Free A Sixpenny Christmas by Katie Flynn Page B

excuse for the absence of his present.
    Even this year, the bicycle would not materialise on Christmas Day. For one thing, the Robertses could not afford it – even second-hand bikes were beyond them – and for another thing the country in which they lived, as they had frequently explained to Chris, was not really suitable for cycling. Their lane was a morass when it rained, and carved into ridges of iron-hard mud when it was dry. The farmyard was cobbled and though Chris had pointed out that Daddy could drive the tractor down to the village with the bicycle in the trailer, even he realised that this would be a tedious business.
    Rhiannon wanted a doll’s pram and they had found one advertised in the village shop for a small sum. Rhys had painted and polished, mended the hood and replaced the brakes whilst Molly had cut an old sheet and blanket to fit and stuffed a neat little pillow with feathers collected from the hen house. They had bought Chris a scooter and would try to explain on Christmas morning that Santa brought bicycles when children got into double figures.
    For a moment she clung to the warm bed and then, with the air of a Channel swimmer plunging into the briny on Christmas Day, she threw back the blankets and slid on to the floor. Her feet met one of the three sheepskin rugs that meant she could undertake the journey from bed to washstand without stepping on the lino. Today, however, she bounded briskly past the washstand, grabbed her clothes and stole quietly out of the room. She knew from bitter experience that the water in the ewer would be frozen solid so she had best descend to the kitchen. Rhys would have boiled the kettle, so she could use some of that to wash herself and the rest tomake them both a good strong cup of tea. She hurried down the stairs which led straight into the kitchen, but hesitated and turned back when she heard her son’s voice. ‘Mummy! Wait for us; we’re awake so we are!’
    Molly laughed and began to retrace her steps, but there was no need; Chris and Nonny, hand in hand, were descending at a good rate, so that they entered the lamplit kitchen together. The previous evening Molly had draped the children’s garments on the clothes horse before the range, and now they struggled into them whilst Molly washed at the sink. Then she padded across to the pantry, cut two slices of bread, smeared them thickly with honey and handed them to her offspring. By now she was beginning to shiver and hastily dressed, glad of her thick woollies and the old tweed skirt which still fitted her despite the fact that it had been bought when she was still a bride.
    She refilled the kettle and stood it over the flames. Then she began to prepare breakfast, for any minute now Rhys would be coming in and the porridge could simmer while she laid the table. She was cutting and buttering the loaf when Nonny swallowed the last of her bread and honey and jerked at Molly’s arm with sticky fingers.
    ‘Mummy, is it Christmas?’ she asked eagerly. ‘Has Father Christmas been? It was so cold that I didn’t even stop to see if there was a stocking on the end of my bed.’
    Chris, who had been staring at the flames as though mesmerised, spun round, his eyes bright with excitement. ‘Of course it’s not Christmas Day, you little silly,’ he said scornfully. ‘Don’t you remember? We went out with Daddy yesterday to cut holly, and we’re still making a paper chain long enough to go right the way round thekitchen. Besides, if it was Christmas Day my bicycle would have arrived.’
    Molly sighed. She thought that in his heart her son had no expectation whatsoever of receiving a bicycle, but she supposed that hope springs eternal in the human breast and Chris could not help hoping. Perhaps there was also a degree of cunning in the way he harped on about his bicycle. He probably thought that if he nagged hard enough his parents would redouble their efforts to procure for him the present he wanted more than