Leah Fleming - Orphans of War

Plum’d enjoyed all the children’s preparations, making sure they made presents for each other, all the secrets and surprises, letters and cards home, and the parcels arriving for some of the children who lived far away.

Without children the Brooklyn Christmas was a stodgy affair of much wine and little cheer, sherry gatherings and small talk and gossip, church and long walks. This was going to be a real Dingley Dell festival at the Brooklyn: the excitement of parcels unwrapped, extra food rations and treats, decorations in every room and fires lit, a great tree cut down and decorated, and above all the chatter of little voices singing carols. All they were waiting for was Dolly and Arthur’s arrival by train to complete the picture.

Pleasance was fooling no one by pretending it was all a waste of time and expense, for even she had given a hand wrapping up parcels and sending cards this year. No one could say Sowerthwaite didn’t look beautiful in the snow, icicles spiking down the rooftops.

Lost in these thoughts, Plum didn’t hear the bell ring.

‘Mrs Belfield! Phone!’

Plum raced over to the hall shelf. ‘Sow’thwaite 157,’ she smiled. At last! What perfect timing! ‘It’ll be Maddy’s parents,’ she yelled to Mrs Batty, who was preparing the morning’s vegetables in the kitchen. She smiled at her ruffled reflection in the mirror.

Then her expression went from grin to grimace in two seconds, her mouth tightening. She slumped on to the hall chair in a daze. ‘When…? How…? I see…Yes, Yes…I see…Thank you for letting us know…Is there any hope?…I see…Yes…It is dreadful…’ She slammed the phone down and sat winded. Some disembodied voice had just shattered hopes of a cheerful Christmas. Mrs Batty was hovering, curious.

‘What is it, Mrs Belfield? Not bad news? Not Master Gerald? You’ve gone white,’ she said.

‘No, it’s not him. I’m afraid it’s Maddy’s parents. Their ship was overdue, reports are coming in that it went down en route home in the Atlantic, somewhere off the coast of Ireland…enemy fire. They’re not among the survivors…Oh dear God, what am I going to tell the poor child? It’s almost Christmas Eve!’

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.