A CHRISTMAS BOX for SIMKINS

Cue (NZERS), Issue 37, 15 December 1945, Page 36

A CHRISTMAS BOX for SIMKINS

“ /^RAZIE”, said Herbert Simkins, v* taking the 30/ from his wife. “Prego”, she replied, with gentle irony. When would he learn to stop talking those awful foreign languages. “I’ll get them, all right,” Herbert said, pulling on his boots. Yes, he’d get them, all right. Fancy paying 400 lire for a turkey! He chortled. He had seen Mrs Jones with a small flock of tacinas, and if he couldn’t scrounge one his name wasn’t Herbert Simkins. Not that he was too sure of that since he had got spliced. He felt it might be Joe Hunt at times. But even if he missed there were always old Postlewaite’s ducks or McPherson’s galenas, not that the latter would be much good with the manga they got, or didn’t get. He supposed his own spuds would do, but his peas were over. Too rich a soil—the worst of having a job like his. But he thought he knew where he could get the peas, all right—and a few strawberries, too, with a little bit of luck. He’d been pretty good in his deliveries to old Hang-Lo.

He just couldn’t waste 400 lire Besides, he had scarcely any plonk in the house at all, even though he had hocked a couple of spare water jugs they’d got as wedding presents. But a chap had to have plenty of plonk at Christmas what with all his amicos coming in for a few salutes and vivas. He wasn’t going to have them thinking he was a tightwad. It wouldn’t do him any good, especially after the way he’d been

able to bludge on them all through the year. And there was another year coming, too. * * * Herbert was busier than usual on the twenty-fourth—too many farmers in town and too much litter thrown around by the civvies. He’d like to put them on a few emu parades and see how they liked it. Think they were Ites the way they threw things about —everything except lire, that was. But he was not too tired to go on to the Crown when he had put away his little red handcart, his shovel and broom. The turkey, the peas and the strawberries could come laterwhen their owners were walking the town enjoying their Christmas Eve. It’d be just like an Ite jesta, thought Herbert a little contemptuously. Not like the Christmases he had spent in Cairo and Italy. He sighed deeply. He was thinking of his Christmas near Orsognanot too near, of course —and his other at Gioia. If he could only have another like them —without the snow and the rain, of course, and without the adjectival natives and their oxen, pigs, rabbits and galenas. Well, without their oxen and rabbits, anyway.

Herbert again sighed deeply, but for a different reason. It was six o’ clock and “Time, gentlemen, please!”. Very reluctantly he placed his handle on the bar and wiped his stubbly chin with the back of his hand. Almost as good

as Stella, he reflected, and.decided he had better partite. When he reached home Minnie was waiting-for him. "Got the turkey?”, she inquired sharply. “Not yet,” said Herbert. "I’ll get it dopo. Got my eye on a beaut,” he added enthusiastically. "Huh!”, Minnie sneered. "1 suppose it will be sold before you get down to getting it.” “Oh, no,” said Herbert. "It won’t be sold. I’ll collect it, all right.” “You’d better,” said Minnie is a tone that Herbert never did like. “Mother’s coming for dinner tomorrow.” “Madonna mia!” spluttered Herbert. Well, of all the things to happen to a chap on his first Christmas at home. He was about to go to town in no uncertain terms when Minnie interrupted him. “Herbert!”, she said sharply. “It’s Christmas. Peace and goodwill to all men, you know.” "Yes, maybe,” he replied darkly,’’but your mother isn’t a man, worse luck.” "Herbert!”, said Minnie more sharply still. "Herbert Simkins, take those boots off the mantelpiece and come and have tea this instant. If you don’t I’ll—.” “Yes, yes, Minnie”, Herbert cut in urgently, and began whistling "Silent Night” with vicious expression. There were only soya links for tea, anyway.

“Are you coming into town with me?”, Minnie asked him as he dried the dishes for her.

“No, I don’t think so,” Herbert replied. “You go in with Mrs Parkinson. “I’ve got to pick up the turkey later”.

“Herbert, I do think— ;

“No,” said Herbert. ’’You go in solo and I'll join you badin. . Couldn’t we have supper at the Royal at about 10 o’ clock?”

“That would be lovely, Herbert” Minnie said, almost sweetly. “By the way”, she added as she left the room, “there’s a bottle of beer on the sideboard if you would like a glass before you go out”.

Herbert did not say a word. It is difficult to speak in the middle of a blackout. When he recovered he made a dash for the cupboard. Even if it was only cooking brandy it would help. * * * It was two miles out to Mrs Jones’ property, but Herbert hardly noticed it on Minnie’s bike. Moreover, he was thinking of the 400 lire he was saving. And as for old Mrs Jones, she had plenty of cash, anyway. With his experience it would be easy... And it was, too. Everyone seemed to be out and he was able to bowl over a turkey and a couple of galenas quite easily. He stuffed them into the kitbag he hadn't handed in and set off for old George Moloney’s pub. Now he could spend 300 lire on some plonk just to make sure there was plenty in the house. By the time Herbert got home he was’feeling very mellow. Old George had insisted on a spot of discountmore than one spot, too —and, besides, it was Christmas. In spite of that, he was still thirsty when he reached home. He still had an hour to spare before he met Minnie and there was still that bottle she’d left. He settled down in his arm chair with the beer beside him and his feet on the mantelpiece. Motto buono, he said, a little drowsily. . . . * * st There was a bitterly cold wind from the south that sounded a sharp tattoo of hail on the window panes. Herbert, although sitting on an empty packing case over the charcoal brazier, shivered

and pulled his balaclava a little further over his cal's and his greatcoat collar a little higher round his neck. The'room was devoid of furniture or floor-cover-ing, except for a table improvised from an old door, and packing cases taking the place of chairs. It wouldn’t be long till dinner, thought Herbert happily. He’d better go out and see how things were going. As the big shot in the casa he guessed he would have to serve the meal. He didn’t fancy the job, either. Fancy having to wait on his mother-in-law. For a few moments he wondered if he couldn’t tip some soup or gravy down her neck, but then there would be sure to be a counter-offensive from Minnie, and he knew what those stonks were like.

