2.

'Too many what?', Will inquired, rather curious.

'Too many kids in this family, that's what. Just too many.' James stood fuming on the landing like a small angry locomotive, then stumped across the window-seat and stared out at the garden. Will put aside his book and pulled up his legs to make room. 'I could hear all the yelling,' he said, chin on knees.

'Wasn't anything,' James said. 'Just stupid Barbara again. Bossing. Pick up this, don't touch that. And Mary joining in, twitter twitter twittering on. You'd think this house was big enough, but there's always people.'

They both looked out of the window. The snow lay thin and apologetic over the earth. That wide grey sweep was the lawn, with the straggling trees of the orchard still dark beyond; the white squares were the rooves of the garages, the old barn, the rabbit hutches, and the chicken coops. Further back there were only the flat fields of Dawson's farm, dimly white-striped. All the broad sky was grey, full of persistent snow that simply refused to fall. The world around them lacked colour: Colour and life. 'Four days to Christmas,' Will said. 'I wish it would snow properly.'