Of All The Things To Happen

Lake County Mail, Issue 29, 10 December 1947, Page 4

Of All The Things To Happen

ments would have had a chance to happen. And that would have been a pity, because it righted so many things that were wrong. Margaret ran on, and because her head was down she didn’t see the car that had stopped a little way in front of her or the tall figure x that swung from the driving seat and cut across her path in the direction of Mr Mucklewham’s general stores. So, the next, of course, was inevitable. Margaret sat up, shook hair from her eyes and saw that David Selkirk was sitting on the pavement, too. He was gasping, his usually solemn face wearing a look of blank surprise. They both became conscious of cold creeping into them and scrambled to their feet. Margaret was appalled. That this should . happen! But, -of course, it couldn’t make things worse between them than they had always been. Then, at sight of his face, the drawn suffering as he strove to get his breath, she forgot everything but that he was suffering pain—and it was all her fault. Before either of them knew quite how it happened, she had pushed and pulled him into the dim interior of Miss Marran’s shop. Miss Marran, small and wispy, fluttered in alarm, but David recovered rapidly. “ I’m terribly sorry, David,” Margaret apologised. “ It was all my fault. If I had been looking where I was going ” David wasn’t really hearing her words, because he was looking at her. This had all been so sudden. He had had no time to put up his guard against her. He was forgetting to be wary of her, to remember that she said things that hurt; that he hated the thought of her making fun of him. All that had been jolted out of him with his breath —and now she was disarming him further with her anxious look, and the half-shy almost frightened expression in her eyes. In that moment, realising that Margaret was really shy of him, that she, too, was being afraid of being hurt, David knew that last barrier was down. “I’m glad you did it,” he said at last. Margaret was so astonish'ed she could hardly believe her ears. Then she saw his eyes, and a deep flush crept into her cheeks. He was smiling —at her! ' The moment was unbearably sweet, so that she had to do something to bridge it—something—anything- “ Miss Marran —there’s a pink jug—in the window ” . 4 While Miss Marran fluttered after it, she kept her eyes on the counter because she knew he was still looking at her, and she couldn’t meet his look. She felt awkward and tongue-tied — and young. Blindly she took up a small card to which was pinned a brooch, and pretended a wrapt interest in it; she had a vague impression of a shell, crude and highly coloured. Then Miss Marran came back with the jug, and Margaret dropped the card with relief. The jug was pink. It had figures and embossed bulges on its ugly sides. Margaret, knowing the titans, should have been prepared, but even so, she flinched. She gathered it up hastily, dropped the contents of the twins’ money boxes on the scratched counter, and made for the door. “A Merry Christmas, Miss Marran,” she forced herself to say brightly, and was rewarded by a sparrow-like bobbing from that wispy figure. And then, with difficulty, “A Merry Christmas —David.” “A Merry Christmas, Margaret.” Simple words. Beautiful when there is the dawning of young love. David Selkirk stood there long after she had gone. Miss Marran coughed gently. “ Was there anything you wanted, David? ” “ I’m sorry, Miss Marran,” he began apologetically. Then he stopped, his eyes on the counter. He picked up the card to which was attached the brooch Margaret had given all her wrapt attention. A sudden blaze of excitement flashed in his eyes, and he fumbled in his pocket. “ I’ll take this.” He put down one shilling and sixpence, the price marked in one corner of the grubby card, and went from the shop, walking on air. For Margaret the rest of the day was a dream. She put up holly and paper chains; and hung mistletoe in the hall. When the twins were in bed she helped her mother dress the tree. And all the while she felt warm inside because of David and the feeling that she had that he had begun to like her that morning. Margaret knew she never would forget the following Christmas morning; everything, her own feelings, the warm' affection for the family, were heightened by her own inward happiness. Breakfast in the warm, light kitchen was a sketchy affair as far as eating went. There were gaily-wrapped parcels at every plate; neat, square’ones, and others with mysterious, lumps and bumps. , v The twins were nearly mad with

given them with the new, somewhat long, dressing-gowns that had been their mother’s present. Out in the hall were two shining bicycles, the successful effort of Mr Denton, , and every few moments, one or other of them would rush out into the hall to have another look. Margaret exclaimed over a new scarf, a pair of stockings—and six different-coloured pencils, which were the twins’ effort. Mrs Denton gave one look at her disorganised family, closed the oven door on their breakfast, and began to open her own parcels. It was at the very bottom; a lumpy, odd-shaped parcel in coarse brown paper, stuck all over with well-licked Christmas greetings. The twins hung breathlessly over the back of her chair while she unwrapped it until it lay, unashamed, in all its pink ugliness. Margaret suddenly realised she was holding her breath. Her mother must make a good pretence of liking it. She found herself thinking —they’ll be so hurt —let her make it convincing. But she needn’t have worried. Mrs Denton took up the jug and said softly: “It’s perfectly lovely—and just what I wanted.” Margaret saw there were tears in her mother’s eyes. Then there was hurry and bustle because they might be late for church if they wasted any more time. To Margaret, the service in the small, well-filled church was especially beautiful this morning. The simple words in which Rev. John Farquhaf told the story of Christmas, the hymns of praise and thanksgiving in which she joined, gave a special meaning to her happiness. Margaret let her eyes slide to her mother’s face, as serene and quiet as her voice; there'was a sudden faint anxiety in her eyes, quickly suppressed, that told Margaret her thoughts had strayed to the chicken in the oven at home. Dad was on her other side, his voice booming out lustily above the rest of Wie congregation, his chins pressed in against his collar as he took the deeper notes. Then Sheila next to him, serious grey eyes in a schoolgirl face, the round, upturned brim of her hat accentuating the innocence of her expression. And at the very end of the pew Robbie, small, solemn Robbie, his pockets full of' string and marbles, and a handkerchief that had already gathered quite a bit of oil from his new bicycle. Her family. And across the way—David. She could see the top of his head from where she was standing. There was a sudden heightened anticipation in her that shook her with a sweet delight. David There was rustling and movement as people stirred, picked up gloves and scarves and restrained exuberant children from dashing down the aisle into the snow-covered road. Once outside, Mrs Denton let her anxiety get the better of her. “ I’ll really have to hurry, dear,” she told Margaret. “ The chicken —I hope I haven’t turned the gas too high.” She looked around for the twins, who were comparing eager notes with other children some distance away. “ Stay and keep an eye on the twins. There’s no telling how late they’ll be if left to themselves.” With a half-humorous turn of his head John Denton followed in his wife’s anxious footsteps, and Margaret found herself alone. She was alone, but she knew that he would come. All at once she knew that it was inevitable. And then he was there. They stood and looked at each other. Margaret felt the colour flood her

cheeks. She wished that David wouldn’t keep looking at her, yet she couldn’t turn her own eyes' away. David broke the silence with the words he had been rehearsing since yesterday morning. “ You seemed to like it—l just had to buy it.” He thrust a small package at her. Margaret’s fingers dealt surely and capably with the wrappings. All this seemed so right. The paper fell away, and the brooch was revealed in its gaudy cheapness. Her breath came in a soft sigh, but she didn’t speak. So he had bought her the brooch! Suddely Margaret remembered her mother’s face as she unwrapped the pink jug, her voice, the tears in her eyes.’ She knew now just how her mother had felt. “ It’s beautiful, David,” she said softly as she pinned it into the lapel of her coat. “Oh, David!” she burst out, her face alight. “ Isn’t Christmas wonderful! ”