SHORT STORY COMPETITION

Auckland Star, Volume LXIII, Issue 123, 26 May 1932, Page 23

SHORT STORY COMPETITION

Award for April. The winning entry in our April Short Story Competition, publication of which has been delayed owing to pressure on our space, is "MADONNA OF THE CORNER SHOP ,, By MARY SCOTT.

It was one of those curious little shops to be found on the outskirts of a country town. A little of everything; a frock or two, old-faehioned from their very creation, a baby's knitted shawl, eome piles of cheap novels, and strings of beads by the dozen. And then, strangely incongruous and chastely remote from her surroundings, this large, cheap reproduction of somebody's famous Madonna. The pictured face looked out, placid, emiling, a triflo inane in its sainted virginity, whilst the Child close-clasped at her breast, burbled and laughed rosily upon a friendly world. Or so it seemed to tho woman as she stopped ever and anon in her restless pacing to exchange a emile with that other mother. They understood each other to-night. There had been another time when ehe had turned with a kind of horror from that gentle face, when the Child's tiny fingere had seemed to clutch at. her own throat, and tho mother's peaceful smile to mock her own sorrow. But that was the night when she had said good-bye to the children. To-night she had come to the same place to meet them again. To meet them after three years. Would they be greatly changed, ehe wondered? Children change so quickly and. the enapshote they had. sent her once or twice told so little, even less than their pathetic, inadequate letters. Sometimes she had been sure they were not happy. Or wae it only the reflection of her own wild longings? Surely the service car was late? She stopped in her pacing and glanced at the tiny ornate watch that Charles had given her last week. No, it was she who was ridiculously early. Charles had told her so, but she had only laughed and Baid, "I must be in time," and had fled out of the bright, warm house. She was 6o afraid he would want to come too, and she muet have this hour to herself. For three years she had known that it must come some day, had hugged the thought of it to her heart. She couldn't be cheated of one moment now. Was it really only three years since Tim had left her? The memory of his laughing eyes and quiet voice still caught j at her heart; still, though she had tried to tear him from her life now for three long months. Tim had always seemed so brimming with life; it was she who had needed care. And yet Tim had been dead for three years and here wae she alive and well—and getting, ehe thought grimly, all the care she could possibly endure. She was positively wallowing in expensive, suffocating, relentless care. She laughed, and then checked herself at once, remembering Charles' real kindness, gathering about her slight figure tho folds of the beautiful fur coat that had been one of his wedding presents. N T ow Tim had always planned to give her a fur coat "when his ship came in!" Dear Tim, when all those years on the farm there had never been a ehilling to spare! But then money never mattered —with Tim. It mattered without him; mattered desperately when ehe realised that there was nothing at all except the rough little farm on the mountains, with its inadequate pastures and too adequate mortgage. "So like Tim," his eldest sister had said with Christian resignation, "to die of pneumonia and leave that pretty, helpless little wife and two young children!" "Of course we'll have to take the children till she can make a home for them," said the second sister, kindly but patiently. "Take them for ever, you mean, said the third and flighty sister crossly. "Two children of seven and nine—what a wretched bore." But the eldest sister looked at her with gentle reproof. Dear Nina was still so young, scarcely thirty. It was natural that the gay little thing would not want children about. And she had written to Christine. "You had better send the children to us, as you are going to earn your living again. They can go to school here. It isT fortunate that you are a trained tvpiste and can find work." "There was a chilling kindness in her every word, a chilling correctness in the eldest aunt's appearance when she came overland to this town to meet the children. • • ■ • , ~ "What, no mourning?" ehe had said and had. looked disapprovingly at tho three desolate figures. Her own mourning was immaculate, almost excessive, when one remembered that Tim, Christine's darling, laughing Tim, had never been a success and was now inconsiderately dead leaving no assets at all, but only these three distinct liabilities. ,■-..„ , *i But Christine's eyes had followed the aunt's eyes, and she had realised suddenly that the children looked queer and old-fashioned. She had never had money to spend on clothes, and had been too dazed to care when she brought them here. Their coats were obviously someone else's made down, and they wore, curious little crocheted caps. Iheir little country hands were bare and red with the cold. But their shoes were very new and shiny, and they had scarcely ever had new shoes in the bush. The shoes were an immense consolation. Until it came to the parting, llien nothing consoled them. They clung to her desperately, begging her to eay that she would come for them soon. But Christine, who for all her weakness could not lie, had only held them to her wildly, hungrily, and had put them ill the service car here at this dark corner. It had been raining and they had pressed little tear-stained faces against the streaming panes of the big car. Jill had even tried desperately to pull open the door and jump out, but Jack, who was nine and a man, had tried to restrain her, had even tried in a crooked way to smile farewell at the lonely figure that stood on the wet pavement watching, Pitching. The big car had whirled them quickly 'out of eight, and she had turned to see the smiling, placid gaze of the pictured Madonna. All night she had lain in her little room at the cheap boavdinghouse, tearing at her handkerchief, burying her sobs in the bony pillow. But ever} now and then they had escaped her in a sort of desolate whoop, so that the man next door thumped quite angrily on the wall and asked her if she were ill or dreaming. And next morning, at breakfast, her restrained anguish had found vent, most unpleasantly in a series of devastating hiccoughs. She had fled from the public dining-room, realising that with her to-day sorrow was neither beautiful nor dignified. Then she had gone back alone to the little empty cottage in the bush to "clear up" the home to which Tim had brought her as a bride ten years ago. Thenhopes had been as high that day as the mountains amongst they lived.

