Free The Christmas Mouse by Miss Read Page A

treasure it as a reminder of you all. Good luck now, and mind my words.’
    For some time after this Mrs Berry heard nothing of the Amonettis. The kitten, named Pepe after its donor, grew up to be a formidable mouser and was much loved by the Berry family. Years later, someone in Caxley told Mrs Berry that Pepe had vanished yet again, and that Gloria had returned to live with a sister in the county town twenty miles away. Whilst there, she had had one last brief reconciliation with Pepe, but within a week there had been recriminations, violence and police action. After this, Pepe had vanished for good, and it was generally believed that this time he had returned to Italy.
    The outcome of that short reunion must be Stephen,Mrs Berry thought to herself, as she stood in her draughty kitchen preparing the boy’s meal. Gloria’s present circumstances she knew from hearsay. She continued to live in one room of her sister’s house and was what Mrs Berry still thought of as ‘a woman of the streets.’ No wonder that the boy had been taken into the care of the local authority. His mother, though to be pitied in some ways, Mrs Berry told herself charitably, was no fit person to bring up the boy, and heaven above knows what the conditions of the sister’s house might be! Those Jarvis girls had all been first-class sluts, and no mistake!
    Mrs Berry picked up the tray and carried it back to the fireside.
    The child’s smile was stronger this time.
    ‘You are very kind,’ he said, with a touch of his father’s grace, reaching hungrily for the food.
    She sat back in the armchair and watched the boy. Now that he had eaten and was getting warm, the pinched look, which sharpened his mouselike features, had lessened. His cheeks glowed pink and his lustrous dark eyes glanced about the room as he became more relaxed. Given time, thought Mrs Berry, this boy could become as bewitching as his father. But, at the moment, he was unhappy. What could have sent the child out into such a night as this? And furthermore, what was to be done about it?
    Mrs Berry bided her time until the second bowlful had vanished, then took up the poker. The boy looked apprehensive, but Mrs Berry, ignoring him, set the poker about its legitimate business of stirring the fire into a blaze, and then replaced it quietly.
    ‘Now,’ she said, in a businesslike tone, ‘you can justexplain what brings you into my house at this time of night, my boy.’
    There was a long pause. In the silence, the clock on the mantel shelf struck two and a cinder clinked into the hearth. The wind seemed to have shifted its quarter slightly, for now it had found a crevice by the window and moaned there as if craving for admittance.
    ‘I’m waiting,’ said Mrs Berry ominously.
    The boy’s thin fingers fidgeted nervously with the toggle fastenings. His eyes were downcast.
    ‘Not much to tell,’ he said at last, in a husky whisper.
    ‘There must be plenty,’ replied Mrs Berry, ‘to bring you out from a warm bed on Christmas Eve.’
    The child shook his head unhappily. Tears welled up again in the dark eyes.
    ‘Now, that’s enough of that!’ said the old lady. ‘We’ve had enough waterworks for one night. If you won’t tell me yourself, you can just answer a few questions. And I want the truth, mind!’
    The boy nodded, and wiped his nose on the back of his hand. Mrs Berry pointed in silence to the paper hankies beside him. Meekly, he took one and dried his eyes.
    ‘You say you live at Tupps Hill?’
    The child nodded.
    ‘Who with?’
    A look of fear crept over the mouselike face.
    ‘You tellin’ the police?’
    ‘Not if you tell me the truth.’
    ‘I live at Number Three. With Mrs Rose.’
    ‘Betty Rose? And her husband’s Dick Rose, the road-man?’
    ‘That’s right.’
    Mrs Berry digested this information, whilst the child took advantage of the lull in the interrogation to turn his shoes in the hearth. They were drying nicely.
    Mrs Berry tried to remember all she