Tidings of Comfort and Joy

by T. Davis Bunn

  I shushed her, thinking I had heard something. There it was again, a faint cry from within. Something about the tone filled me with a fire of urgency. I pushed against the lever, then cried out, "It's locked!"

  There was a low shuffling from within, then a crash, and finally the scrape of a key in the lock. I pushed open the door, and gasped at the sight of Colin standing in his nightshirt, leaning heavily upon the door. "What on earth is the matter?"

  "Pushed myself too hard, I'm afraid." His complexion was gray and waxy. "Spoke with Bradley, the American pilot, yesterday evening. Something has come up, and he needed the photographs delivered to him this morning."

  "So you stayed up all night to develop them." Rachel was as cross as I had ever seen her. She raised her cane once more to brandish it in his face. "Colin Albright, of all the silly messes, did you even for one moment think . . . "

  Colin gripped the front of his nightshirt, and started to sink. I flung my arms about him for support. "Help me get him to the bed!"

  Rachel and I managed to half-walk, half-drag him back into the bedroom. As I straightened the bedcovers, Rachel went next door to the vicarage in order to phone the doctor. Colin's complexion and his shortness of breath and the way he kept holding his chest worried me terribly. "Is there anything I can get you?"

  "Photographs," he gasped. "Airfield."

  I stared down at him. "What on earth is so important about those pictures?" Bradley's family had mentioned finding people willing to adopt a few of our children. "Why all the photographs?"

  But Colin could only respond with a shake of his head. His gaze held such a desperate appeal, I could not bring myself to object any more. "All right. Where are they?"

  "Darkroom." He pointed to a door in the side wall. I walked over and discovered a windowless cubbyhole that had been turned into a makeshift laboratory. Trays of rank-smelling chemicals lay across the table, and overhead was strung a series of wires with coat hangers. A few pictures still hung there, all of them showing me with one of the children. There was something about my expression that made the moment and Colin's illness even more poignant.

  He called hoarsely from the bed, "Box. Take it to Fred."

  The carton of photographs was there at my feet. Gingerly I released those still hanging and added them to the pile. It felt very uncomfortable to see so many images of myself.

  As I carried it back into the other room, he groaned, "Fred."

  "I heard you the first time."

  The front door opened and Rachel entered. "The doctor's on his way."

  I walked up to her and said, "Stay with him while I go call Fred. Colin's all in a lather that these get off." I glanced back to the bedroom. "Working all night, collapsing, then ordering me around over a bunch of pictures. He's just impossible."

  "Of course he is, my dear," Rachel said, patting my arm. "He's a man, now, isn't he?"

  THE DAY PASSED in a blur. And the day after that. And the third day. I never realized just how much Colin did until I tried to do it myself.

  I was surrounded by things left undone. Whatever I did was not enough. For every task I finished, another dozen were added to my list.

  Finally, on the evening of the third day, I managed to stop by the travel agency. I found poor Mabel beside herself. She leaped from her seat and demanded, "Where have you been?"

  "Everywhere. Something has—"

  "But I was expecting you the day before yesterday! I need you to fill out the forms, I need your deposit!"

  "I'm not going."

  She did her best imitation of a goldfish out of water. "You what?"

  As swiftly as I could I explained what had happened to Colin. "I need to stay and help out."

  She fell into her chair like a dropped sack. "My dear, do you have any idea—"

  I waved it away. I did not want to hear. I did not want to be tempted away from the decision I had already made. The night before I had written my family a long letter, so tired I could scarcely keep my eyes open, but doing my best to explain what was happening. "Can you transfer my booking to another ship?"

  Once more the mouth opened and closed without a sound. Eventually she squeaked, "I beg your pardon?"

  "No, I guess that would be asking too much." A thought occurred to me. "Could I use your phone?"

  Only when the operator came on the line did Mabel finally find her voice once more. "You are actually going to refuse this?"

  "Maybe not." I spoke into the receiver, "Can you connect me to the American airfield, please?"

  The wait for Bradley Atwater to come on the line seemed to go on forever. I avoided Mabel's gaze, and tried to ignore her rising volume of protests. When the midwestern twang drawled out a hello, I felt a vast flood of relief.

  "Brad, it's Emily Robbins here."

