‘I’m afraid, dear boy, it will have to be tomorrow. Your lamented aunt only left a few pounds in ready money. That is exhausted. We are all poor people or …’
‘I know,’ Peter broke in. ‘You’ve all been awfully kind.’ He paused a moment. Then he said firmly: ‘My aunt left some jewellery and stuff. If we are going tomorrow Santa and I would like it tonight.’
Mr Stibbings was a stupid man in a lot of ways, but he meant to be kind. He was very worried at what Peter asked. The duchess had given Aunt Rebecca quite a lot of bits of jewellery, many of them not very beautiful, but all of them good in their way. But should the children be trusted with them? Except for the money that would be raised by selling the furniture, the little bits of jewellery were all the children had. Having appointed himself guardian he had to do what he could to look after them. Allowing them their jewellery was hardly doing that.
‘I am afraid, my boy, that would not be wise. I think it should be kept for you until you are out in the world.’
Peter shook his head.
‘No, thank you, sir. We’ll take it with us.’
Santa was amazed. It did not sound a bit like Peter talking. Such a grand, quiet, that-is-my-last-word-I-don’t-want-to-be-argued-with kind of voice, just like a grown-up person.
Mrs Ford began to cry again.
‘What a man he sounds. Brave little boy. When I first knew you, Peter, you were such a baby. Let them have their dear aunt’s things, Mr Stibbings. It will be a comfort to them, poor pets.’
At the thought of how much the children would need comfort, Miss Fane clasped her hands and looked at the roof, and Madame Tranchot gave so deep a sigh that it nearly blew over a teacup. Mr Stibbings made up his mind.
‘There are several little trinkets, dear boy, few of which would be any good to you. But there is a watch which you may have and Santa shall choose something as a keepsake. The rest I will deposit in my bank until you are older.’
Aunt Rebecca’s jewel-case had been locked in the corner cupboard when she died. Mr Stibbings had the key. He went now and unlocked it. While he was doing this Peter leaned down as if he had dropped something and whispered to Santa:
‘Choose the one I tell you.’
During the last years of her life the duchess had made it a practice to give her faithful maid a piece of jewellery every Christmas. They were an odd-looking collection. There was a gold watch and chain for Peter. Aunt Rebecca had thought it very handsome, but she had never worn it because she was afraid of losing it. There were several heavy brooches, and there was one bracelet. It was plain gold, very dull and solid-looking.
Santa liked a brooch with turquoises, and hoped Peter remembered that she liked it. She had often said so when Aunt Rebecca wore it.
Peter fingered all the things in turn. He looked at Mr Stibbings.
‘I don’t suppose they are worth much, are they, sir?’
Mr Stibbings shook his head.
‘No actual value, no. In sentiment, yes.’
Mrs Ford sniffed.
‘Yes, indeed.’
‘What I mean is,’ Peter explained, ‘if some day we wanted to sell them, would we get much money?’
‘Sell them!’ Mrs Ford’s voice showed she was going to cry again.
‘Well, we might have to. I mean, we might need the money for food.’
Mr Stibbings smiled.
‘I hope not, dear boy. I think we can trust Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s to fit you for careers that will keep you from want.’
Peter nodded.
‘Of course, sir. But I only said “supposing”. You see, I want to know.’
Mr Stibbings looked vaguely at the jewels. But Madame Tranchot, who understood money, was turning them over.
‘If it should be that you ’ad to sell them, Peter, it will be just the weight of the gold you would get. No more.’
‘Well, Santa?’ Mr Stibbings smiled at her. ‘What do you choose?’
Santa looked at Peter.
‘What would you have if you were me?’
Peter was still fingering the things. Suddenly he picked up the bracelet.
‘This. You’ll be less likely to lose it.’
Santa tried not to show what she felt, but the bracelet really was very ugly. She took it and held it out to Mr Stibbings.
‘I’ll have this.’
