Circus Shoes

Peter and Santa were orphans. Their father and mother were killed in a railway accident when they were babies, so they came and lived with their aunt. The aunt’s name was Rebecca Possit, but of course they called her Aunt Rebecca. Before the children were born Aunt Rebecca had been a lady’s maid to a duchess. This was a good thing, because when the duchess died she left her an annuity, and, as Aunt Rebecca had no other money and neither had the children, it was important. In other ways it was not so good. Being lady’s maid to a duchess had made Aunt Rebecca suppose that only dukes and duchesses, and perhaps kings and queens could be right. She never did or said anything without thinking how “Her Grace” would have said or done it. As the duchess’s sayings and doings had been rather a bore Aunt Rebecca’s were too.

What Aunt Rebecca said and did would not have mattered much to Peter and Santa because, of course, they were interested in their own things, but most unluckily the duchess had a great many grandchildren who had often been to stay at Plyst (pronounced “Pleat”), where the duchess had spent most of her time. How Peter and Santa suffered from the duchess’s grandchildren!

“I don’t believe anything nice ever happened to that awful Lady Marigold or Lady Moira or those horrible Manliston children,” Santa grumbled.

Peter sniffed.

“It’s all very well for you to make a fuss, but you don’t have that dreadful Lord Bronedin pushed down your throat all day.”

Santa had fair hair which hung down to her waist. It curled a little bit, but not enough, so it had to be what Aunt Rebecca called “helped.” Santa hated her hair. She wanted it cut short, or at least put in braids, but instead she was made to wear it loose, because the duchess had said: “A woman’s glory is her hair.” She had also said: “How hair looks depends on the brushing it gets. Six hundred strokes a night. That’s my rule.” Which from Santa’s point of view was a very annoying statement.

Though he did not realize it, the worst thing Lord Bronedin did to Peter was to set the pattern for his education. Lord Bronedin went to a preparatory school and was down for Eton. Aunt Rebecca had never seen either but she knew the duchess’s views on education, and so would not send Peter to an ordinary school. Instead she got him a tutor.

Of course, the annuity would not pay for a proper tutor, but it brought in enough to pay small sums to various people who knew a little. There was Mr. Stibbings. He was a retired parson. He knew Latin but could not teach it. Peter went to him for an hour after tea twice a week. Then there was a Madame Tranchot. Both Peter and Santa went to her. She gave French lessons at a shilling the lesson or eighteen pence for two. For the ordinary subjects, like reading and arithmetic, there was a friend of Aunt Rebecca’s, named Mrs. Ford, whose husband had been a schoolmaster. Mrs. Ford did not know much herself, but she had her husband’s books and taught from them.

Besides going to Madame Tranchot, Santa shared Mrs. Ford with Peter and did music as well. She learned to play the violin. Not because she was musical, but because Lady Marigold played one. There could not have been a more stupid reason. Since Aunt Rebecca was poor, it was a shocking waste of money. Santa was taught by a Miss Lucy Fane. Miss Fane charged ten and sixpence a term, and the violin was bought on the installment plan. Somebody had once told Miss Fane that she looked like a Rossetti picture, and she had never forgotten it. She dressed to look Rossetti-ish, but as she nearly always had a cold she put a red shawl round her shoulders, which spoiled the effect. Partly because Miss Fane always had colds and was too ill to teach, and partly because she could not teach anyway, Santa never learned much. She would not have learned much even if she had had an aptitude for playing the violin, which she certainly had not. Miss Fane liked pieces which she described as “that dear little slumber song,” and she liked hymns. Santa could never remember how her fingers went in the dear little slumber songs, so she took to hymns, or rather to one hymn. It was called
Art thou weary, art thou languid?
It was easy fingering and expressed so exactly how she felt about violins that in the end she knew that tune quite well.

