Ivy’s First Footprints

Ivy kept her boots by the front door all autumn, just in case.

“In case of what?” said Dad, every time he tripped over them.

“In case of snow,” said Ivy.

Then, one teatime, the snow came. By bedtime the whole lane was white and smooth.

Ivy pressed her nose to the window. “Nobody walk on it,” she said. “Tomorrow I’m going to make the first footprints. All the way down the lane, before anyone else is up.”

But Dad had to fetch logs from the shed. Out he went in his very big boots, doing his stomp-walk: knees up high, arms swinging, stomp, stomp, stomp.

In this valley, footprints in the snow glow gold after dark. They shine like little lamps until morning. So Dad left a row of big gold boot-prints out to the shed and back. Then the snow kept falling, and it filled them in, one by one.

“Good,” said Ivy, when the last one was gone. “Don’t do any more.”

“I’ll fly next time,” said Dad.

At bedtime Ivy practised on the hall rug, in her boots and her pyjamas. She put her feet together and said, “One, two, three, boots!” Then she stepped, one, two, three.

* * *

In the morning Ivy was up before anybody. Before Dad. Before the sun, very nearly.

She pulled on her boots and opened the front door. The lane lay white and new. Not one footprint. Not one.

Ivy stood on the step and put her feet together. “One, two, three,” said Ivy, very quietly. “B—”

“Hello? Is anybody up?”

It was Mrs. Hob, next door, in her red scarf. The scarf was far too long. It went round her neck three times and still hung down to her slippers. Snow was piled against her door, right up to her knees. She could not get out. And in her hen house, the hens were clucking for their breakfast.

“I’m coming, Doris!” said Mrs. Hob, as loud as she could.

Bok, bok, BOK! said every hen at once.

“Which one is Doris?” said Ivy.

“All of them,” said Mrs. Hob. “It saves a muddle.”

Ivy looked at the lane, so white and smooth. She looked at Mrs. Hob, stuck behind her snowy door. Then she stepped off her step and began to stamp.

Stamp, stamp, stamp, across her own garden. Stamp, stamp, stamp, through the gap in the hedge. She kicked and scooped the snow from Mrs. Hob’s door until Mrs. Hob could squeeze out. Then she stamped a path all the way to the hen house.

While Ivy stamped, the valley woke up. The baker’s boy went by with his sledge. By the time Ivy reached the hen house, the lane was all boots and wellies and sledge lines, going every which way.

“Oh,” said Ivy, in a small voice. “That was my lane.”

“Your lane?” said Mrs. Hob.

“I was going to make the first footprints,” said Ivy. “It doesn’t matter.”

And she opened the hen house door and scattered the corn, so that every Doris got some.

Mrs. Hob looked at the lane. She said, “Hmm,” and gave her long red scarf a tug.

In the straw were eleven warm brown eggs, one from each Doris. Mrs. Hob put them in her basket and set off for the bakery.

* * *

That night, after her bath, Dad lifted Ivy up to the window.

“Look,” said Dad.

The lane was full of gold. There were footprints everywhere, shining like little lamps, and Ivy could see where everyone had gone all day.

There was her own path, from their door to the hen house. From there, small neat footprints went down to the bakery.

“That’s Mrs. Hob, with the eggs,” said Dad.

From the bakery, a row of footprints went all the way up the hill, with a sledge line beside it.

“That’s the baker’s boy,” said Dad. “He pulled a warm loaf up to the shepherd.”

Then big footprints and lots of paw prints came down the hill to the post-box. Round the post-box, the paw prints went round and round and round.

“The post-box was snowed right up,” said Dad. “The shepherd’s dog dug it out.”

“That’s a lot of digging,” said Ivy.

“That’s a lot of dog,” said Dad.

Then Ivy saw the best part. From the post-box, everybody’s footprints came back up the lane. Mrs. Hob’s, and the baker’s boy’s, and the shepherd’s, and the dog’s. They all came to one place: Ivy’s own front step.

Beside the step was a square of snow that nobody had touched. Around it went Mrs. Hob’s red scarf, tied to four sticks. It went round twice, with enough left over for a bow. Stuck in the snow was a card. It said, “For Ivy’s boots.”

“Won’t Mrs. Hob be cold?” said Ivy.

“She’s got her other scarf,” said Dad. “It’s even longer.”

Then he gave Ivy a squeeze. “You gave Mrs. Hob your first footprints,” he said. “So everybody saved you some.”

So out they went, Dad in his big boots and Ivy in her boots and pyjamas. The moon was up, and the lane shone gold.

Dad stomp-walked round the square, very carefully, not one toe inside the scarf.

Ivy put her feet together at the edge of the square.

“One, two, three, boots!” said Ivy.

Crunch, crunch, crunch. And there they were: three small footprints, the very first in the square, glowing gold.

“Three is just right,” said Ivy, and she yawned a big yawn.

Dad carried her back up to bed. He tucked her in, and left the curtain open a crack.

“Goodnight, Ivy,” said Dad.

“Goodnight, Dad,” said Ivy. “Goodnight, Mrs. Hob. Goodnight, Doris.”

“All of them?” said Dad.

“All of them,” said Ivy.

From her pillow she could see the lane, still glowing. And right by the front door were three small gold footprints, her very own, that would shine there all night.

Ivy was glad all the way down to her toes. She was asleep before Dad reached the bottom of the stairs.