Christmastime 1941
A Love Story
Linda Mahkovec
Other Books by Linda Mahkovec
The Dreams of Youth
Seven Tales of Love
The Garden House
The Christmastime Series
Christmastime 1940: A Love Story
Christmastime 1942: A Love Story
Christmastime 1943: A Love Story
Christmastime 1941: A Love Story
Text copyright © 2013 Linda Mahkovec
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ISBN-10: 1-946229-14-8
ISBN-13: 978-1-946229-14-4
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To my family,
who always make Christmas a wonderful time of year.
With special thanks to Helen and Jim.
Chapter 1
*
Mrs. Murphy, office manager of Drooms and Mason Accounting firm in mid-Manhattan, tidied up at end of day, pleased that she had held the office together so efficiently while Mr. Drooms was away with his fiancée, the lovely widow, Mrs. Hapsey. Like everyone else, Mrs. Murphy was shocked, outraged, by the attack on Pearl Harbor two days ago. And though she was disheartened that the country was now at war, she faced the news as she tended to face everything – with her sleeves rolled up and ready to fight for the side of good. Once, and only once, had she acted with less than heroism in her battles with life, the memory of which still whipped her with shame every time she thought of it. But all that was long ago. She had since made it her habit to live in the moment, to take each day as it came.
She answered the knock at the office door and glanced up at the clock, noting that it was 5:10. A winded messenger leaned against the doorframe, trying to catch his breath. She greeted him with a smile, signed for the envelope, and pressed a tip into his palm. Good service was always to be rewarded. “Thank you, my good man!”
Mr. Mason, her co-worker for nearly two decades, was just finishing up with a report, and raised his head at the end-of-day delivery. Though he had been made a partner the previous year, he had a gentlemanly way of deferring to Mrs. Murphy, both because she was his senior by twenty years, and because his more ponderous personality rather enjoyed her brisk, take-charge attitude.
Mrs. Murphy waved the manila envelope in front of him, with a glint of triumph in her eye. “Just arrived by courier!”
Mason reached for the envelope and read the sender’s name with surprise. “I don’t know how you do it. I’ve asked for these files for the past two weeks. You make one phone call and they rush them right over. Well done!” he chuckled lightly. “You run a tight ship, Mrs. Murphy.”
“A mere swabber of decks, sir,” she answered, with a satisfied smile.
Mason stuffed the envelope into his briefcase, and took his hat and coat from the hall tree. “I’ll look at these tonight. Enough for today. Let’s lock up.”
“I’m all for that,” she answered, slipping on her coat. “What a day! Panic and pandemonium! Air raid sirens, people running around the streets shouting that the Germans were upon us!”
As they walked to the elevator, Mrs. Murphy made tiny adjustments to her hat and gloves, as if establishing order again after the chaos of the afternoon. “I’m glad the day is over and they can start to sort out rumor from fact.”
Mason pushed the elevator button. “I have to say, those air raid sirens completely unnerved me. I rushed home to find my wife, mother, and sisters in complete control. They had taken the children down to the basement. My mother was reading “Jemima Puddleduck” to the children as they finished their lunch; my wife was rocking the baby to sleep. The only time they appeared to be alarmed was when I ran down the stairs calling out for them like a madman. I felt quite superfluous. Seeing them all so snug and composed, I ate a sandwich, and came back to work.” He tried to laugh away his earlier fears, but a note of worry lingered in his voice. “I realized that if we were bombed, there would be no way for me to get home in time. That’s a frightening thought.”
“You’re fortunate to be surrounded by so many capable women,” Mrs. Murphy pointed out, in an attempt to allay his fears. She had become acquainted with his family over the years, and wholeheartedly approved of the spunk and spirit of his sisters and mother, and the unflappable serenity of his wife.
“Indeed, I am,” said Mason, smiling. The elevator door opened, and he allowed Mrs. Murphy to step in first.
“Good evening, Mr. Grimes,” Mrs. Murphy said to the elevator operator, also known as Fifty-Four, the supposed number of facial muscles needed to frown.
“Nothing good about it,” he muttered. He closed the inside grill with a clank, sat back on his stool, and moved the lever down.
“Oh, come now, Mr. Grimes. I’m sure you can find something good about it,” said Mrs. Murphy, who had no patience with complainers. She raised her eyebrows and continued her conversation with Mason. “I suppose if nothing else, the false alarm let us know how unprepared we are. Gives us a chance to set up shelters and stock them with flashlights and food.”
“Thank God my sister, Edith, was at home,” said Mason. “She’s in between jobs, you know, and rushed to the school to pick up the little ones.”
“Edith,” said Mrs. Murphy, trying to remember the order of Mason’s sisters. “The eldest, I believe.”
“Yes. She told me that the school had shut down and that many children were wandering around on their own. Several of the neighbor children arrived home only to find that their parents were not there.” He shook his head. “This is all new for us. It will take us a while to learn how to respond.”
