began to read and write on a small scale. Letters became words. Words became sentences. Sentences fit into the context of passages that were understandable to him. From time to time, I saw him glance at the front page of a journal or the cover of a book with a curiosity that went beneath the binding.
He also showed a modest aptitude for fractions and decimals, which enabled him to weigh each loaf of bread in the presence of the buyer. Taken together, his newly acquired skills allowed him to master the sign on the bakery wall:
There are many kinds of pride. Christopher took pride in his labour. He took pride as he learned to read and write. But the greatest pride and joy in his life was Ruby.
Night after night, he sat with her. No matter how tired he was after a long day’s work, he would take her on his back and carry her round in play. When he spoke to her, his voice was never rough or angry. His hands were large but never heavy when he touched her. Her smile always brightened his face, as if, when she smiled, they were coining gold.
A man of noble lineage loves the mansion of his inheritance as a trophy of birth and wealth. The root of a poor man’s attachment to his home grows deep into purer soil.
Christopher saw his new home as a grandly furnished palace. And Ruby was as much at home as if she had lived there for her entire life. She knew nothing in a philosophical way about the inequities of society. But she knew that the world she had once lived in was a very hard place and her new world was very unlike it. Soon, all trace of the deprivation of her early years was gone.
Marie had lost the love of a husband but now had the love of a child. To see her walk hand in hand with Ruby, to watch them together in the home, warmed the heart. She would sing to Ruby when putting her to sleep. Ruby would smile and close her eyes. At times, I wondered if the child’s mind might not be journeying back to the earliest years of her life when she was sung to by another woman who held her in her arms and called her “my child.”
If a good fairy had built a home for Ruby with the wave of a magic wand and made her a princess in the bargain, she would not have been happier. Each day began with three eggs on the table. One for Ruby, one for Marie, and one for Christopher. There was bread, milk, and coffee. On Sundays, bacon or sausage hissed in a pan.
Children move back and forth between being free spirits totally immersed in a doll, a flower, or whatever has captured their fancy in the moment and, when sad, the most heavily burdened souls on earth. But the world was full of happiness for Ruby. She took joy in every tree, in every bird, in the sun by day and the stars at night. Her childish eyes opened wider and wider as she discovered more of the world round her. She was inquisitive and playful. She loved the church bells when they rang.
Unlike Marie, I lived alone. I have had some ladies on my arm and kissed more than a few in my time. But I never married. Marie and her husband were my family. Now Christopher became my brother and Ruby my child. I was invited often to join them for dinner. Marie made an honest stout soup with potatoes, rice, and barley. There was bread, cheese, greens when in season, and, once a week, meat.
Ruby frequently visited my bakery. On these occasions, the words “Ruby help,” spoken by her with enthusiasm, inspired both a smile and dread. Invariably, she was soon up to her elbows in flour with more flour in her hair.
“Young lady,” I told her. “You are not easy, but you are worth the trouble.”
On one of her visits, I asked if she would like to help make strawberry jam. Not just eat it, but make it from scratch. A cry of joy escaped her lips, and two bright eyes fixed upon me in expectation.
We washed the strawberries, crushed them, and mixed them with sugar. Then I poured the mixture into a pan and stirred it over a flame until the sugar had fully dissolved.
The jam boiled for five minutes. As it was cooling, Ruby reached for the pan.
“Young lady; if you place a matter in the hands of a professional, you must not interfere with the conduct of his business. The pan is hot. Leave it alone, do not burn yourself, and we will get along exceedingly well. But if you try again to touch it, I am going to eat you up like a big piece of bread with jam.”
“I’m not bread with jam.”
“No?”
“No! I’m a girl. I’m Ruby.”
After the jam cooled, I spooned most of it into jars, sealed them with wax, and put the rest on bread for Ruby.
Here, I might add that jam has many uses.
“Ruby, we are going to clean the room together,” Marie said one day.
“No!”
Marie’s suggestion was repeated more strongly, this time as a command.
Ruby’s “no” was repeated with equal conviction.
“No jam for you today,” Marie warned.
“I do it! I do it!”
With Ruby under the same roof as Christopher and Marie, the smile of Heaven shone on the chamber. With her golden hair and sparkling blue eyes, she was like a beautiful springtime morning. Drops of rain that fell on her hair looked like dew freshly gathered on a flower. Smiles played upon her face like light upon jewels. She was affectionate and sweet-natured with a musical little voice. I do not know how she came to be that way. I can only say that she was blessed and that, in her earliest years, she must have been very much loved by her mother.
I loved that little girl so much. She could have been the daughter of a king.
We celebrated Ruby’s fourth birthday in July. Christopher was crying that evening at dinner.
“She was the only thing that made this world of value for me,” he said through tears. “And now, to see her so happy . . .”
Summer passed. Autumn leaves fell. Then came winter and Christmas.
Christmas encircles the small world of a child like a magic ring. This was a Christmas unlike any that Ruby and Christopher had known before.
Marie’s bakery and my own opened for business on Christmas morning at the normal hour of seven o’clock. Three hours later, we closed our doors and I went to her home where gifts were exchanged.
Marie gave Ruby a pair of red mittens that she had knitted while Ruby was sleeping. Christopher gave her a doll. I brought a miniature rocking horse about the size of my hand. Then we left for a special occasion. Octavius Joy had invited us to his home for Christmas dinner.
The streets were sprinkled with clusters of people wearing their gayest faces and dressed in their finest clothes. I could only imagine how the sights and sounds echoed in Ruby’s mind. The colours, the smiles, the good cheer.
We passed a group of carolers, singing in a language that Ruby did not understand:
Adeste Fideles laeti triumphantes,
Venite, venite in Bethlehem.
The voices were a beautiful orchestra to her.
“Christmas brings back the pleasures of our childhood,” Marie said as she took my arm.
