Snow always fell on Christmas Eve, fat and soft as goose feathers, to lie like a quilt upon the ground all winter.  That is what Frances remembers, now that she is old, at another Christmas time.  A happy childhood is like a magic circle.  Lit from within it throws a beam forwards into the present.

“Last night, the snow fell.  And I began to remember.  I remembered all the things that I had forgotten.  Or so it seemed.  But not forgotten after all.  They were all there, stored away like treasures.”

Susan Hill’s mesmerising novel adapted for performance and interlaced with lovely old carols, rousing West Gallery anthems and delicate seasonal harmonies to melt the heart on even the coldest December night.

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