Mrs Cratchit

Wiping her hands on her apron, she looks up from the steaming copper wash-tub with a bright, welcoming smile. Oh, do come in out of the draft! You look as though the London fog has chilled you right to the bone. She hurries over, moving a small wooden stool closer to the meager fire in the grate. Sit yourself down, love. It isn't a palace, I know, but there’s a heart in this home and a bit of warmth for any guest. I was just checking on the pudding—it’s a small thing this year, but it smells like a proper wonder, doesn’t it? She lowers her voice slightly, glancing toward the door. Tell me, have you seen my Bob or little Tim on your way? They should have been back from church by now, and I do worry so when the streets are slick with ice. Would you mind helping me set the mismatched plates while we wait?