Miriam picked up the blouse by its shoulders and danced it up and down in time to the girls’ volleys of affectionate raillery—Did you sleep well broke in Mrs. Philps sitting briskly up and superciliously grasping the handle of the large coffeepot with her small shrivelled hand. Christmas Day had begun. The time for trying to say suitable things about the present was over. All the six small hands were labouring amongst the large things on the table. The blouse hung real, a blouse, a glorious superfluity in her only just sufficient wardrobe.—Yes, thank you, I did she said ardently, lowering it to her knees. The rich strong coffee was flowing into the cups. In a moment Grace would be handing plates of rashers and Florrie would have finished extracting the eggs from the boiler. She laid the blouse carefully on the sofa and heard in among the table sounds the greetings that had followed her arrival downstairs. The brown and green landscape caught her eye, old and still, holding all her knowledge of the Brooms back and back, fresh with another visit to them. She turned back to the table with a sigh. Someone chuckled. Perhaps at something that was happening on the table. She glanced about. The fragrant breakfast had arrived in front of her—Don’t let it get cold laughed Florrie drawing the mustard-pot from the cruet-stand and rapping it down before her. There was something that she had forgotten, some point that was being missed, something that must be said at this moment to pin down the happiness of everything. She looked up at Shakespeare and Queen Victoria. It was going away—Mustard—said Florrie tapping the table with the mustard-pot.—Did you hear the waits? asked Mrs. Philps with dreary acidity. That was it. She turned eagerly. Mrs. Philps was sipping her coffee. Miriam waited politely with the mustard-pot in her hand until she had put down her cup and then said anxiously, offering it to Mrs. Philps—they played—Help yourself—laughed Mrs. Philps—a most lovely curious old-fashioned thing she went on anxiously. Florrie was watching her narrowly. That was the Mistletoe Bough—bridled Mrs. Philps accepting the mustard.—Oh that’s The Mistletoe Bough mused Miriam thrilling. Then Mrs. Philps had heard, and felt the same in the night. Nothing was missing. Everything that had happened since she had arrived on the doorstep came freshly back and on into today, flowing over the embarrassment of the parcels. There was nothing to say; no words that could express it; a tune. … That’s the Mistletoe Bough … she said reflectively. Florrie was sitting very upright exactly opposite, quietly munching, her knife and fork quiet on her plate. Grace’s small hands and mouth were gravely labouring. She began swiftly on her own meal, listening for the tune with an intelligent face. If Florrie would take off her attention she could let her face become a blank and recover the tune. Impossible to go on until she had recalled it. She sought for some distracting remark. Grace spoke. Florrie turned towards her. Miriam radiated agreement and sipped her hot coffee. Its strong aroma flowed through her senses. She laughed sociably. Someone else laughed.—Of course they don’t said Florrie in her most grinding voice and laughed. Two voices broke out together. Miriam listened to the tones, glancing intelligence accordingly, umpiring the contest, her mind wandering blissfully about. Presently there was a silence. Mrs. Philps had bridled and said something decisive. Miriam guiltily reread the remark. She could not think of anything that could be made to follow it with any show of sincerity and sat feeling large and conspicuous. Mrs. Philps’ face had grown dark and old. Miriam glanced restively at her meaning. … Large terrible illnesses, the doctor coming, trouble amongst families, someone sitting paralyzed; poverty, everything being different. … —D’you like a snowy Christmas, Miriam? asked Florrie shyly. Miriam looked across. She looked very young, a child speaking on sufferance, saying the first thing that occurs lest someone should remark that it was time to go to bed. Hilarious replies rushed to Miriam’s mind. They would have reawakened the laughter and talk, but there would have been resentment in the widowed figure at the head of the table, the figure that had walked with arch dignity into the big north London shop and chosen the blouse. The weight in the air was dreadful—There don’t seem to be snowy Christmases nowadays she said turning deferentially to her hostess with her eyes on Florrie’s child’s eyes—Christmas is a very different thing to what it was breathed Mrs. Philps sitting back with folded hands from her finished meal.—Oh, I don’t know aunt corrected Grace anxiously—aren’t you going to have your toast and marmalade? You lived in the North all your young Christmases. It’s always colder there. Take some toast aunt—We used to burn Yule logs flickered Mrs. Philps, plaintively refusing the toast. Miriam waited imagining the snow on the garden where the frilled shirts used to hang out to bleach in the dew … the great flood, the anxiety in the big houses—Yule logs would look funny in this grate, laughed Florrie—Oh, I don’t know, pressed Grace.—We had some last year. Haven’t we got any this year aunt?⸺I ordered some wood; I don’t know if it’s come—Miriam could not imagine the Brooms with burning logs. Yes, she could. They were nearer to burning logs than anyone she knew. It would be more real here; more like the burning logs in the Christmas numbers. The glow would shine on to their faces and they would see into the past. But it was all in the past. Yule logs and then, no yule logs. Everyone even the Brooms were being pushed forward into a new cold world. There was no time to remember—they don’t build grates for wood nowadays, ruled Mrs. Philps. Who could stop
