The following is based on the BBC series Cranford, which in turn was based on Cranford, Mr. Harrison's Confessions, and My Lady Ludlow, all by Elizabeth Gaskell. Specifically, the story concerns episode three of the 2007 series, and ought not to be confused with the 2009 Christmas sequel.

The chapter below incorporates a bit of dialogue from Heidi Thomas's marvelous Cranford script, in addition to lyrics in the public domain.

I have no connection to Mrs. Gaskell, Ms. Thomas, or the BBC. I do this for the love of it, so please don't sue me.

But do review me.

Chapter 2: The Darkest Night in December

Christmas Eve. Not as cold as it might have been, and Harry didn't think anything of the weather once he had been walking for a bit. Besides, Mum wouldn't like it if he dallied, and left Dada waiting in the cold and dark for his supper.

Mum couldn't take it to him herself; she had James and the others to think of, and besides she had been crying all day and evening. She had tried not to show it, of course, but Harry had seen her eyes were red and swollen, and wet with tears.

He wished there were something he might say to stop Mum from being sad, but they both knew what was going to happen, and neither of them could do anything about it.

But he could help her with the Christmas Eve supper, and so while she was holding James to her chest yet again Harry set out a bit of food on the table. It was not the fine meal they had planned when Dada had still been with them, of course, but Malachi and the others took their places quickly enough, and looked as though they wanted to begin at once.

Harry wouldn't let them eat yet, though, not until Mum was ready, but once she put James to bed and came to the table, she would not take anything for herself. Instead she gathered up bread, cheese, even a bit of sausage, to be supper for Dada, and gave them to Harry, who took them without a word, put on his cap, and set out for the village.


Most nights he hated the woods, and tonight it was worse – colder and darker and lonelier than ever it had been.

On reaching the village he passed by a snug little cottage, its windows brightened by the many candles within, and Harry could see the frilled caps and pale faces of what must have been a good many ladies. It was Christmas Eve – at this moment, Harry had very nearly forgotten that – and no doubt there was a fine strong fire burning on the hearth, and good things for the ladies to eat and drink.

If Dada had been home with them that night, they might have had a good supper too, and there should have been songs and stories for Christmas Eve. There was one song they all liked best.

The holly and the ivy,

When they are both full grown

Of all the trees that are in the woods

The holly bears the crown.

It was a merry tune, and Dada could play it on his flute, and Mum would hum it when she went about her work. Harry couldn't remember the rest of the words – something about Jesus, he thought – but then he didn't care what the words were. He didn't want to sing it, not tonight. He didn't want to sing it ever again.


Dada had been so proud the day they'd all walked into Johnson's. It wasn't often he went into the village at all, and he almost never took the rest of them along, but he had on that day.

"Don't be dallying. Come on!"

They had followed him in a line, Mum and Harry and Malachi and the others, as though Dada were a duck and the rest of them ducklings. At another time Harry might have laughed at that, but on this day he couldn't, not when he knew how Dada had got all his money.

Dada himself cared nothing for that. He led them to Johnson's, and made them go inside. It was a wonderful place, with candles and trinkets and sweets, but Harry didn't want to see any of it. He wanted nothing so much as to go home again.

Especially when he saw how Mr. and Mrs. Johnson were looking at them. Mr. Johnson had big round eyes and a mouth that turned down at each side, and Mrs. Johnson looked like she'd just eaten a sour apple. She was watching Dada, who had turned to Mum and smiled.

"Go on," he said, nodding at some pretty combs for ladies. "Pick one for your Christmas box."

"Such an extravagance," said Mum, who opened her eyes wide but did not smile at the sight of all the fine things, even if one of them was to be her present.

Dada was standing there, watching her, and jingling the coins in his hand. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Johnson looking at him, and nodded and smiled back. For some reason that made Mr. Johnson go away, as if he were cross about something, and only Mrs. Johnson stayed behind, pressing her mouth into a straight line, as if she too had found a very good reason to be cross.


Supper was wonderful that night; they all had enough to eat, and it wasn't even a Sunday. Afterwards Dada gave them a tune on his flute, and Malachi pretended to play along with him, and they all laughed.

Dada had just finished his song and was bowing to Mum and all the rest of them when there came a knocking, and the door opened suddenly.

It was Mr. Graves, the constable.

"Job Gregson," he said, with a look and a voice that made Harry feel hollow inside, "I am arresting you on a charge of robbery and assault with an intent to endanger the life of Mr. Josiah Johnson."

