The Christmas Mouse by Miss Read Page B

pillowcases, and across each lay an equally beautiful striped stocking.
    He had been! Father Christmas had been! Wild excitement was followed by a wave of shame. And she had not seen him! She had fallen asleep, after all her resolutions! It would be a whole year now before she could put Tom Williams’ assertion to the test again. She shivered in the cold draught that blew under the door.
    Her hands stroked the bulging stocking lovingly. There was the tangerine, there were the sweets, and this must be a dear little doll at the top. If only morning would come! She did not intend to undo the presents now. She would wait until Frances woke.
    She crept back to bed, shivering with cold and excitement. She thrust her head into the hollow of her pillow again, leaned back comfortably against her sister, sighed rapturously at the thought of joys to come, and fell asleep again within a minute.
    Mrs Berry’s stern gaze, which had been directed to a point about six feet from the ground, at a height where her enemy’s head should reasonably have been, now fell almost two feet to rest upon a pale, wretched urchin dressed in a streaming wet raincoat.
    At his feet lay Mrs Berry’s cake tin, luckily right way up, with her cherished Madeira cake exposed to the night air. The lid of the cake tin lay two yards away, where it had crashed in the turmoil.
    ‘
Pick that up!
’ said Mrs Berry in a terrible voice, pointing imperiously with the poker.
    Snivelling, the child did as he was told, and put it on the table.
    ‘
Now the lid!
’ said Mrs Berry with awful emphasis. The boy sidled nervously towards it, his eyes fixed fearfully upon the menacing poker. He retrieved it and replaced it fumblingly, Mrs Berry watching the while.
    The floor was wet with footmarks. The sodden towel had been pushed aside by the opening door. Mrs Berry remembered with a guilty pang that she had forgotten to lock the door amidst the general excitement of Christmas Eve.
    She looked disapprovingly at the child’s feet, which had played such havoc upon the kitchen tiles. They were small, not much bigger than Jane’s, and clad in a pair of sneakers that squelched with water every time the boy moved. He had no socks, and his legs were mauve with cold and covered with goose pimples.
    Mrs Berry’s motherly heart was smitten, but no sign of softening showed in her stern face. This boy was nothing more than a common housebreaker and thief. A minute more and her beautiful Madeira cake, with its artistic swirl of angelica across the top, would have been demolished – gulped down by this filthy ragamuffin.

    Nevertheless, one’s Christian duty must be done.
    ‘Take off those shoes and your coat,’ commanded Mrs Berry, ‘and bring them in by the fire. I want to know more about you, my boy.’
    He struggled out of them, and picked them up in a bundle in his arms. His head hung down and little droplets of water ran from his bangs down his cheeks.
    Mrs Berry unhooked the substantial striped roller towel from the back of the door and motioned to the boy to precede her to the living room.
    ‘And don’t you dare to make a sound,’ said Mrs Berryin a fierce whisper. ‘I’m not having everyone woken up by a rapscallion like you.’
    She prodded him in the back with the poker and followed her reluctant victim to the fireside.
    He was obviously completely exhausted and was about to sink into one of the armchairs, but Mrs Berry stopped him.
    ‘Oh, no you don’t, my lad! Dripping wet, as you are! You towel yourself dry before you mess up my furniture.’
    The boy took the towel and rubbed his soaking hair and wet face. Mrs Berry studied him closely. Now that she had time to look at him, she saw that the child was soaked to the skin. He was dressed in a T-shirt and grey flannel shorts, both dark with rainwater.
    ‘Here, strip off,’ commanded Mrs Berry.
    ‘Eh?’ said the boy, alarmed.
    ‘You heard what I said. Take off those wet clothes. Everything you’ve got