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The Christmas Present by richmul Crompton.
Mary Clay looked out of the window of

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the old farmhouse. The view was
dreary enough, hill and field and woodland

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bare, colorless mist covered, with
no other house in sight. She had

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never been a woman to crave for
company. She liked sewing, She was

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passionately fond of reading. She was
not fond of talking. Probably she could

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have been very happy at Crombe Farm
alone. Before her marriage. She had

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looked forward to the long evenings with
her sewing and reading. She knew that

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she could be busy enough in the
day, for the farmhouse was old and

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rambling, and she was to have
no help in the housework. But she

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looked forward to quiet, peaceful,
lamp lit evenings, and only lately,

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after ten years of married life,
had she reluctantly gave up the hope of

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them, for peace was far enough
from the old farm kitchen. In the

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evening, it was driven away by
John Clay's loud voice, raised always in

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orders or complaints, or in the
stumbling incoherent reading aloud of his newspaper.

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Mary was a silent woman herself,
and a lover of silence. But John

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liked to hear the sound of his
voice. He liked to shout at her,

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and to call for her from one
room to another. Above all,

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he liked to hear his voice reading
the paper out loud to her in the

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evening. She dreaded that most of
all, it had lately seemed to jar

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on her nerves, till she felt
she must scream aloud. His voice,

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going on raucous and sing song,
became unspeakably irritating his Mary. Summoning her

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from the household work to wherever he
happened to be his Get my slippers or

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bring my pipe exasperated her almost to
the point of rebellion. Get your own

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slippers had trembled on her lips,
but had never passed them, for she

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was a woman who could not bear
anger. Noise of any kind appalled her.

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She had borne it for ten years, so surely she could go on

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with it. Yet to day,
as she gazed hopelessly at the wintry country

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side, she became acutely conscious that
she could not go on with it.

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Something must happen. Yet what was
there that could happen? It was Christmas

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next week, She smiled ironically at
the thought. Then she noticed the figure

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of her husband coming up the road. He came in at the gate and

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round to the side door Mary.
She went slowly in answer to the summons.

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He held a letter in his hand. Met the postman, he said,

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from your aunt. She opened the
letter and read it in silence.

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Both of them knew quite well what
it contained. She wants us to come

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over for Christmas, again, said
Mary. He began to grumble. She's

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as deaf as a post She's most
as deaf as her mother was. She

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oughted no better than to ask folks
over when she can't hear a word,

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anyone, says Mary said nothing.
He always grumbled about the invitation at first,

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but really he wanted to go.
He liked to talk with her uncle.

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He liked the change of going down
to the village for a few days

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and hearing all its gossip. He
could quite well leave the farm to the

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hands for that time. The crude
deafness was proverbial. Mary's great grandmother had

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gone stone deaf at the age of
thirty five. Her daughter had inherited the

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affliction, and her granddaughter, the
aunt with whom Mary had spent her childhood,

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had inherited it also at exactly the
same age. All right, he

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said, at last, grudgingly,
as though in answer to her silence,

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we'd better go, write and say
we'll go. It was Christmas Eve.

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They were in the kitchen of her
uncle's farm house. The deaf old woman

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sat in her chair by the fire, knitting upon her sunken face. There

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was a curious, sardonic smile.
That was her habitual expression. The two

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men stood in the doorway. Mary
sat at the table, looking aimlessly out

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of the window outside. The snow
fell in blinding showers inside. The fire

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gleamed on to the copper pots and
pans, the crockery, on the old

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oak dresser, the hams hanging from
the ceiling. Suddenly, James, Jane,

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he said. The deaf woman never
stirred Jane. Still there was no

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response upon the enigmatic old face by
the fireside, Jane. She turned slightly

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towards the voice. Get them photos
from upstairs to show John. He bawled,

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what about the boats, She said, photos, roared her husband coats.

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She quavered. Mary looked from one
to the other. The man made

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a gesture of irritation and went from
the room. He came back with a

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pile of picture postcards, in his
hand. It's quicker to do a thing

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one's self, he grumbled. They're
what my brothers sent from Switzerland, where

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he's working now. It's a fine
land to judge from the views of it.

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John took them from his hand.
She gets worse, he said,

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nodding towards the old one. She
was sitting gazing at the fire, her

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lips curved into the curious smile.
Her husband shrugged his shoulders. Aye,

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it takes longer to tell her to
do something than to do it myself.

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And deaf folks get a bit stupid
too, can't see what you mean.

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They're best let alone. The other
man nodded and lit his pipe, and

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then James opened the door. Uh
snow stopped. He said, Shall we

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go to the end of the village
and back. The other nodded and took

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his cap from behind the door.
A gust of cold air filled the room

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as they went out. Mary took
a paperback book from the table and came

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over to the fireplace. Mary she
started. It was not the sharp,

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querulous voice of the deaf old woman. It was more like the voice of

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the young aunt whom Mary remembered in
childhood. The old woman was leaning forward,

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looking at her intently. Mary,
A happy Christmas to ea, and

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as if in spite of herself,
Mary answered, in her ordinary low tones,

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the same to you, Auntie,
Thankee Thankee, Mary gasped, Aunt,

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can you hear me speaking like this? The old woman laughed silently,

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rocking to and fro in her chair, as if with pent up merriment of

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years. Yes, I can hear
ye, child, I've always heard ye.

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Mary clasped her hand eagerly. Then
you're cured, aunt, I I'm

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cured as far as there was ever
anything to be cured you. I was

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never deaf, child, nor never
will be. Please God, I've took

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you all in fine. Mary stood
up in bewilderment. You never deaf,

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The old woman chuckled again. No, nor my mother nor her mother neither.

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Mary shrank back from her. I
don't know what you mean, she

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said, unsteadily. Have you been
pretending? I'll make you a Christmas present

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of it? Deary, said the
old woman. My mother made me a

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Christmas present of it when I was
your age, and her mother made her

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one. I haven't a lass of
my own to give it to, so

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I give it to you. It
can come on quite sudden, like if

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you want it, and then you
can hear what you choose, and not

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hear what you choose. Do you
see? She leaned nearer and whispered,

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you're shut out of it, all
of having to fetch and carry for him,

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answer their daft questions, and run
their errands like a dog. I've

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watched you, my lass. You
don't get much peace, do you.

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Mary was trembling. Uh oh,
I don't know what to think, she

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said. I I couldn't do it. Do as you like, said the

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old woman. Take it as a
present, always, the crude deafness for

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a Christmas present, she chuckled,
use it or not as you like,

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you'll find it main amusing always,
And into the old face there came again

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that curious smile, as if she
had carried in her heart some jest fit

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for the gods on Olympus. The
door opened suddenly with another gust of cold

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wind, and the two men came
in again, covered with fine snow.

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Ah, I'll not do it,
whispered Mary, trembling. We didn't get

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far. It's coming on again,
remarked John, hanging up his cap.

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The old woman rose and began to
lay the supper silently and deftly, moving

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from cupboard to table without looking up. Mary sat by the fire, motionless

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and speechless, her eyes fixed on
the glowing coals. Any signs of deafness

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in her, whispered James, looking
towards Mary, It come on my wife,

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just when she was that age.
Ay, so I've heard, and

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he said loudly. Mary. A
faint pink color came into her cheeks,

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but she did not show by look
or movement that she had heard. James

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looked significantly at her husband. The
old woman stood still for a minute with

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a cup in each hand, and
smiled, her slow, subtle smile.

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End of the Christmas Present