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wicker, with a handle and little toggles to keep the lid shut, and set it down, all ready to contain her loot. She put the clock into it, and the two books which Aunt Biddy had given her. The new Arthur Ransome, called
Winter Holiday,
and, as well, a beautiful leather-bound copy of
Jane Eyre.
It seemed a very long book, with close print, but there were a number of illustrations, colour-plates protected by leaves of tissue paper, and so beguiling were they that Judith could scarcely bear to wait to start reading. Then the woollen gloves from her grandparents, and the glass bubble which, if you shook it, erupted into a snowstorm. That was from Jess. Mummy had given her a pullover, but this was a bit of a disappointment, because it had a round neck and she had wanted a polo. However, Aunt Louise had come up trumps, and despite the promised bicycle, there had been a holly-wrapped parcel under the tree for Judith, and inside a five-year diary, fat and leathery as a Bible. Her present from Dad had not come yet. He wasn't always very good about getting things on time, and posts took ages. Still, that was something to look forward to. Almost the best present was from Phyllis, and was exactly what Judith needed — a pot of sticky paste with its own little brush and a pair of scissors. She would keep them in the locked drawer of her desk, away from Jess's fiddling fingers, and then, whenever she felt creative and wanted to make something, or cut something out, or stick a postcard into her private scrapbook, she wouldn't have to go and ask her mother for scissors (which could never be located) or be reduced to making glue out of flour and water. It never worked properly and smelt disgusting. Owning for herself these two humble objects gave Judith a good feeling of self-sufficiency.
    She placed everything neatly into the basket, and there was just room for it all, without the lid refusing to close. She fastened the little toggles and put the basket on her bed, and then, as swiftly as she could, got dressed. Breakfast would be waiting and she was hungry. She hoped it would be sausages and not poached eggs.

     
    Biddy Somerville sat at the end of her dining-room table, drank black coffee, and tried to ignore the fact that she had a slight hangover. Yesterday evening, after dinner, two young engineer-lieutenants had dropped in to pay their respects, and Bob had produced a bottle of brandy, and in the consequent celebration Biddy had tossed back a snifter too many. Now, a faint throb in her temple reminded her that she should have stopped at two. She had not mentioned to Bob that she felt a little queasy, otherwise he would briskly tell her the same thing. He bracketed hangovers with sunburn: a punishable offence.
    Which was all very well for him, because he had never suffered from a hangover in his life. He sat now at the other end of the table, hidden from her by the opened pages of
The Times.
He was fully dressed, in uniform, because his seasonal leave was over, and today he returned to work. In a moment, he would close the paper, fold it, lay it on the table, and announce that it was time he was off. The rest of their little house party had not yet appeared, and for this Biddy was grateful, because by the time they appeared, she would, with luck, have had her second cup of coffee and be feeling stronger.
    They were leaving today, and Biddy found herself feeling quite sorry that the time had come to say goodbye. She had invited them to stay for a number of reasons. It was Molly's last Christmas before returning to the Far East, and she was Biddy's only sister. There was no knowing, the world being in the state that it was, when they would see each other again. As well Biddy was a bit guilty, because she felt that she hadn't done enough for the Dunbars during the last four years; hadn't seen enough of them; hadn't made as much effort as she might. Finally, she had asked them because Ned was away skiing, and the thought of Christmas