‘Suppose I stop off the tram at your school and we walk the rest of the way together?’
Joy snorted. ‘I’m not scared of bleedin’ Pat Seddon,’ she said scornfully. ‘I’ll get a gang of me own and we’ll have a grand battle. Anyway, she’s leaving school at the end of the spring term because she’ll be fourteen by then. I’ll be right as rain, just you see!’
Chapter Three
Joy awoke on Christmas morning with that wonderful excited feeling which only Christmas can bring. She sat up cautiously and knew without even looking that Gillian, too, was awake and sitting up. But nevertheless she spoke in an excited whisper.
‘Gillian? What time is it? Can we get up yet?’
‘Shouldn’t think so, it’s very early,’ Gillian hissed back. ‘Which bed?’
‘Yours,’ Joy said. ‘There are stockings, though Daddy said we were too old. Shall we …?’ As she spoke she seized her bulging stocking – actually one of Alex’s fireman’s socks – and leapt into her twin’s bed, snuggling down and hugging the exciting object to her nightgowned breast.
Cuddled close, both girls examined their trophies, not needing their eyes to tell them what the stockings contained. ‘Paperback book, a bag of humbugs, a tin whistle – don’t you dare blow it, Joy, or you’ll wake the whole perishin’ street – and an orange,’ Gillian said. ‘Yours will be the same … oh, and there’s something crumbly done up in a paper bag, in the heel … shortbread! I bet that’s old Ma Clarke’s contribution.’
‘Don’t call names, she’s ever so nice,’ Joy muttered sleepily through a mouthful of humbug. ‘I wonder what the books are. But wasn’t it sly of Daddy to say we were too old for stockings and then to give us one each anyway? I reckon he’s the best daddy in the whole world.’
‘He’s grand,’ Gillian agreed. ‘Have you ever wondered, Joy, how he came to have such a horrible mother? If Daddy’s the best then Grandma’s the worst; and she’ll come to dinner and tea like always and grumble about every single thing. Gravy’s too thin, stuffings’s too rich, chicken upsets her digestion …’
Both girls dwelled beatifically, for a few moments, on thoughts of the dinner to come. The previous day, while Gillian was cleaning the kitchen and Joy the bathroom before heading out to the market on Great Homer Street to search for Christmas Eve bargains, someone had knocked on the front door. Gillian had flown to answer it and returned with a cardboard box, well wrapped in string and sticky tape. ‘It’s a Christmas present from the Dodmans,’ she had said breathlessly, dumping the parcel on the kitchen table. ‘It’s addressed to the Lawrence family, so I suppose we can open it, can’t we?’
‘I think we ought to,’ Joy had said. ‘Daddy won’t mind if we jump the gun, because it’s bound to be something to eat.’
It was. When the wrappings were laid aside, a chicken had been revealed, trussed and ready for the table. Both girls had given squeals of delight before carrying the precious bird into the cool pantry and placing it reverently in the meat safe. ‘What a blessing it’s arrived before we go bargain-hunting, though,’ Gillian had said devoutly. ‘Aren’t the Dodmans the kindest people you could meet? We must write them a really long, newsy letter to thank them, and tell them all about our Christmas.’ This being agreed upon, the twins had resumed their work.
Now, their attention returned to the failings of their grandmother. ‘When I was little,’ Joy said musingly, ‘I used to wonder …’
‘… if Daddy were a changeling,’ Gillian finished, and both girls broke down in giggles. ‘Only changelings are usually small and trim with pointy ears and a faraway look in their eyes,’ she added. ‘Oh well; at least Auntie Serena and Uncle Perce are okay … and Daddy’s asked Mrs Clarke to dinner, because of course she offered to do the cooking, and she’s made the pudding
Joy snorted. ‘I’m not scared of bleedin’ Pat Seddon,’ she said scornfully. ‘I’ll get a gang of me own and we’ll have a grand battle. Anyway, she’s leaving school at the end of the spring term because she’ll be fourteen by then. I’ll be right as rain, just you see!’
Chapter Three
Joy awoke on Christmas morning with that wonderful excited feeling which only Christmas can bring. She sat up cautiously and knew without even looking that Gillian, too, was awake and sitting up. But nevertheless she spoke in an excited whisper.
‘Gillian? What time is it? Can we get up yet?’
‘Shouldn’t think so, it’s very early,’ Gillian hissed back. ‘Which bed?’
‘Yours,’ Joy said. ‘There are stockings, though Daddy said we were too old. Shall we …?’ As she spoke she seized her bulging stocking – actually one of Alex’s fireman’s socks – and leapt into her twin’s bed, snuggling down and hugging the exciting object to her nightgowned breast.
Cuddled close, both girls examined their trophies, not needing their eyes to tell them what the stockings contained. ‘Paperback book, a bag of humbugs, a tin whistle – don’t you dare blow it, Joy, or you’ll wake the whole perishin’ street – and an orange,’ Gillian said. ‘Yours will be the same … oh, and there’s something crumbly done up in a paper bag, in the heel … shortbread! I bet that’s old Ma Clarke’s contribution.’
‘Don’t call names, she’s ever so nice,’ Joy muttered sleepily through a mouthful of humbug. ‘I wonder what the books are. But wasn’t it sly of Daddy to say we were too old for stockings and then to give us one each anyway? I reckon he’s the best daddy in the whole world.’
‘He’s grand,’ Gillian agreed. ‘Have you ever wondered, Joy, how he came to have such a horrible mother? If Daddy’s the best then Grandma’s the worst; and she’ll come to dinner and tea like always and grumble about every single thing. Gravy’s too thin, stuffings’s too rich, chicken upsets her digestion …’
Both girls dwelled beatifically, for a few moments, on thoughts of the dinner to come. The previous day, while Gillian was cleaning the kitchen and Joy the bathroom before heading out to the market on Great Homer Street to search for Christmas Eve bargains, someone had knocked on the front door. Gillian had flown to answer it and returned with a cardboard box, well wrapped in string and sticky tape. ‘It’s a Christmas present from the Dodmans,’ she had said breathlessly, dumping the parcel on the kitchen table. ‘It’s addressed to the Lawrence family, so I suppose we can open it, can’t we?’
‘I think we ought to,’ Joy had said. ‘Daddy won’t mind if we jump the gun, because it’s bound to be something to eat.’
It was. When the wrappings were laid aside, a chicken had been revealed, trussed and ready for the table. Both girls had given squeals of delight before carrying the precious bird into the cool pantry and placing it reverently in the meat safe. ‘What a blessing it’s arrived before we go bargain-hunting, though,’ Gillian had said devoutly. ‘Aren’t the Dodmans the kindest people you could meet? We must write them a really long, newsy letter to thank them, and tell them all about our Christmas.’ This being agreed upon, the twins had resumed their work.
Now, their attention returned to the failings of their grandmother. ‘When I was little,’ Joy said musingly, ‘I used to wonder …’
‘… if Daddy were a changeling,’ Gillian finished, and both girls broke down in giggles. ‘Only changelings are usually small and trim with pointy ears and a faraway look in their eyes,’ she added. ‘Oh well; at least Auntie Serena and Uncle Perce are okay … and Daddy’s asked Mrs Clarke to dinner, because of course she offered to do the cooking, and she’s made the pudding
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