CHEATED OUT OF CHRISTMAS

Nelson Evening Mail, Volume LXX, 16 December 1936, Page 9

CHEATED OUT OF CHRISTMAS

It was Christmas Eve all the world over—except in George Bickerton’s office. But that was just like George Bickerton. Where other people divided the seasons into spring, summer, autumn and winter, he only looked upon them in the terms of slump, boom, depression and prosperity. No May morning or August heat-wave could tempt George Bickerton from his desk if there was a boom in business, and as for Christmas, why, that was just the time that brought prosperity unlimited to the firm of George Bickerton, Limited. George had outgrown Christmas by sixty years now, but he had not outgrown a certain preference for attractive secretaries round about the age of twenty-five. Norma Trent was one of them—his private secretary who shared the inner office with him and understood the business secrets of the firm, and just how the boss liked his tea made, and what clients he would or would not speak to on the telephone. There was an orderly mind beneath Norma Trent’s sleekly shining nutbrown head, otherwise she would not have been in the employ of George Bickerton. She knew it was beyond the bounds of possibility to hope for a few days’ holiday at Christmas. She also knew that this extra time she was putting in on Christmas Eve would bring her that bonus she was so much in need of —even if it did mean her losing the train that would take her away from this dismal northern town straight down to where Christmas waited. “Oh, well, I shall just have to do without it this year!” Norma shrugged her shoulders and stopped glancing at the clock. What was the use? The south-bound train had left an hour ago. She still had those statements to do. The electric light would be burning in George Bickerton’s office until close on midnight. /

“I mustn’t think about it any more,” Norma told herself sensibly. “I—l mustn’t.”

Crash.! Clang! Clang! Clang! Christmas bells pealed out through the frosty air. Norma locked her desk and went over to the window. There were stars and a full moon, and a faint coverlet of frost over the pointed roofs and crooked chimneys, so that even this dull town looked like a Christmas card. “Midnight!” muttered Norma to herself. “I’ve never stayed so late before. And I’ve got to come again on Boxing Day.” She smiled wearily. “Wonder what old Bickerton would do without me.”

“I’m not indispensable,” Norma told her tired little reflection in the dress-ing-room mirror, as she pulled on her hat. “What business girl is nowadays? There are too many of us—regiments, and regiments, and regiments—pretending to be wrapped up in our careers, yet knowing ail the time that we are being cheated out of the best things in life.” Even though it was after twelve, the streets were not deserted. Bright lights still burned in shop windows. A hawker’s barrow showed a rainbow mixture' of oranges and violets, and toys, and candy. Christmas glowing in the bright eyes of passersby. Christmas sparkling down from glittering stars in a moonlight-blue sky. Christmas gleaming tenderly from the windows of little homes. “I hate Christmas!” she told herself bitterly. "Too much fuss and confusion and nonsense. I’ll be glad when it’s over.”

She hated it because she was being cheated out of it this year, because the glorious Festival of the Child was to mean nothing to her—nothing. “A Merry Christmas!” shouted a merry passer-by. Norma’s lip curled, and she drew her cheap fur closer about her shoulders. It was all this “Merry Christmas” stuff that was so stupid. If people wouldn’t prate so much about gathering round the Yule log, and kissing under the mistletoe, and filling little stockings, then other people wouldn’t feel it so badly—other people who hadn’t a chance of keeping Christmas, however much they wanted to. Norma’s orderly mind was getting a little confused, but she knew what she meant. A tear rolled down her cheek, and she tried to turn a sob into a cough. Norma hated weaknesses . and sentimentality, and one-hundred-per-cent feminity in a woman. Anyhow, it wouldn’t have gone down in George Bickerton’s office.

Home! She let herself into her oneroomed flat and snapped on the lights viciously. An unlighted gas-fire stood coldly in the grate, waiting for a match. In the kitchenette cupboard was her Christmas dinner—two chops and a mince-pie.

Norma threw herself down in an uneasy easy chair and opened the envelope George Bickerton had furtively pushed across her desk earlier that evening.

“A little Christmas-box, Miss Trent. This, of course, covers your overtime work.”

Thirty shillings! A green note and a brown note fluttered from her hand, and she laughed aloud. Thirty shillings was the price of missing Christmas. Funny, wasn’t it? Her laughter grew hard and metallic and mirthless. But the funniest thing about the whole affair was that she needed that thirty shillings—and every other thirty shillings she could manage to scrape up; needed them more than she needed sufficient sleep or nourishing food or warm clothing. Needed them more than she needed Christmas.