It seemed ages before bedtime, when Santa could be alone with Peter. Mr Stibbings stayed on and on in order to make last arrangements with Mrs Ford, and it was clear he would be there until quite late. But at half past eight Mrs Ford looked at the clock, and before she could say ‘Bedtime’ Santa had jumped up. Peter got up, too.
‘I think I’ll start my packing.’
Mrs Ford gave a knowing glance at Mr Stibbings as much as to say: ‘Want to be together their last night, poor little things.’ Then she kissed them both.
‘Run along. Happy dreams.’
Peter and Santa went upstairs. At the top Peter said in a very loud voice:
‘Good night, Santa.’ He opened and banged shut her bed-room door. Then he opened his and dragged her inside. He shut the door and beckoned her over to the bed. They sat side by side and talked in whispers.
Santa began.
‘Have you a plan?’
‘Yes. We’re going to run away.’
‘Where to?’
‘Our uncle. The one Aunt Rebecca had the card from every Christmas. We might stay with him.’
‘We don’t know where he is, and we haven’t any money.’
‘That’s what the watch and bracelet are for. We’ll sell them. And perhaps the card says where he is. I’ll get it.’
Santa looked doubtful.
‘Don’t want them to hear you creeping about.’
Peter got up.
‘They won’t.’
Luckily the door handle turned very quietly. Peter stood in the passage and listened. Mr Stibbings and Mrs Ford were talking hard. Aunt Rebecca’s room was at the end of the passage. Very quietly he opened the door. Would Mrs Ford have moved the card? He hoped not. Softly he crept across the room and felt round the mirror. There it was in the top left-hand corner. In a moment he had shut the door and was back in his room. Without a word he sat down beside Santa and they read the card.
It was a Christmas postcard with a picture of a church covered in snow on it. On the back it said:
COB’S CIRCUS
Just a line, old dear, for the festive season. Hoping this finds you in the pink. Doing a four weeks’ season with above and tenting with same April.
Love,
Gus
Peter and Santa stared at each other. They hardly knew what the word ‘circus’ meant. At some time or other they had seen a poster advertising one, and some vision of that had remained in the back of their heads.
‘That’s where people stand on horses,’ Santa said.
‘And a man sits on a lion,’ Peter added.
Santa studied the card.
‘Do you suppose our uncle’s called Gus? What an awful name.’
‘I don’t see how it can be our uncle,’ Peter objected. ‘What would he be doing with a circus?’
Santa read what was written again.
‘I wonder what “tenting” means. That’s what he’s doing now. It says April.’
Peter leant over her shoulder.
‘So it does. I hadn’t thought of that.’ He got up. ‘Look. Go to your room. Pack as much as you can in your case. Get into bed with all your things on except your shoes. Whatever you do, don’t go to sleep. As soon as Mrs Ford’s asleep, and she snores so loud I’ll be sure to hear if I listen in the passage, I’ll come and fetch you.’
Santa crept to the door.
‘You’ll bring my bracelet?’ Peter nodded. ‘Where’ll we go to?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘I don’t know where we’ll go tonight. Tomorrow we’ll find Cob’s Circus.’
3
Escape
Santa
would have sworn that with an important thing like running away hanging over her she would not have felt a bit like going to sleep. But she was wrong. She had never been to bed in her clothes before, so she had no idea how hot she would be. In spite of what Peter had said, she did not keep on all her clothes. She took off her frock. It was, after all, the only frock she was taking, and she had to go on wearing it at least until she found her Uncle Gus, and perhaps much longer, and her aunt’s training had made her much too fussy to be seen about all over creases. In any case, it was the last sort of frock to go to bed in. It was green to match her coat and hat, and had pleats. Even with her frock off she was stifling. In a terrific fug she went to sleep.
She woke up to find Peter’s hand over her mouth.
‘Ssh. Get up. Come on.’
Santa sat up and rubbed her eyes. Then she thought of Mrs Ford.
‘Is she asleep?’
‘Yes, hours. It’s half past three. Come on.’
Santa got out of bed and put on her frock.
‘Why is it so late? I thought we were going directly she was asleep.’
