The Story of Holly and Ivy Read online

  Contents

  The Story of Holly and Ivy

  The Fairy Doll

  Miss Happiness and Miss Flower

  Little Plum

  The Dolls’ House

  This is a story about wishing.

  It is also about a doll and a little girl.

  It begins with the doll.

  Her name, of course, was Holly.

  It could not have been anything else, for she was dressed for Christmas in a red dress, and red shoes, though her petticoat and socks were green.

  She was ten inches high and carefully jointed; she had real gold hair, brown glass eyes, and teeth like tiny china pearls.

  It was the morning of Christmas Eve, the last day before Christmas. The toys in Mr Blossom’s toyshop in the little country town stirred and shook themselves after the long night. ‘We must be sold today,’ they said.

  ‘Today?’ asked Holly. She had been unpacked only the day before and was the newest toy in the shop.

  Outside in the street it was snowing, but the toyshop window was lit and warm – it had been lit all night. The spinning tops showed their glinting colours, the balls their bands of red and yellow and blue; the trains were ready to run round and round. There were steamboats and electric boats; the sailing boats shook out their fresh white sails. The clockwork toys had each its private key; the tea sets gleamed in their boxes. There were aeroplanes, trumpets, and doll perambulators; the rocking horses looked as if they were prancing, and the teddy bears held up their furry arms. There was every kind of stuffed animal – rabbits and lions and tigers, dogs and cats, even turtles with real shells. The dolls were on a long glass shelf decorated with tinsel – baby dolls and bride dolls, with bridesmaids in every colour, a boy doll in a kilt and another who was a sailor. One girl doll was holding her gloves, another had an umbrella. They were all beautiful, but none of them had been sold.

  ‘We must be sold today,’ said the dolls.

  ‘Today,’ said Holly.

  Like the teddy bears, the dolls held out their arms. Toys, of course, think the opposite way to you. ‘We shall have a little boy or girl for Christmas,’ said the toys.

  ‘Will I?’ asked Holly.

  ‘We shall have homes.’

  ‘Will I?’ asked Holly.

  The toys knew what homes were like from the broken dolls who came to the shop to be mended.

  ‘There are warm fires and lights,’ said the dolls, ‘rooms filled with lovely things. We feel children’s hands.’

  ‘Bah! Children’s hands are rough,’ said the big toy owl who sat on a pretend branch below the dolls. ‘They are rough. They can squeeze.’

  ‘I want to be squeezed,’ said a little elephant.

  ‘We have never felt a child’s hands,’ said two baby hippopotamuses. They were made of grey velvet, and their pink velvet mouths were open and as wide as the rest of them. Their names were Mallow and Wallow. ‘We have never felt a child’s hands.’

  Neither, of course, had Holly.

  *

  The owl’s name was Abracadabra. He was so big and important that he thought the toyshop belonged to him.

  ‘I thought it belonged to Mr Blossom,’ said Holly.

  ‘Hsst! T-whoo!’ said Abracadabra, which was his way of being cross. ‘Does a new little doll dare to speak?’

  ‘Be careful. Be careful,’ the dolls warned Holly.

  Abracadabra had widespread wings marked with yellow and brown, a big hooked beak, and white felt feet like claws. Above his eyes were two fierce black tufts, and the eyes themselves were so big and green that they made green shadows on his round white cheeks. His eyes saw everything, even at night. Even the biggest toys were afraid of Abracadabra. Mallow and Wallow shook on their round stubby feet each time he spoke.

  ‘He might think we’re mice,’ said Mallow and Wallow.

  ‘My mice,’ said Abracadabra.

  ‘Mr Blossom’s mice,’ said Holly.

  Holly’s place on the glass shelf was quite close to Abracadabra. He gave her a look with his green eyes. ‘This is the last day for shopping,’ said Abracadabra. ‘Tomorrow the shop will be shut.’

  A shiver went round all the dolls, but Holly knew Abracadabra was talking to her.

  ‘But the fathers and mothers will come today,’ said the little elephant. He was called Crumple because his skin did not fit but hung in comfortable folds round his neck and his knees. He had a scarlet flannel saddle hung with bells, and his trunk, his mouth, and his tail all turned up, which gave him a cheerful expression. It was easy for Crumple to be cheerful; on his saddle was a ticket marked ‘Sold’. He had only to be made into a parcel.

