‘I shall be glad when Christmas is over,’ she said crossly. ‘Well, Sara, aren’t you going to open your parcel?’
‘Yes, Mother, if I may,’ Sara said. She was still feeling annoyed with Reverend Atwell but that was no reason for not opening a present. She untied the scarlet ribbon and unwrapped the paper, to reveal a cheaply bound copy of a book entitled
Bible Stories for the Little Ones
.
‘Very nice,’ Mrs Cordwainer said in a bored voice. ‘How good of the Reverend Atwell.’
‘I’ve already got a copy,’ Sara said mutinously. ‘Can I give it to someone else, Mother?’
‘Certainly not. What would people think?’ Mrs Cordwainer said at once. ‘How very ungrateful you are, Sara.’
‘I don’t mean to be. But what good are two copies of the same book to me?’ Sara said rather plaintively. Inside her head she added,
and it’s a rotten book, too
, but she knew better than to say it aloud. ‘I daresay there are lots of children who would love a copy of their own.’ Her opinion of the Reverend Atwell had not been high since he had ignored her in the porch, but any lingering liking had just nose-dived. He had given her the same book two years running, which must mean that he didn’t put any thought at all into those carefully wrapped little presents. ‘It’s greedy to have more than one needs of anything,’ she added craftily. ‘You’ve often said so, Mother.’
‘Oh, very well, but don’t say anything to Nanny,’ her mother instructed. ‘Goodness, it’s started to snow again – I do trust we’ll get Nanny home again when her stay is over without too much trouble.’
I wish she could stay for ever, Sara thought wistfully, but once again, knew better than to say it out loud. Mrs Prescott was a duty to her parents, not a pleasure.
The car was driving very slowly now through the whirling snow and Sara’s attention left the passengers and went to the scene outside. Normally she would have been watching out for familiar landmarks but now, because of the snow, she scarcely recognised anything. But she knew where they were when they came on to Stanley Road, with the beautiful smell of railways and docks getting stronger the nearer they got to their destination.
Sara had asked Nanny once why all the streets in her area had such pretty names. Snowdrop, Crocus, Pansy, Daisy, Woodbine, Harebell and many more.
‘It’s much prettier than Aigburth Road, or the Boulevard,’ she complained. ‘I’d rather live somewhere called after a flower any day, Nanny.’
‘Aye, the names are pretty enough, but that’s about all you can say,’ Nanny assured her. ‘They’re mean streets, narrow and noisy, and the folk what live on ’em don’t have much. Still, what they have they share, and they stand by each other in times of trouble. You can’t say fairer than that.’
The car crawled carefully down Stanley Street as far as the corner of Snowdrop. Robson slowed, peered into the side street, then stopped the car. You could see at a glance that there had been no attempt, here, to clear the snow and down the middle of the road was what looked suspiciously like a slide; at least four or five rough-looking boys were sailing along it with shouts of pleasure.
Robson turned and slid back the glass panel. ‘I dussen’t go no further, sir,’ he announced. ‘If I stop down there I doubt I’d get ’er goin’ again. You stay here and I’ll go and fetch Mrs Prescott out.’
‘I’ll go,’ Sara said eagerly. She adored Nanny and didn’t want to waste a moment of her company and also the thought of running down the street and past the sliding boys was fun, an adventure. But Mr Cordwainer nipped that in the bud at once.
‘No you don’t,’ he said grimly. ‘Young ladies don’t go gadding about in this type of area without an escort. Besides, you’ll get soaked and I don’t want the upholstery to get wet.’ He turned back to the chauffeur. ‘Very well, Robson, go and get Mrs Prescott. We’ll wait here.’
Robson cast a quick glance in the back of the car. ‘What number did you say, sir? Not all the houses have their numbers displayed . . .’
‘I know the house,’ Sara said eagerly, recognising a cue when she heard one. ‘I’ll go with you, Robson, and show you the house.’
She was out of the car and walking along the pavement beside the chauffeur before either of her parents had opened their mouths to argue and indeed, as she closed the door behind her, her mother was talking to her father about Mrs Aubain, whose new hair-style had caused much comment in church that morning.
‘Thanks, Robson,’ Sara said, glancing up at the chauffeur as they walked.
‘Thank
you,
Miss,’ Robson said. He grinned at her and Sara grinned back, both entirely understanding the meaning behind the words. ‘Mr Hartley was the magic word, eh? I must remember that. Your Gran’s house is the last but one, isn’t it?’
