Speaker 1: The Christmas Present by Richmond 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 Cromfarm alone.
Before her marriage, she had looked forward to the long
evenings with her sewing and reading. She knew that she
would 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 given up the hope of them,
for peace was far enough from the old farm kitchen.
In the evening, it was driven away by 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, 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 in her nerves till she felt she must
scream aloud. His voice, going on and on, raucous in
sing song, became unspeakably irritating his Mary. Summoning her from
her household work to wherever he happened to be his
Get my slippers or bring me 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 countryside,
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 go 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 ought to
know better than to ask folks over when she can't
hear a word. Anyone, says Mary said no. 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
right and say we'll go. It was Christmas Eve. They
were in the kitchen of her uncle's farmhouse. 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 at
the window outside. The snow fell in blinding showers inside.
The fire gleamed on to the copper pots and pans,
the crockery, and the old oak dresser, the hams hanging
from the ceiling. Suddenly, James turned 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 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
brother is 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 woman. She was sitting gazing at
the fire, her lips curved into the curious smile. Her
husband shrugged his shoulders. Aye, she's nigh as bad as
her mother was and her grandmother. Aye. It takes longer
to tell her to do something 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. Then James opened the door.
The 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 paperbacked 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, and as if in
spite of herself. Mary answered, in her ordinary low tones,
the same to you, aunty 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 each child. I've all this heard, ee, 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 I don't know what you mean, she said, unsteadily.
Have you been pretending? I'll make you a Christmas present
of it? Dearie, 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 last
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 leant nearer and whispered, You're shit out of it
all I've having to fetch and carry for him, answer
their deft 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. Oh, I don't know what
to think, she said. I I couldn't do it. Do
what you like, said the old woman. Take it as
a present, anyways, the crue deafness for a Christmas present,
she chuckled, Hm, use it or not as you like,
you'll find it main amuse in any ways. And into
the old face there came again, in a curious smile,
as if she carried in her heart some jest fit
for the gods on Olympus. The door opened suddenly with
another gust of cold air, and the two men came
in again, covered with fine snow. I'll 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 deathly, 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 the deafness in her, whispered James,
looking towards Mary, and come on, my wife, just when
she was at age. Aye, so I've heard, then, he
said loudly Mary. A faint pink color came into her cheeks,
but she did not show by a 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 by Richmond Crampton