“STAR” SHORT STORY.

Star (Christchurch), Volume XLIV, Issue 708, 8 March 1933, Page 12

“STAR” SHORT STORY.

MISFITS. IBy M. 4tcART.) Jeanette sighed as the big car drew U|> at the gate. It was a' pity that people always began to remember you in December—-“worked you off” before Christmas came. It was a hot December, and she was very tired. There was so much to do on a farm, even a small farm like this. It was hard for one woman alone. Jeanette's shoulders drooped wearily for a moment—but only a moment. She meant to win through; she meant to succeed at all costs, and to prove that Chris—dear, dead Cln s with all his dreams and his laughter—had not been just failure after ail. If only his relations and hers would just leave her alone, would not keep rushing out in their expensive cars to ask her questions and bring her a lot of things she did not want. This was Doris. She kissed her cousin effusively and said, “I thought .1 would like to look you up before the Christmas rush starts. How thin you are, Jeanette! It makes you look much older. Do take plenty of nourishing food. Xu, I won’t come in. I just wanted to see how you are getting on —and to bring vou this.”

“This” was a large .and untidy parcel from which exuded odds and ends of clothing. “They’re old,” Doris admitted, “but there’s plenty of good wear in them, and it doesn’t matter what'you look like out here, does it? Now I must by. Kiss the kiddies for me.”

Jeanette sighed as she carried the bumpy parcel into the house. Doris meant to be kind: they all meant to be kind—-her relations and Christopher’s. But she did wish they wouldn’t give her such queer clothes. And they were all so fat. She laughed as she tried on a cardigan of Doris’. It would have held her and Bill and Becky as well. She was tiled of making fat clothes thin. They never looked right, for she was not a clever needle-woman.

She- rumpled the things over impatiently. An old dust-coat, very wide and capacious, and four felt hats. What shapes! She stuck one on and made a face at her reflection. Then, meeting blue eyes that looked large and wistful in the thin face, she forgot to brazen it out. Instead, she put her head down on the pillow and cried. This would be the third Christmas since Chris died, but the pain had not even be«nm to grow easier. She coukl always see him—his dear, rumpled hair and his laughing brown eyes. How he would have roared with mirth at the sight of these clothes! —but then no one had ever thought of giving her old clothes while Chris was alive. Perhaps old clothes were always the outward and visible sign of sympathy with widows—at least with very poor widows whose husbands had left them with two adorable children and a heavily-mortgaged farm. With obstinate widows who refused to give up and admit that “poor dear Chris was never a business man.” Her mind strayed back to the first terrible month after Chris’ death. How hard thev had all talked! They would not leave her alone and they kept deciding her future in a dozen different ways. And through it all she had sat, very quiet, very determined. “Chris always said this farm had a. future,” she ventured at last, and her voice had pleaded both for Chris and for the farm. “Oh yes,” they said. struggling desperately to be tactful, “but then poor dear Chris never was a business man.” That had only made her more determined. She would prove Chris right; they should not patronise him just because he was dead. She would stay there. It was only a little farm and she understood the milking plant. She could get a boy to help her if necessary. She could manage perfectly well. The land was flat for topdressing and they did not plough. She was very strong, despite her air of fragility. . She was thinking all this while Chris’ sister Claudia was talking, so that she really heard only the last sentence. “So you can stay with us as long as you like. I need more help in the house, anvwav. I’m sure Edith would take the children till we can arrange something.” “What about us taking the children too?” Tom suggested timidly. Tom was Claudia’s husband —just that and nothing more. On this occasion he was showing himself singularly tactless. Claudia had no children and the legend had always run that “Tom couldn’t be bothered with kids' and there was the big, foolish fellow gazing at Bill and Becky with hungry eyes. But Claudia said, “That’s quite impossible. There’s no room. Besides, I couldn’t have a couple of children loose among my china.” Tom looked as though he wanted to say “Damn the china,” but instead he only murmured, “Oh. vight-o,” in a crestfallen voice. Then he looked at Jeanette and cheered up. “You’ll come, though, Jenny? How quickly can you get settled up here?” That was another mistake. Claudia looked up sharply. Yes, Jeanette was verv pretty and she looked ridiculously Ihroung for her thirty years. . . But rvhat was she saying? J “You are very kind . . ” She seemed (to be searching for words, like some Idazed creature. Of course, it had all fceen very sudden. “Very kind—blit I’m going to stay here. It’s a good farm and I can manage.” It was certainly not Tom’s lucky day. He said, “But you’re far too young and pretty to live alone.” That decided Claudia and Claudia decided the rest. Jeanette had her way and lived alone. But they could not leave it at that. They felt they must be kind to her. They would keep bringing her little things —nothing much, of course, just what they could easily spare. And they saved all their old clothes for her —the really old ones. The guild needed all the middle-aged ones. They said it was a pity that she lived so far out. .Sometimes Jeanette thought it was not far enough. And then there was Edward. He had been a comfort sometimes, but at others she felt that life was quite difficult enough without him —felt that it was hard luck that his car should have gone wrong just outside her gate and that he should have come ill to use the telephone. That was how she first met him when Chris had been dead a year. Edward was just like his name—big and kind and pompous and handsome. Soon lie would be stout, but at present he was only comfortable. He was very