Then the laughter turned suddenly to sobs, and Norma Trent, the calm, decisive business woman, gave way. She felt better after that. Calm, self-contained women generally do. She pulled herself together and made a cup of cocoa over the unsympathetic gas-fire, and nibbled a biscuit and tried to think it was just an ordinary winter day, and tried not to think about this time last year, and tried not to wonder what on earth the future had in store for her. She picked up the notes and stuffed them into the inner compartment of her handbag. To-morrow—no, Boxing Day—no, the day after, of course, she would change them into shillings and put them in her money-box. Otherwise, it would be such a temptation to spend them on new shoes, or a

BY DORIS AMY IBBOTSON

macintosh that wouldn’t let in the rain, or that little red hat she had seen in Mayes’ window. Funny, the way she kept her money in that pillar-box safe that nurse had given her one Chris She must remember to change the notes into shillings. Nurse’s money-box would only accept shillings. Nurse said that was the way to be thrifty—save one kind of coin at a time. Thirty shillings! Thirty—pieces —of —silver! Norma’s polished nails dug into the palms of her hands. She had been cheated out of Christmas for thirty pieces of silver, reluctantly roled out by George Bickerton, who had ceased to believe in Christmas before Norma was born.

Suddenly she was groping feverishly in her handbag, pulling out those coloured scraps of paper, spreading them across her lap.

“You are not going into the moneybox after all,” she cried dramatically. “You are going to buy Christmas for me—if it is not too late. I can’t afford it. but I’m going to have it—in spite of everything.” * * * *

There were trains to look up—miserable, slow trains, crawling through the darkness of early Christmas morning. Cross-country trains, taking their time about it. But sooner or later, with their help, Norma would find Christmas.

Church bells were ringing when she set out, although the sky was not yet red with winter dawn. Behind the golden squares of bedroom windows Norma could hear children’s laughter, the banging of crackers, the music of toy drums and tin trumpets. Her heart thumped. Soon —oh, soon! Christmas morning wore on, from the excitement of present-giving at the breakfast-table to the nervous anxiety prevailing in the kitchen. Church bells rang out again, and carols were sung by young voices. And all the time Norma was being taken by cross-country trains away from her business life to where Christmas was waiting.

It was afternoon before she arrived at her destination—a large, square, barrack-looking house, with a brass plate on the door which read: “Heathdown Nursery Home for Young Children. Matron, Miss Murchison.” Norma rang the bell, trembling with excitement, and a moment later was facing the severc-looking matron, whose eyes expressed more surprise than pleasure at this visjtation. “This is rather an unexpected ”

“Oh, please, matron,” interrupted Norma timidly, “I’ve come to see if—if I can spend Christmas, or rather ■what’s left of it, with Cynthia! You don’t mind, do you? If I could just have her to myself—away from the other children ” Her voice trailed off.

“You should have let me know earlier,” said the matron stonilv. “I could most certainly have made arrangements for you to spend Christmas with your child, although the rules do not allow parents to make use of this Home except for brief visits during the hours appointed. Still, considering the season, I would have waived that rule. Unfortunately, however ”

“Where is she?” Norma caught at the other woman’s arm. “Where is Cynthia? Not —not ill?” Her face was white with apprehension. . “Cynthia has gone away for Christmas.” The matron spoke deliberately. “Gone away!” gasped Norma, staring at the matron with horror. “But—how dare you let her go without letting me know? You had no right to do it!” “There was no time to let you know.” Steely-grey eyes were cold and hard. “Mr Temple only called for her this morning.” “Mr Temple!” Norma’s hand crept to her ashen lips.

“He wanted her for just the day. I have his address.” The matron fumbled among some papers on her desk and handed Norma a card. “He lives not very far from here. Of course, I would not have allowed her to go any distance without your permission.”

Norma gazed at the card through a mist of tears. So she was to be cheated out of Christmas after all! Cynthia had gone—to spend the day at “The Gables, Rookvale.” Well, thank heaven, it was not in this soulless Children’s Home, with that steelyeyed woman presiding over the festivities. Norma had chosen this place because it was cheap. “I’m very sorry indeed.” The matron’s voice broke in on her thoughts. “Of course, I would have kept the child had I known you were coming to see her.” “It’s all right.” Norma gave a wry smile. “You did the wisest thing in letting her go. I---I couldn’t give her a real Christmas myself. I—l hope she enjoys every minute of this one. Don’t —please don’t tell her that I came to see her. It might upset her.” The matron sighed with relief. “May I offer you a cup of tea before you go? You look very tired.” “No, thank you.” Norma shook her head. “I’ll go back to the station. Perhaps I can find a train to take me north again.” Back to the world of George Bickerton, Limited. Back to a one-roomed flat and loneliness. Back to files and statements and business jargon and too-slim pay envelopes. Back to everything that was cold and dreary and depressing. Away from soft arms and dancing, sunny curls and dewy eyes, and the feel of a little poppybud mouth on her own.

