Categories > Original > Historical > The Sky Has No East
As Josephine grew, the Groads were pleased to find her a very normal child. In fact, she was quite precocious. She was walking and talking around her first birthday, and was toilet trained in about two weeks. When she turned four, she asked her father to teach her how to read and write and did not stop pestering him until he did so. As soon as she had mastered the basics she began running out of the house at every opportunity to go to the bookshop and read until the owner ejected her. Consequently, she swiftly mastered the skill of reading at top speeds while still absorbing information.
It wasn’t until she was four that people started to notice something off about the baker’s daughter. When the Groads had first considered starting a family their chief concern had been the company she was surrounded with. To put it nicely, they lived in a rather rough neighborhood, and many of the customers that frequented the bakery were of dubious moral fiber. Naturally they worried about bringing up a child in such an environment.
But it seemed that whenever Josephine was around, the crooks of Paris cleaned up their act. Fierce, muscled tanners with scars from their ankles to their noses who were well-known for beating children smiled at her and bought her pastries. Prostitutes cooed over her mass of curly hair and large, Kelly-green eyes. Alcoholics seemed to sober up the moment she chirped, “Bonjour!”
Mrs. Groad was inclined to believe the cause of this to be innate goodness in every man. Mr. Groad, a somewhat sharper man, noted that the characters that frequented the shop were the same as they had always been when Josephine was not there. He was slow to fault this to their desire to keep a young mind pure, but he could not quite give words to his suspicions.
The Christmas Josephine was six, however, both the Groads could ignore their daughter’s peculiarities no longer.
“What would you like to ask Father Christmas for, Jo?” Mrs. Groad asked, bouncing the girl on her knee.
“Books!” Josephine twittered. “Lots and lots of books! And a new dress—no, TWO new dresses! Purple ones! And I’d fancy purple hair ribbons to match, and shoes. And perhaps a new apron. And a dolly! A real, pretty china one, with lovely yellow hair!” Her big eyes grew even larger and sparkled with excitement. “Most of all, two kittens! Sweet little ones, old enough to leave their mother but not too big. Tabbies would be nice. Or maybe black. Or one of each.” She calmed herself, folded her hands in her lap and smiled. “But really, just the books, a dress, shoes, any sort of dolly, and one kitten would be fine, though two would be nice. Father Christmas has to bring you and Papa presents too.”
Mrs. Groad laughed and stroked her daughter’s hair. “He shall? What shall he bring us?”
Josephine frowned thoughtfully. “You and Papa don’t read very much,” she decided, “so probably no books. But Mama, you need a new dress too, and certainly an apron, and shoes. Papa needs something that will bring him dozens—no, hundreds!—of customers to his shop, and a new hat and shoes. And we all need thick comforters and our own mattresses.”
Mrs. Groad smiled tenderly. “Do you think Father Christmas will bring us all that?”
Josephine laughed. “Of course! That’s why he’s Father Christmas.”
Mrs. Groad tried not to look sad as she put Josephine to bed. Father Christmas would not be bringing Josephine a fine china doll and kittens and lovely dresses in the night. In Josephine’s stocking the next morning there would be a rag doll, a dress made from the spare fabric of her parents’ old clothes, and the two tattered books they had set aside enough money to buy. Perhaps in a few years, when business had picked up. But not this year. Not this Christmas.
Josephine closed her eyes, her long lashes curling on her cheeks. Mrs. Groad watched her until her breathing evened out and she was sure she was asleep, then tiptoed down the stairs and over to the fireplace.
“She’s sound asleep,” she whispered to Mr. Groad. “You’ve got—oh!”
Something was rustling in the chimney.
“It’s just the bats,” Mr. Groad sighed. “They’ll fly out on its own.”
But rather a lot of ash was being agitated and falling onto the fire.
“Robbers?” Mrs. Groad said fearfully.
Mr. Groad picked up the fire poker resting against the mantelpiece. “If so, they’d best be well-prepared.”
“Don’t wake Josie!”
With a loud THUMP, something large and red landed in the fire, promptly putting it out.
Mrs. Groad clapped her hands over her mouth. Mr. Groad seemed to be unable to decide whether or not to lower the poker, and kept bringing it down to about his waist before raising it again.
A tall, round man in bishop’s robes with a sack over his shoulder ducked out of the fireplace and straightened. He seemed not at all surprised to be greeted by two shocked middle-aged Parisians.
“You’re not…” Mrs. Groad couldn’t name him.
The jolly fat man only smiled, put a finger to his lips, and pointed upstairs.
Even the most persistent of skeptics would be hard-pressed to disobey instructions from the jolly fat man himself. Mr. Groad dropped his poker, dipped into a slight bow, and hurried upstairs. Mrs. Groad stood a moment longer, staring, before following.
The next morning, none of the Groads were too surprised to find under the tree a stack of brand new books, two new child-size purple dresses with matching hair ribbons, shoes, coats and mittens, a child-size apron, a china doll with yellow hair wearing a miniature version of the lovelier of the two dresses, and two kittens in a basket. They were only marginally more surprised to find an adult’s dress, apron and shoes for a woman and a man, two mattresses and two large, warm down comforters.
