A Christmas Gift

by Ruby Jackson

  ‘Poor Seb. Thanks for telling me; I’m sorry I asked; I really should know Seb well enough by now not to have doubted.’

  ‘Yes, you should,’ said Sally, ‘but I wondered too, just at first. Now let’s get on with finding him a gift.’

  ‘Little Town on the Prairie, Sally, the latest by an American writer, lovely, happy books; that’s my intellectual level.’

  ‘It’s for children.’

  ‘I’ve read one of her books before; fascinating, possibly based on truth, and definitely not just for children.’

  ‘Then I’ll buy a copy for you for Christmas and you can pretend you’re surprised.’

  ‘Oh, Sally, I can’t believe it.’

  Millie’s eyes had filled with tears and Sally tensed, wondering what on earth she had said that could possibly have upset Millie. ‘Sorry, Millie, did I say something wrong?’

  To her surprise, especially since they were standing in a large department store, the usually undemonstrative Millie threw her arms around her. ‘No, absolutely not. Patrick used to say that, every birthday, every Christmas, every anniversary, first time we danced together, first time we … well, never mind, just every anniversary. He was the world’s worst gift buyer, definitely a chocolates-or-flowers man, and he never could think of anything original. His mother and I used to leave big hints and eventually he would say, “I’ll buy you the silly book” – or whatever else it was that had been hinted at – “and you can pretend to be surprised.” We miss that, his mum and I, Sally, so thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome,’ Sally smiled as she answered but she was thinking that sometimes friendship was like trying to put one’s feet on the only safe place on an ice-covered lake. One false move and you fall through. But, she decided, if Millie wants a children’s book for Christmas then she shall have it.

  There was a buzz in the stores that was not wholly connected to Christmas. The news of the Japanese attack on the American fleet at a place called Pearl Harbor was on everyone’s lips.

  ‘They’ll be in the war now with men as well as all the aid they’ve been giving us. Britain won’t have to hold the fort alone now.’

  Even billboards announced that ‘THE YANKS ARE COMING’, and excitement and euphoria managed to lift the spirits of a nation wondering how to celebrate Christmas and keep their families warm this first winter since the introduction of coal rationing.

  Sally and Millie enjoyed their few hours immensely and Sally, who had been conscious for some time that she wore only her uniform or the clothes the company had donated to her, went shopping but instead of a new dress for Christmas, she bought as much chocolate, which wasn’t yet rationed, as she could afford. ‘I’ll put it in a basket and leave it for everyone. All I did at the time was say thank you.’

  ‘No one expects anything, Sally.’

  ‘I know but I feel better. Now, Jackson’s. I think my mum would love one of their lovely red tins; she keeps buttons in tins, threads, pins. Maybe they’ll sell one without tea but if not, I’m sure Mrs Petrie will understand.’

  Eventually, after much discussion, they bought Seb-astian the latest book by A. J. Cronin, The Keys of the Kingdom.

  ‘All the other writers, apart from Mr C., are American and this year we definitely want to buy British,’ said Millie.

  Sally, agreeing wholeheartedly, smiled as she hid her purchase of a little book called Little Town on the Prairie in her handbag.

  Later, as they wrapped their gifts, Sally’s thoughts flew to past Christmases, five Petrie children, Grace, herself and, at some point during the day, Stan, Rose Petrie’s best friend, the Humbles from the farm, Miss Pritchard if she wasn’t having Christmas lunch with the vicar and his family, and anyone else who was lonely. No, perhaps Millie was not quite ready for quite so much fun and laughter.

  ‘You’ll be welcome in my home whenever you choose, Millie, and you’re used to sleeping in the same room as me so sharing at our flat wouldn’t be a shock.’

  It was Wednesday, Christmas Eve, and Sally, full of excitement and expectation, was on the train to Dartford before it occurred to her that Millie might well be looking forward to a room to herself – even if it was only for one night.

