haven’t even got a tree to put them under,’ Kazia sighs. ‘What else is in there?’
Mum lifts out the last of the packaging, and Kazia’s eyes grow round.
‘The Christmas castle!’ she breathes.
Inside the box is the old tin castle Dad made years ago in Krakow when I was little. It’s a szopka castle, traditional to Krakow, with turrets and towers and little domed roofs, intricate and beautiful. The tin has been shaped and scored and patterned, the whole thing painted with bright, rich colours.
Every year in Krakow, there’s a competition to see who can create the best design, and back when I was three years old, Dad won the prize. He never entered again, but we took the castle out every December and sat it in the window with candles burning beside it, to show that Christmas was coming.
‘It brings us luck,’ Dad used to say.
We couldn’t take it to Liverpool, of course. It was too bulky to pack, and besides, other things were more important. We gave it to Gran and Grandad, and now they’ve sent it over to us, just in time for Christmas – and just when we really, really need the luck.
Kazia and I carry it to the window, and set it on the rickety side table there. It looks beautiful.
In the bottom of the box, a silver star made of beaten tin glints brightly. ‘The star!’ I grin. Again, made by Dad back in the days when he had time to cut and shape and pattern things from tin or wood, the star sits at the top of the Christmas tree every year, watching over us all. There is something comforting about having our old things around us, even in this dump.
‘But no tree…’ Kazia sighs, and right then the door swings open and Dad comes in, a Christmas tree slung over his shoulder.
‘No tree?’ he echoes. ‘This is the best tree in the city, especially for my girls!’
‘Oh, Dad!’ Kazia grins. ‘It’s perfect!’
Well, not quite – it’s slightly lopsided and kind of bare and brown-looking all down one side, but we wedge it into a bucket and edge it into a corner so that you can’t see the brown bits. Mum switches on the radio and finds some Christmas songs, then we cut stars from white paper and make apple and orange slices to dry out on the radiator and string together with nuts and sweets, the way we used to back in Krakow. Dad lifts Kazia up to fix the star on top, and finally I can see that this is the best Christmas tree in Liverpool after all.
‘Have you seen the Christmas castle?’ I ask Dad. ‘Gran and Grandad sent it over in a big parcel, so now we’ll have all the luck we need…’
Dad frowns, as if he doesn’t believe in luck any more, and I know he is thinking of happier times, times in Krakow when the castle glinted bright in the wintry sunlight and silent snow. Even I can see that it looks out of place here, perched on a lopsided table next to the draughty, grey window.
‘Maybe,’ Dad says. ‘But right now, what we need is some of your mother’s stew with dumplings and rye bread, then honey cakes to sweeten us up.’
‘I’m not hungry,’ Kazia complains. ‘I’m all tired and hot and achey.’ Mum rests a palm against my little sister’s forehead.
‘You’re very warm,’ she says. ‘And clammy. You don’t look well at all. I hope you’re not sickening for something, Kazia.’
She makes my little sister a nest of blankets on the threadbare sofa, settling her against the cushions with lemon squash and a warm honey cake. In minutes, Kazia’s head droops and she is sleeping, one blonde curl sticking damply to her cheek.
‘Oh dear,’ Dad sighs. ‘I was hoping we could eat and then take a walk up to the cathedral… catch up with our Polish friends. Perhaps one of them might help with the business? A small loan, perhaps, just to tide us over?’
Most of Dad’s contacts from the Polish Mass at the cathedral are struggling as much as we are, but I don’t say that. If Dad is desperate enough to be asking acquaintances for a loan, things must be bad.
‘Well, we’ll eat, anyway,’ Mum says. ‘Perhaps Kazia just needs a rest?’
Mum is dishing out stew and dumplings when the doorbell rings. It’s Dan. He looks even worse than Kazia, as though he’s been up all night, and maybe the night before that too.