Star over Bethlehem Page 2

  “What stupid gifts,” said the donkey, disappointed. But as he stood there by the Manger, the baby stretched out his little hand and caught hold of the donkey’s ear, clutching it tight as very young babies will.

  And than a very odd thing happened. The donkey didn’t want to be naughty any more. For the first time in his life he wanted to be good. And he wanted to give the baby a gift—but he hadn’t anything to give. The baby seemed to like his ear, but the ear was part of him—and then another strange idea came to him. Perhaps he could give the baby himself …

  It was not very long after that that Joseph came in with a tall stranger. The stranger was speaking urgently to Joseph, and as the donkey stared at them he could hardly believe his eyes!

  The stranger seemed to dissolve and in his place stood an Angel of the Lord, a golden figure with wings. But after a moment the Angel changed back again into a mere man.

  “Dear dear, I’m seeing things,” said the donkey to himself. “It must be all that fodder I ate.”

  Joseph spoke to Mary.

  “We must take the child and flee. There is no time to be lost.” His eye fell on the donkey. “We will take this donkey here, and leave money for his owner whoever he may be. In that way no time will be lost.”

  So they went out on the road from Bethlehem. But as they came to a narrow place, the Angel of the Lord appeared with a flaming sword, and the donkey turned aside and began to climb the hillside. Joseph tried to turn him back on to the road, but Mary said:

  “Let him be. Remember the Prophet Balaam.”

  And just as they got to the shelter of some olive trees, the soldiers of King Herod came clattering down the road with drawn swords.

  “Just like my great grandmother,” said the donkey, very pleased with himself. “I wonder if I have foresight as well.”

  He blinked his eyes—and he saw a dim picture—a donkey fallen into a pit and a man helping to pull it out … “Why, it’s my Master, grown up to be a man,” said the donkey. Then he saw another picture … the same man, riding on a donkey into a city … “Of course,” said the donkey. “He’s going to be crowned King!”

  But the Crown seemed to be, not Gold, but Thorns (the donkey loved thorns and thistles—but it seemed the wrong thing for a Crown) and there was a smell he knew and feared—the smell of blood; and there was something on a sponge, bitter like the myrrh he had tasted in the stable …

  And the little donkey knew suddenly that he didn’t want foresight any more. He just wanted to live for the day, to love his little Master and be loved by him, and to carry Him and his mother safely to Egypt.

  Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh

  Gold, frankincense and myrrh … As Mary stands

  Beside the Cross, those are the words that beat

  Upon her brain, and make her clench her hands,

  On Calvary, in noonday’s burning heat.

  Gold, frankincense and myrrh. The Magi kneel

  By simple shepherds all agog with joy,

  And Angels praising God who doth reveal,

  His love for men in Christ, the new born Boy.

  Where now the incense? Where the kingly gold?

  For Jesus only bitter myrrh and woe.

  No kingly figure hangs here—just a son

  In pain and dying … How shall Mary know

  That with his sigh “’Tis finished,” all is told;

  Then—in that moment—Christ’s reign has begun?

  The Water Bus

  Mrs. Hargreaves didn’t like people.

  She tried to, because she was a woman of high principle and a religious woman, and she knew very well that one ought to love one’s fellow creatures. But she didn’t find it easy—and sometimes she found it downright impossible.

  All that she could do was, as you might say, to go through the motions. She sent cheques for a little more than she could afford to reputable charities. She sat on committees for worthy objects, and even attended public meetings for abolishing injustices, which was really more effort than anything else, because, of course, it meant close proximity to human bodies, and she hated to be touched. She was able easily to obey the admonitions posted up in public transport, such as: “Don’t travel in the rush hour”; because to go in trains and buses, enveloped tightly in a sweltering crowd of humanity, was definitely her idea of hell on earth.

  If children fell down in the street, she always picked them up and bought them sweets or small toys to “make them better.” She sent books and flowers to sick people in Hospital.

  Her largest subscriptions were to communities of nuns in Africa, because they and the people to whom they ministered, were so far away that she would never have to come in contact with them, and also because she admired and envied the nuns who actually seemed to enjoy the work they did, and because she wished with all her heart that she were like them.