Fifty-Four chimed in on their conversation. “Starting with proper air raid sirens. Those police car and fire engine sirens blowing in concert don’t carry. I couldn’t hear them in here. If we were bombed, I’d be the last to know, the last to make it down to the basement. Be bombed to smithereens. Smithereens,” he said, opening the elevator doors on reaching the lobby. “This will put a damper on Christmas.”
“Not on my Christmas,” said Mrs. Murphy. She gave him a brisk nod goodnight and stepped out of the elevator, glad to see the elevator doors close behind her.
“Goodness!” she said, shaking off the effects of the drear Fifty-Four. “If the sirens should sound again, I think I’d rather take my chances out on the streets than be cooped up in the basement with the grim Mr. Grimes.”
Mr. Mason couldn’t agree with her more, but he had a soft spot for the often pilloried Fifty-Four. He winced internally, catching himself using the man’s nickname. Mason had a suspicion that the older man’s limp came from his service in the Great War, and had perhaps darkened his view on life.
“Indeed,” Mason said simply, and changed the subject. “I expect Mr. Drooms will come in tomorrow. What a sham
e his trip will be cut short.”
“They must be so disappointed,” said Mrs. Murphy. “They were going to announce their engagement, you know, make a celebration of it.”
Mason shook his head. “Hard to believe we’re at war. I can’t say I’m surprised. I just didn’t expect it would start in the Pacific.”
“And on a Sunday! The dastardly cowards!” she said.
Mason held the lobby door open for her. “Shall I walk you to the bus stop?”
“No need, thank you. I’m going to do a little holiday shopping for the wee ones. Life goes on, after all.” Mrs. Murphy squared her shoulders. “I made it through the last war; I intend to make it through this one as well.”
“I dare say you will,” said Mason, with all sincerity. “Good night, Mrs. Murphy.”
No point in rushing home to an empty apartment, Mrs. Murphy told herself. Might as well make use of the hour or two after work to do a little shopping, just in case the bombs should start dropping and interrupt her Christmas plans. She cast a disapproving glance at the sky, as if daring the Nazis to just try and ruin the holiday.
Though she was by nature careful with her money, her salary increase from the previous year had made a difference in her life, for which she was grateful to Mr. Drooms. She felt freer to buy little things for her nieces and nephews – great-nieces and -nephews to be exact – clothes for school, small indulgences.
She was now on her way to the department store where she had seen an impressive display of toys in the windows for Christmas. The dollhouses in particular had captured her attention – just the thing for her seven-year-old niece. Last year, she had surprised the little girl with a 20-piece tea set packaged in a lovely floral case. Cabbage roses, all little-girl pinks and blues. Mrs. Murphy smiled in remembrance.
She came to a sudden halt, and for one horrified moment tried to remember where the tea set had been made – was it Japan?! She stood aghast, and quickly scanned her memory – then breathed a sigh of relief, and continued walking. No – England, thank God. She could see it now: the tiny gold crown on the green swathed velvet inside, and the gold-lettered words, London, England.
She crossed over to the department store, and stopped in front of the window display to once again admire the three-storied dollhouse. The tea set would be hard to top, but that blue Victorian dollhouse, complete with window boxes and a widow’s watch, would be sure to enchant. She would furnish the house with a few basic pieces of furniture – a dining table, the bedroom set – and perhaps wrap one or two items for the little girl’s Christmas stocking. Then throughout the year, she would give various household items on special occasions: on her niece’s eighth birthday, and something small for Valentine’s Day and Easter – a foot stool for the living room, a butter churn for the kitchen. Perhaps the tooth fairy would even leave a wee garden bench, or a gilded mirror for the parlor. Mrs. Murphy smiled in anticipation at the years of pleasure the dollhouse would bring.
Inside the store, Christmas music filled the air, and shimmering garlands and pine boughs entwined the pillars and decorated the counters. She gave a smile and a nod of approval to the shoppers, pleased to find them in the holiday spirit and not cowed by the news.
She rode the escalator up to the fifth floor, taking in the Christmas decorations on her ascent. A pleasant way to spend an evening, all in all. The North Pole was her destination, where the toys were displayed. She almost clapped her hands in delight at the small stage for Santa Claus, with its backdrop of reindeer flying over a cozy red house with a green arched door, and smoke pouring from the chimney. All along the border of the stage lay drifts of cotton snow and real pine boughs, scenting the entire area with Christmas.
A red and white striped mailbox leaned crookedly near the stage, for children to post their letters to Santa; unless, of course, they were lucky enough to deliver them directly to Santa himself, as was the case tonight.
In the middle of the stage, there sat Santa Claus. His chair was throne-like with a high carved back, and a thick red cushion. A line of eager children, dressed in their holiday best, stood waiting to sit on his lap, ready to convince him that they had been good all year. An elf dressed in green – from pointed cap to turned-up toe – stood at the bottom of the steps that led to the stage, trying to keep the excited children in a neat line.