  "Emily!" He seemed to tense up at the sound of my voice. I decided that was no real surprise, since he only heard from me when something was wrong. "Is everything all right?"

  "No, not really."

  "How's the reverend doing?"

  "The doctor says he's out of danger. He just needs to rest. But that's not—"

  "Any word on the kids?"

  His question seemed to hammer at me. Or perhaps it was the strain of the decision confronting me. Or perhaps simply because I was tired from carrying this crazy load. Whatever the reason, I felt a sudden burning to my eyes. "They're supposed to start moving them the week after next."

  "Say, that's not good." He turned and relayed the information to someone standing nearby. There was a rising murmur of voices, before Brad came back and said, "We can't let that happen, Emily."

  "I don't know what else we can do," I said, blinking back tears. Nine days from now, the first trucks were scheduled to arrive. The Ministry would move the children and close the orphanage in three weeks. The official notice hung from the bulletin board in our kitchen. "The mayor and the town council have worn out their welcome all over London. And it hasn't done a bit of good."

  And when the children left, I wanted to add, there would be nothing left to hold me here. Nothing to fill the empty days. I could not look up at Mabel. Not without seeing a reflection of the other voice ringing through my head, the one that kept saying that I was a fool to pass up this chance. A purebred, hundred-proof fool.

  I pushed away the thoughts and worries and hesitations with all the force I could muster. "That's not why I'm calling. I have a berth on a liner leaving in three days."

  The news seemed to catch Brad flatfooted. "A berth?"

  "A cabin. But with Colin doing so poorly, and the orphanage . . . " I had to stop and force another breath around the fist clenching my chest. "I was wondering if your church was still interested in taking a couple of our orphans."

  "My church." Brad's voice slowed to a crawl. "A couple."

  "You told me they might be willing to adopt them." I felt like I was pushing against an unseen wall. "This is a way to get them to America, don't you see?"

  "Emily . . . " He seemed utterly at a loss for words. "I haven't . . . I mean, it's not yet . . ."

  "I understand," I said, and I did. In a flash of insight, I felt as though the message was being scrolled across my heart. "Sorry to bother you."

  "Emily, wait—"

  I hung up the phone, and lifted my gaze to Mabel. I understood now. This was my decision. There was no way around it, nor anything to take its place. I took the hardest breath of my entire life, and said quietly, "I'm sorry, I can't go. Not now. Too many people are counting on me."

  "But, my dear—"

  "Mabel, I have to see this through to the end. I have to." My resolve was too weak to listen to her protests. I rose to my feet and started for the door. "Ask them if they will transfer the place to a later boat. It can't hurt. And if they can't," I opened the door, hesitated a moment, and finished weakly, "then they can't. And thank you."

  I took a few steps down the sidewalk, scarcely believing what I had just done. Yet as I walked, the sadness and regret I expec
ted to hit me never arrived. Instead, I felt light, as though an unseen burden had been taken from me. Something so much a part of me that I had not even noticed its presence, until it was no longer there.

  TWENTY

  Everyone said it was my idea. But that was not true, well, not really. I didn't wish to be held responsible for something I had never really even meant to say.

  The next day, we were at the entrance by the orphanage kitchen, unloading a horsecart full of eggs and milk. Rachel was standing alongside the front wheel, holding the horse's reins and chattering with the farmwife. "I have never seen anything quite like it," Rachel was saying.

  "The village has done been cut in two," the farmwife agreed, handing me down another crate with straw-packed eggs. "Them that's glad to see the back of these little ones were ahead for a time. Dancing about they were, acting like they'd seen it coming."

  "Not anymore," Rachel said, patting the pony's flank. "Watching those people who haven't lifted a finger gloat so, well, it certainly lit a fire under the others."

  "Not half," the woman agreed. She was a spindly thing, all wiry muscle and easy strength. Her hands had broadened and flattened with years of hard work, and her face beneath the winter bonnet was chapped and toughened. But her smile was brilliant, and her eyes clearest blue. "Heard more'n a little grumbling these past weeks. All dried up now, it has. Folks didn't know how much these kittens meant to the town, not until it's come time to see them off."

  "People I've not spoken to before have been coming up to me," Rachel went on, "asking if there isn't something they could do to save the children from the DP camps."

