The Cure

Auckland Star, Volume LXXI, Issue 144, 19 June 1940, Page 15

The Cure

Short Story :::

IWEARILY, before the little red; and " green devils could take full possession of that aching space behind her eyes, Margaret Mayne threw back the bedclothes, Miruet her feet into her satin mules and trailed dejectedly into the lovely sitting room of her Park Lena flat.

Sleop! Wasn't there a poet fellow who had said, "Love it was the best of them and sleep worth all the rest of them ?" Heavens, how right he was. Seated in front of the friendly glow of her electric fire, Margaret tried to recall the laet time i-he had Even then it had been the kind of sleep that comes out of a bottle from a doctor's caee. Helpless, they wore, theee doctors. Learnedly remarking about "nervous disorders—modern conditions —complete rest—totally different surroundings—" they would pass on their way not a little annoyed at their ability to solve the problem of this beautiful wealthy young woman, who obviously neither smoked nor drank, took core of hereelf in »every way, and yet whose nights were filled with that terrifying loneliness—insomnia' Dr. Cratz of Budapest, had been the nearest to finding a cure when he had told her to go to work. She had followed his advice, known the solace and relief of three night's perfect reet. Her post had been obtained Iby influence certainly, but it had been worth it for those three bleeeed nights. Then, the fourth night, columns of figures had danced a jig with invoices, business IHtcrs and shorthand hieroglyphics. Telephone liells had vied with office buzzers for supremacy somewhere inside her 'brain, until the hall porter in the quiet hotel where she had been staying had suddenly been summoned to aeeiat at the most hectic paeking-up he had ever witnessed. From there she had gone to Berlin, having heard of a famous specialist who wae holidaying there, and who had cured a foreign prince of insomnia quite recently. This too» had been unsuccessful, as had similar trips to Vienna, Rome, London, and Paris.

"Something to drink, Mim Mayne?" The soft, sympathetic tones of Margaret Mayne's personal maid caused the girl by the fire to feel a wave of gratefulness.

"You shouldn't have troubled to get up yet, Eetelle, I hate to'know I disturb your rest so repeatedly."

"That's all right," eaid Eatelle with a healthy person's pity for those less fortunate. "I'll get some coffee."

She bustled about and Margaret felt that she could have wept with relief at knowing that' somebody wae up beside hereelf. To those who Buffer with insomnia it seems that the whole world is at re*t, «nd that only they -themselves are awake to the tick-tick-tkk of the clock, and all the other maddening little sounds of the night. ... In the lives of the MargaVet Mayne* of the world there are'no night-workers. For this reason they have not the comfort of knowing of the vast army of men and women who work throughout the night, members of a great fellowship although they never meet. Sipping her coffee, which was just the way she liked it—nearly all milk— Margaret felt decidedly, Bently, deep in /« scented bath, her ipirits reviving, Margaret planned her day Sβ was her habit. An appointment with her hairdresser and manicurist, a fitting for her new gown, and some shopping was the morning's programme. It wa* only a close c«beerver who would have noticed the very real weariness in the eyes of the faultlessly-dressed young woman who walked briskly across the park. Margare* had schooled herself from long experience not to show the ravages of her hopeless nighte, and very nearly she had succeeded. She had her hair done in a new style, an exciting new shade of polish on her nails, and her gown fitted perfectly. Then, with only her shopping left to do, Margaret made her way to a huge store in Oxford Street.

It was here, In front of one of the long, plate-glass windows that Margaret Mayne met Trixie Ann.

The gorgeous display of Christmas toys brought a sparkle of sheer wonderment into the big, blue eyes of TrixieAnn. Hanging on to her mother's hand with her own two small ones, determinedly and grimly, she insisted that if she didn't go inside that minute and gee Father Chrietmae, "he wouldn't bring me iiuflink Kiemis morninV

Her mother, a sad-faced, harassedlooking woman, gently explained over and over again, with extreme patience that she had to get to work by one o'clock, and as it was now nearly twelve, Trixie-Ann must come home and foe minded by Auntie Joan while Mummy went to work. Trixie-Ann didn't teem very interested in this practical explanation of why a visit to Father Christmas was out of the question this morning, and with new seet she started all over again, her little heels planted firmly together to prevent her mother from moving from the window's fairyland.

"Please," said a well-bred voice, a little shyly. "Could I mind the little lady and take her to see Father Christmast I promise to take the utmost care of her and to send her home in my car at whatever hour you say."

The tired woman, with a vision of the huge block of dreary offices that had to be scrubbed down Kensington way, knew that ehe could trust even her precious little Trixie-Ann with this quiet, welldresaed womun, and over coffee, which the three of them took in the coffee room of the store, they became firm friende. Having put Trixie-Ann's mother in a taxi to her destination, promising to return Trixie-Ann to her home in Hammersmith at six o'clock that evening, Margaret Mayne led the skipping, jumping, excited, little 'flve-year-old into the big doors ui the store.

It was a <Mj or days for Trixie-Ann. Years afterward*, when she wan taking her own little girl on the self-same Christmas adventure, she' remembered that day of wonder. They saw seven Father Christmases, each one a smiling replica of the last. They sailed in a mystery ship on an incredibly blue eea, in a red , and silver 'plane that landed unexpectedly at the very door of Father Christmas' castle, and on a sledg* with real reindeer, which took them through snowy regions through an avenue of snow-crowned Christmas trees. Then there was a huge Christmas cake which turned out to be full of gnome* and pixies, 'and quite the sweetest pixie of all gave/ Trixie-Ann the cuddliest bear ehe had ever possessed. There was a lunch in a gay, balloon-decked restaurant, and afterwards a ride in a long, grey car to. the zoo and there, oh joy! a ride on an elephant! Then, back through the blue December dusk to the

By Laura Jennings

tea of a little girl's dreams. The nut jelly was almost Trixie-Ann's undoing but even so, she bravely risked anothehelpmg of Christmas cake, ami this seemed to put matters right. It was a tired, happy little girl, her we© arms aching with parcels, that rode home in the long grey car to Hammersmith.

Her mind full of frost-ladan trees, snowy caetles and jingling reindeer, Trixie-Ann felt that Christmas was fun.

"Would you like the evening papers, they've just arrived and—"

Estelle, a bundle of newspapers under her arm, stopped in the sitting rooni doorway in sheer amazement. On the divan in front of the fire, a slight smile on her lips, was curled Margaret Mayne. She elept no less soundly than did Trixie-Ann.