The White Hare by Jane Johnson

Author:Jane Johnson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Simon & Schuster
Published: 2022-10-04T00:00:00+00:00

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On the Friday before Christmas Jack sticks his head around the kitchen door and asks if we want to choose a tree from the conifer woods further up the valley.

‘I want to go!’ Janey roars. ‘I want to choose it!’

I can see there will be tantrums if she is prevented from exercising what she has come to see as her right. She has chattered on about the tree so much: the exact height and shape of it, where it should go – in the far corner of the drawing room, so the lights can be seen shining through the French windows by anyone arriving at the house. She has very definite views for a five-year-old. But she cannot go alone with Jack so I find myself in the passenger seat as we take the Morris up the hill.

As we pass the postbox, I recall the stack of letters the postman gave to me that I have, out of respect for Janey’s privacy, thus far left unopened, tied in a bundle in my chest of drawers. I think how my little girl must have run up the steep drive, secretive and determined, to deposit her letters one by one. I think how disappointed she must be never to have received a response. Even St Nikolas replied to her. The previous year, camped in Magda’s pristine and unwelcoming flat – having been prised out of our house in East Dulwich after the awful showdown with Dennis – she had spent a full day drawing all the things she would like from St Nikolas: a pony, a cat, a house, a cake and Daddy (all stick-arms and -legs and a big round head). The night before last Christmas, I had devoted myself to writing back to Janey in Santa’s own large, bold hand, explaining how hard it was to fit a pony on a fast-flying sleigh; that he was afraid the cat jumped out and ran away (because you know how cats are), that there would be cake, of course, and that although Daddy couldn’t be there on the day with her, he was sending her all his love and lots of chocolate. I drew snowflakes around the letter and made a North Pole stamp which I stuck on the envelope and added Rudolph’s muddy hoofprint. And I’d left the envelope – addressed to Janeska Prusik rather than Dunlop (Dennis’s surname), Ealing, London – under the Christmas tree (acquired after a long, hard fight with Magda, who didn’t want pine needles on her carpet) on top of her gifts. No wonder, then, that she thought such an inadequate address would reach its recipient.

When we left the Dulwich house, I told Janey that her father was going away travelling, and that was why we were going to stay with Magda: a cowardly excuse. At times afterwards, I even toyed with the idea of telling Janey that Dennis had died, but stopped myself just in time before offering up such a devastating lie.

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