  She heard someone blow a whistle, and the train, groaning as if it objected, was now beginning to move. Dartford. She was going home and for the first time in her life, the town now meant more than family and old school friends. Jon had lived here too. All the time that Sally Brewer had lived in Dartford, so had Jon and she had not known him, had not been aware of him. Had they passed each other on the street? Had he ever enjoyed a Sunday morning stroll in the park, or, was it more likely that owners of country estates walked around their own grounds? Had he taken his wife to see a film in the cinema where she occasionally sold ice cream? Maudie would answer all her questions, if Sally could somehow speak to Maudie without worrying her parents. She remembered her parents’ reaction to the ring. What would they say or do or feel if they knew that their daughter was … say it, Sally, say it … in love with a … sailor … all right, all right, she tried to quieten her conscience – in love with Jonathon Galbraith, Lord Hedges?

  Her joy dissipated. For the first time she saw how stupid she had been even to think about Jon, to dream about him. He did not love her, he could not. Never had he said the slightest thing that would make her believe he did not love his wife still. She had left him; he had not left her. And now Jon was missing. His face swam before her, thick dark hair brushed back from his forehead, his eyes, almost cold as he discussed the ring and then warm and gentle as he asked her to write but always, always, an underlying sadness. For a moment she felt that the emotion building inside her would explode.

  He will be found … Feverishly Sally went over and over her short meetings with Jon, the words they had spoken, the letters they had written. She closed her eyes and felt a tear escape and run down her cheek. Afraid that others would follow, she wiped it away with her hand and sat up straight.

  Nothing had happened. Nothing that could be regretted had been said by either of them. ‘He was kind and generous to me; he was lonely and asked me to write to him and I did. That’s all there is to it, but he’s a friend and I’ll never give up hoping he’ll be found – for Maudie’s sake; that’s what friends do.’

  She could almost feel herself changing as the train whistled and shunted itself across Kent, the driver, the engineer and the guard more alert than ever as they watched the sky. Sophistication was falling off her as if she was shedding a skin and the nearer she got to Dartford, the more excited she became. All her old friends, she felt sure, were going to be there. She had had no time to write to Grace or to receive a reply. Perhaps Grace would be sharing her room. She had certainly spent a lot of time with the Brewers last year when her sister had been killed in the raid.

  I’d love to spend some time with Grace, and hear all about farming. Sally looked at her fingernails and decided happily that they were very elegant and obviously totally unsuitable for digging potatoes or milking cows. No, farming would not have appealed to me at all. She looked out through an unprotected square of glass in the carriage window and pictured shy, quiet Grace dealing with large, lumbering cows.

  Who would ever have thought that Grace would become a land girl? A nurse maybe, a secretary in an office certainly, an office where her work would be as neat and tidy as Grace herself.

  I’ll make a New Year’s resolution now. I will use daylight travel time in the lorries to keep up with my friends. Maybe Millie will too; she’ll write to the friends who have kept looking out for her and caring about her. Sally laughed out loud and became aware of unfriendly looks from two dowagers on the opposite side of the carriage. ‘If they recognise me, they don’t like me, and if they don’t recognise me, they still don’t like me.’

  She awarded them a special smile. Poor things, being grumpy just because someone laughed. ‘Happy Christmas, ladies,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it wonderful to be going home for Christmas?’

>   ‘You should be in the services,’ said one of the dow-agers, ‘doing your duty.’

  Should she reply? Tell them that she was in ENSA and often worked seven days a week, that she had spent nights on the floors of uncomfortable lorries or in almost tumbledown buildings with nothing but a coarse blanket for a cover, that she had dressed herself up in a pretty dress and gone out to entertain battle-scarred troops without so much as a cup of tea to revive her after a long, sometimes frightening journey?

  No, she would not.

  ‘Decorations. Come on, everyone, we are going to make these the best decorations in Dartford. Where’s your dad’s silver paper, Rose? Your mum says there were huge sheets from a tea box.’

