Chapter 3
Home and Hiding
Angela smuggles the statue home, hiding it in her room. She tucks it into a warm blanket, whispering comforting words, treating it like a real, vulnerable baby. The challenge of secrecy begins.
Angela’s heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. Her small fingers, chilled from the church’s stone floor, clutched the smooth, cool plaster of the Infant Jesus. The swaddling cloth, a delicate white linen, felt impossibly soft against her skin. Outside, the wind howled a mournful tune, and the gas lamps flickered nervously in their iron cages, casting long, dancing shadows that seemed to reach for her. She scurried down the slick cobblestone street, her worn boots slapping a frantic rhythm against the damp stones. Each gust of wind felt like a judgmental whisper, each distant clatter like an approaching footstep.
She reached the familiar, crooked doorway of her home, the scent of coal smoke and boiled cabbage a comforting, if pungent, welcome. Her mother would be inside, no doubt stirring a pot or mending torn trousers. Pat and Tom would be arguing over a game of marbles, and little Aggie, her precious Aggie, would be tucked away, a small bundle of warmth and giggles. Angela pushed the door open, a sliver at a time, her breath catching in her throat.
“Is that you, Angela?” her mother’s voice, warm and slightly weary, floated from the kitchen.
“Aye, Mam,” Angela replied, her voice a little too high, a little too shaky. She slipped inside, pulling the door shut with a soft click, the Infant Jesus tucked securely beneath her shawl, hidden against her chest. The statue felt surprisingly heavy, a precious secret pressing against her.
She tiptoed past the living room, where the murmur of her brothers’ voices and the click of marbles confirmed her suspicions. She made her way, as quietly as a mouse, up the narrow, creaking stairs to her shared bedroom. The room was small, crowded with the straw-filled mattresses of the four children. Aggie’s small cot was in the corner, a testament to her youth and fragility.
Angela’s own mattress was near the window, its glass panes misted with condensation. She carefully eased herself down, the statue still pressed against her. The cold seeped through her thin blouse, but the Infant Jesus felt even colder. It was so small, so helpless. How could anyone leave such a tiny, delicate thing out in the cold?
She reached into her meagre hope chest, a wooden box filled with treasured scraps of fabric and a few faded ribbons. She pulled out a worn, but still soft, woollen blanket, a patchwork of various blues and greys that her grandmother had made years ago. With trembling hands, she carefully unwrapped the Infant Jesus. The white swaddling cloth was still neat, a perfect little bundle of holiness, but the figure itself was stark against the rough wool.
“There now,” Angela whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “You’ll be warm now, won’t you?”
She gently laid the Infant Jesus onto the blanket, then carefully re-wrapped Him, creating a snug, secure nest. She tucked the blanket around Him, pressing her cheek against the soft wool. It was still cool, but at least now He was covered. She imagined Him sleeping soundly, no longer shivering in the cold stone of the church.
The room grew darker as the evening drew in. The wind outside seemed to gain a new ferocity, rattling the windowpanes with an insistent, almost angry, demand. Angela shivered, not entirely from the cold. A tiny seed of unease began to sprout in her heart. Had she done the right thing? Was it truly her place to take Him?
Later, her mother came to tuck them in. She smoothed Angela’s hair, her calloused fingers gentle. “Are you warm enough, child?” she asked, her eyes, usually so full of weary kindness, seemed to hold a flicker of concern.
“Aye, Mam,” Angela mumbled, pulling her thin blanket tighter. She dared not move, afraid that any shift might reveal the precious cargo hidden beneath. Her mother lingered for a moment, her gaze sweeping over the small room, then she kissed Angela’s forehead and moved to Aggie’s cot.
“Sleep now, my little bird,” her mother cooed, stroking Aggie’s soft, downy hair. Aggie stirred, a tiny sigh escaping her lips. Angela watched them, her heart aching with a mixture of love and guilt.
The first night was a blur of whispered reassurances to the Infant Jesus, of furtive glances towards the window, and of a gnawing fear that she had committed a terrible sin. She kept the statue hidden beneath her blanket, nestled deep within the straw of her mattress. Every creak of the house, every gust of wind, sent a jolt of panic through her.
The next day dawned grey and bleak. The wind had not abated, but now it carried with it a stinging rain that lashed against the windows. The world outside was a swirling chaos of grey. Pat and Tom, bored by the weather, were confined to the house, their usual boisterous energy subdued by the relentless downpour. Her mother was busy, her brow furrowed with worry as she surveyed the dwindling stores of coal.
Angela, however, was consumed by a different kind of worry. She snuck glances at the Infant Jesus, who lay hidden, a warm weight against her side. He seemed peaceful, but Angela couldn’t shake the feeling that the storm was somehow her fault. She had taken Him, after all. She had dared to move Him from His rightful place. Surely, God must be angry.
During the day, she would steal moments to unwrap Him, to whisper apologies and promises. “Don’t worry,” she’d murmur, stroking His smooth, cool cheek. “I’ll keep you safe. You’ll be warm here. I promise.” She even shared a crust of her bread with Him, breaking off tiny crumbs and placing them near His outstretched hands, a futile offering for a plaster figure, but an act of devotion nonetheless.
Then, the real dread began. Aggie, her bright, bubbly Aggie, started to cough. It was a dry, hacking sound at first, but it grew worse throughout the day, her small body wracked with shivers. Her cheeks, usually rosy and full of life, became pale and flushed.
Angela watched, her stomach twisting into knots. Her mother tried everything she knew – warm milk with honey, a poultice of mustard and flour on Aggie’s chest, a comforting hand on her feverish brow. But Aggie only grew weaker.
“It’s the damp,” her mother sighed, her voice heavy with concern. “This weather is no good for anyone, especially a little one.”
But Angela knew, with a certainty that chilled her to the bone, that it wasn’t the damp. It was her. She had angered God. She had stolen His Son, and now He was punishing her by making her little sister ill. The Infant Jesus, so cold and vulnerable, had brought this terrible storm, and Aggie’s suffering was the price.
Tears streamed down Angela’s face, hot and unstoppable. She crept back to her mattress, her hands fumbling beneath the layers of straw and blanket. She pulled out the Infant Jesus, His plaster form feeling impossibly cold and distant now. She held Him tightly, pressing Him against her tear-streaked face.
“Please,” she sobbed, her voice a desperate whisper. “Please, forgive me. Take the sickness away from Aggie. I’ll put you back. I promise. I’ll put you back right now.”
The weight of her secret, the fear for Aggie, and the crushing guilt of her perceived transgression overwhelmed her. She looked at the Infant Jesus, His arms outstretched as if to embrace the world, His gaze seemingly fixed on her, a silent plea in His painted eyes. She had wanted to warm Him, to protect Him, but in doing so, she had brought a far greater cold into their home. The storm outside raged on, mirroring the tempest in her soul. She knew what she had to do. The adventure of hiding Him was over. The terrifying journey of returning Him had just begun.