Naturally all these lessons from people who did know much, or if they knew anything could not teach, meant that Peter and Santa grew up most ignorant. They were even more ignorant than you would expect from their comic education, because they had no friends and no relations. Of course, many friends and relations might just as well not be there for all the good they do anybody. But most people have a few nice ones. Peter and Santa had nobody. At least nobody they had ever seen. They knew that somewhere they had an uncle, because each Christmas he sent Aunt Rebecca a Christmas card. But they never knew what was on the card or anything about him, for the moment it arrived Aunt Rebecca turned very red and, making clicking disapproving noises with her tongue against teeth, hurried upstairs and stuck it in the mirror of her dressing-table, where it stayed until the new one arrived the next Christmas. Peter and Santa thought it odd that she stuck it up at all since evidently she was not pleased to get it, but she received very few cards and they guessed it was vanity.

Because they had no friends or relations, Peter and Santa did none of the things most children do. They never went to parties, or even out to tea, because Aunt Rebecca did not think anybody in the neighborhood fit to know the family of one who had been maid to a duchess. They had no aunts or uncles who said: “I’d like to take the children to see
A Midsummer Night’s Dream.”
They had no cousins to go and stay with in the country or by the sea. They knew nobody but their aunt, Mr. Stibbings, Madame Tranchot, Mrs. Ford, and Miss Fane, and a very dull lot they were.

Since their aunt and the people who taught them were no companions for Peter and Santa, they were tremendous friends with each other. Naturally quarreled now and then, but really they both hated the other one to be out of sight.

Aunt Rebecca’s house was in London, on the south side of the river in a little street not far from Battersea Bridge. A nice place to live, as it is near the park. Battersea Park is in many ways the best park in London because of the river. But it was not of as much to Peter and Santa as it might have been, because one of the things the duchess had said was that children did not walk about alone in London. As Aunt Rebecca had the cooking and housework to do she not get out much, so it really meant that they stopped indoors most of the time, and became green and like bulbs grown in a cupboard.

The worst part of Peter’s and Santa’s lives, was a part they did not know themselves, was Aunt Rebecca’s attitude was catching. It is impossible to live with somebody who thinks you too grand to know anybody and not get a bit way yourself. Peter would not have minded going to school, but deep inside him he felt it would give the school a bit of a lift if they were lucky enough to get him. Santa would have liked to go to the girls’ school, but she never suggested it because she felt it was not suitable for her. This feeling of superiority was added to by their clothes. The duchess had often said to Aunt Rebecca, “Whatever you do, buy the best, Possit. Cheap stuff never pays.”

Aunt Rebecca could not buy the best, but what she bought was good. Lady Marigold and the rest had lived in riding things at Plyst, but were very well dressed London. Aunt Rebecca obviously could not put Santa into riding clothes in Battersea, so she follow duchess’s lead as to London and dressed her smartly. Matching hats and coats and always gloves. The same elaborate dressing-up was foisted on Peter. Lord Bronedin had looked a perfect disgrace in the country, but he had good clothes in London. Peter had fairly good suits and overcoats, and he always had to wear gloves. So it was that they really had none of the kind of clothes in which you can do anything because it does not matter what happens to them. The result was that they played games to suit what they wore. Quiet, gentle games, where nothing could get torn.

What with one thing and another Peter and Santa were rather queer. They lived shut up in the Battersea house feeling rather smug and better than their neighbors; doing their lessons with their odd teachers; playing old-fashioned games. They made scrap-books, taking great care not to get any paste on to their clothes, they played spillikins with an old ivory set that had belonged to belonged to the duchess; they plated solitaire with a board Lady Vansittart had given them one Christmas. But they never played anything that was even rough, and they never put their noses out of the door without their gloves on.

Then one day at the end of March, when Peter twelve and Santa just eleven, Aunt Rebecca died. Aunt Rebecca’s annuity, as is the way of such things died with her.