  Rose produced the sheets, some scissors, and glue and in no time at all they were sitting on the floor, where they had sat so often as little girls, and were cutting the sheets into strips. When the strips were done, the girls cut them into equal-size pieces to be shaped into links as the decorators intended to string both the Brewers’ and the Petries’ front rooms with shining silver chains. Christmas was going to be even more wonderful than she had hoped. For the first time in … none of them could remember when they had last been together but that made them even more determined to be as happy as possible while they could. The extra special icing on the Christmas cake of pleasure was that a Christmas card, simply informing his parents that he would be home soon, had arrived from Sam. They already knew he had escaped from his POW camp and now they learned he had somehow reached the north of Italy. The card had been delivered by the local Roman Catholic priest who would only say that it had taken a long and tortuous journey. Flora, hearing in her head the words ‘Careless Talk Costs Lives’ could not contain her joy. Last year had come the news that her youngest son was dead and her eldest in a POW camp. But now, a year later, he was on his way home somehow and she would be ready for him.

  ‘Such a pity I can’t keep a piece of this ham for him,’ she was heard saying several times over the holiday. ‘He’ll not have had much food to eat this year.’

  ‘Don’t fret, Flora,’ said Fred, ‘our boy’s coming home and today all our girls are here. Let’s enjoy every speeding minute.’

  Sally wept unashamedly as the train drew out of Dartford Station. Her break had been sheer delight except that there had been no sign at all of Maudie who had, no doubt, gone somewhere for Christmas, perhaps even to stay with Fedora.

  How stupid of me. I should have telephoned her before I left London.

  The totally inadequate overnight bag she had brought with her was stuffed full of her Christmas gifts: among them a hand-knit cardigan from her mother in a pale peach – such a lovely change from khaki or green – a box of very good quality white notepaper from the twins, complete with instructions that had made everyone laugh and Sally groan with embarrassment – ‘This is notepaper. It is to be used for writing to friends and family REGULARLY’ – a jar of scented hand cream Grace had bought in Boots the chemist. It had a pretty picture of a lily of the valley flower on the label and the words Muguet de Bois underneath. Sally knew the words did not translate as ‘lily of the valley’, but as ‘something’ of the woods. She would ask Lalita for the exact translation. Her favourite gift, though, was from her father. It was a small but elegant metal folder with the words ‘Stamps and Diary’ etched into the front. Inside was a small red holder with a book of stamps tucked into it, and a tiny engagement diary for 1942. The writing on each page was so small that she had to strain to read it, but apart from a space for every day of the year, there was information on everything from Bank of England Dividend Rates – which was of absolutely no interest to her – to the names and birth dates of each member of the Royal Family, which she was delighted to have. So far she had written nothing in the engagement diary. That will come, she thought. Some day soon I’ll write ‘Off to France’ on one of these little blanks. But first I have to contact Maude.

  Assuming that she would be very likely to meet Maude during her short stay in Dartford, Sally had made the excuse that she needed to do private last-minute shopping and had run up to a favourite shop, Horrell and Goff’s, where she had found a scented drawer liner, so ladylike and just right, she thought, for a lady like Maude. The unopened package now sat on top of her suitcase, accusing her of not being properly prepared.

  I know, I know, she told herself over and over. I should have telephoned and made an appointment. I could have invited her for Christmas tea. She would have enjoyed meeting Miss Pritchard; probably she already knows her. And why did I not ask Mum to invite her to visit us? She could have told Mum just how wonderful Jon is, how kind, how caring.

  Before she could worry any more about what she should or should not have done, the train stopped.

  ‘Oh, no, not again.’ Groans and moans were coming from all sides.

  Sally tried to see out of the taped-up windows but since it was already almost four o’clock, it was too dark.

  ‘Where’s the guard?’

  ‘Where’s the conductor?’

  ‘Why have we stopped?’

  Questions were flying from all sides but no answers came.

  And at that moment, just as if a thick blanket had been dropped over them, they were in darkness.

