Speaker 1: 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