‘I’ll tell you when we get outside. Hurry.’
Santa tied her shoes and pulled on her coat. She could not comb her hair because, of course, she had packed her comb, but she pushed it back and shoved on her hat. Then she put on her gloves and picked up her attaché-case.
‘All right. I’m ready.’
It’s queer how a house, which seems quite quiet during the day, gets full of noises at night. Santa’s door gave a little groan when she touched it. There was no need to have touched the door, as it was open already, but it never made noises in the daytime so she had not expected it to do so now, and felt the annoyed pinch Peter gave her a bit mean. After the groan they both stood still a second to see if Mrs Ford woke up. They held their breaths. Her snores stopped. They could imagine her sitting up in bed, turning on the light, looking round for a weapon with which to hit a burglar. Then suddenly there was a sound. At first a gentle purr, then deep-throated snores. Mrs Ford had gone to sleep again.
After such a devastating start, the opening and shutting of the front door, which Peter had thought would be the worst part, was as easy as anything. In half a minute they were outside and running up the road.
Perhaps it was relief at getting out safely, but before they had run far they began to giggle, then the giggles turned to laughs, and in the end the laughs took away all their breath, so that they had to lean against a wall simply doubled up.
‘Fancy her never waking!’ Santa gasped.
‘And fancy you being asleep when I came to fetch you!’
This annoyed Santa.
‘I like that! What were you doing? You said you’d come for me directly she went to sleep. I bet she went to sleep before half past three.’
Peter took a deep breath to stop the last quivers of his laughter. He held his diaphragm.
‘Oh, I do ache! Matter of fact, I thought of something after you’d gone. We didn’t want to get away too soon. One thing, we’ve nowhere to go, and another, a policeman might ask us what we were doing if he saw us hanging about at night. Now it’s getting light and it won’t matter.’
Santa was surprised. If anything, she would have said she was the more sensible of the two. At least she did not get angry and rude so quickly. But ever since they had heard about Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s Peter had seemed different. The way he had just listened to the talk about the orphanages without saying a word, and all the time making a scheme to run away. The way he had insisted on them having some of Aunt Rebecca’s jewellery. And, while she was asleep, remembering about it being dark and policemen. She put her attaché-case on the ground.
‘You’ve had a lot of good ideas.’
Peter moved angrily.
‘We had to do something. I wouldn’t have minded so much if I thought they’d tried to put us somewhere together, but they hadn’t.
Santa lolled against the wall. She counted on her fingers:
‘Four to five. Five to six. Six to seven. In three hours and a bit Mrs Ford will get up. I wonder what she’ll do when she finds we aren’t there.’
‘I left a letter.’ Peter tried not to sound proud. ‘I said we’d always wanted to see London and, as we were going away, I’d taken you, and we’d be back about twelve o’clock in time for lunch.’
‘Goodness!’ Santa’s voice was full of admiration. ‘You have got clever all of a sudden.’
Peter said: ‘Shut up,’ but he said it in a pleased way. He fingered his watch.
‘Does seem a pity we have to sell this.’
Santa felt sorry. After all, a watch was the sort of thing every person wanted to have. To get one and have to sell it at once would make anybody miserable. It was then she had her good idea.
‘Oh! I’ve thought of something!’
‘What?’
‘You can pawn it.’
‘Pawn!’ Peter was shocked. ‘We couldn’t go into a pawn-shop.’
‘I don’t see why not,’ Santa argued. ‘They’re quite honest. Madame Tranchot told me about them. She said in England it was called “a visit to your uncle”. She said there were always three golden balls hung outside to show they’d give you money for things.’
‘Would we get as much as selling them?’
Santa put her hands under her armpits because they were getting cold.
‘As long as we get enough it won’t matter. How do we find out where the circus is?’ Before he could answer she clutched his arm. ‘Somebody’s coming!’
They listened. There were footsteps a long way off; slow and rather heavy footsteps.
‘It’s a policeman,’ Peter whispered.