| comfortable indeed. More, he was rich. He watched Jeanette from the first with the kind and faithful eyes of a large clog. But unfortunately he was more vocal than dogs should be. He proposed at the end of three months, and was frankly amazed at her refusal. “But I “I only want this,” was her quiet reply. “This? But what is there here?” He did not mean to be unkind, but his glance round the little room hurt her, so that she replied, rather cruelly, “More than you could ever give me —memories.” That had wounded. The selfsatisfied look had fallen from his face and he had gone away. But he was back next week, and so was the selfsatisfied look. . . Lately he had altered his tactics. In a weak-minded moment, when still smarting after a visit from Claudia, she had unburdened her hot heart and told him of her ambition. •’Once I can make the farm, pay they’ll have to stop patronising Chris.” And Edward had understood —how marvellously he had understood! She supposed it was because he knew all about success and how precious it was. He had said, “It’s a jolly* good farm, and your husband was right. They’re talking rot.” Her heart had warmed to him and she had smiled so sweetly that he said explosively, “Marry me, and they can all go to the devil! We’ll put a bit of money into the farm—no, you shall. I’ll settle it on you and you can please yourself. Then we’ll show them what this farm can do.” But the alow faded from her face and she only said, “I can’t marry you from love of Chris and his farm.” This was beyond him, but he had discovered the joint in her armour. He repeated the offer about once a month. Jeanette picked up Doris’s bundle where it lay forgotten on the floor, and tried to wrap it again in the paper. There was a coloured sateen petticoat with a deep frill and a string at the waist. Good heavens! That must be twenty vears old! Never mind, perhaps it would make a cushion cover. No, as it was Doris s, it would probably make an entire bedspread, she thought spitefully, and smiled at herself. Then she heard the children’s voices and everything changed at once. They were tearing up the path, trying which could reach her first. Bill, being ten and a man, felt that he must stand back, although he let her see that he could have easily won if lie had liked. Becky skipped up the steps, light as a fairy, with her cloud of golden hair, 1 1111 fashionably long, because mother loved it so. and her brown, brown eyes that were Chris’. “'Most precious, my sums were right,” ; she cried. “And 1 won all Bert Horden's marbles,” shouted Bill, hoping she wouldn’t ask about his sums. “And we’re so hungry!” they shouted in a breathless chorus. In five minutes they were all merry and laughing over their tea. Bill said, “And oh, I forgot! There’s a letter.” Jeanette’s heart sank when she saw the lawyer’s name printed on the flap of the envelope! but she put it firmly aside and tried to laugh as heartily as “And there’s a parcel, too,” Becky added. “But it’s big. so Mrs. Smith said she would leave it as she went past.” “Did it look interesting?” * “Oh, yes. It was big and bulgy, ami thrilling,” sighed Becky. (To be concluded.}