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Speaker 1: The Christmas Present by Richmond Crompton. Mary Clay looked out

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of the window of the old farmhouse. The view was

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dreary enough, hill and field and woodland, bare, colorless mist covered,

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with no other house in sight. She had never been

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a woman to crave for company. She liked sewing, She

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was passionately fond of reading. She was not fond of talking.

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Probably she could have been very happy at Cromfarm alone.

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Before her marriage, she had looked forward to the long

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evenings with her sewing and reading. She knew that she

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would be busy enough in the day, for the farmhouse

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was old and rambling, and she was to have no

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help in the housework. But she looked forward to quiet, peaceful,

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lamp lit evenings, and only lately, after ten years of

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married life, had she reluctantly given up the hope of them,

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for peace was far enough from the old farm kitchen.

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In the evening, it was driven away by Clay's loud voice,

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raised always in orders or complaints, or in the stumbling

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incoherent reading aloud of his newspaper. Mary was a silent

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woman herself, and a lover of silence, but John liked

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to hear the sound of his voice. He liked to

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shout at her, to call for her from one room

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to another. Above all, he liked to hear his voice

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reading the paper out loud to her in the evening.

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She dreaded that most of all, it had lately seemed

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to jar in her nerves till she felt she must

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scream aloud. His voice, going on and on, raucous in

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sing song, became unspeakably irritating his Mary. Summoning her from

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her household work to wherever he happened to be his

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Get my slippers or bring me my pipe exasperated her

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almost to the point of rebellion. Get your own slippers

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had trembled on her lips, but had never passed them,

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for she was a woman who could not bear anger.

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Noise of any kind appalled her. She had borne it

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for ten years, so surely she could go on with it.

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Yet to day, as she gazed hopelessly at the wintry countryside,

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she became acutely conscious that she could not go on

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with it. Something must happen. Yet what was there that

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could happen? It was Christmas next week. She smiled ironically

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at the thought. Then she noticed the figure of her

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husband coming up the road. He came in at the

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gate and round to the side door Mary. She went

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slowly in answer to the summons. He held a letter

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in his hand. Met the postman, he said, from your aunt.

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She opened the letter and read it in silence. Both

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of them knew quite well what it contained. She wants

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us to go over for Christmas, again, said Mary. He

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began to grumble. She's as deaf as a post She's

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most as deaf as her mother was. She ought to

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know better than to ask folks over when she can't

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hear a word. Anyone, says Mary said no. He always

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grumbled about the invitation at first, but really he wanted

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to go. He liked to talk with her uncle. He

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liked the change of going down to the village for

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a few days and hearing all its gossip. He could

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quite well leave the farm to the hands for that time.

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The crude deafness was proverbial. Mary's great grandmother had gone

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stone deaf at the age of thirty five. Her daughter

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had inherited the affliction, and her granddaughter, the aunt with

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whom Mary had spent her childhood, had inherited it also

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at exactly the same age. All right, he said, at last, grudgingly,

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as though in answer to her silence, we'd better go

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right and say we'll go. It was Christmas Eve. They

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were in the kitchen of her uncle's farmhouse. The deaf

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old woman sat in her chair by the fire, knitting

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upon her sunken face. There was a curious, sardonic smile

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that was her habitual expression. The two men stood in

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the doorway. Mary sat at the table, looking aimlessly at

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

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The fire gleamed on to the copper pots and pans,

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the crockery, and the old oak dresser, the hams hanging

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from the ceiling. Suddenly, James turned Jane. He said, the

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deaf woman never stirred Jane. Still there was no response

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upon the enigmatic old face by the fireside. Jane. She

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turned slightly towards the voice. Get them photos from upstairs

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to show John. He bawled, what about boats, She said, photos,

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roared her husband coats. She quavered. Mary looked from one

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to the other. The man made a gesture of irritation

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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

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do a thing one's self, he grumbled. They're what my

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brother is sent from Switzerland, where he's working. Now. It's

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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 woman. She was sitting gazing at

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the fire, her lips curved into the curious smile. Her

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husband shrugged his shoulders. Aye, she's nigh as bad as

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her mother was and her grandmother. Aye. It takes longer

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to tell her to do something to do it myself.

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And deaf folks get a bit stupid too, can't see

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what you mean. They're best let alone. The other man

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nodded and lit his pipe. Then James opened the door.

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The snow stopped. He said, Shall we go to the

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end of the village and back. The other nodded and

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took his cap from behind the door. A gust of

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cold air filled the room as they went out. Mary

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took a paperbacked book from the table and came over

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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

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like the voice of the young aunt whom Mary remembered

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in childhood. The old woman was leaning forward, looking at

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her intently. Mary a happy Christmas, and as if in

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spite of herself. Mary answered, in her ordinary low tones,

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the same to you, aunty thankee. Thankee, Mary gasped, Aunt,

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can you hear me speaking like this? The old woman

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laughed silently, rocking to and fro in her chair, as

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if with pent up merriment of years. Yes, I can

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hear each child. I've all this heard, ee, Mary clasped

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her hand eagerly. Then you're cured, Aunt, I I'm cured,

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

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I was never deaf child, nor never will be. Please God,

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I've took you all in fine. Mary stood up in bewilderment.

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You never deaf, The old woman chuckled again. No, nor

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my mother nor her mother neither. Mary shrank back from her.

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I I don't know what you mean, she said, unsteadily.

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Have you been pretending? I'll make you a Christmas present

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of it? Dearie, said the old woman. My mother made

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me a Christmas present of it when I was your age,

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and her mother made her one. I haven't a last

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of my own to give it to so I give

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

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if you want it, and then you can hear what

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you choose and not hear what you choose. Do you see?

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She leant nearer and whispered, You're shit out of it

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all I've having to fetch and carry for him, answer

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their deft questions, and run their errands like a dog.

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

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do you. Mary was trembling. Oh, I don't know what

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to think, she said. I I couldn't do it. Do

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what you like, said the old woman. Take it as

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a present, anyways, the crue deafness for a Christmas present,

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she chuckled, Hm, use it or not as you like,

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you'll find it main amuse in any ways. And into

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the old face there came again, in a curious smile,

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as if she carried in her heart some jest fit

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for the gods on Olympus. The door opened suddenly with

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another gust of cold air, and the two men came

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in again, covered with fine snow. I'll I'll not do it,

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whispered Mary, trembling. We didn't get far. It's coming on again,

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remarked John, hanging up his cap. The old woman rose

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and began to lay the supper, silently and deathly, moving

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from cupboard to table without looking up. Mary sat by

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the fire, motionless and speechless, her eyes fixed on the

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glowing coals. Any signs of the deafness in her, whispered James,

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looking towards Mary, and come on, my wife, just when

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she was at age. Aye, so I've heard, then, he

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

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but she did not show by a look or movement

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that she had heard. James looked significantly at her husband.

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The old woman stood still for a minute, with a

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

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End of the Christmas Present by Richmond Crampton