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made him wonder what these spirits must be like.
    ‘Sam!’ she hissed.
    ‘Look,’ said Sam, ‘we’re here now. It’s warmer in here than out there, and old Scrooge can have his soul saved for all I care – I just want some of his loot and –’
    Suddenly a bright flash burst into the room, under the door and round the door and beaming through the keyhole. It was a blue-white light and so intense that even this edited glimpse of it dazzled their eyes.
    ‘He’s back!’ hissed Sam. ‘Quick – under the table!’
    Lizzie needed no further encouragement and the two of them dived under the huge table, turning to peep beneath the tablecloth, which hung almost, but not quite, to the floor.
    The light shone in under the door, raking across the floorboards like a lighthouse beam rakes the waves, picking out every crumb and woodlouse carcass.
    And then nothing.
    The afterglow still hovered in the gloom like a ghost, but the light in Scrooge’s bedroom had gone out. Had he and the spirit left again?
    No. Sam could hear the old miser moving about. Lizzie could hear him too and cuddled nervously into Sam, but Scrooge was climbing into bed, not coming towards them.
    ‘What’s he doing?’ whispered Lizzie.
    ‘He’s going back to bed.’
    ‘I’m so tired, Sam,’ she said tearfully.
    ‘Then go to sleep.’
    ‘But you said I shouldn’t. What if he comes in?’
    ‘He’s not coming in,’ said Sam.
    Lizzie turned her back on her brother and curled up prickly as a hedgehog. Sam knew to leave well alone. Lizzie would come round. She always did. Best to get some sleep.
    One of the tiny fireflies of light came drifting in under the door and Sam reached out and took hold of it.

The scene could not be more changed. Night was replaced by day, winter by spring. Instead of the soot and grime of the city, here was the greenery of the Kentish countryside. Here was a scene that might make a painter pause and take up his brushes.
    Sam and Lizzie were standing in the garden of the house by the river, inhabiting the memory Sam had earlier described. Under the shade of a willow tree sat their mother and their younger selves.
    ‘Are we dreaming?’ said Lizzie.
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘Can we both be dreaming the same dream?’
    ‘Mother!’ shouted Lizzie. ‘Mother!’
    But their mother ignored them and carried on playing with the children they had been. A kingfisher flew by, a flash of turquoise blue.
    ‘She can’t hear us,’ said Sam.
    Lizzie shouted again.
    ‘She don’t know we’re here.’
    ‘Mother?’ said Lizzie again, quieter this time.
    Sam reached out and pulled Lizzie close to him.
    ‘ Shhh , Liz,’ he said. ‘She can’t hear us.’
    ‘But are we here?’ said Lizzie. ‘I mean, are we looking at the real world or some trick of them spirits?’
    ‘I don’t know,’ said Sam. ‘The real thing, I think.’
    ‘But how?’ said Lizzie. ‘Why?’
    Sam shrugged.
    ‘I think maybe we’ve got mixed up with the magic intended for old Scrooge.’
    They walked forward hesitantly. A light breeze played in the willow branches and rippled the surface of the river. Birds twittered in the bushes nearby. White clouds floated lazily in a pale blue sky.
    They listened in awe to their mother talking, neither of them wishing to interrupt the magic of hearing that voice again, a voice whose notes now filled their eyes with tears. Lizzie turned to put her arms round Sam, but he pushed her away.
    ‘This is your fault,’ he said, sniffing back tears.
    ‘What?’ said Lizzie. ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘This!’ he snapped, pointing to their mother and the children who hung on her every word. ‘It was you, asking and asking me to tell you about her. It’s you that’s brought us here! The spirits must have got wind of it somehow.’
    ‘Well, I’m glad!’ said Lizzie. ‘I’m glad we’re here! Why aren’t you?’
    ‘Because we ain’t here , Liz!’ he yelled. ‘Or we may as well not be. We can’t touch