  ‘Will I be a parcel?’ asked Holly.

  ‘I am sure you will,’ said Crumple, and he waved his trunk at her and told the dolls, ‘You will be put into Christmas stockings.’

  ‘Oooh!’ said the dolls longingly.

  ‘Or hung on Christmas trees.’

  ‘Aaaah!’ said the dolls.

  ‘But you won’t all be sold,’ said Abracadabra, and Holly knew he was talking to her.

  The sound of the key in the lock was heard. It was Mr Blossom come to open the shop. Peter the shop boy was close behind him. ‘We shall be busy today,’ said Mr Blossom.

  ‘Yes-sir,’ said Peter.

  There could be no more talking, but, ‘We can wish. We must wish,’ whispered the dolls, and Holly whispered, ‘I am wishing.’

  ‘Hoo! Hoo!’ went Abracadabra. It did not matter if Peter and Mr Blossom heard him; it was his toy-owl sound. ‘Hoo! Hoo!’ They did not know but the toys all knew that it was Abracadabra’s way of laughing.

  The toys thought that all children have homes, but all children have not.

  Far away in the city was a big house called St Agnes’s, where thirty boys and girls had to live together, but now, for three days, they were saying ‘Goodbye’ to St Agnes’s. ‘A kind lady – or gentleman – has asked you for Christmas,’ Miss Shepherd, who looked after them all, had told them, and one by one the children were called for or taken to the train. Soon there would be no one left in the big house but Miss Shepherd and Ivy.

  Ivy was a little girl, six years old with straight hair cut in a fringe, blue-grey eyes, and a turned-up nose. She had a green coat the colour of her name, and red gloves, but no lady or gentleman had asked for her for Christmas. ‘I don’t care,’ said Ivy.

  Sometimes in Ivy there was an empty feeling, and the emptiness ached; it ached so much that she had to say something quickly in case she cried, and,

  ‘I don’t care at all,’ said Ivy.

  ‘You will care,’ said the last boy, Barnabas, who was waiting for a taxi. ‘Cook has gone, the maids have gone, and Miss Shepherd is going to her sister. You will care,’ said Barnabas.

  ‘I won’t,’ said Ivy, and she said more quickly, ‘I’m going to my grandmother.’

  ‘You haven’t got a grandmother,’ said Barnabas. ‘We don’t have them.’ That was true. The boys and girls at St Agnes’s had no fathers and mothers, let alone grandmothers.

  ‘But I have,’ said Ivy. ‘At Appleton.’

  I do not know how that name came into Ivy’s head. Perhaps she had heard it somewhere. She said it again. ‘In Appleton.’

  ‘Bet you haven’t,’ said Barnabas, and he went on saying that until his taxi came.

  When Barnabas had gone Miss Shepherd said, ‘Ivy, I shall have to send you to the country, to our Infants’ Home.’

  ‘Infants are babies,’ said Ivy. ‘I’m not a baby.’

  But Miss Shepherd only said, ‘There is nowhere else for you to go.’

  ‘I’ll go to my grandmother,’ said Ivy.

  ‘You haven’t got a grandmother,’ said Miss Shepherd
. ‘I’m sorry to send you to the Infants’ Home, for there won’t be much for you to see there or anyone to talk to, but I don’t know what else to do with you. My sister has influenza and I have to go and nurse her.’

  ‘I’ll help you,’ said Ivy.

  ‘You might catch it,’ said Miss Shepherd. ‘That wouldn’t do.’ And she took Ivy to the station and put her on the train.

  She put Ivy’s suitcase in the rack and gave her a packet of sandwiches, an apple, a ticket, two shillings, and a parcel that was her Christmas present; on to Ivy’s coat she pinned a label with the address of the Infants’ Home. ‘Be a good girl,’ said Miss Shepherd.

  When Miss Shepherd had gone Ivy tore the label off and threw it out of the window. ‘I’m going to my grandmother,’ said Ivy.

  *

  All day long people came in and out of the toyshop. Mr Blossom and Peter were so busy they could hardly snatch a cup of tea.

  Crumple was made into a parcel and taken away; teddy bears and sailing ships were brought out of the window; dolls were lifted down from the shelf. The boy doll in the kilt and the doll with gloves were sold, and baby dolls and brides.