  She was willing to be just, kind, fair, and charitable to people, so long as she did not have to see, hear or, touch them.

  But she knew very well that that was not enough.

  Mrs. Hargreaves was a middle-aged widow with a son and daughter who were both married and lived far away, and she herself lived in a flat in comfortable circumstances in London—and she didn’t like people and there didn’t seem to be anything she could do about it.

  She was standing on this particular morning by her daily woman who was sitting sobbing on a chair in the kitchen and mopping her eyes.

  “—never told me nothing, she didn’t—not her own Mum! Just goes off to this awful place—and how she heard about it, I don’t know—and this wicked woman did things to her, and it went septic—or what ever they call it—and they took her off to Hospital and she’s lying there now, dying … Won’t say who the man was—not even now. Terrible it is, my own daughter—such a pretty little girl she used to be, lovely curls. I used to dress her ever so nice. Everybody said she was a lovely little thing …”

  She gave a gulp and blew her nose.

  Mrs. Hargreaves stood there wanting to be kind, but not really knowing how, because she couldn’t really feel the right kind of feeling.

  She made a soothing sort of noise, and said that she was very very sorry. And was there anything she could do?

  Mrs. Chubb paid no attention to this query.

  “I s’pose I ought to have looked after her better … been at home more in the evenings … found out what she was up to and who her friends were—but children don’t like you poking your nose into their affairs nowadays—and I wanted to make a bit of extra money, too. Not for myself—I’d been thinking of getting Edie a slap-up gramophone—ever so musical she is—or something nice for the home. I’m not one for spending money on myself …”

  She broke off for another good blow.

  “If there is anything I can do?” repeated Mrs. Hargreaves. She suggested hopefully, “A private room in the Hospital?”

  But Mrs. Chubb was not attracted by that idea.

  “Very kind of you, Madam, but they look after her very well in the ward. And it’s more cheerful for her. She wouldn’t like to be cooped away in a room by herself. In the ward, you see, there’s always something going on.”

  Yes, Mrs. Hargreaves saw it all clearly in her mind’s eye. Lots of women sitting up in bed, or lying with closed eyes; old women smelling of sickness and old age—the smell of poverty and disease percolating through the clean impersonal odour of disinfectants. Nurses scurrying along, with trays of instruments and trolleys of meals, or washing apparatus, and finally the screens going up round a bed … ​The whole picture made her shiver—but she perceived quite clearly that to Mrs. Chubb’s daughter there would be solace and distraction in “the ward” because Mrs. Chubb’s daughter liked people.

  Mrs. Hargreaves stood there by the sobbing mother and longed for the gift she hadn’t got. What she wanted was to be able to put her arm round the weeping woman’s shoulder and say something completely fatuous like “There, there, my dear”—and mean it. But going through the motio
ns would be no good at all. Actions without feeling were useless. They were without content …

  Quite suddenly Mrs. Chubb gave her nose a final trumpet-like blow and sat up.

  “There,” she said brightly. “I feel better.

  She straightened a scarf on her shoulders and looked up at Mrs. Hargreaves with a sudden and astonishing cheerfulness.

  “Nothing like a good cry, is there?”

  Mrs. Hargreaves had never had a good cry. Her griefs had always been inward and dark. She didn’t quite know what to say.

  “Does you good talking about things,” said Mrs. Chubb. “I’d best get on with the washing up. We’re nearly out of tea and butter, by the way. I’ll have to run round to the shops.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves said quickly that she would do the washing up and would also do the shopping and she urged Mrs. Chubb to go home in a taxi.

  Mrs. Chubb said no point in a taxi when the 11 bus got you there just as quick; so Mrs. Hargreaves gave her two pound notes and said perhaps she would like to take her daughter something in Hospital? Mrs. Chubb thanked her and went.

  Mrs. Hargreaves went to the sink and knew that once again she had done the wrong thing. Mrs. Chubb would have much preferred to clink about in the sink, retailing fresh bits of information of a macabre character from time to time, and then she could have gone to the shops and met plenty of her fellow kind and talked to them, and they would have had relatives in hospitals, too, and they all could have exchanged stories. In that way the time until Hospital visiting hours would have passed quickly and pleasantly.