Santa’s heart began to thump.
‘Shall we run?’
‘No. Pick up your case and just walk ordinarily. If he stops us leave explaining to me.’
They picked up their cases and started up the road. Santa’s knees wobbled. With every step the policeman’s feet sounded louder. Presently they saw him. He had a torch and was stopping at doors and looking at them. Peter started a rather breathless conversation:
‘An ostrich has no true nest. The eggs are deposited in a shallow excavation. The male bird incubates the egg during the night and …’
They were level with the policeman and right under the street lamp, so he could not help seeing them. The policeman paused.
‘Up early, aren’t you?’
‘Yes,’ Santa agreed. Peter trod on her foot to remind her that he had said he would answer questions.
‘Where are you off to?’ asked the policeman.
‘Covent Garden,’ Peter said firmly. ‘We’re going to see the flowers.’
‘Oh! Your family know where you’ve gone?’
‘Yes,’ said Peter.
‘Well, hope you enjoy yourselves.’
The policeman walked on and so did Peter and Santa.
When the policeman was quite out of hearing, Santa whispered:
‘That was two lies. We aren’t going to Covent Garden, and our family don’t know.’
Peter was so angry his whisper was a hiss.
‘I like that! It was a jolly good answer, and all you do is to say it was lies.’
‘Well, so it was.’
‘It needn’t be. We can go to Covent Garden. It’s where the flowers and vegetables come from. It’s open all night, I think.’
‘Where is it?’
‘I don’t know. But we can ask, can’t we? The policeman seemed to think it was an ordinary place to go to.’
Santa walked on in silence. Then she said:
‘Even if we go to Covent Garden it’s a lie about our family knowing. They don’t.’
Peter stood still.
‘Will you stop grumbling! We haven’t got a family, so how can they know? If Aunt Rebecca wasn’t dead it would be different; but she is, so now we haven’t a family.’
‘You mean Mrs Ford and Mr Stibbings and Madame Tranchot and Miss Fane
aren’t?’
‘Of course not.’
Santa cheered up.
‘Well, that’s different.’ Suddenly she giggled. ‘What made you say that about ostriches? The policeman must have thought it queer.’
Peter nodded.
‘I bet he did. But it was all I could think of. It’s what Mr Stibbings told you yesterday when you asked about the egg in his hall. Come on. If we’re going to Covent Garden I expect we’d better hurry. It may be miles.’
By the time Peter and Santa got to Covent Garden the sun was rising. They were tired, but in spite of that they loved it. They liked the porters with piles of baskets on their heads. It was all so bustling and smelt so good. But after wandering round for about three-quarters of an hour their legs began to give out. They looked round for somewhere to sit. Near them was a fruit merchant. He was selling tomatoes. Piled up outside his stall were some empty wooden boxes. Peter went up to a man who looked like the owner.
‘Would you allow my sister and me to rest for a bit on those boxes?’
‘You won’t hurt me,’ said the man.
‘You mean we may?’
The man pushed back his hat and scratched his head.
‘I don’t know what they teach you kids nowadays. Don’t you understand a bit of plain English? I said: “You won’t hurt me.” Well, then, sit and get on with it.’
Santa saw by Peter’s back that he was cross. By Aunt Rebecca’s training he had been polite and his feelings were hurt. But she could see that, oddly enough, the man did not admire Peter in spite of his politeness. She stepped forward.
‘Thank you so much. I hope you’ve done well today?’
‘Not so bad. Like tomatoes?’
Santa nodded.
‘Very much.’
The man took two big ones out of the cork shavings in which they were packed. One he wiped on his coat and gave to Santa, the other he threw to Peter.
Peter was not expecting a tomato. Nor, seeing he had played no games, was he much of a catch. The tomato hit him on the chest and fell on the pavement, where it burst open. The man gave a faint, scornful jerk of his head and turned away.
‘Sorry, Lord Marmaduke. If I’d known your lordship was coming I’d ’ave ’ad a silver tray here to pass it on.’
Santa flushed.