But now Tim was dead, and it was all over. Two days later she turned the key in the lock and climbed into the big lorry that held all their meagre furniture. Then she went down from the misty mountains that had been her home to the town on the plains, where she had parted from the children. She had sought and found work there, merely because it was the starting-place for those cars that had carried the children away from her, all those hundreds of miles. Some day she would meet them again, at that corner. And to-night they were coming back to her. She glanced again at her watch. It was time now. Her heart turned right over as she stood etill and peered down the lighted street. Looking towards the town, she could see the long rows of street lights ■ eflected in the shining pavements, for it was wet again to-night, and very cold, if she had noticed it. The isirs passed with a soft ewish of wet tyres, and across the street a black dog walked slowly out of a gateway and stood surveying the damp world with a heavy, disapproving eye. He was a little like old Rock. The old dog had not lived long with the kindly neighbour to whom she had committed him. He had just pined away and died, they said. She had hated parting with him, but she could not bring him to eat out his wild heart in a town. Besides, she was not the person he wanted. There had been nights—nights of bitter physical anguish, of longing for dead husband and lost children —when she had found it in her heart to envy the old dog. But human beings didn't die of grief — only animals. And to-night—to-night the children were coming home. She smiled confidentially at the Madonna in the window. Of course she had been right. More than right—wonderfully lucky to have attracted the richest man in the town. Not merely to have attracted him, but to have married him. Charles had been entirely carried off his feet.

"Noneense," she had said at first "You can't possibly want to marry a widow. A widow of thirty-two with. two children. How could you want the children ?'' : "I want you," lie had replied doggedly, and she had seen that possessive light grow in his eyes. Almost greedy they looked.' She knew all about that look' now. .-.•■' Yet she had been lucky. Even before, he had found her she "had realised- that she would never be able to make a horns for the children. She had lost them. Then Charles came along, with his determined mouth and his possessive eyes, nnd his big, empty house. Still she had hesitated and wavered, until one night she had come face to face with 'the Madonna of the Corner Shop. Always she had avoided that corner, going right round the block, however tired she rather than see those mild eyes, that little, clutching Child. She hated the place, because always she saw also the little tear-stained faces that peered out at her from the closed windows of the car. But that night Charles had been taking her for a masterful walk while he pleaded his suit in his masterful way, and she had been too oppressed by it all to notice where they were wa-lking. Then, quite suddenly, she had met the Madonna's quiet eyes and seen those other eyes, brimming with tears. So that night- she had burned all Tim's letters and next morning she had told Charles that she would marry him at once. He had behaved very well aboul the children. "Just three months alone, Christine, and then we'll send for the.kids." He had kept his word and had nevei grumbled. But then, of course, he had had his three months. The slim shoulders beneath the heavy fur moved restlessly, but almost at once the woman muttered aloud: "But it's worth it; it's all been worth it—if only for this hour." And the Virginal Madonna heard her and smiled. For they were coining now—coming any minute. It was so beautiful to expect them like this, to wait, hugging this warmth to her heart. But surely it was late? A sudden fear, clutched her. It was 300 miles, a dangerous journey, full of steep grades and hairpin bends. And they were so little. Suppose there had been an accident? "Aren't they—aren't they late?" she asked the apathetic girl who stood in the doorway of the tiny shop. The girl knew all about Christine, the young widow who had married the rich and masterful Charles. She thought it beautifully romantic and her eyes appreciated tho fur coat and perfect shoes.

" "They're often late," she told Christine, and Christine felt a fool. Still, she could not help murmuring. "Do they—are there ever accidents?" And then the girl smiled suddenly and in a moment became surprisingly human and understanding. "They'll be all right," she said. "The driver knew to look after them. Stop here? Oh, yes, they've got to stop here. Wo book their orders," and then, with almost a thrill in he,r voice, "That's them now, madam." Yes, the car was here at last. She could see the flash'of strong headlights, hear the grinding of brakes. What if they had not come ? Two little children to come alone so far. " She had been glad that the aunt had not offered to come, even glad that Charles had .opposed her taking the tiring journey. "The driver will look after them," he had said, and had interviewed the driver in his opulent way. In her heart she had wanted to meet them here, here at this dark corner, with only the smiling Madonna to watch—to watch, and', perhaps, to bless. But S';pipose they were not here. She hardly i dared to look. And then suddenly she heard a shout. "Mummy, oh Mummy!" Jack was out first and had flung himself upon her, and Jill was dancing ur and down upon the pavement, crying, "Mummy, oh Mummy!" and waiting r'or her turn. No, they had not changed. They were taller, of course, but Jack still had Tim's eyes, and Mill his dear whimsical smile. The children—Tim's children. The people in the car were smiling as they watched, and the driver was hauling out luggage and turning to look a', the pretty woman and the two exciteH children. They were all talking loigether, losing f their tickets and finding them again, stopping to "have just one more hug.". Christine was a lit Lie breathless, but stole a minute to

whisper to the watching Madonna, "II was worth it. I told you it was worth it." And then 'suddenly a big car was drawn up against the pavement and n big man was helping them, directing them, picking up luggage, tipping the driver again, greeting the children — "Jolly kids, Christine" —saying to her, "Thought I'd better run down, in case you hadn't ordered a taxi. You forgot? Ah, ha, I thought bo! Need me to look after you, my girl." Well, thought Christine, she'd certainly got him—she'd always have hi.n, and.he'd always be saying "Ah, ha!" and looking after her. They .were all quiet and business-like at once, the children subdued and a littie uncertain. They climbed into the bvk of the big car and she made a little movement to get in with them. But the big man took her elbow and helped her into the front seat with him. The car started noiselessly, opulently, ar-d Charles leant over and kissed her. "Well," he said kindly, "got what you wanted 1" Yes, she had got what she wanted. From the window of the corner shop the pictured Madonna looked out and smiled; and her smile was sad and wi.;e and a little mocking.