thief,’ Mrs Berry told him. ‘If I handed you over to the police, you’d get what you deserve.’
At this the child’s dark eyes widened in horror.
‘Yes, you may well look frightened,’ said Mrs Berry, pressing home the attack. ‘People who break into other people’s homes and take their things are nothing more than common criminals and have to be punished.’
‘I never took nothin’,’ whispered the boy. With a shock, Mrs Berry realized that these were the first words that she had heard him utter.
‘If I hadn’t caught you when I did,’ replied Mrs Berry severely, ‘you would have eaten that cake of mine double quick! Now wouldn’t you? Admit it. Tell the truth.’
‘I was hungry,’ said the child. He put his two hands on his bare knees and bent his head. A tear splashed down upon the back of one hand, glittering in the firelight.
‘And I suppose you are still hungry?’ observed Mrs Berry, her eyes upon the tear that was now joined by another.
‘It’s no good piping your eye,’ she said bracingly, ‘though I’m glad to see you’re sorry. But whether ’tis for what you’ve done, or simply being sorry for yourself, I just don’t know.’
She leaned forward and patted the tear-wet hand.
‘Here,’ she said, more gently, ‘blow your nose again and cheer up. I’ll go and get you something to eat, although you know full well you don’t deserve it.’ She struggled from her chair again.
‘It won’t be cake, I can tell you that,’ she told him flatly. ‘That’s for tea tomorrow – today, I suppose Ishould say. Do you realize, young man, that it’s Christmas Day?’
The boy, snuffling into his handkerchief, looked bewildered but made no comment.
‘Well, what about bread and milk?’
A vision of her two little granddaughters spooning up their supper – days ago, it seemed, although it was only a few hours – rose before her eyes. Simple and nourishing, and warming for this poor, silly, frightened child!
‘Thank you,’ said the boy. ‘I like bread and milk.’
She left him, still sniffing, but with the second paper handkerchief deposited on the back of the fire as instructed.
‘Not a sound now,’ warned Mrs Berry, as she departed. ‘There’s two little girls asleep up there. And their ma. Alltired out and need their sleep. Same as I do, for that matter.’
She cut a thick slice of bread in the cold kitchen. The wind had not abated, although the rain seemed less violent, Mrs Berry thought, as she waited for the milk to heat. She tidied the cake tin away, wondering whether she would fancy the cake at tea time after all its vicissitudes. Had those grubby paws touched it, she wondered?
She poured the steaming milk over the bread cubes, sprinkled it well with brown sugar and carried the bowl to the child.
He was lying back in the chair with his eyes shut, and for a moment Mrs Berry thought he was asleep. He looked so defenceless, so young, and so meekly mouse-like, lying there with his pink-tipped pointed nose in the air, that Mrs Berry’s first instinct was to tuck him up in her dressing gown and be thankful that he was at rest.
But the child struggled upright, and held out his skinny hands for the bowl and spoon. For the first time he smiled, and although it was a poor, wan thing as smiles go, it lit up the boy’s face and made him seem fleetingly attractive.
Mrs Berry sat down and watched him attack the meal. It was obvious he was ravenously hungry.
‘I never had no tea,’ said the child, conscious of Mrs Berry’s eyes upon him.
‘Why not?’
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
‘Dunno.’
‘Been naughty?’
‘No.’
‘Had too much dinner then?’
The child gave a short laugh.
‘Never get too much dinner.’
‘Was your mother out then?’
‘No.’
The boy fell silent, intent upon spooning the last delicious morsels from the bottom of the bowl.
‘I don’t live with my mother,’ he said at last.
‘With your gran?’
‘No. A foster
At this the child’s dark eyes widened in horror.
‘Yes, you may well look frightened,’ said Mrs Berry, pressing home the attack. ‘People who break into other people’s homes and take their things are nothing more than common criminals and have to be punished.’
‘I never took nothin’,’ whispered the boy. With a shock, Mrs Berry realized that these were the first words that she had heard him utter.
‘If I hadn’t caught you when I did,’ replied Mrs Berry severely, ‘you would have eaten that cake of mine double quick! Now wouldn’t you? Admit it. Tell the truth.’
‘I was hungry,’ said the child. He put his two hands on his bare knees and bent his head. A tear splashed down upon the back of one hand, glittering in the firelight.
‘And I suppose you are still hungry?’ observed Mrs Berry, her eyes upon the tear that was now joined by another.
‘It’s no good piping your eye,’ she said bracingly, ‘though I’m glad to see you’re sorry. But whether ’tis for what you’ve done, or simply being sorry for yourself, I just don’t know.’
She leaned forward and patted the tear-wet hand.
‘Here,’ she said, more gently, ‘blow your nose again and cheer up. I’ll go and get you something to eat, although you know full well you don’t deserve it.’ She struggled from her chair again.
‘It won’t be cake, I can tell you that,’ she told him flatly. ‘That’s for tea tomorrow – today, I suppose Ishould say. Do you realize, young man, that it’s Christmas Day?’
The boy, snuffling into his handkerchief, looked bewildered but made no comment.
‘Well, what about bread and milk?’
A vision of her two little granddaughters spooning up their supper – days ago, it seemed, although it was only a few hours – rose before her eyes. Simple and nourishing, and warming for this poor, silly, frightened child!
‘Thank you,’ said the boy. ‘I like bread and milk.’
She left him, still sniffing, but with the second paper handkerchief deposited on the back of the fire as instructed.
‘Not a sound now,’ warned Mrs Berry, as she departed. ‘There’s two little girls asleep up there. And their ma. Alltired out and need their sleep. Same as I do, for that matter.’
She cut a thick slice of bread in the cold kitchen. The wind had not abated, although the rain seemed less violent, Mrs Berry thought, as she waited for the milk to heat. She tidied the cake tin away, wondering whether she would fancy the cake at tea time after all its vicissitudes. Had those grubby paws touched it, she wondered?
She poured the steaming milk over the bread cubes, sprinkled it well with brown sugar and carried the bowl to the child.
He was lying back in the chair with his eyes shut, and for a moment Mrs Berry thought he was asleep. He looked so defenceless, so young, and so meekly mouse-like, lying there with his pink-tipped pointed nose in the air, that Mrs Berry’s first instinct was to tuck him up in her dressing gown and be thankful that he was at rest.
But the child struggled upright, and held out his skinny hands for the bowl and spoon. For the first time he smiled, and although it was a poor, wan thing as smiles go, it lit up the boy’s face and made him seem fleetingly attractive.
Mrs Berry sat down and watched him attack the meal. It was obvious he was ravenously hungry.
‘I never had no tea,’ said the child, conscious of Mrs Berry’s eyes upon him.
‘Why not?’
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
‘Dunno.’
‘Been naughty?’
‘No.’
‘Had too much dinner then?’
The child gave a short laugh.
‘Never get too much dinner.’
‘Was your mother out then?’
‘No.’
The boy fell silent, intent upon spooning the last delicious morsels from the bottom of the bowl.
‘I don’t live with my mother,’ he said at last.
‘With your gran?’
‘No. A foster
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