A Maxwell Mourned Read Free Page B

great excitement at Christmas with Peter’s three small daughters each hanging up their stockings. Apart from the usual apple and orange and nuts, Peter had saved a small box of jelly sweets for each of them. Rachel had made three little dolls out of calico and sewn on faces and woollen plaits for hair – one in brown, one in black and one in bright yellow. Mrs Jenkins knitted three tiny outfits for each of the dolls. Meg had sewn red velvet dresses with lace collars for the girls. They were to wear them to Church and then for a party in the village which had been organised by the Sunday school superintendent.
    Conan was still too young to understand but Polly, ever a little mother to him, had insisted on hanging one of her own stockings. So Rachel, Mrs Jenkins and Meg made socks and bootees, a tiny velvet jacket and some knitted leggings so that the girls would not be disappointed.
    Mrs Jenkins had already agreed to share their Christmas dinner and Peter was dispatched to persuade Sam Dewar to join them.
    Rachel was almost in tears when he presented her with a pair of tiny boots for Conan. They were made of the softest green leather and the tiny stitches were exquisite.
    ‘I know he is a bit young for them just now,’ Sam Dewar said apologetically, ‘but soon …?’
    ‘Yes, he will need them before long,’ Rachel laughed and gave the old man a warm hug.
    ‘When he learns to walk I shall make his first pair of clogs,’ the old man promised. ‘And for the three little girls …’ He drew a large paper bag from behind his back and held it up mysteriously. In fact Sam Dewar was enjoying himself immensely. He had never minded spending Christmas alone – but then he had never experienced a family Christmas like this before. Out of the bag came three little boxes, each tied up with a red leather lace. Each box held a tiny leather bag with a draw string top. Inside was a bright new penny and a little sugar pig. The children were ecstatic. Polly gave the old man a spontaneous wet kiss on his wrinkled cheek. Shyly the twins gave him a combined, if rather tentative hug – all of which gave Sam Dewar the greatest pleasure.
    In the middle of February Meg awoke from a deep sleep. It was still dark. Then she understood what had wakened her.
    ‘Peter, Peter wake up! The bell is ringing. The bell for your telephone.’
    ‘Who could want me at this hour?’ he mumbled sleepily. Meg struck a match and lit the candle.
    ‘It’s nearly half past five.’ When Peter came back upstairs, he was shivering in his night shirt. It was a bitterly cold morning and the stone flagged floor downstairs struck a chill right through his bare feet to his head.
    ‘Meg,’ he took both of his wife’s hands in his and squeezed them tightly. ‘Please try to keep calm, for the sake of our babe.’
    ‘What is it, Peter? Who was calling?’ she demanded urgently, sitting up straight now. ‘Father? Is he?’
    ‘It was Willie. He was calling from that new telephone kiosk they put at the cross roads. It – it is your mother. She has had a nasty fall. She is asking for you.’
    ‘Asking for me?’ Meg stared at her husband. ‘After all this time?’ she whispered.
    ‘Aye, lass. Get dressed. I will take you in the van. Dress warmly. The weather is bitter. We may have to walk part of the way.’ His voice was quiet and controlled, but Peter did not feel calm. Willie had sounded upset. He had telephoned for the doctor. Knowing Mistress Maxwell’s views on illness, that was a bad sign
    ‘How good you are, Peter. You think I should go to her? You are willing to come with me?’
    ‘I would not let you go alone, lass. And I would never keep you from your own mother, whatever she might have done.’
    Meg nodded and began to dress. Peter wanted to hurry her but he dare not. He scrambled into his own clothes.
    ‘I will waken Rachel and tell her where we have gone. She will have much to do.’
    ‘Mrs Jenkins will be here later. She will