The Christmas Card

Peter and Santa felt miserable. It was bad enough that Aunt Rebecca had died, but what came after was worse. In their way they missed Aunt Rebecca. But they missed her for odd, funny things, and they both knew how the other was feeling about her so there was no need to keep talking about it. Somehow they did not like to play spillikins or solitaire, because they had been Aunt Rebecca’s games too, so instead they made a farm, cutting the animals out of cardboard and painting them. It looked very nice, was fun to do, and kept them from thinking about Aunt Rebecca and wondering what was going to happen to them. Any sensible person would have known they were worrying. After all they were not babies, they knew what happened to annuities when people died, and though of course they also knew that somebody or other is bound to look after children, it might not be the sort of looking after they would care for.

The worst of it was there had to be a time of hanging about. The moment Aunt Rebecca died Mr. Stibbings wrote to the duchess’s executors, explaining what had happened, and about Peter and Santa, and asking if something could be done until they were old to earn their own livings. If the executors said no, they were to go to an orphanage. The days waiting for the answer were very trying.

The letter came a week after Aunt Rebecca died. It arrived at tea-time. Mrs. Ford, Madame Tranchot, and Miss Fane were all there, but none of them opened letter because it was, of course, addressed to Mr. Stibbings. It was put on the mantelpiece and they all stared at it. Peter and Santa could not eat another mouthful because they wanted so badly to know what it said. It was a pity, because there was some particularly good hot buttered toast.

“Do you think,” Peter suggested, “that I had better take it round to him?”

Mrs. Ford looked at Madame Tranchot, who looked at Miss Fane. All their faces said the same thing: “Don’t let him do that because I want to know is in it.” But none of them liked to say quite that.

“It does seem hard that what concerns the nephew and niece of my oldest friend”-here she gave a big sniff-“should be discussed behind my back.”

Peter kicked Santa under the table. She saw he was angry and embarrassed about the crying and might be rude. She thought quickly.

“How would it be if Peter and I went round and told him it was here?”

Everybody thought that was a good idea, so Peter and Santa went upstairs to put on their hats, coats, outdoor shoes and their gloves.

Outside Mr. Stibbings’s house they stood still a moment.

“Gosh!” Santa panted (for they had run all the way), “I feel awful inside. Do you?”

Peter nodded.

“Like waiting at the dentist’s. I wish we knew what it said. Just suppose it’s an orphanage.”

Luckily Mr. Stibbings was in and said he would come at once. But Mr. Stibbings’s “at once” was almost as slow as other people’s “presently.” Although it was April and not a bit cold, it was astounding how he fussed before he would go out. It was nearly five minutes before he found his scarf, though Peter and Santa as well as Mr. Stibbings’s housekeeper helped look for it. In the end the housekeeper remembered he had worn it in bed one night, and she ran upstairs and found it tied in a black wool bow to one of the bed knobs. When all the scarf (and it was a very long one) was wound round Mr. Stibbings, Peter held out overcoat.

“Here you are, sir.”

Mr. Stibbings looked over his glasses in a hurt way.

“All right, my boy. All in good time. Speed is curse of the age.”

Peter looked as if he were going to say which might sound rude, and anyway, Santa that Mr. Stibbings was the kind of man whom hurrying made slow, so she broke in. She asked about ostrich egg on the hall table. It did what she wanted in that it stopped Peter speaking or Mr. Stibbings feeling annoyed at being rushed; but it took six minutes before they got away from ostriches and Mr. Stibbings dressed and out of the front door.

“You are a fool, “ Peter whispered. “Imagine asking about that then.”

Santa did not answer, because she was certain Peter knew why she had done it, and that in a way he thought it a good idea. But it was natural on his part to answer back; only it never helped in the end.

When they got back to the house Mr. Stibbings opened the letter. He opened it very slowly. Then he put his spectacles straight. Then he did what the children thought a very mean thing. He read the letter to himself. Peter turned red and looked so angry that Santa slipped round to him and whispered: “Don’t ask what’s in it, because they will.” She jerked her head at the three women at the table.

