This story begins not in a blissful land of crackling fires and mischievous elves, but in a land of cold, despair and sadness.

He brushed away the snow that had settled on his dirty old boots and tucked in the new laces. Timothy had salvaged the laces from a pair of expensive leather shoes thrown in the bin. It never ceased to amaze him what things the fortunate rich threw away. Only the previous week, before finding the new laces, he had come across a wonderful knitted blanket screwed up in amongst the refuse of one of the posh houses. “What a gem!” Timothy had said out-loud, before hushing himself – remembering that the Parker family had caught him going through their bins once before.

The little boy of only eight had peeled away a mouldy lettuce leaf that clung to the blanket, and removed a few long hairs. Good as new, Timothy thought; if only every day was quite so lucky.

It was over a year since the orphanage had burnt to the ground, and throughout the last year, the year of 1890, Timothy had found himself in trouble more times than he could remember.

“What’s that you’ve got in your hand, you little runt?!” the woman had shouted.

“Lying rat boy!” she spat, “you’ve taken one of my apples you little thief!”

“No Miss, I haven’t, honest” Timothy pleaded. “This is one I found in the street, it ain’t yours Miss, look, a worms eaten a hole straight through!”

Timothy raised the street apple into the air, allowing the shaggy-haired woman to see the hole.

“You saying my apples are worm-ridden?” she roared, her face reddening.

“Course not Miss, it just ain’t yours. I found it lying in the gutter; it don’t belong to no-one on account of it being in the street, all eaten up by a worm!”

Timothy didn’t hear the woman’s response, just caught a glimpse of her hand before everything turned grey. Bright lights popped before his eyes as he hit the ground, face down.

The woman was laughing, and not only her, a load of them - all laughing. Timothy crawled away into the alley beside Felton’s bakery. When he stopped feeling dizzy, he realised that his ear hurt. A great lump had swollen just above it, and then Timothy began to cry.

“ ‘Scuse me young man” said a voice from high above. “You can’t stay here, I’ve got fruit and veg to load, and all you’re doing is getting in the way.” Timothy apologised meekly to the man and stepped out into the cobbled street. He felt the cold snow through one of his boots and shivered. The town was very busy. People rushed to and fro, in and out of shops – all looking occupied, all with lots of bags.

The snow had stopped for now, but as Timothy headed for Ma Jacob’s hut, he noticed how the cobbles still showed signs of the previous night’s fall; white-grey slush squelched beneath his feet as he gazed at the delicate branches of the bare trees, all frosted with a crisp white topping.

Walking past the winter gardens, he saw the grand tree decorated all in red. Huge baubles hung orb-like, from the branches. Little stars made of straw and painted red, dangled from the white-tipped branches of the town Christmas tree.

‘Oh how lovely it would be, to be one of those decorations’ timothy thought. ‘I could sit up there, safe from the cold ground, for all to see. Placed like a precious thing’.

Just then, a large cart pulled by a majestic horse clip-clopped by, frightening Timothy out of his daydream.

“Move it you little cretin!” he heard the coachman bellow. He scurried to the side and the huge wheels of the carriage trundled by, leaving two thin lines in the slushy snow on the ground.

Timothy wandered on through the chilly town until he reached Pennyright lane; a dingy alley made up of tin shelters and wooden boxes. He came here every morning to get his meal of the day. Ma Jacobs was a very old woman who lived in a little wooden hut. The hut - barely big enough for a single person – sat at the very end of the lane. Ma Jacobs’ husband had died in the fires and only had a tiny amount of money she made from selling little bracelets to rich children; every morning, she would share what food she could afford and give half to Timothy.

The small boy had come to think of Ma Jacobs as a parent of sorts; Timothy had never known parents, or had anyone to properly look after him, so he was grateful every day for what Ma Jacobs could give him.

Past the battered windows and creaky doors with the red paint, Timothy walked. He knocked on the sheet of wood that pushed aside to reveal Ma Jacobs little box; Nothing. He knocked again, still nothing. He was about to slide the piece of wood across, when a voice from above screeched;

Timothy threw his skinny body against the wall, but still was splashed with some of the bed pan’s contents.

“Who’s that down there? Is it Jacobs you’re looking for?” the man asked, leaning out of his window.

“Um, yes sir. That’s right. I was hoping to see Ma…I mean, Mrs Jacobs” Timothy mumbled; He was holding one hand over his nose and mouth to block out some of the smell.

“Too late” sneered the man, “they carried her off last night. They say she croaked it looking through that grimy old book of hers.”

Timothy felt sick. That can’t be right, he thought, and opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He felt an odd lump grow in his throat as he looked up to ask the man what had happened. But the man had gone back in, and closed the wooden shutters on his ramshackle house. Timothy felt his hands shaking, and somewhere in the distance he could hear carols being sung. He pushed the door aside and peered in upon the space that was no bigger than a dog’s kennel. Nothing was left; the bare box stripped even of the few rags Ma Jacobs owned. And where was the book?