  Holly held out her arms and smiled her china smile. Each time a girl came to the window and looked, pressing her face against the glass, Holly asked, ‘Are you my Christmas girl?’ Each time the shop door opened she was sure it was her.

  ‘I am here. I am Holly’; and she wished, ‘Ask for me. Lift me down. Ask!’ But nobody asked.

  ‘Hoo! Hoo!’ said Abracadabra.

  Ivy was still in the train. She had eaten her sandwiches almost at once and opened her present. She had hoped and believed she would have a doll this Christmas, but the present was a pencil box. A doll would have filled up the emptiness – and now it ached so much that Ivy had to press her lips together tightly, and, ‘My grandmother will give me a doll,’ she said out loud.

  ‘Will she, dear?’ asked a lady sitting opposite, and the people in the carriage all looked at Ivy and smiled. ‘And where does your grandmother live?’ asked a gentleman.

  ‘In Appleton,’ said Ivy.

  The lady nodded. ‘That will be two or three stations,’ she said.

  Then . . . there is an Appleton, thought Ivy.

  The lady got out, more people got in, and the train went on. Ivy grew sleepy watching the snowflakes fly past the window. The train seemed to be going very fast, and she leaned her head against the carriage cushions and shut her eyes. When she opened them the train had stopped at a small station and the people in her carriage were all getting out. The gentleman lifted her suitcase down from the rack. ‘A . p . . t . n,’ said the notice boards. Ivy could not read very well but she knew A was for ‘Appleton’.

  Forgetting all about her suitcase and the pencil box, she jumped down from the train, slammed the carriage door behind her, and followed the crowd of people as they went through the station gate. The ticket collector had so many tickets he did not look at hers; in a moment Ivy was out in the street, and the train chuffed out of the station. ‘I don’t care,’ said Ivy. ‘This is where my grandmother lives.’

  The country town looked pleasant and clean after the city. There were cobbled streets going up and down, and houses with gables overhanging the pavements and roofs jumbled together. Some of the houses had windows with many small panes; some had doors with brass knockers. The paint was bright and the curtains clean. ‘I like where my grandmother lives,’ said Ivy.

  Presently she came to the market square where the Christmas market was going on. There were stalls of turkeys and geese, fruit stalls with oranges, apples, nuts, and tangerines that are like small oranges wrapped in silver paper. Some stalls had holly, mistletoe, and Christmas trees, some had flowers; there were stalls of china and glass and one with wooden spoons and bowls. A woman was selling balloons and an old man was cooking hot chestnuts. Men were shouting, the women had shopping bags and baskets, the children were running, everyone was buying or selling and laughing. Ivy had spent all her life in St Agnes’s; she had not seen a market before; and, ‘I won’t look for my grandmother yet,’ said Ivy.

  In the toyshop Mr Blossom had never made so much money, Peter had never worked so hard. Peter was fifteen; he had red cheeks and a smile as wide as Mallow’s and Wallow’s; he took good care of the toys and did everything he could to help Mr Blossom. Whish! went the brown paper as Peter pulled it off the roll, whirr! went the string ball, snip-snap, the scissors cut off the string. He did up dozens of parcels, ran up and down the stepladder, fetched and carried and took away. ‘That abominable boy will sell every toy in the shop,’ grumbled Abracadabra.

  ‘What’s abominable?’ asked Holly.

  ‘It means not good,’ said the dolls, ‘but he is good. Dear, dear Peter!’ whispered the dolls, but Abracadabra’s green eyes had caught the light from a passing car. They gave a flash and, rattle-bang! Peter fell down the stepladder from top to bottom. He bumped his elbow, grazed his knee, and tore a big hole in his pocket. ‘Hold on! Go slow!’ said Mr Blossom.

  ‘Yes-sir,’ said poor Peter in a very little voice.

  ‘Did you see that, did you see that?’ whispered the dolls. Holly wished she were farther away from Abracadabra.

  Soon all the baby dolls but one were sold and most of the teddy bears. Mallow and Wallow were taken for twin boys’ stockings; they were done up in two little parcels and carried away. Hardly a ball was left, and not a single aeroplane. The sailor doll was sold, and the doll with the umbrella, but still no one had asked for Holly.

