Читать книгу After the Snow: A gorgeous Christmas story to curl up with this winter 2018! - Susannah Constantine, Susannah Constantine - Страница 12

Chapter Four

Esme wrenched herself from Mrs Bee’s embrace, barged past her mother and shouted for Digger. She pulled on her wellies, grabbed her coat and ran into the cold twilight, ignoring her father’s appeal for her to come back. This was turning out to be the worst Christmas ever and she needed to get away, to be in her secret place. Hot tears froze against her skin as she tried to catch her breath.

It wasn’t even the present. Her mother had forgotten her. Why hadn’t her father taken charge like he had with Sophia? It wasn’t that Sophia was her parents’ favourite because they usually treated them both equally and she was pleased that her sister had got the present she wanted. She also knew she was luckier than lots of other children, but it made her feel small, invisible even, that they had forgotten to buy her a present.

As Esme walked through the orchard the moon cast enough light for her to see her way into the thick woods surrounding The Lodge. She felt safe and her tears subsided. The trees were her allies, keeping her hidey-hole secret from her family. Lexi and Sophia knew where it was and Esme wished her sister were here with her now. Only she would really understand how sad Esme was feeling.

She strode across the hardening snow, Digger bounding alongside her, her boots and his paws leaving barely a trace. Despite the ghostly white covering that changed the wood into a foreign landscape, she had no trouble finding the entrance to her place of escape. Hidden behind a thicket of ancient brambles and rampant foliage, she pushed her way through and opened the crudely made door.

The old Victorian summer house had lain derelict when Esme chanced upon it one day when searching for Digger, who had gone missing on a wild rabbit chase. She called the summer house her ‘secret place’. It was her home from home, somewhere she could escape to when she was upset. Here, she was in charge and could do and feel as she liked.

She lit a candle that had been stuck onto an old saucer and was lying on the windowsill with a box of matches.

The room was filled with a tidy collection of bric-a-brac. Over the years Esme had siphoned off unwanted bits of furniture from The Lodge barn. There was a chair, a little table, a couple of rugs, a rusty portable barbeque, firelighters, matches, an old saucepan and a row of tins filled with teabags, sugar and digestive biscuits. The walls were festooned with cobwebs. In one corner there was an upturned crate draped with a fading chintz cushion cover. Carefully laid out on top of this makeshift counter sat a selection of Esme’s possessions. Sliding the chair across the floor, Esme sat before the crate and picked up a lace handkerchief with the initials D. L. embroidered in one corner. She wiped her eyes, her tears joining the stains of her mother’s from long ago, marking the linen with crinkly little circles. There was no point in crying; it wouldn’t change anything. Her mother had really done it this time. Esme had forgiven her too often and to have forgotten her at Christmas was unforgivable. She would save up her pocket money and buy a new riding hat herself. Maybe she could take some money from her mother’s purse? It wouldn’t be like stealing because she should have spent the money already on her hat.