“It seems that Christmas doesn’t want me,” she thought to herself, and her lips twitched. It was a good ten minutes’ walk to the station. Norma hurried along because it was almost cold enough for snow.

“Seasonable!” called one man to another across the road. “Yes. Real old-fashioned Christmas weather, as the saying is,” returned the others slowly. Norma drew her fur up round her ears. She didn’t want to hear that word again.

Thank goodness it only came once a year! She might have to wait for another slow train back north, but that was what waiting-rooms were for. She

smothered a little high hysterical laugh. Fancy spending Chris —fancy spending a winter afternoon in a wait-ing-room! Norma wished people would draw their blinds in the front rooms of little houses along the road. Flickering firelight, the mellow glow of lamps, the white glare of electricity, all threw into relief jolly family parties. Some were at tea, gazing eager-eyed at a monster iced cake in the middle of the table. Some were gathered round a tree. Some were just sitting quietly by the fireside. There were decorations in all those rooms—paper streamers, gleaming dark-green ivy, glowing holly berries, mistletoe. Last Christmas there had been firelight and a tree and a monster iced cake; a little stocking to fill; and the wonderful glimpse of a child, brighteyed,' in the dawn. There had been mistletoe also . . . “There’s a train just going now, miss.” The porter beamed at her. “You’ll catch the connection at the junction and —” “Never mind.” Norma turned away abruptly. “I—l’ve changed my mind.” There were taxis in the station yard. Norma got into the first one and gave the address mechanically. “The Gables, Rookvale. Is—is it a long way from here?” “A matter of twenty miles, miss.” “Oh!” she said faintly. “All right. Please hurry.”

Twenty miles! A mere giant-stride if you possessed your own car. She simply couldn’t afford a twenty-mile drive in a taxi. But she was going to because it was Chris—because it, was a special occasion. But, oh! the things she would have to go without during the next few months to make up for this.

She leaned back in her seat, pale and frightened. She had burnt her boats this time, but she just wouldn’t be cheated out of Christmas any longer. If she could just for a moment, feel the softness of those bright, dancing curls against her cheeks, the touch of a little mouth on her own, then that would be Christmas indeed.

The bigness of The Gables almost took away her courage. The long sweep of carriage drive, glimpse of green lawns, mhssive trees, glasshouses, stone steps leading to the porch. All this meant money. It was a, country mansion, and no place for a tired business girl stealing a day from George Bickerton, Limited.

For a moment she cowered, trembling, on the taxi seat, then pulled herself together for the ordeal'that faced her.

It was a brave gesture to dismiss the taxi. Suppose . . . Norma tugged at the bell. She mustn’t think of anything but Cynthia. “I wish to see Mr Temple,” she told the manservant who came to the door. His eyebrows shot up.

“I am afraid Mr Temple is not seeing anybody this afternoon, madam. He is engaged.” A peal of childish laughter rang out from a room to the right Of the door. Norma brushed past the' servant and ran through the hall. She flung open the door of a large, lux-uriously-furnished lounge and paused on the threshold.

“Mummy! Mummy!” A little flying figure darted across the floor and into her arms. “Oh, Mummy, how scrumptious! Mummy, I’ve got such wonderful presents. And there’s a most ’normous tree, and a huge cake. And we’re just going to have tea and pull crackers. Oh, Mumy, darling, I’m dreadfully glad you came!” It was worth it all to have those little arms round her, that flowersweet body pressed so tightly to her own. Norma hid her lips in the soft brightness of dancing golden curls.

Over her child’s head she looked into the grave brown eyes of a young: man.

“I’m glad you are here, Norma,” he said quietly. “Cynthia and I came to the conclusion, some hours ago, that it wasn’t a real Christmas—without, you.” She flushed a little.

“Thank you, John. I—l’m rather late.”

“Mummy! Mummy! I want to show you all my lovely presents.” Gently he took the child out of Norma’s arms.