  “Why do I always do the wrong thing?” thought Mrs. Hargreaves, washing up deftly and competently; and had no need to search for the answer. “Because I don’t care for people.”

  When she had stacked everything away, Mrs. Hargreaves took a shopping bag and went to shop. It was Friday and therefore a busy day. There was a crowd in the butcher’s shop. Women pressed against Mrs. Hargreaves, elbowed her aside, pushed baskets and bags between her and the counter. Mrs. Hargreaves always gave way.

  “Excuse me, I was here before you.” A tall thin olive-skinned woman infiltrated herself. It was quite untrue and they both knew it, but Mrs. Hargreaves stood politely back. Unfortunately, she acquired a defender, one of those large brawny women who are public spirited and insist on seeing justice is done.

  “You didn’t ought to let her push you around, luv,” she admonished, leaning heavily on Mrs. Hargreaves’ shoulder and breathing gusts of strong peppermint in her face. “You was here long before she was. I come in right on her heels and I know. Go on now.” She administered a fierce dig in the ribs. “Push in there and stand up for your rights!”

  “It really doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. “I’m not in a hurry.”

  Her attitude pleased nobody.

  The original thruster, now in negotiation for a pound and a half of frying steak, turned and gave battle in a whining slightly foreign voice.

  “If you think you get here before me, why not you say? No good being so high and mighty and saying” (she mimicked the words) “it doesn’t matter! How do you think that makes me feel? I don’t want to go out of my turn.”

  “Oh no,” said Mrs. Hargreaves’ champion with heavy irony. “Oh no, of course not! We all know that, don’t we?”

  She looked round and immediately obtained a chorus of assent. The thruster seemed to be well known.

  “We know her and her ways,” said one woman darkly.

  “Pound and a half of rump,” said the butcher thrusting forth a parcel. “Now then, come along, who’s next, please?”

  Mrs. Hargreaves made her purchases and escaped to the street, thinking how really awful people were!

  She went into the greengrocer next, to buy lemons and a lettuce. The woman at the greengrocer’s was, as usual, affectionate.

  “Well, ducks, what can we do for you today?” She rang up the cash register; said “Ta” and “Here you are, dearie,” as she pressed a bulging bag into the arms of an elderly gentleman who looked at her in disgust and alarm.

  “She always calls me that,” the old gentleman confided gloomily when the woman had gone in search of lemons.

  “‘Dear,’ and ‘Dearie’ and ‘Love.’ I don’t even know the woman’s name!”

  Mrs. Hargreaves said she thought it was just a fashion. The old gentleman looked dubious and moved off, leaving Mrs. Hargreaves feeling faintly cheered by the discovery of a fellow sufferer.

  Her shopping bag was quite heavy by now, so she thought she would take a bus home. There were three or four people waiting at the bus stop, and an ill-tempered conductress shouted at the passengers.

  “Come along now, hurry along, please—we can’t wait here all day.” She scooped up an elderly arthritic lady and thrust her staggering into the bus where someone caught her and steered her to a seat, and seized Mrs. Hargreaves by the arm above the elbow with iron fingers, causing her acute pain.

  “Inside, only. Full up now.” She tugged violently at a bell, the bus shot forward and Mrs. Hargreaves collapsed on top of a large woman occupying, through no fault of her own, a good three-quarters of a seat for two.

  “I’m so sorry,” gasped Mrs. Hargreaves.

  “Plenty of room for a little one,” said the large woman cheerfully, doing her best without success to make herself smaller. “Nasty temper some of these girls have, haven’t they? I prefer the black men myself. Nice and polite they are—don’t hustle you. Help you in and out quite carefully.”

  She breathed good temper and onions impartially over Mrs. Hargreaves.

  “I don’t want any remarks from you, thank you,” said the bus conductress who was now collecting fares. “I’d have you know we’ve got our schedule to keep.”

