The present
Gwen E. Thornton
It was the old lady’s birthday.
She got up early to be ready for the post. From the second floor flat she could see the postman when he came down the street, and the little boy from the ground floor brought up her letters on the rare occasions when anything came.
Today she was sure there would be something. Myra wouldn’t forget her mother’s birthday, even if she seldom wrote at other times. Of course Myra was busy. Her husband had been Mayor last year, and Myra herself had got a medal for her work for the aged.
A daughter to be proud of! She was proud of her too, but Enid was the daughter she loved. Enid, who had never married, but had seemed content to live with her mother, and teach in the Primary School round the corner.
Until one evening, when she had said, “I’ve arranged for Mrs. Morrison to look after you for a few days, mother. Tomorrow I’ve to go into hospital-just a minor operation. I’ll soon be home.”
In the morning she went, but she never came back, except to the windy cemetery on the hill. Myra came to the funeral, and in her efficient way arranged for Mrs. Morrison to come in and light the fire and give the old lady her breakfast.
Two years ago that was, and three times since Myra had been to see her mother, but her husband never.
The old lady was eighty today. She had put on her best dress. Perhaps-perhaps Myra might come. After all, eight was a special birthday, another decade lived or endured just as you chose to look at it.
Even if Myra did not come, she would send a present. The old lady was of that. Two spots of colour brightened her cheeks. She was excited like a child. She would enjoy her day.
Yesterday Mrs. Morrison had given the flat an extra clean, and today she had brought a card and a bunch of marigolds when she came to do the breakfast. Mrs. Grant downstairs had made a cake, and in the afternoon she was going down there to tea. The little boy Johnnie, had been up with a packet of mints, and said he wouldn’t go out to play until the post had been.
“I guess you’ll get lots and lots of presents,” he said, “I did last week when I was six”
What would she like? A pair of slippers perhaps. Or a book, a travel book, with pictures, or a little clock, with clear black numbers. So many lovely things.
She stood by the window, watching. The postman turned round the corner on his bicycle.
Her heart beat fast. Johnnie had seen him too and ran to the gate.
Then clatter up the stairs. Johnnie knocked at the door.
“Granny. Granny,” he shouted, “I’ve got your post.”
He gave her four envelopes, three unsealed cards from old friends. The fourth sealed, in Myra’s writing. The old lady felt a pang of disappointment.
No parcel Johnnie?
“No, Granny.”
Maybe the parcel was too large to come by letter post. That was it. It would come later by parcel post. She must be patient.
Almost reluctantly she tore the envelope open. Folded in the ornate card was a piece of paper. Written on the card was a message under the printed “Happy Birthday-Buy yourself something nice with the cheqoe. Myra and Harold.”
The cheqoe fluttered to the floor like a bird with a broken wing. Slowly the old lady stooped
To pick it up. Her present, her lovely present. With trembling fingers she tore it into little bits.