“Run into the other room, darling, and put everything nice for Mummy to see. That dolls’ house is terribly untidy. It wouldn’t do for Mummy to see it looking like that, would it?” He gave a little laugh. “Mummy will come along in a few minutes.” They both watched the child scamper from the room; then Norma turned to him.

“I wouldn’t have come here—you know that—but I was hungry fox a sight of Cynthia.” “So was I,” he replied gently. “That’s why I fetched her this morning from that dragon. What a ghastly place you left her in, Norma!” “It was all I could afford.” He flushed. . “Haven’t you been receiving my allowances every month?” Norma’s chin went up. “That is being put by, untouched, for when Cynthia grows up, I want her to enjoy her youth—not slog through it as I have done.”

“Thought you were keen on your career? You always put it first—in the old days.” “I was pathetically young in those days, John.” “We both were. Perhaps that was why we ” “John, I think I had better go. I’ll slip away when Cynthia isn’t noticing.” “Afraid, Norma?” His hand shot out and grasped her arm. “Of course not.” But she was trembling.

“Don’t you realise that we’ve grown up now?” He spoke in a low voice. “We’re not the couple of kids who made a romantic runaway marriage and thought that love and kisses would last us for the rest of our lives. We’re man and woman now, Norma, with the thirties not many years ahead. We’ve got a six-years-old child to consider. We can face facts squarely now. I’m glad we had that break. It’s given us time to think things over, to realise what a couple of young fools we were.”

“John!” She stared at him amazed. “I—l thought we had parted—for ever.”

He laughed. “Silly baby talk, I’ve learnt better since. Haven’t you, Norma?” She closed her eyes and nodded. “I’ve been terribly lonely. You’re right, John. We were, fools. I was a fool to go on with my so-called career instead of making a home for you.” She laughed bitterly. “Career! Why, 1 was only a glorified typist calling a weekly wage a salary.” “We won’t bring that up again. I was a fool, to, to be so jealous of your business life, Norma. But, with Cynthia’s help, we’re going to forget the past.” “John!” •

“I didn’t realise how. terribly I missed you and wanted you until I had Cynthia all to myself to-day. She reminds me of you so much. Tomorrow, darling, I meant to come to you—wherever you were.” “John!” She smiled up into his eyes. “Do you really mean that?” He caught her hands and imprisoned them in his own.

“Of course. I’ve got you now, Norma, my sweet, and I won’t let you go again. We won’t let happiness escape us this time, darling. We’ll put some salt on its tail.” He laughed. But Norma was drawing back, shaking her head.

“John. I can’t. You were a poor man when I married you, and—and I was not much of a helpmate. I —l •wanted my silly career instead of my own fireside; Now—now that I would give everything to be .in a tiny home with you and Cynthia,, to work my fingers to the bone for you both—l find you are a rich man! No, John, I can’t come back to you—like this.” She gave a comprehensive glance around the room.

He shouted with laughter. “That’s good, Norma. Me rich! Why, it was a matter of luck, landing this job. I don’t own the place, darling. I’m only private secretary. My boss is away on holiday in Switzerland. He’s an author —the kind that dictates at a Niagara rate.” He pulled a little face. “He happens to know about Cynthia and—and you. Saw me looking down in the mouth one day, and got the story out of me. He believes in the ‘happy ending,’ both for his novels -and for real life, too! He’ll be terribly bucked to know that we two have come together again.”

“Oh, John!” There was relief in her voice. “Oh, I am so glad you are not rich, dear! I want to start all over again with you—only properly this time. A real marriage, John. Not a selfish playtime affair like the other one was.” “Just come over here a minute.” He pulled her towards an .alcove until they reached the spot where a bunch of mistletoe hung over their heads. “Oh, John!” She emerged laughing and gasping from his embrace. “That was hardly a mistletoe kiss, darling!”

“Mummy! Mummy!” Cynthia stood in the doorway. “Come and see my presents now.” “Just coming, darling.” Norma stooped and kissed the flushed, excited little face. “And then we must have tea,” said John, “and cut the cake and pull the crackers, and read the mottoes artd wear the caps, and do everything in the approved style.” “Oh, Mummy, don’t you love Christmas?” cried Cynthia ecstatically.

“I never realised before how wonderful it was,” answered Norma slowly, her eyes on the brown eyes of John; ■

“Make the most of it,” he teased his little daughter. “Christmas only comes once a year, you know.”

Norma shook her head. “I think this kind of Christmas is going to stay with me—for ever,” she whispered.