and a tale-teller. The fact that the poor child lisped only made him more ridiculous in their eyes. With childish heartlessness they teased the little boy, without mercy, whenever they had him alone.
It so happened that this particular Christmas Eve brought snow to bleak East Anglia, and the three children were wrapped up warmly and sent to play, with injunctions to make a snowman. Lovell and Miriam, strong and boisterous, threw themselves into the task joyfully, but Sidney, half-afraid of the bigger children and disliking the cold, did little.
"Come on, Thid," shouted Lovell, "lend a hand!"
"Thid, Thid, Thilly-Thid-Thid!" mocked Miriam, following Lovell's lead as usual.
The child shook his head unhappily, near to tears. Irritated by his apathy, the two young savages began to chase him round and round the half-built snowman. Within two minutes the little boy was sobbing, and struggling to escape from his tormentors. They pursued him ruthlessly, until at last he fell wailing into the snowman and the bigger children, incensed at the damage, rolled the child back and forth in the snow.
"Now look what you've done!"
"All our work spoilt! We'll pay you out for this!"
They began stuffing snow down the neck of the child's jersey, giggling now, but still enjoying the feeling of power over this weakling.
Sidney's cries attracted his mother. The three children were driven into the kitchen and the young Quinns were accused by Sidney's hysterical mother of gross cruelty. Mrs. Quinn banished her two to their bedrooms for an hour, after apologies all round, and Miriam spent the time wobbling the front tooth and thinking about the existence, or otherwise, of Father Christmas.
Called down to tea after their penance, Miriam spoke urgently to Lovell as they went into the dining room.
"Ruby Adair at school said there wasn't a Father Christmas. Is it true?"
An extraordinary look came over Lovell's face. It was as though Miriam had hit him. He stuttered when he replied, a thing he only did when very upset.
"You don't want to believe everything Ruby says," he managed to say. "I've never told you that, have I?"
The tension, which had screwed Miriam's inside into a painful knot, lessened at once, and the feeling of relief carried her through the hours until bedtime. She
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