Ma Jacobs sometimes showed Timothy a paper-bound book. In it, stories all about the saints and on what days people celebrated their lives. The stories were accompanied by pretty little paintings framed by curling green ivy and little golden flowers. Once, while the cherry trees were still in bloom, Ma Jacobs had sat in the doorway to her hut and told Timothy about Saint David, a man who had lived many years ago and was hailed as the Patron saint of Wales (A beautiful, hilly country that lay near the sea).

Only the day before, Timothy had sat on the big grey cobbles with his chin in his hands, and heard all about Saint Nicholas. He was also a very famous man, who – at Christmas time - rewarded good children with gifts of sweet oranges and toys made of wood. Timothy had listened carefully, but at the end, was a little confused.

“What happens if the children are very bad, Ma Jacobs?” He had asked.

“Well, young Timothy,” she explained, wrapping her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders, “very bad children get nothing but a cold night’s sleep and a lump of coal on Christmas eve.”

“But what about methen? I ain’t been bad really – except when I run into the bank.”

Timothy began to speak very quickly, aware that he was confessing a grave sin to Ma Jacobs. “I only went in there to get back the bouncy ball I found, and I went straight out, honest!”

Ma Jacobs chuckled. “Don’t be silly boy! Saint Nicholas won’t scold you for doing that. He’s a forgiving man, with a good heart. Besides, you’re the most well-behaved little boy I know!” She smiled warmly. Timothy smiled back, and buried his face in his hands, embarrassed.

Timothy stood in the doorway to Ma Jacobs’ hut; cold wet and hungry, he headed back down Pennyright Lane. Perhaps there’ll be a big fire roaring in the town square, he thought. He wiped the little tears from his eyes, and nestled his frozen hands inside the pockets of his oversized coat.

After dodging through the many busy people, the little boy reached the square. There were sadly no fire, but there was a great market. Many crisp scarlet tents had been put up, all decorated with holly and wreaths. As he wandered down the centre of the market, delicious smells wafted toward his face, making his hunger grow even worse. Warm rolls with cinnamon, little pies with powdered sugar on top; there was even real cocoa bubbling away on a coal stove! Timothy couldn’t help but smile, but just then, a lady in a big blue dress scowled, and then walked deliberately around him. I wish people weren’t so afraid of me, he thought and frowned. Snow began to fall again, and this time, the flakes were big. Soft lumps of pure white swirled down all around him and, as people hurried to their waiting carriages, Timothy noticed the window across the street. It was wonderful, all lit up by hundreds of candles. He scampered across the cobbles – narrowly missing another huge horse – and peered in through the steamy glass. Inside, he saw the sight he had watched every day since his earliest Christmas memory. A shop full of children with their parents, all gazing in awe at the display before them; on a big table, there lay a magnificent rail-track, and on it, a little working train puffing out little clouds of grey smoke. In each of the trains brightly coloured carriages, there had been placed different chocolates all with wonderful, shining wrappers.

“A mint chocolate cream for me please” Timothy said out-loud, his nose pressed against the frosty glass.

Just then, the little boy’s attention was drawn to a girl in a golden dress with a big bow on the front. She was clinging to a doll with dark curly hair.

“No Mummy, I want Felicity doll! I told Daddy before, I want Felicity doll, not that stupid old bear. Bears are for stupid, ugly little girls! I’m not a stupid, ugly little girl am I?” she yelled.

“No, sweetykins” replied her mother, in a soothing tone of voice. “My princess gets whatever she wants, so Felicity doll it is.”

The lady took the little girl by the hand and walked to a counter, where a young man put the doll in a deep purple bag.

I would have you, teddy bear, thought Timothy. ‘What a terrible way to treat you. If I was your owner, I would never let you go, or ever call you stupid and old.’

Timothy imagined holding the scruffy bear with the little button in its ear, and felt comforted. Just then, the young man in the shop caught Timothy’s eye and shooed him away.

Timothy found a little sheltered spot under the tree and wrapped his damp blanket all around. Somewhere in the distance, Timothy could hear the hymn of ‘Royal David’s City’ being sung by the church choir. The little boy listened to the first verse, and then felt a very sudden chill. He began to weep, and as the tears streaked down his cheeks, they froze into little crystals that clung to his pale face.

Timothy closed his eyes and began to fall asleep. Little red lights glowed, and he was in Ma Jacobs’ arms. A million tiny golden stars danced on the ceiling and Timothy felt the warmth of a fire being lit. He hugged a scruffy brown bear, snuggled deeper into his blanket, and, as the smell of mince pies floated towards him, everything faded to darkness.

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