Read The Snowing and Greening of Thomas Passmore for Free Online

bucket at this rate. We could boil a couple of pans of water, I expect, to thaw it out,” but then he remembers a bag of sand stored next to the dustbin.
    Together we carry the tree through to the lounge and place it in front of the French windows. He helps me decorate the bucket with red crêpe paper and the picture of Father Christmas I’d painted at school.
    â€œThat’ll do,” he says. “Now for the real fun.”
    From upstairs he fetches a large box of decorations and initiates me in the ritual of dressing the tree. First he strings the lights, spiralling them between the layers of branches, working from the tree’s tip to its base; he plugs the lights in, switches them on, isn’t disappointed when they don’t illuminate, but fiddles with each tiny, coloured globe – twisting, tightening them in his large fingers – until they all light up. Then he introduces me to the baubles and the birds. There are about twenty glass spheres to hang – some gold, some blue, some green, some pink, but mainly silver – and half a dozen birds to clip on.
    â€œThese are very old,” he says, holding one of the glass birds and brushing a finger along the fine bristles that represent tail feathers. “I’ll put these on. They belonged to Granny Potts – my grandma, your great-grandma.”
    And when we’ve done that, he tugs out streams of gold and silver tinsel, which we layer from branch to branch.
    He stands back and squints his eyes. “Just like snow,” he says.
    I copy him and can see it myself. “It is,” I say. “It’s like snow on the branches.”
    â€œBut it’s not finished yet.”
    â€œThe star,” I announce. It’s wrapped in tissue in a separate box, but I can tell from the shape what it is.
    It has a long point at the bottom and shorter ones all the way round, suggesting rays of light, and again it’s made of glass and is coloured silver, gold and blue. Dad pegs it to the tip of the tree, and there’s a different light to the room now, and the air is rich with the scent of spruce sap.
    â€œHow about that?” he says. “Perfect. Shall we call Mum?”
    â€œThere’s one more thing,” I say.
    â€œWhat? We won’t fit anything else on.”
    â€œJust one thing. Please.” I run upstairs and fetch my prism. “If you tie some cotton round it, we can hang this too.”
    â€œNo, Tommo. I think we’ve got enough. We don’t want to overdo it, do we?”
    â€œPlease.”
    â€œWhy? It’s not a decoration.”
    â€œIt’ll catch the light, if you tie it in the right place, and make a rainbow.”
    â€œI don’t think – “
    â€œPlease, Dad.”
    â€œWell, alright. But only this. Nothing more. Let’s see how we can do it.”
    And then it’s time for Mum to admire the magic.
    Christmas is just four days away and he’s late home. Not so late that Mum’s anxious or angry, but for some reason I’m standing on a dining chair waiting at the window, pressing my forehead against the cold glass. Perhaps he’s told me he’ll bring back sprigs of holly or mistletoe from the market, or balloons.
    â€œCome away from there,” Mum says. “Find something to do, for goodness sake, child. He’ll be home when he gets here.” And she mutters something about a traffic jam or a flat tyre.
    The village bobby arrives as she’s taking mince pies out of the oven. I watch him cycle up the street, take note of our house number and clamber off his bike before it’s properly stopped, the way I’ve seen cowboys dismounting a moving horse in films. Leaning his bike into the privet hedge, the policeman blows his nose on a big, white handkerchief before crossing to the front door.
    â€œMum!” I shout, running to fetch her.
    She wipes her hands on her apron as she moves towards the bulky shadow,