  That was when the screams started, loud, piercing, hysterical screaming. Sally was grabbed suddenly by a middle-aged woman. ‘I want to get off the train,’ she hissed into Sally’s face as her hard fingers clutched Sally’s arm painfully.

  Sally looked at her. No, it was not one of the nasty women who had travelled down with her. Another one. Just my luck.

  ‘Someone close to the door will open it,’ began Sally who was unable to continue as the terrified woman gripped harder and tighter, and screamed even more loudly so that now the carriage was full of chaos. Children, frightened by the screams, began to wail. Sally could vaguely hear an official voice but it was impossible to make out what was being said. What was it the instructor had said about hysteria in that long ago first-aid course? She had not the faintest idea and so she relied on instinct. She shook the woman who seemed determined to draw blood from her arm. ‘Let go and be quiet,’ she said as firmly as she could.

  Sally tried to make out the features of any other worried passenger and then, realising that her fellow passenger had let go of her arm, she slipped out of her best ‘out-of-uniform’ shoes and climbed up onto the long padded seat.

  She clapped her hands as loudly as she could and shouted, ‘Quiet, please.’

  To her great surprise the shouting stopped and an almost eerie silence, punctuated by sobs from small children, took its place. Sally felt rather silly, standing in her stockings on the seat.

  ‘You tell ’em, love,’ shouted a burly man who had just pushed open the door to the corridor, allowing a little light to enter the crowded coach. ‘I’ll have a look out here and see what’s up; something on the line is all, I bet. Can’t hear no dratted planes.’

  The hysteria inside the coach had abated somewhat and, with the door held open firmly the people in Sally’s carriage could hear that there was similar panic further down.

  ‘It’s blasted Jerry up to no good again. We have to get off; they’re going to blow up the train.’

  At that announcement from a youngish man, the carriage once more rang with screams and shouts and even blows as people, including the woman who had grabbed Sally, pushed and pulled in their haste to get out. Sally had noticed the young man as she got onto the train, wondering idly why he was not in uniform, but making no judgements as several valid reasons immediately sprang to mind.

  The corridor was now filled with frightened, often hysterical people, many of whom, just the day before had celebrated the birth of the Prince of Peace. Sally, feeling decidedly silly, climbed down from her bench, groped around for her shoes and slipped them on.

  ‘Now then, now then,’ came the very loud voice of authority. ‘What’s going on here then?’ The conductor, carrying a large torch, was pushing his way t
hrough the heaving mass of people, scolding as he went. ‘I told yous there was a slight hiccup, bit of a scare on the line up ahead, but the disposal boys’s got here and it’s nothing but some poor blighter’s laundry got dropped off the bridge. There, told you,’ he finished as the light went on. ‘Bit of a scare, understandable, but wasn’t no need to panic now, was there?’

  ‘We heard nothing, not a word, I shall be writing to my MP.’

  ‘You do that, love; sure he’s got all the time in the world to answer you. Too busy yelling, half of you, and so I’ll tell him if he shows his nose.’

  And off he went to the next coach. Sally sat down and again turned her face to the window as if she found the pattern of lines of tape fascinating. She did not want to look into the faces of the women across from her.

  With a shudder and then a jolt, followed shortly by another, the train began to move gently away, picking up speed as it went. Sally closed her eyes, heard the familiar comforting sound of the whistle and sang her repertoire of new songs in her head until they arrived in London.

  THIRTEEN

  Max was in an absolutely foul temper, not a good sign and especially not on New Year’s Eve. ‘Those of you who had Christmas leave, tell me that you have done everything I asked you to do.’ He stood looking into every face and watched some flush a little, some look quietly proud of themselves and some look slightly worried. Sally was definitely in that group. Before Christmas Max had announced that they might be going overseas and those who wanted to be selected for overseas work were asked to make a will.

  ‘We all know that we’re probably in danger here rather often, but the powers that be feel that there’s more need to be organised if undertaking work in areas of active conflict. It’s not tempting fate, it’s simply a sensible precaution.’