Everything was ready in the' kitchen. All he had to do was carve the Jones turkey and serve out the spuds and peas. He lined up the three dixies and spoons and got busy. By the time he had finished, most of the dinner was somewhat fredda, but it looked just buono all the same. “Come and get it”, he bellowed out, and Minnie and his mother-in-law sailed into the room like a couple of battle-cruisers. With snort like a 14-inch gun going off, each in turn picked up a dixie and steamed off into the dining room. Herbert followed, a cynical grin on his face.

But by the time he had settled down on his packing case and had sprinkled some salt from the old liver salts tin on to his meal, the grin had turned to one of pleasure. In fact, so pleased was he with life generally that he halffilled his mother-in-law’s mug with plonk and started in on Minnie’s, too. It was really New Zealand port, but to Herbert it was rosso, even purple death. He drained his second mugful and got busy with his spoon . . .

“Have a double-up?”, Herbert asked his mother-in-law as he rose to get himself another helping. '

She glared at him and said frostily, ‘No, thank you, Herbert.”

“Sans faire rien'-\ Herbert coinnteit ted with a reallte shrug, and went mH to the kitchen. It was no use asking Minnie. She was making a poor job of hers. While in the kitchen he put a match to the Benghazi and it roared gratefully, sending a cloud of soots into the air. “Non importante”., murmured Herbert, watching them settle on the cream walls. He could go a cuppa chai, he thought, as he loaded up his dixie. He’d better not eat too much, though, because there was the tinned fruit and jelly to follow. The munga was just the job, he thought, licking his lips appreciatively.- Just like Christmas in Orsogna. He wondered if it would snow for the New Year and

whether Minnie would agree to sleep New Year.s’s. Eve in.the bivvic he’d erected on the back lawn, all dug in and drained, too. ' .

Just then he heard a voice shouting, “Mr Simkins!”, in an impatient sort of way, and he stuffed the last of the turkey into his capacious mouth while he served out the fruit, jelly and tinned cream. He’d had to maleesh the pudding as the water had got into it, but sans faire rlen to that, too. '

As he was trying to remove the dirty dixie from in front of his mother-in-

law, the other one in his hand slipped sideways and a large piece of jelly jumped neatly on to her large neck, skidded round to the front, and set off like a ship down a slipway. It was too much for a chap to stand, but there was still some gallantry left in Herbert. Simkins. He had the decency to cross over to the window, where he exploded with raucous laughter. He could hear Minnie and her mother giving a duet. It sounded a bit like “Noel”, but it mightn’t have been. * * * A violent shower of hailstones struck the window, so much so that Herbert started violently. Something crashed to the floor. He’d knocked over the empty beer bottle. Madonne! He’d been ’ asleep and it was gravel, not hail, on the window, and there was somebody singing “Noel”. Madonne!, he exclaimed again.. It was a quarter to ten, and he had to meet Minnie at the Royal. He could just make it, he thought, throwing to the caroilers in his agitation his . two-up pennies.

And make it he did. He quite enjoyed it, too. A bit like an Ite testa, though with Minnie there he couldn’t ogle the girls as he used to in Itieland. The girl who brought the supper wanted to charge a fabulous price for the manga and the gelati. He was telling her so when he received a sharp kick in the shins—and from long practice he knew what that meant. “Non importe”, he said as he paid her. Anyway, he w'as paying her with the equivalent of hock-money, so what did it matter? * * * In spite, of Herbert’s unhappy drcam, Christmas Day went very well, even his mother-in-law coming to light with a present. And what a present!;Just a pair of bed socks, that was all. Herbert nearly told her what she could do

with them, but he thought better of it. Anyway, he might get a few lire from the old signora across the way. He did it pretty hard having to say grazie and giving the battle-cruiser a peck. Minnie had a clue or two, though. She gave him a new pipe—real English, tooand a jar of tobacco. Motto buono! In return Herbert handed over his present—cameo ear-rings. . “They’re beautiful’’, Herbert, ” Minnie was still cooing. ’’And all the way from Italy, too.” Herbert beamed mightily. It had been worth all those cigarettes, after all. “And, Herbert,” Minnie went on, “I’ll have a beautiful present for you soon, too.” Herbert goggled. What was she getting at? He felt something was coming. “Yes, Herbert, you’re going to be a daddy”. “A what!”, spluttered the expectant father. “You’ve given me something more wonderful than a pair of ear-rings, darling,” Minnie went on rapturously. “More than a pair?”, Herbert spluttered. “Madonne mia!” 9 “Well, the doctor thinks it’ll be twins at least,” Minnie said proudly. “At least?”, queried Herbert, aghast. “Yes, dear”, answered Minnie. ’’That means at least. LI a week from the Government.” Herbert’s face brightened. A full quid, he thought, perhaps 30/- a week. Why at this rate, he might be able to retire in a few years. It must have been the Italian air, he thought. “Viva ItaliaV’ he chortled “Viva Minnie. Viva that thirty bob a week!”

“Bnon Natale!”