on the ship, there’ll be talk . . .’
‘Go on the next boat out, and keep the babby quiet until then,’ Paddy said. ‘If you feed her well and keep her warm she’ll not bawl out. Do as your daddy says, boy. Take her to your mammy.’
‘More sprouts, Sara? How about you, Nanny? We’ve left most of the tureen untouched, don’t distress Cook by sending such a quantity of vegetables back to the kitchens, I beg of you!’
Mr Cordwainer was trying to be jovial, to instil some Christmas spirit into the proceedings, but his best efforts were being thwarted by his wife, who was plainly sulking, and slightly by Sara, who had not got over the disappointment of losing Jess. This is turning out to be the oddest Christmas ever, Sara decided, as she allowed her father to spoon a few more sprouts on to her plate. Why on earth had Nanny passed on Mrs Rushton’s message? It had only made mother angry.
But that had been no excuse for Mrs Cordwainer’s behaviour ever since. She had criticised every single course, found fault with Sara’s table manners and told her husband that he had chosen the wrong wine.
Sara realised that her mother’s anger was partly directed against herself; she had undoubtedly invited Nanny for Christmas Day without realising that the older woman would assume she was not welcome for Boxing Day. This had made her look grudging in her husband’s eyes. But to continue to make everyone feel uncomfortable seemed so unnecessary that Sara could not begin to account for it. Grownups, Sara decided – not for the first time – simply went their own way regardless and expected children to make the best of it.
And Nanny was too quiet; it worried Sara, who knew that Mrs Prescott liked to talk and laugh. In fact her Christmas Day was already in grave danger of being spoiled.
‘Well, Sara? Have you quite finished? Sure? Then since you’re the last I’ll tell Cook to bring in the pudding.’
Mr Cordwainer tinkled a little bell by his right hand and after a pause, the long door at the end of the dining room was flung open and Cook appeared, extremely red in the face, bearing the flaming pudding before her. Mr Cordwainer clapped rather selfconsciously and Mrs Prescott followed suit so Sara, trying hard as well now, said, ‘Hooray!’ in a rather squeaky little voice and then clapped too.
‘Really, Adolphus,’ Mrs Cordwainer said as soon as the cook had left the room, ‘you’ve not even tasted the pudding yet; the time for congratulating Cook is when we’ve tried the pudding, not before we’ve even cut into it. I daresay it will be nasty and we’ll have to send it back untouched.’
Mr Cordwainer turned to his wife but before he could say a word Nanny was before him, and she was clearly furious – even more furious than either Cordwainer, Sara could see.
‘Letty, you should be ashamed of yourself! I hope never to see a nastier exhibition of unrestrained temper . . . and from a child I brought up to the best of my ability, too! Now are you going to apologise and begin to behave prettily or shall I order the car to come round and take me straight home?’
There was an appalled silence. Sara, looking from face to face, thought she had never seen her parents so dumbstruck. And what on earth did it mean? Surely not that her beloved nanny was going to turn round and leave, after they had persuaded her to stay, too? She knew Mrs Prescott had been Mother’s nanny, too, but she had never heard Mrs Prescott speak to her mother in any but the mildest terms, she had certainly never heard her so angry. But her father was nodding his head slowly, as though he agreed – oh, what on earth was going to happen?
And it had all started, she was sure, because Nanny had mentioned Mrs Rushton and Sid and a Sunday school outing, long ago. Sara supposed that there must have been a Sunday school trip both from the Snowdrop Street area and from wherever her mother had been brought up. But why Mrs Cordwainer should so
‘Go on the next boat out, and keep the babby quiet until then,’ Paddy said. ‘If you feed her well and keep her warm she’ll not bawl out. Do as your daddy says, boy. Take her to your mammy.’
‘More sprouts, Sara? How about you, Nanny? We’ve left most of the tureen untouched, don’t distress Cook by sending such a quantity of vegetables back to the kitchens, I beg of you!’
Mr Cordwainer was trying to be jovial, to instil some Christmas spirit into the proceedings, but his best efforts were being thwarted by his wife, who was plainly sulking, and slightly by Sara, who had not got over the disappointment of losing Jess. This is turning out to be the oddest Christmas ever, Sara decided, as she allowed her father to spoon a few more sprouts on to her plate. Why on earth had Nanny passed on Mrs Rushton’s message? It had only made mother angry.
But that had been no excuse for Mrs Cordwainer’s behaviour ever since. She had criticised every single course, found fault with Sara’s table manners and told her husband that he had chosen the wrong wine.
Sara realised that her mother’s anger was partly directed against herself; she had undoubtedly invited Nanny for Christmas Day without realising that the older woman would assume she was not welcome for Boxing Day. This had made her look grudging in her husband’s eyes. But to continue to make everyone feel uncomfortable seemed so unnecessary that Sara could not begin to account for it. Grownups, Sara decided – not for the first time – simply went their own way regardless and expected children to make the best of it.
And Nanny was too quiet; it worried Sara, who knew that Mrs Prescott liked to talk and laugh. In fact her Christmas Day was already in grave danger of being spoiled.
‘Well, Sara? Have you quite finished? Sure? Then since you’re the last I’ll tell Cook to bring in the pudding.’
Mr Cordwainer tinkled a little bell by his right hand and after a pause, the long door at the end of the dining room was flung open and Cook appeared, extremely red in the face, bearing the flaming pudding before her. Mr Cordwainer clapped rather selfconsciously and Mrs Prescott followed suit so Sara, trying hard as well now, said, ‘Hooray!’ in a rather squeaky little voice and then clapped too.
‘Really, Adolphus,’ Mrs Cordwainer said as soon as the cook had left the room, ‘you’ve not even tasted the pudding yet; the time for congratulating Cook is when we’ve tried the pudding, not before we’ve even cut into it. I daresay it will be nasty and we’ll have to send it back untouched.’
Mr Cordwainer turned to his wife but before he could say a word Nanny was before him, and she was clearly furious – even more furious than either Cordwainer, Sara could see.
‘Letty, you should be ashamed of yourself! I hope never to see a nastier exhibition of unrestrained temper . . . and from a child I brought up to the best of my ability, too! Now are you going to apologise and begin to behave prettily or shall I order the car to come round and take me straight home?’
There was an appalled silence. Sara, looking from face to face, thought she had never seen her parents so dumbstruck. And what on earth did it mean? Surely not that her beloved nanny was going to turn round and leave, after they had persuaded her to stay, too? She knew Mrs Prescott had been Mother’s nanny, too, but she had never heard Mrs Prescott speak to her mother in any but the mildest terms, she had certainly never heard her so angry. But her father was nodding his head slowly, as though he agreed – oh, what on earth was going to happen?
And it had all started, she was sure, because Nanny had mentioned Mrs Rushton and Sid and a Sunday school outing, long ago. Sara supposed that there must have been a Sunday school trip both from the Snowdrop Street area and from wherever her mother had been brought up. But why Mrs Cordwainer should so
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