‘My Nanny’s house . . . yes, it’s the one with the brass knocker,’ Sara admitted. Her grandmother, a very fierce, correct old lady, lived in a large house in Crosby and enjoyed ill-health; it would have been lovely had Mrs Prescott been her grandmother, but you couldn’t have everything, Sara reasoned. Grandmother could have been worse – she could have lived nearer, for instance. ‘And it’s the loveliest brass knocker, too, a dolphin it is. When I was little, I had to jump to reach it, but now, of course, I just go on tiptoe.’
The sliding boys stopped sliding to stare as they passed and one of them shouted, ‘It’s Mrs Prescott’s Sara – wotcher, Sara! Ain’t it great to ’ave snow, eh?’
‘Hello, Jackie,’ Sara said, delighted to recognise the speaker. He was a Callogan, his mother and father and a great many children lived just up the road from Nanny. ‘Yes, the snow’s good, isn’t it? And how are you? How’s Bet and Bert and the others? And your mam and da, of course.’
‘We’re awright, ta,’ Jackie said. ‘You awright, Sara?’
‘Very well, thanks,’ Sara said. ‘It’s Christmas, so Mrs Prescott’s coming to stay. I love it when she comes.’
‘When is you goin’ to come to Snowdrop Street, then?’ Jackie said at once, leaving the slide and his companions and falling into step beside Sara and Robson. ‘You ain’t been ’ere for a ’undred
years
just about. I ’pose your mam don’t want you playin’ wi’ the likes of us.’
Sara felt her cheeks burn; once, she had come to Snowdrop Street whenever her parents felt like going away for a few days, and she had been in seventh heaven, but ever since discovering that Nanny let her play out her parents had refused all her desperate requests to stay with Nanny Prescott.
But it could have been worse. At least Nanny Prescott still visited them in Aigburth Road, so Sara had a good deal to be thankful for. Being denied even the solace of Nanny’s down-to-earth, outspoken company would have been unbearable.
Now, she turned to Jackie. ‘They say I’m too old to play out, it’s for kids,’ she said apologetically. ‘But Mrs Prescott doesn’t think that. Tell Bet I’m asking for her, and perhaps, one day, I’ll come and stay again.’
Jackie dropped back as they drew level with number three. ‘I’ll tell ’er,’ he said resignedly. ‘Ta-ra, queen.’
‘Ta-ra, Jackie,’ Sara echoed, and saw the chauffeur’s lips twitch, but then she was standing on tiptoe and reaching for the knocker, excitement flooding through her. She seized the brass dolphin and brought him down in a quick rat-tat, then stood back, but Mrs Prescott had obviously been watching for them for the door shot open to reveal her standing in the doorway, her round and rosy face breaking into a beaming smile.
‘Sara, love! Give your old Nanny a big hug, then!’
‘Oh, Nanny,’ Sara gasped, hurling herself into the older woman’s arms. ‘Oh, Nanny, I do love you! Isn’t it grand that it’s snowing? Oh, Nanny, I wish you could stay for ever . . . where’s your baggage? I’ll carry it.’
‘Baggage, child? But I’m only comin’ to Aigburth Road for the day,’ Mrs Prescott said. ‘Your mam invited me; she said
for the day
when she wrote.’
Sara stared. ‘But Nanny, you always come for Christmas, that’s today and Boxing Day, sometimes the day after that, too. Oh, Mother was saying earlier that . . .’ She remembered just what it was her mother had said and hesitated before completing the sentence.‘. . . That I was to be sure to keep you entertained,’ she said rather lamely.
Mrs Prescott was already in her brown coat with boots on her feet, furry mittens on her hands and a felt hat pulled down firmly over her greying hair. Now she put Sara gently to one side and walked through the doorway, then turned and carefully locked the front door behind her.
‘We’ll talk about it,’ she said diplomatically. ‘Mebbe there’s a mistake. Now are you going to carry my handbag, dearie? Because there’s a little present for you in there.’
‘I will carry it, gladly, but the best present’s you, Nanny,’ Sara said rapturously. ‘Oh, just knowing you were coming to stay makes it a good Christmas, and now the snow’s just making it perfect! Say you’ll stay the night, though, Nanny! I couldn’t bear it if you were to go home and leave me all alone again.’
