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Speaker 1: The Christmas Present by richmul 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 Crombe Farm 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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could 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 gave 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 John Clay's

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loud voice, raised always in orders or complaints, or in

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the stumbling incoherent reading aloud of his newspaper. Mary was

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a silent woman herself, and a lover of silence. But

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John liked to hear the sound of his voice. He

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liked to shout at her, and to call for her

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from one room to another. Above all, he liked to

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hear his voice reading the paper out loud to her

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in the evening. She dreaded that most of all, it

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had lately seemed to jar on her nerves, till she

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felt she must scream aloud. His voice, going on raucous

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

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from the household work to wherever he happened to be

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his Get my slippers or bring 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

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country side, she became acutely conscious that she could not

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go on with it. Something must happen. Yet what was

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there that could happen? It was Christmas next week, She

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smiled ironically at the thought. Then she noticed the figure

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of her husband coming up the road. He came in

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at the gate and round to the side door Mary.

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She went slowly in answer to the summons. He held

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

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from your aunt. She opened the letter and read it

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in silence. Both of them knew quite well what it contained.

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She wants us to come over for Christmas, again, said Mary.

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

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She's most as deaf as her mother was. She oughted

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no better than to ask folks over when she can't

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hear a word, anyone, says Mary said nothing. 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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write and say we'll go. It was Christmas Eve. They

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were in the kitchen of her uncle's farm house. The

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deaf old woman sat in her chair by the fire,

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knitting 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 out

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of 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, on the old oak dresser, the hams hanging

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from the ceiling. Suddenly, James, Jane, he said. The deaf

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woman never stirred Jane. Still there was no response upon

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the enigmatic old face by the fireside, Jane. She turned

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slightly towards the voice. Get them photos from upstairs to

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show John. He bawled, what about the 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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brothers sent from Switzerland, where he's working now. It's a

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fine land to judge from the views of it. John

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

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nodding towards the old one. 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, it takes longer to tell

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her to do something than to do it myself. And

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

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

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and lit his pipe, and then James opened the door.

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Uh 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 paperback 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 to ea, and as

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if in spite of herself, Mary answered, in her ordinary

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low tones, the same to you, Auntie, 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 ye, child, I've always heard ye. Mary clasped her

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hand eagerly. Then you're cured, aunt, I I'm cured as

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

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you been pretending? I'll make you a Christmas present of it? Deary,

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said the old woman. My mother made me a Christmas

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present of it when I was your age, and her

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mother made her one. I haven't a lass of my

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own to give it to, so I give it to you.

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It can come on quite sudden, like if you want it,

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and then you can hear what you choose, and not

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hear what you choose. Do you see? She leaned nearer

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and whispered, you're shut out of it, all of having

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to fetch and carry for him, answer their daft questions,

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and run their errands like a dog. I've watched you,

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

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

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

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said the old woman. Take it as a present, always,

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the crude deafness for a Christmas present, she chuckled, use

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it or not as you like, you'll find it main

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amusing always, And into the old face there came again

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that curious smile, as if she had carried in her

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heart some jest fit for the gods on Olympus. The

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door opened suddenly with another gust of cold wind, and

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

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

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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

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silently and deftly, moving from cupboard to table without looking up.

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Mary sat by the fire, motionless and speechless, her eyes

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fixed on the glowing coals. Any signs of deafness in her,

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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,

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and he said loudly. Mary. A faint pink color came

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into her cheeks, but she did not show by look

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or movement that she had heard. James looked significantly at

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her husband. The old woman stood still for a minute

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with a cup in each hand, and smiled, her slow,

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subtle smile. End of the Christmas Present