Josephine shrieked with joy and spent the entire day playing with her kittens, who she named Pippin and Charlemagne. She stopped only for Christmas dinner, which she spent buried in one of her new books. That night, as Josephine was drifting off to sleep on her new mattress under her new comforter, the Groads had a furious, whispered conversation about exactly how long they could keep Josephine believing in Santa Claus.
It wasn’t until she was four that people started to notice something off about the baker’s daughter. When the Groads had first considered starting a family their chief concern had been the company she was surrounded with. To put it nicely, they lived in a rather rough neighborhood, and many of the customers that frequented the bakery were of dubious moral fiber. Naturally they worried about bringing up a child in such an environment.
But it seemed that whenever Josephine was around, the crooks of Paris cleaned up their act. Fierce, muscled tanners with scars from their ankles to their noses who were well-known for beating children smiled at her and bought her pastries. Prostitutes cooed over her mass of curly hair and large, Kelly-green eyes. Alcoholics seemed to sober up the moment she chirped, “Bonjour!”
Mrs. Groad was inclined to believe the cause of this to be innate goodness in every man. Mr. Groad, a somewhat sharper man, noted that the characters that frequented the shop were the same as they had always been when Josephine was not there. He was slow to fault this to their desire to keep a young mind pure, but he could not quite give words to his suspicions.
The Christmas Josephine was six, however, both the Groads could ignore their daughter’s peculiarities no longer.
“What would you like to ask Father Christmas for, Jo?” Mrs. Groad asked, bouncing the girl on her knee.
“Books!” Josephine twittered. “Lots and lots of books! And a new dress—no, TWO new dresses! Purple ones! And I’d fancy purple hair ribbons to match, and shoes. And perhaps a new apron. And a dolly! A real, pretty china one, with lovely yellow hair!” Her big eyes grew even larger and sparkled with excitement. “Most of all, two kittens! Sweet little ones, old enough to leave their mother but not too big. Tabbies would be nice. Or maybe black. Or one of each.” She calmed herself, folded her hands in her lap and smiled. “But really, just the books, a dress, shoes, any sort of dolly, and one kitten would be fine, though two would be nice. Father Christmas has to bring you and Papa presents too.”
Mrs. Groad laughed and stroked her daughter’s hair. “He shall? What shall he bring us?”
Josephine frowned thoughtfully. “You and Papa don’t read very much,” she decided, “so probably no books. But Mama, you need a new dress too, and certainly an apron, and shoes. Papa needs something that will bring him dozens—no, hundreds!—of customers to his shop, and a new hat and shoes. And we all need thick comforters and our own mattresses.”
Mrs. Groad smiled tenderly. “Do you think Father Christmas will bring us all that?”
Josephine laughed. “Of course! That’s why he’s Father Christmas.”
Mrs. Groad tried not to look sad as she put Josephine to bed. Father Christmas would not be bringing Josephine a fine china doll and kittens and lovely dresses in the night. In Josephine’s stocking the next morning there would be a rag doll, a dress made from the spare fabric of her parents’ old clothes, and the two tattered books they had set aside enough money to buy. Perhaps in a few years, when business had picked up. But not this year. Not this Christmas.
Josephine closed her eyes, her long lashes curling on her cheeks. Mrs. Groad watched her until her breathing evened out and she was sure she was asleep, then tiptoed down the stairs and over to the fireplace.
“She’s sound asleep,” she whispered to Mr. Groad. “You’ve got—oh!”
Something was rustling in the chimney.
“It’s just the bats,” Mr. Groad sighed. “They’ll fly out on its own.”
But rather a lot of ash was being agitated and falling onto the fire.
“Robbers?” Mrs. Groad said fearfully.
Mr. Groad picked up the fire poker resting against the mantelpiece. “If so, they’d best be well-prepared.”
“Don’t wake Josie!”
With a loud THUMP, something large and red landed in the fire, promptly putting it out.
Mrs. Groad clapped her hands over her mouth. Mr. Groad seemed to be unable to decide whether or not to lower the poker, and kept bringing it down to about his waist before raising it again.
A tall, round man in bishop’s robes with a sack over his shoulder ducked out of the fireplace and straightened. He seemed not at all surprised to be greeted by two shocked middle-aged Parisians.
“You’re not…” Mrs. Groad couldn’t name him.
The jolly fat man only smiled, put a finger to his lips, and pointed upstairs.
Even the most persistent of skeptics would be hard-pressed to disobey instructions from the jolly fat man himself. Mr. Groad dropped his poker, dipped into a slight bow, and hurried upstairs. Mrs. Groad stood a moment longer, staring, before following.
The next morning, none of the Groads were too surprised to find under the tree a stack of brand new books, two new child-size purple dresses with matching hair ribbons, shoes, coats and mittens, a child-size apron, a china doll with yellow hair wearing a miniature version of the lovelier of the two dresses, and two kittens in a basket. They were only marginally more surprised to find an adult’s dress, apron and shoes for a woman and a man, two mattresses and two large, warm down comforters.
Josephine shrieked with joy and spent the entire day playing with her kittens, who she named Pippin and Charlemagne. She stopped only for Christmas dinner, which she spent buried in one of her new books. That night, as Josephine was drifting off to sleep on her new mattress under her new comforter, the Groads had a furious, whispered conversation about exactly how long they could keep Josephine believing in Santa Claus.
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