The Christmas Present by richmul Crompton. Mary Clay looked out of the window of
the old farmhouse. The view was dreary enough, hill and field and woodland
bare, colorless mist covered, with no other house in sight. She had
never been a woman to crave for company. She liked sewing, She was
passionately fond of reading. She was not fond of talking. Probably she could
have been very happy at Crombe Farm alone. Before her marriage. She had
looked forward to the long evenings with her sewing and reading. She knew that
she could be busy enough in the day, for the farmhouse was old and
rambling, and she was to have no help in the housework. But she
looked forward to quiet, peaceful, lamp lit evenings, and only lately,
after ten years of married life, had she reluctantly gave up the hope of
them, for peace was far enough from the old farm kitchen. In the
evening, it was driven away by John Clay's loud voice, raised always in
orders or complaints, or in the stumbling incoherent reading aloud of his newspaper.
Mary was a silent woman herself, and a lover of silence. But John
liked to hear the sound of his voice. He liked to shout at her,
and to call for her from one room to another. Above all,
he liked to hear his voice reading the paper out loud to her in the
evening. She dreaded that most of all, it had lately seemed to jar
on her nerves, till she felt she must scream aloud. His voice,
going on raucous and sing song, became unspeakably irritating his Mary. Summoning her
from the household work to wherever he happened to be his Get my slippers or
bring my pipe exasperated her almost to the point of rebellion. Get your own
slippers had trembled on her lips, but had never passed them, for she
was a woman who could not bear anger. Noise of any kind appalled her.
She had borne it for ten years, so surely she could go on
with it. Yet to day, as she gazed hopelessly at the wintry country
side, she became acutely conscious that she could not go on with it.
Something must happen. Yet what was there that could happen? It was Christmas
next week, She smiled ironically at the thought. Then she noticed the figure
of her husband coming up the road. He came in at the gate and
round to the side door Mary. She went slowly in answer to the summons.
He held a letter in his hand. Met the postman, he said,
from your aunt. She opened the letter and read it in silence.
Both of them knew quite well what it contained. She wants us to come
over for Christmas, again, said Mary. He began to grumble. She's
as deaf as a post She's most as deaf as her mother was. She
oughted no better than to ask folks over when she can't hear a word,
anyone, says Mary said nothing. He always grumbled about the invitation at first,
but really he wanted to go. He liked to talk with her uncle.
He liked the change of going down to the village for a few days
and hearing all its gossip. He could quite well leave the farm to the
hands for that time. The crude deafness was proverbial. Mary's great grandmother had
gone stone deaf at the age of thirty five. Her daughter had inherited the
affliction, and her granddaughter, the aunt with whom Mary had spent her childhood,
had inherited it also at exactly the same age. All right, he
said, at last, grudgingly, as though in answer to her silence,
we'd better go, write and say we'll go. It was Christmas Eve.
They were in the kitchen of her uncle's farm house. The deaf old woman
sat in her chair by the fire, knitting upon her sunken face. There
was a curious, sardonic smile. That was her habitual expression. The two
men stood in the doorway. Mary sat at the table, looking aimlessly out
of the window outside. The snow fell in blinding showers inside. The fire
gleamed on to the copper pots and pans, the crockery, on the old
oak dresser, the hams hanging from the ceiling. Suddenly, James, Jane,
he said. The deaf woman never stirred Jane. Still there was no
response upon the enigmatic old face by the fireside, Jane. She turned slightly
towards the voice. Get them photos from upstairs to show John. He bawled,
what about the boats, She said, photos, roared her husband coats.
She quavered. Mary looked from one to the other. The man made
a gesture of irritation and went from the room. He came back with a
pile of picture postcards, in his hand. It's quicker to do a thing
one's self, he grumbled. They're what my brothers sent from Switzerland, where
he's working now. It's a fine land to judge from the views of it.
John took them from his hand. She gets worse, he said,
nodding towards the old one. She was sitting gazing at the fire, her
lips curved into the curious smile. Her husband shrugged his shoulders. Aye,
it takes longer to tell her to do something than to do it myself.
And deaf folks get a bit stupid too, can't see what you mean.
They're best let alone. The other man nodded and lit his pipe, and
then James opened the door. Uh snow stopped. He said, Shall we
go to the end of the village and back. The other nodded and took
his cap from behind the door. A gust of cold air filled the room
as they went out. Mary took a paperback book from the table and came
over to the fireplace. Mary she started. It was not the sharp,
querulous voice of the deaf old woman. It was more like the voice of
the young aunt whom Mary remembered in childhood. The old woman was leaning forward,
looking at her intently. Mary, A happy Christmas to ea, and
as if in spite of herself, Mary answered, in her ordinary low tones,
the same to you, Auntie, Thankee Thankee, Mary gasped, Aunt,
can you hear me speaking like this? The old woman laughed silently,
rocking to and fro in her chair, as if with pent up merriment of
years. Yes, I can hear ye, child, I've always heard ye.
Mary clasped her hand eagerly. Then you're cured, aunt, I I'm
cured as far as there was ever anything to be cured you. I was
never deaf, child, nor never will be. Please God, I've took
you all in fine. Mary stood up in bewilderment. You never deaf,
The old woman chuckled again. No, nor my mother nor her mother neither.
Mary shrank back from her. I don't know what you mean, she
said, unsteadily. Have you been pretending? I'll make you a Christmas present
of it? Deary, said the old woman. My mother made me a
Christmas present of it when I was your age, and her mother made her
one. I haven't a lass of my own to give it to, so
I give it to you. It can come on quite sudden, like if
you want it, and then you can hear what you choose, and not
hear what you choose. Do you see? She leaned nearer and whispered,
you're shut out of it, all of having to fetch and carry for him,
answer their daft questions, and run their errands like a dog. I've
watched you, my lass. You don't get much peace, do you.
Mary was trembling. Uh oh, I don't know what to think, she
said. I I couldn't do it. Do as you like, said the
old woman. Take it as a present, always, the crude deafness for
a Christmas present, she chuckled, use it or not as you like,
you'll find it main amusing always, And into the old face there came again
that curious smile, as if she had carried in her heart some jest fit
for the gods on Olympus. The door opened suddenly with another gust of cold
wind, and the two men came in again, covered with fine snow.
Ah, I'll not do it, whispered Mary, trembling. We didn't get
far. It's coming on again, remarked John, hanging up his cap.
The old woman rose and began to lay the supper silently and deftly, moving
from cupboard to table without looking up. Mary sat by the fire, motionless
and speechless, her eyes fixed on the glowing coals. Any signs of deafness
in her, whispered James, looking towards Mary, It come on my wife,
just when she was that age. Ay, so I've heard, and
he said loudly. Mary. A faint pink color came into her cheeks,
but she did not show by look or movement that she had heard. James
looked significantly at her husband. The old woman stood still for a minute with
a cup in each hand, and smiled, her slow, subtle smile.
End of the Christmas Present