She was quite right; even before the letter was finished Mrs. Ford was crying. Directly Mr. Stibbings stopped reading she said in a choked voice: “That I should live to see the day when what concerns the welfare of the nephew and niece of my oldest friend should be kept from me!”

Luckily Mr. Stibbings hated crying as much as Peter and Santa did. He made the sort of cough people make when they are looking for the right words. Then he turned to the children.

“My dear young people, I fear it is not good news. It seems that all the money the duchess left is held in trust for a small boy who is a minor. He is a-“ He opened the letter again and started to look through it; but before he found the name Peter broke in:

“I know. It’s that Lord Bronedin.”

Mr. Stibbings looked up surprised.

“That’s quite right. The name is Lord Bronedin. You know of him?”

A very understanding look passed between and Santa. Then Peter said, “I’d just about say do.”

Mr. Stibbings was too interested in other things ask them what they knew about him. He sat down in the arm-chair and looked the way people look when they know nobody is going to like what they have to say. He rearranged his spectacles to a better position on his nose, and put the tips of his fingers together, looked at the children.

“I was afraid that this was the reply we should receive. But thanks to those whom I may call your friends”-he turned to the three women-“ arrangements are in train. We have arranged for Peter, dear boy, at Saint Bernard’s Home for You, Santa, are going to Saint Winifred’s for Destitute Female Children.”

“What?” Santa was so startled that the word out in a shout. “Aren’t we going together?”

Mrs. Ford made clicking sounds with her tongue.

“Don’t shout, dear. There are different homes boys and girls.”

Santa turned on her.

“Not always there aren’t.”

“Grammar! Grammar!” Mrs. Ford wagged her finger at her. Then she took out her handkerchief and wiped her eyes. “This is not the arrangement I wished for-”

Santa was so upset she felt she would scream if she had to hear about being the niece and nephew of her oldest friend again. So she interrupted.

“If you don’t like the arrangement, don’t let it happen. It needn’t. There must be somewhere we could go together if only you looked for it.” She came to Mrs. Ford and shook her arm to be sure she was listening. “Peter and I couldn’t live in two different places, you must see that.”

Miss Fane leaned across the table. She held out her hand, palm upward, as if she expected Santa to put her hand into it.

“I understand how you feel, little one. Separation is terribly hard. But, believe me, your violin will help.”

Santa stamped her foot. She sobbed while she spoke.

“How can you say that? Why should it make it better if I played
Art thou weary?
six hundred times a day?” She turned desperately to them all. “You must find a place for us. Here you sit, and all you say is it can’t be helped. But it’s got to be helped. I won’t live somewhere else than Peter. And he wouldn’t either. Would you, Peter?”

They all looked at Peter. He was leaning against the mantelpiece. His hands were in his pockets and he was staring at the floor, not seeming interested in what was going on. Santa could not see him clearly because she was crying so hard that everything was out of focus. But she felt a cold feeling inside. Peter was not going to fight. Ordinarily he became angry so much more quickly than she that if he were going to be angry he would have been by now. Mr. Stibbings looked at him with approval.

“Peter is sensible, Santa. He knows what must be must be.”

Peter looked up. He came over to the table stood beside Santa.

“That’s right, sir.” As he spoke he dug his elbow into Santa’s side. If ever a dig in the ribs meant “Don be a fool, trust me,” that one did. He turned to Mrs. Ford. “I shouldn’t worry. I expect it won’t be bad at Saint Bernard’s Home for Boys and Santa won’t mind about Saint Winifred’s Orphanage for Destitute Female Children when she understands. Will you Santa?”

After the dig in the ribs Santa felt better. She knew from the way Peter said that she would not mind when she understood, that he must have a plan, and she decided it would help if she seemed to cheer up. She dried her eyes.

