The Willows at Christmas by William Horwood Page B

resplendent with the Christmas spirit that all the gloom and unhappiness the Mole had recently felt fled from his heart, to be replaced by that sense of simple joy and wonder he had last felt as a child, standing before his first Christmas tree.
    From every place that bright Christmas decorations could hang, they hung: from the gaslights on the walls, from the central pendant, from the picture rail, from beneath the mantel over the modest fire, from the window latches, from the brass doorhandles, from a hatstand, from the backs of chairs, and from occasional tables — from all of these vantage points, and very many more, there hung shiny silver stars, golden angels, dazzling green fir trees and red Father Christmases.
    Some of the decorations simply streamed in shimmering lines, others swooped in handmade chains, and yet others declared themselves as suns and moons, as firebirds, as cherubs, or as reindeers flying through the night. And that was just what hung — for upon every flat surface there were tens, nay hundreds, more decorations, some of wood, some tin, some brass, all brightly coloured or shining, intricately catching the gaslight above and the bright firelight below, and turning it all into a universe of a hundred thousand shimmering stars.
    The Mole stood dumbfounded, turning in a complete circle before he moved slowly to the mantelpiece, to reach out and touch a little of what he saw, doing so in pure delight. He had not found such simple pleasure in a festive display since he first saw and touched those wondrous decorations his parents had put up when he was a child.
    As then, so now: one moment the world seemed humdrum and normal, the next a door was opened — or rather re-opened — upon the unforgettable glory of bright festive seasonal delight.
    Miss Bugle quickly found some tapers to light the candles and their reflections seemed to bring forth a thousand new lights to the festive scene.
    “Do you like it?” began Miss Bugle, almost gaily. “I do like it, I do!” cried the Mole, almost dancing in a circle once again as he surveyed the happy scene, taking in more and more as he did so and feeling the years drop off him in the wonderment of what he saw.

    “And this?” he asked, leaning forward to examine a daguerreotype, which was framed with fronds of holly and ivy made most delicately of glass and tin, painted red and green.
    “That is Mr Toad Senior and he gave it to me himself at my request. He was too modest a gentleman to think that another might like his portrait. It is my most valued possession. But, Mr Mole, pray be seated by the fireside.”

    The thoughtful Mole had already observed that there was only one armchair in the room, which was certainly Miss Bugle’s own. What need had a maiden lady with no relatives of a second comfortable chair?
    At once he went to bring a chair from a dining table that was tucked away in one corner, but when he tried to sit on it Miss Bugle would have none of it, and insisted he take her own. So it was that for a second time in three days, though for very different reasons, the Mole found himself the guest of honour in his host’s own chair before a blazing fire. It was a situation that Mole could not imagine being bettered on a Christmas Eve.
    It was as well that the compote (his) and the scones and cream (hers) could not be compared because each was sure the other was the better. Nor, had there been a contest as to who was the more sympathetic listener, could one have emerged the victor, for both were undoubtedly experts.
    In what seemed like no time at all — though it took a good hour and two pots of tea — Mole had heard the sad story of Miss Bugle’s orphan days and learned how Mr Toad Senior had rescued her.
    Miss Bugle, in her turn, had wrung from Mole those secrets of his past that bore upon his lost siblings and present regrets that he would not see them again.
    “But have you never tried to find your sister’s address in the north and make