  “That’s why the bus was idling alongside the curb at the last stop but one,” said the large woman. “Fourpenny, please.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves arrived home exhausted by recrimination and unwanted affection, and also suffering from a bruised arm. The flat seemed peaceful and she sank down gratefully.

  Almost immediately however, one of the porters arrived to clean the windows and followed her round telling her about his wife’s mother’s gastric ulcer.

  Mrs. Hargreaves picked up her handbag and went out again. She wanted—badly—a desert island. Since a desert island was not immediately obtainable (indeed, it would probably entail a visit to a travel agency, a passport office, vaccination, possibly a foreign visa to be obtained, and many other human contacts) she strolled down to the river.

  “A water bus,” she thought hopefully.

  There were such things, she believed. Hadn’t she read about them? And there was a pier—a little way along the Embankment; she had seen people coming off it. Of course, perhaps a water bus would be just as crowded as anything else …

  But here she was in luck. The steamer, or water bus, or whatever it was, was singularly empty. Mrs. Hargreaves bought a ticket to Greenwich. It was the slack time of day and it was not a particularly nice day, the wind being distinctly chilly, so few people were on the water for pleasure.

  There were some children in the stern of the boat with a weary adult in charge, and a couple of nondescript men, and an old woman in rusty black. In the bow of the boat there was only a solitary man; so Mrs. Hargreaves went up to the bow, as far from the noisy children as possible.

  The boat drew away from the pier out into the Thames. It was peaceful here on the water. Mrs. Hargreaves felt soothed and serene for the first time today. She had got away from—from what exactly? “Away from it all!” That was the phrase, but she didn’t know exactly what it meant …

  She looked gratefully around her. Blessed, blessed water. So—so insulating. Boats plied their way up and down stream, but they had nothing to do with her. People on land were busy with their own affairs. Let them be—she hoped they enjoyed themselves. Here she was in a boat, being carried down the river towards the sea.

  There were stops, people got off, people got on. Th
e boat resumed its course. At the Tower of London the noisy children got off. Mrs. Hargreaves hoped amiably that they would enjoy the Tower of London.

  Now they had passed through the Docks. Her feeling of happiness and serenity grew stronger. The eight or nine people still on board were all huddled together in the stern—out of the wind, she supposed. For the first time she paid a little more attention to her fellow traveller in the bows. An Oriental of some kind, she thought vaguely. He was wearing a long capelike coat of some woollen material. An Arab, perhaps? Or a Berber? Not an Indian.

  What beautiful material the cloth of his coat was. It seemed to be woven all in one piece. So finely woven, too. She obeyed an almost irresistible impulse to touch it …

  She could never recapture afterwards the feeling that the touch of the coat brought her. It was quite indescribable. It was like what happens when you shake a kaleidoscope. The parts of it are the same parts, but they are arranged differently; they are arranged in a new pattern …

  She had wanted when she got on the water bus to escape from herself and the pattern of her morning. She had not escaped in the way she had meant to escape. She was still herself and she was still in the pattern, going through it all over again in her mind. But it was different this time. It was a different pattern because she was different.

  She was standing again by Mrs. Chubb—poor Mrs. Chubb—She heard the story again only this time it was a different story. It was not so much what Mrs. Chubb said, but what she had been feeling—her despair and—yes, her guilt. Because, of course, she was secretly blaming herself, striving to tell herself how she had done everything for her girl—her lovely little girl—recalling the frocks she had bought her and the sweets—and how she had given in to her when she wanted things—she had gone out to work, too—but of course, in her innermost mind, Mrs. Chubb knew that it was not a gramophone for Edie she had been working for, but a washing machine—a washing machine like Mrs. Peters had down the road (and so stuck up about it, too!). It was her own fierce housepride that had set her fingers to toil. True, she had given Edie things all her life—plenty of them—but had she thought about Edie enough? Thought about the boyfriends she was making? Thought about asking her friends to the house—seeing if there wasn’t some kind of party at home Edie could have? Thinking about Edie’s character, her life, what would be best for her? Trying to find out more about Edie because after all, Edie was her business—the real paramount business of her life. And she mustn’t be stupid about it! Good will wasn’t enough. One had to manage not to be stupid, too.