Читать книгу The Enchanted Horse - Magdalen Nabb - Страница 6

It was Christmas Eve, and the afternoon had frozen as hard and milky as a pearl. The sun was as thin and pale as a disc of ice in a sky as white as the snowy ground.

Irina walked in front of her mother and father along the lane that led across the fields to the village. She was dressed in a sheepskin coat and boots and mittens and a sheepskin hat. Her long fair plait hung down beside her. The cold pinched her thin cheeks, and the trees that grew on each side of the lane poked their black fingers through the freezing fog as if they were trying to clutch at her as she went by.

Even before they reached the first houses at the edge of the village, Irina heard the faint sound of a band playing Christmas carols. But she didn’t look up and smile or turn to say “Listen!” to her mother and father. She only walked quietly on, looking down at her thick boots as they trod the hardened snow. Irina didn’t like Christmas.

When they reached the village, all the shop windows were already lit, making haloes of light in the fog. The snow-covered square where the band was playing round the Christmas tree was hung around with coloured bulbs. But Irina and her parents didn’t stop to listen to the carols because they had so much to do. They lived on a farm and at Christmas everyone wants more cream and eggs and milk, and besides, they had to be back home in time to feed the animals. So her father stopped to talk to the dairyman at the corner and Irina went ahead with her mother to help with the shopping.

They went to the baker’s to buy bread and flour and had to wait in a long queue. At the front of the queue a girl who was smaller than Irina reached up and pointed at the cakes and little pies sprinkled with icing sugar.

“And some of those,” she shouted, “for Grandma! And the big cake! Grandpa likes cakes! The big cake!”

Irina watched her and listened to every word, but when it was her mother’s turn she didn’t ask for anything. She was thin and never had much appetite and there was no Grandpa or Grandma coming for Christmas dinner.

They went to the greengrocer’s and waited in the long queue. A fat little boy with a red scarf wound round and round his neck was quarrelling with his older sister.

“I like dates best!” he protested.

“No you don’t,” his sister said, “you only like the box with the picture on it, and we’re going to buy figs and nuts and tangerines, so there.” And their mother winked at the greengrocer’s wife and bought figs and nuts and tangerines and dates.

Irina watched them and listened to every word, but when it was her mother’s turn she didn’t ask for anything. She had no brothers or sisters to quarrel with.

The band in the square began to play “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and the fat little boy in the red scarf and his sister joined in the singing as they went out.

It was getting dark, and the coloured lights twinkled brighter now against the shadowy snow. On the corner outside the greengrocer’s shop a fat lady with a long apron and thick gloves was selling Christmas trees. A thin boy, taller than Irina, was choosing one with his father. “This one! No, this one, no, that one, that one, it’s the biggest!” and his father laughed and said, “And how do you think we’ll get it home?” But he bought it, even so, and the fat lady wound some thick string round it to help them carry it. Irina watched and listened but she didn’t ask for anything. Years ago her mother had said, “You’re too old now to be bothering about a Christmas tree. It’s a waste of money. You can choose a nice present instead.”

So they walked past the Christmas trees and crossed to the other side of the square. There was a toy shop there, and next to that a gloomy junk shop with a bunch of dusty mistletoe hanging in the window, and next to that a shop that sold pretty frocks with full velvet skirts. Irina stood beside her mother and stared at the shop windows with bright eyes but she didn’t ask for anything. What was the use of a party frock when she lived so far from the village that she never went to a party? And what was the use of toys when there were no children near enough to play with?

“Have you thought what you’d like?” her mother asked. “You know we mustn’t be long, we’ve a lot to do.”

Irina tried to think. It’s nice to be able to choose anything you want but it’s nicer still when your present is a surprise. So she stared at the big dolls in boxes and then at the dresses and then at the tinsel and the silver bells decorating the window. She wanted to choose something that would please her mother. Then she remembered the fat little boy and his cheerful red scarf and so as not to keep her mother waiting and make her angry she said, “I like the red velvet frock …”

“And where do you think you’ll go in it?” said her mother impatiently.

“I don’t know …” It’s hard to please your mother when you don’t know exactly what she wants you to say. Then she turned and saw her father coming.

“Well?” he said. “Have you finished shopping? It’s about time we were getting back.”

“Irina hasn’t chosen her present,” said her mother crossly. “And to look at her face you’d think it was a punishment instead of a treat.”

Irina wanted to say, “I don’t want anything. I’m not asking for anything. I’d rather go home.” But she didn’t dare.

Then her father said, “Come on, let’s have a look in that toy shop. There must be something you’d like.”

“She’s spoilt, that’s what she is,” her mother said. “She doesn’t know what it means to want for anything.”

The band in the square was playing “Silent Night” very quietly. The sadness of the music, the growing darkness, and the cheerfulness of all the other families made Irina want to cry.

“I don’t want anything,” she said to herself fiercely, “I don’t—” But just as they were coming to the toy shop she stopped.

“Come on,” said her father, “you’re not going to find anything there.”

But Irina didn’t move. She was staring in through the window of the junk shop, trying to make something out in the gloom.

“Irina!” said her mother. “For goodness’ sake, we have to get home.”

But Irina, always so quiet and obedient, for once took no notice.

“The horse …” she said, “look at the poor horse.”

“What horse?” said her father.

“I can’t see any horse,” said her mother. And they both peered into the gloomy junk shop. Beneath a jumble of dusty broken furniture they could just make out the head and tattered mane of what was probably a rocking horse.

“I see it now,” her father said. “Well, come on, let’s get on. You don’t want that old thing for Christmas.”

“I should hope not,” her mother said. “It looks filthy.”

But Irina stared up at them bright-eyed, and the tears that had started with the sad carol and the growing darkness and the cheerfulness of all the other families spilled over and ran down her cheeks.

“It’s being crushed,” she cried. “It’s lonely and frightened and being crushed under all those things!” And before her parents could stop her, she had run inside the shop and all they could do was to follow her.