  Dolls are not like us; we are alive as soon as we are born, but dolls are not really alive until they are played with. ‘I want to be played with,’ said Holly, ‘I want someone to move my arms and legs, to make me open and shut my eyes. I wish! I wish!’ said Holly.

  It began to be dark. The dusk made the lighted window shine so brightly that everyone stopped to look in. The children pressed their faces so closely against the glass that the tips of their noses looked like white cherries. Holly held out her arms and smiled her china smile, but the children walked away. ‘Stop. Stop,’ wished Holly, but they did not stop.

  Abracadabra’s eyes shone in the dusk. Holly began to be very much afraid.

  One person stopped, but it was not a boy or a girl. It was Mrs Jones, the policeman’s wife from down the street. She was passing the toyshop on her way home when Holly’s red dress caught her eye. ‘Pretty!’ said Mrs Jones and stopped.

  You and I would have felt Holly’s wish at once, but Mrs Jones had no children and it was so long since she had known a doll that she did not understand; only a feeling stirred in her that she had not had for a long time, a feeling of Christmas, and when she got home she told Mr Jones, ‘This year we shall have a tree.’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Mr Jones, but when Mrs Jones had put her shopping away, a chicken and a small plum-pudding for her and Mr Jones’s Christmas dinner, a piece of fish for the cat, and a dozen fine handkerchiefs which were Mr Jones’s present, she went back to the market and bought some holly, mistletoe, and a Christmas tree.

  ‘A tree with tinsel,’ said Mrs Jones. She bought some tinsel. ‘And candles,’ she said.

  ‘Candles are prettier than electric light.’ She brought twelve red candles. ‘They need candle clips,’ she said, and bought twelve of those. And a tree should have some balls, thought Mrs Jones, glass balls in jewel colours, ruby-red, emerald-green, and gold. She bought some balls and a box of tiny silver crackers and a tinsel star. When she got home she stood the tree in the window and dressed it, putting the star on the top.

  ‘Who is to look at it?’ asked Mr Jones.

  Mrs Jones thought for a moment and said, ‘Christmas needs children, Albert.’ Albert was Mr Jones’s name. ‘I wonder,’ said Mrs Jones. ‘Couldn’t we find a little girl?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you today, my dear?’ said Mr Jones. ‘How could we find a little girl? You’re daft.’ And it was a little sadly that Mrs Jones put holly along the chimney shelf, hung
mistletoe in the hall, tied a bunch of holly on the doorknocker, and went back to her housework.

  Ivy was happy in the market. She walked round and round the stalls, looking at all the things; sometimes a snowflake fell on her head but she shook it off; sometimes one stuck to her cheek, but she put out her tongue and licked it away. She bought a bag of chestnuts from the chestnut man; they were hot in her hands and she ate them one by one. She had a cup of tea from a tea stall on wheels, and from a sweet stall she bought a toffee apple. When her legs grew tired she sat down on a step and wrapped the ends of her coat round her knees. When she was cold she started to walk again.

  Soon lights were lit all along the stalls; they looked like stars. The crowd grew thicker. People laughed and stamped in the snow to keep their feet warm; Ivy stamped too. The stall-keepers shouted and called for people to come and buy. Ivy bought a blue balloon.

  At St Agnes’s a telegraph boy rang the bell. He had a telegram for Miss Shepherd from the Infants’ Home. It said, IVY NOT ARRIVED. SUPPOSE SHE IS WITH YOU. MERRY CHRISTMAS.

  The boy rang and rang, but there was no one at St Agnes’s to answer the bell, and at last he put a notice in the letterbox, got on his bicycle, and rode away.

  In her house down the street Mrs Jones kept looking at the Christmas tree. ‘Oughtn’t there to be presents?’ she asked. It was so long since she had had a tree of her own that she could not be sure. She took Mr Jones’s handkerchiefs, wrapped them in white paper and tied them with some red ribbon she had by her, and put the parcel at the foot of the tree. That looked better but still not quite right.

  ‘There ought to be toys,’ said Mrs Jones, and she called to Mr Jones, ‘Albert!’

  Mr Jones looked up from the newspaper he was reading.

  ‘Would it be very silly, Albert?’ asked Mrs Jones.