Christmas Child: an absolutely heartbreaking and emotional Victorian romance by Carol Rivers (i wanna iguana read aloud .txt) 📗

He blinked and might have missed the flash. But he’d seen the little devils. The cheese was gone and they knew he knew it was them.

He knew alright. And he wished them luck.

By the time he stepped out of the old laundry to be greeted by a frost as keen as a carving knife, he was ready to begin his day. Stamping his feet to warm them, he lifted the scythe from his empty cart. Turning unhurriedly, he almost jumped out of his skin. Two small black faces with wide white eyeballs appeared from a bush.

‘Strike a light,’ he gasped and jumped a step back.

The faces disappeared, only to reappear in a thicket. The shrub did a little dancing and shivering, so that the frost skittered down to lay glistening on the ground. The eyeballs emerged under haystacks of hair, fixing him intently.

‘I know you’re there,’ grumbled Arthur. ‘You nearly stopped this old heart of mine with your antics.’

The bare branches rustled. More frost fell. Arthur swished the drip from his nose. ‘Come out you little buggers. Show yourselves for once.’

Arthur hadn’t a hope they would. But even so, he couldn’t be angry. They were wild, untamed; and he’d long ago learned to appreciate nature in its natural state.

‘Well, you can both sod off if you ain’t answering me. I’ve work to do.’ He marched away, making for the hill that led down to the gentle slope of the grave. But before he’d gone many paces, there they were again; two faces black with cinders, bodies swathed in bug-ridden rags, and no boots at all!

‘Gawd blimey!’ exclaimed Arthur. ‘Boys, ain’t you? Twins?’

They stared at him and he stared back. ‘What’s your names?’ he demanded impatiently, not meaning to lift the scythe as they both hopped back.

‘I ain’t about to hurt you,’ he said. Throwing caution to the wind, he rested the tool against the nearest tree. ‘So what is it you want of me?’ he asked in a kinder tone. ‘You kip on my land and you know I lets you. You know I chucks out stuff to fill your bellies. And we all know you do a bunk the moment a copper pokes his nose in.’

The two heads bobbed, enough to let Arthur know they’d understood.

‘Ain’t you going to say nothin’ at all?’ he demanded.

Two identical mouths opened.

He gave an irritated frown. ‘Listen, if you want more to eat, this time you’ll have to ask me for it, right? Don’t take much to offer a word of thanks.’

But all that happened was the mouths opened wider. Arthur was about to repeat his request, when something caught his eye. Something he didn’t like the look of at all. He took a cautious step closer. When he saw what he saw, his stomach turned.

‘Christ Almighty,’ he gulped. ‘You’re mutes?’

Two heads nodded and two mouths closed.

‘Somebody done it to you?’ he said, clearing his throat.

The nods assured him he had guessed correctly. But it took him a moment or two to compose himself, for the sight of the poor little perishers’ tongues with their sliced off tips had given him quite a turn.

‘Can’t you say nothing at all?’ he enquired. But nothing was returned. Only a pointing finger, that hailed him, indicating he was to follow.

To Arthur’s own surprise he found himself doing as they’d bid him, going past the old laundry and the cart, to the gate that led to the big wide world outside and the little wooden bridge at the end of the lane.

Chapter 69

There were voices as she stirred, though to whom they belonged she could not tell. The light dazzled her and was so bright, she let her lids close sleepily together. If this was heaven then it was a bumpier ride than she’d expected. Her head bounced a little, not too much as to be uncomfortable; in fact, the motion was soothing. She knew she lay at an angle and wondered if the body she had left behind under the little wooden bridge, resembled the same immortal shape as her spirit.

Sister Patrick had said she was certain that on the Christmas Day she had found Colleen O’Reilly, she had seen a pure soul, lit up by the presence of God and all his angels. And when her mother’s earthly remains lay lifeless in the bed of white snow, a beautiful apparition raised out of it that was beyond the nun’s words.

Are angels whispering to me now, Ettie wondered? The same angels sent by my mother to escort me to St Peter’s gates? Ettie felt a wonder fill her, a bliss so perfect that she almost opened her eyes.

But the sensation drifted and what returned in its place filled her with fear. The fever that had burned in her body as she lay in that dark corner under the bridge, ignited again. This time, it raged through muscle and skin and into her bones. Would it soon reach her heart and switch it off?

Beset by terror, Ettie felt the drowning phlegm fill her lungs and creep slowly upward. Surely this could not be heaven? Could it be hell? she asked in confusion. Had her earthly sins brought her to this, to face judgement far harsher than Mr Gane and Mrs Powell’s? Would Head appear soon, her piercing eyes full of accusation?

‘A thief,’ Ettie cried out deliriously. ‘I am a thief, to be judged and sentenced!’

Her eyes flew open. Her senses reeled. She was lying in a cart and looking up at the grey sky. Two faces bore down on her, with eyes wide and white as saucers and cheeks blackened by limbo’s soot!

She choked on the rising tide in her throat. Her gaze clouded. How had she come to this? Never to see her mother again or to know the ecstasy she had been promised by the nuns?

Her questions were answered unexpectedly. For with gentle consideration, came the touch of little fingers around hers. Each of her