Mrs. Murphy glanced admiringly at Santa, impressed that the department store had found such a remarkably appropriate man. His beard was obviously real, for one thing. His girth was believable, his laugh was jolly. A few sleigh bells adorned his thick black belt and jangled merrily with each burst of his laughter. He was the perfect Santa. When he looked up from his “Ho, Ho, Ho,” Mrs. Murphy smiled at him, delighted that he was playing the role with such heart.
Mrs. Murphy enjoyed watching the giggling children, barely able to contain their excitement. The little girl next in line wore a red velvet coat and her hands rested inside an adorable, white fluffy muff. Mrs. Murphy decided on the spot that she would have to find such a muff for her four-year-old niece.
A slight commotion pulled her attention away from the little girl, and over to the boy sitting on Santa’s lap. Apparently, Santa was not paying attention as the child read off his long list, and the boy was now raising his voice in an effort to be heard. Santa was leaning forward, his shaggy eyebrows furrowed as he peered in the direction of Mrs. Murphy.
Mrs. Murphy looked around next to her, then behind her to see who Santa was so fixed on. There was no one near her. She realized with a start that he was staring at her! She put a nervous hand to her cheek. What did the man mean? Surely he hadn’t mistaken her earlier smile to him. She glanced around at the milling shoppers, hoping that none of them thought she was making eyes at Santa. When she looked up at the stage again, she found that Santa was positively staring now, ignoring the long list of toys the boy loudly read from his letter.
“And I want a sling shot, and a BB gun, and Ma said if I was good I could have a train set, the electric kind, and…”
Not only was Santa not listening to the child, but he now lifted the boy off his lap, and set him aside like a sack of potatoes.
Mrs. Murphy took a few steps back, bumping into a table full of toys, and knocking down a tower of colored blocks. She hurriedly gathered the blocks into a pile, all the while keeping a wary eye on Santa.
“Hey! I wasn’t finished!” cried the boy. “I didn’t get to the part about the bike. Get back here!” The boy’s mother put her hand on her hip at Santa’s hasty retreat, and tried to hush her son, who stomped and waved his letter. “But I wasn’t finished!” he protested.
The other mothers watched in perplexity as Santa pushed past them and their children, and climbed down the steps from the North Pole. Never taking his piercing blue eyes off Mrs. Murphy.
Realizing that he was headed for her, Mrs. Murphy started to move away. Hurry away. Perhaps he was a madman. Perhaps he somehow knew that she had extra money with her this evening.
She threw a glance over her shoulder, colliding with some shoppers in her haste. “Pardon me. Excuse me. Oh!” she cried. Santa was gaining on her, calling out to her, the bells jingling with each step.
Alarmed now, she hurried down the aisle and crossed to the check-out counter, trying to lose him. Surely one of the salespeople would stop the man, notify security.
“Excuse me, sir.” She held up a finger trying to get the attention of one of the harried sales clerks.
“Be right with you ma’am,” responded the clerk behind the cash register.
She rapped her knuckles on the glass countertop. “I say! There’s a –”
The jingling bells were closer now. She turned around and saw that Santa was coming towards her, moving rather briskly for such a large man.
He waved his hands, calling out, “Wait! Hold on there!”
She bolted from the counter and circled round it, only to find herself back at the North Pole. Where was the escalator? She had lost her bearings in her flight fr
om Santa.
Jingle, jangle.
Another glance over her shoulder. He was on her heels now!
With a sense of fright, she realized that no one was coming to her rescue, and that she must face the deranged Santa on her own. Mrs. Murphy whipped around and braced for some kind of attack or altercation. She held up her purse in front of her chest and gave her fiercest stare, usually reserved for her youngest nephew.
She gasped when Santa ran up next to her, took her arm, and smiled, as if she should be pleased to see him.
“Get your hands off me!” She slapped his hand away and held her purse even tighter and higher.
Santa’s happiness left his face and was replaced by disappointment. He took a step back. “Do ye not recognize me, then?”
“I don’t care if you’re Saint Nicholas or the good angel Gabriel himself, off with you! I’ve no need of your services!”
A small crowd had gathered, pointing and laughing, entertained by the spectacle.
Finding that Santa posed no immediate threat, and feeling some degree of safety with the crowd now around her, Mrs. Murphy tried to regain her dignity by straightening her shoulders, and smoothing down her coat. She raised her chin and huffed. “I should think my age alone would be protection enough against the likes of you!”
A slow smile spread across Santa’s face, and his blue eyes crinkled in amusement. “Sure, ye haven’t lost any of your fire, have ye, Mary Margaret?”
Her head jerked back. That voice! She took a step forward and peered closely at Santa. It couldn’t be!
Santa took off his red felt hat, as if that would explain everything.
Mrs. Murphy gasped and covered her mouth. And gasped again, making a tiny sound of surprise. Lilting words from her youth appeared on her surprised lips. “Merciful God in heaven! Brendan Sullivan! Is it really you?” She stared and stared, peering through the layers of forty years, at the young Irishman she had given her heart to.
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