No Holly for Miss Quinn by Miss Read

Author:Miss Read [Read, Miss]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0395247683
Publisher: Houghton Mifflin Harcourt
Published: 1976-01-02T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

A CHRISTMAS MEMORY

MISS QUINN woke with a start, and sat bolt upright in bed.

Close at hand a church clock was striking midnight, and its pulsing rhythm filled the room.

Bewilderment and panic ebbed away, as she lay down again. Of course, she was safe in her brother Lovell's vicarage! This spare room, she remembered now, was close to the church tower.

It must be frosty tonight to be able to hear so clearly. Morning light would show rimy grass, no doubt, and ice-covered puddles, the little birds huddled patiently on sparkling twigs awaiting any bounty flung from the kitchen door.

The last stroke died away, and the old house sank back into silence. Sleep enveloped Lovell and the three children whom she had come to look after over Christmas, whilst their mother was in the hospital.

Poor Eileen, she thought! Was she asleep too, or lying awake, as she was herself? She envisaged the shadowy ward, a night nurse sitting in the one small pool of light, alert for any sound from a restless patient. How much luckier she was, to be here alone and free from pain!

With a sudden shock, she realized that it was now Christmas Eve. There would be wild excitement from her two nieces in the next few hours. Robin would be too young to understand, though no doubt he would be infected by the general fever of anticipation. Did the children hang up stockings here, she wondered, or pillow cases, as she and Lovell had done, in just such a drafty vicarage years ago?

One Christmas in particular she recalled vividly in that old Cambridgeshire house. She must have been about the same age as young Jenny asleep next door. Her milk teeth were beginning to wobble, and one in the front, she remembered, had been tipped back and forth so often by her questing tongue that her mother had begged her to "pull it out and have done with it." But fear had held her back, and even Lovell's pleas to "give it a good jerk" were in vain.

Lovell, two years older, was young Miriam's hero. He could climb to the top of their yew tree, while she stuck, trembling, half-way. He could make a whistle with his penknife and a hollow reed. He had bloodied Billy Boston's nose when he swore about their father, and he learnt geometry at the new day school in Cambridge.

Whatever Lovell did, Miriam tried to do. Whatever Lovell told her, she believed implicitly. Whatever Lovell said was right, was so, and whatever Lovell found wrong was, of course, quite wrong.

This particular Christmas Miriam was much exercised in her mind. Ruby, her six-year-old friend at school, had stated categorically that there was no Father Christmas. Miriam was horrified at such an infamous statement.

"Of course there is! You get presents don't you?"

Ruby, skipping busily at the time, was offhand.

"Your mum or dad puts 'em there," she puffed, twirling the rope.

"I don't believe it," said Miriam stoutly, but a cold hand seemed to clutch at her stomach.

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