‘Alone? And you with two good parents and a house full of servants?’ Mrs Prescott said, but she looked pleased, nevertheless. ‘Good morning, Mr Robson; nice to see you again.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Prescott,’ the chauffeur said politely, touching his peaked cap. ‘No bag, today?’
‘Not today. I’ll have a word with Mrs Cordwainer when we reach the car but I’m certain her letter specified Christmas Day itself. Take my arm, Sara, it’s really slippery and I don’t fancy fallin’ on me bum before all them boys.’
Sara, laughing, took the older woman’s arm on one side and the chauffeur, after the slightest of hesitations, took her other arm. Walking carefully, for the icy pavement was treacherous, the three of them made their way back to the car.
‘Madam,’ Robson said, throwing open the passenger door. ‘If you’ll just climb inside . . .’
Mrs Prescott got in nimbly and settled back in her seat, then turned to address the Cordwainers, shooting back the glass panel in order to do so.
‘A merry Christmas to you both! I’ve not packed a bag since your letter just said Christmas Day, Mrs Cordwainer.’
Mrs Cordwainer leaned forward. Sara, watching her, saw the colour rise beneath the powder on her mother’s cheeks. ‘Surely I said
for Christmas
, Nanny? In our book, that means for the Christmas holiday, which is both days. But since you’ve not packed a bag . . .’
Sara opened her mouth to protest but her father spoke before she could do so. ‘Letty, my dear . . . it won’t take Mrs Prescott a moment to pack a bag. Indeed, the child can help her.’ He leaned forward. ‘If Robson takes my wife and myself home now, and returns for you and Sara in an hour . . . would that be sufficient time for you to pack a bag?’
Sara could have jumped for joy but she knew better than to do such a thing. Instead, she smiled demurely at Nanny, though with pleading in her eyes. Oh, let Nanny say yes! She could go back into number three Snowdrop Street when Nanny did and check that her own little room upstairs, where she had stayed as a child, was still just as it ought to be! She could open the window and lean out and see that much-loved, much-remembered view of the railway, then the docks, then the gleam of the Mersey! Sometimes, on a clear day, the blue line of the Welsh hills could be seen against the sky . . . sometimes she was sure she could see New Brighton, almost hear the funfair!
‘Nanny?’ Sara’s hand was on the door.
Nanny had been looking militant but suddenly she relented. She smiled and put her own hand on the doorhandle. ‘An hour will be adequate,’ she said firmly. ‘Thank you, Mr Cordwainer, I’d be happy to stay for Boxing Day.’
It seemed odd to enter the well-loved little house to find the kettle not singing on the hearth and no fire in the grate, though it was neatly laid with sheets of the
Echo
scrumpled up and kindling sticks and small pieces of coal on top of them. Nanny had clearly not lit the fire that morning for the room struck chill and Sara shivered even as Nanny began to strip off her gloves, take off her coat, and carefully remove her black felt hat.
‘Nanny, I know the fire’s out, but . . . well, if you really thought you were coming back tonight, wouldn’t you just have damped it down? And it’s cold in here, you couldn’t have had a nice breakfast or a cup of tea or anything! Did you really mean to come home here tonight?’
Nanny shook her head and tutted reproachfully, but Sara saw she was smiling. ‘You’re a knowing one, queen! Your mam invited me for Christmas Day, but I thought she’d probably stretch it to Boxing Day too, if I played me cards right. It’s just that I don’t like to be took for granted, chuck. Oh, I don’t kid meself, I know I’m not exactly as welcome as the flowers in May, but I don’t see much of you, nor you of me, eh? So I thought I’d call your mam’s bluff.’
‘She can be funny, sometimes,’ Sara admitted. ‘Where’s your bag, then?’
‘Behind the sofa,’ Mrs Prescott said. ‘Eh, now what’s me pride done for us this time, Sara? We’ve gorran hour to kill in this freezin’ cold house . . . what say we pop next door, have a warm by the Rushtons’ fire? It’s Christmas Day, we shan’t get turned away.’
‘We wouldn’t on any day,’ Sara said. ‘I daresay we could go anywhere here and be made welcome, eh, Nanny?’
‘Oh aye, what we have we share,’ Mrs Prescott said. She headed for the front door. ‘But I’d not trouble some of ’em . . . the Carberys, for one. Eh, wharra life they lead, them! A baby every year, himself out o’ work this past six months, and scarce a mouthful of bread in the house most days, no matter how they try to mek ends meet.’