“I suppose it will be all right. It was just that I was so surprised. I had never thought we would not be going together.” As she said this she could not help a wobble in her voice. She was sure Peter meant to do something, but after all they were only children, and probably police and other people would be on the side of Mr. Stibbings, Mrs. Ford, Madame Tranchot, Miss Fane, Saint Bernard’s, and Saint Winifred’s. She tried to look brave, but she did not feel it.

Peter pulled two chairs up to the table. He pushed Santa into one and he sat on the other.

“There’s just one or two things, sir. When do we go?”

Mr. Stibbings looked at Mrs. Ford, Mrs. Ford looked at Madame Tranchot, Madame Tranchot looked at Miss Fane. They all looked embarrassed. Mr. Stibbings cleared his throat.

“I’m afraid, dear boy, it will have to be tomorrow. Your lamented aunt left only a few pounds in ready money. That is exhausted. We are all poor people or-“

“I know,” Peter broke in. “You’ve all been kind.” He paused a moment. Then he said firmly. “My aunt left some jewelry and stuff. If we are going tomorrow Santa and I would like it tonight.”

Mr. Stibbings was a stupid man in many ways, but he meant to be kind. He was very worried at Peter’s request. Having been lady’s maid to a duchess, Aunt Rebecca had acquired numerous bits of jewelry, many of them not very beautiful, but all of them good in their way. He could not feel that jewelry was suitable for orphanages. Orphans wore uniforms. No male orphan, so far as he knew, wore a watch, and no female one a brooch. Besides, the little bits of jewelry were all the children had, except for the money that would be raised by selling the furniture. Having appointed himself guardian he had to do what he could to look after them. Allowing them their jewelry was hardly doing that.

“I am afraid, my boy, that would not be wise. I think it should be kept for you until you are out in the world.”

Peter shook his head.

“No, thank you, sir. We’ll take it with us.”

Santa was amazed. It did not sound a bit like Peter talking. Such a grand, quiet, that-is-my-last-word-I-don’t-want-to-be-argued-with kind of voice, just like a grown-up person’s.

Mrs. Ford began to cry again.

“What a man he sounds. Brave little boy. When I first knew you, Peter, you were such a baby. Let them have their dear aunt’s things, Mr. Stibbings. It will be a comfort to them, poor pets.”

At the thought of how much the children would need comfort, Miss Fane clasped her hands and looked at the roof, and Madame Tranchot gave so deep a sigh that nearly blew over a teacup. Mr. Stibbings made up his mind.

“There are several little trinkets, dear boy, few of which would be any good to you. But there is a watch which you may have and Santa shall choose something as a keepsake. The rest I will deposit in my bank until you are older.”

Aunt Rebecca’s jewel-case had been locked in the corner cupboard when she died. Mr. Stibbings had the key. He went now and unlocked it. While he was doing this Peter leaned down as if he had dropped something and whispered to Santa, “Choose the one I tell you.”

During the last years of her life the duchess had made it a practice to give her faithful maid a piece of jewelry every Christmas. It was an odd-looking collection. There was the gold watch and chain for Peter. Aunt Rebecca had thought it very handsome, but had never worn it because she had been afraid of losing it. There were several heavy brooches, and one bracelet. It was plain gold, very dull and solid-looking.

Santa liked a brooch with turquoises, and Peter remembered that she liked it. She had often so when Aunt Rebecca wore it.

Peter fingered all the things in turn. He looked at Mr. Stibbings.

“I don’t suppose they are worth much, sir?”

Mr. Stibbings shook his head.

“In actual value, no. In sentiment, yes.” Mrs. Ford sniffed.

“Yes, indeed.”

“What I mean is,” Peter explained, “if some day we wanted to sell them, would we get much money?”

“Sell them!” Mrs. Ford’s voice showed she was going to cry again.

“Well, we might have to. I mean, we might need the money for food.”

Mr. Stibbings smiled.

“I hope not, dear boy. I think we can trust Saint Bernard’s and Saint Winifred’s to fit you for careers that will keep you from want.”