Only then did Harry see that Mr. Johnson was standing behind the constable, looking as though he thought he'd just done the bravest thing in the world.


They had taken Dada away to jail then and there, though Mum had cried and asked them not to. But they wouldn't listen to her, and Dada wouldn't listen to Harry when he came to see him and begged him to say he'd been poaching. No, Dada said, he'd not see Harry go down as well, not when he was but ten years old.

But that meant that the magistrate would find Dada guilty of robbery, and put him on the ships -- unless Harry could find someone, anyone, who might want to know the truth.


Mr. Carter had sat at his desk and listened, and kept his voice low and quiet each time he asked a question.

Somehow that made Harry feel worse.

"Sir, he's not guilty."

Mr. Carter looked straight across the desk at him. "Can you vouch for his whereabouts on that night?"

The question was put forth in a calm, steady voice, and even so Harry could not bring himself to give an answer.

"Can you prove he was in another place?" went on Mr. Carter. "Otherwise occupied?"

"He was on Lady Ludlow's land," said Harry at last. "Poaching. Six brace of pheasants, two of snipe.

"I helped you write it in the ledger," he added, feeling his face go hot, as though burnt by fire.

"How do you know it was him?" Mr. Carter's voice was still low and even, but Harry could see that the line had appeared on his forehead, right between his eyes.

"I was with him. I was helping." It hurt worst of all to say that, but it was the truth, and Mr. Carter had taught him he must always tell the truth.

"Go home now." Mr. Carter spoke softly, even kindly, but Harry did not move. He could not.

"Now, Harry!" said Mr. Carter, his eyes at once very bright, his mouth twisting with anger.

Harry was frightened, too frightened even to say, "Yes, sir," and turned round at once. Still it seemed his legs would not carry him away fast enough.

He was across the lawn of the great house and nearly into the woods before he remembered to brush the tears from his eyes, and wipe his nose on the back of his hand.


After that, Harry didn't go back to the office to help Mr. Carter, and half-expected to be sent to the magistrate himself. Any road, Mr. Carter wouldn't help him anymore, not when Harry had been poaching again, after he'd said he wouldn't.

He had promised Mr. Carter he would be a good boy and make something of himself. What was that word he had taught him? Transcend. To rise above one's circumstances.

Now Mr. Carter would never see him again, except to send him off to jail, and each day Harry looked for Mr. Graves to come back and take him away.


But it was not Mr. Graves who came to visit them.

It was several days before Christmas, and James had been crying all day, and Mum was in tears herself, when Harry heard the whinnying of horses and the creak of wheels. He came out of the doorway just in time to see Lady Ludlow step down from her carriage.

"Is this where Job Gregson lives?"

"Yes, it is, my lady," said Harry. He already had taken off his cap, just as Mr. Carter had taught him to do.

Lady Ludlow did not stay with them long, nor did she say much, but Harry saw her watching everybody and everything. Her face was beautiful to look at but very pale, and her eyes so large and surrounded by grey shadows that Harry thought her very like the ghosts that Dada talked about in his stories.

He ought to have been afraid of her, and yet when she turned round to look at him once she did not look so very fearsome at all. She looked sad, Harry thought, though he did not know why her ladyship should be sad, when she'd a fine carriage to ride in, and plenty to eat, and not only on Sundays.


Christmas Eve. It was cold, and already quite dark, before Harry reached the jail. He hated to think of Dada spending Christmas Eve in that terrible place, but even more he hated the thought of him being sent away.

There was lamplight enough to see the street clearly, and the carriage sitting not far from the jail. It was a fine carriage, Harry saw, and there were men standing close by it.

One of them was Mr. Graves, who had come to take Dada away.

Another was Mr. Carter. He didn't have his hat on, and Harry could see his face in the lamplight, but he should have known him anyway by the long coat he wore.

Harry was wondering what Mr. Carter was doing there on Christmas Eve, and with Lady Ludlow's carriage too, when another man appeared -- on horseback, riding at a gallop. Harry quickly hid himself, but he could hear everything that was said, and see everything that was happening.

"Good evening, Sir Charles," said Mr. Graves, in a voice Harry had never heard him use.

"What the devil's going on, Graves?" said Sir Charles Maulver crossly, getting down from his horse.

The magistrate had come. He had come on Christmas Eve.

He was going to send Dada away. He was going to send him away that very night...

To be continued…