  "Shame they didn't ask that a while back," the woman said, handing down the last of the milk tins. She straightened and looked around the empty cart. "Hard to believe this'll almost be my last delivery."

  "Oh, don't say that," Rachel cried. "You'll have me all weepy again, and that won't do the children a bit of good."

  "They know something's up," I agreed. "I can see some of the old shadows coming back."

  "Not much we can do about that," the farmwife said in her practical no-nonsense manner. "Still, I'll be sorry to see the tykes go. Strange how giving to this lot has left me feeling so rich."

  "Oh, that reminds me." I raced past the women stacking produce in our larder, and pulled the cash box off the top shelf. I came back outside. "My memory has been like a sieve lately."

  "As hard as you've been running," Rachel responded, "it's a miracle you can remember your own name."

  The farmwife's eyes widened as she watched me extract a wad of bills. "What you got there, now?"

  "The Ministry finally came through with some funds," I said, and could not keep the bitterness from my voice. "I got a call from the bank yesterday afternoon."

  "She was up half the night, trying to bring our books up to date," Rachel added, shaking her head. "If she doesn't watch out, we'll have her laid out there alongside Colin."

  I counted out the money, and handed it over. "We can't thank you enough for all you've done."

  The farmwife looked wondrously at the bills in her hand, and then back at me. "You're paying me?"

  "I had to make a guess," I told the farmwife. " Y o u stopped leaving chits a few weeks ago. But I think that's pretty close."

  "Wait till my Bert hears about this." She stuffed the notes in a pocket, and slowly shook her head. "Never thought I'd see the day come when I'd be sad to get paid."

  "You're not alone," Rachel said. "I took the money by the grocer's this morning. His wife actually broke down and wept. Said it hadn't seemed that the children were actually leaving until right then."

  "Everybody's talking about how they'd like to do something," the woman said. "Just wish we knew what."

  For some reason, I found myself thinking back to the day I had stood in line at the grocer's, looking at the magazine and staring into those children's eyes. And how I had been unable to understand the message that was whispered to my heart. I closed the cash box and turned around, saying as I passed through the doorway, "We could always give them a Christmas."

  I set the cash box back in place, then returned outside, only to find the two women standing there, staring openmouthed at me. Finally Rachel said, "What did you just say?"

  "I suppose it is silly," I said, ashamed now that I had spoken at all. "It's just, well, the other day Colin was telling me how sad everyone had been at Christmas. And how nothing was done for the children."

  "A village Christmas," the farmwife murmured.

  "But it's the middle of February," Rachel protested.

  "Aye, so it is." The farmwife reached down and took the reins from Rachel's hands. "And what difference does that make, I ask you?"

  She settled into the wagon's seat, clicked to the horses, and said, "I'll be having a word with my Bert over this."

  "A CHRISTMAS FOR the children." Colin beamed at me. "Emily, it's a positively splendid idea."

  "It wasn't an idea, not really. Just something that sort of popped out."

  "Well, it's just as well you don't wish to lay claim." Colin watched as I moved about his little kitchen. "It's the village's idea now. I've had a half-dozen people stop by to describe what they want to do, or have done, or organize, or help put together. Almost as though everyone has been waiting for just this way to put their feelings into action."

  I didn't know what to say. Colin was seated at his kitchen table, watching as I heated up a supper brought back from the orphanage. I had taken to having my dinner there, checking on him before night settled in, and going over what I would need to do on the morrow. I found myself looking forward to these times alone together. Occasionally during those busy days I would find I had stopped whatever I was doing, just thinking about him and something he had said, or the way he smiled, and the thought would warm me.

  He was up and walking about now, and his color had steadily improved. But he remained too weak for the doctor to allow him back to his duties at the orphanage, something that chafed mightily. But in these quiet secret moments, I was glad in a way that he still needed my care. Even though taking over his chores tired me so, and despite my worries over his heart, I was glad for how this had brought us together in such a special way.

  I pointed out, "The children won't understand what's going on. Or that it's supposed to be a Christmas party."

  "Oh, they might, you know. We can easily afford to hire an interpreter for the day, now that the Ministry has finally come through." His smile turned mischievous. "I can see no reason not to spend a bit of the leftover funds on a little feast. Besides which, the older ones are making progress with their English. They'll understand enough to know that all is well."

  I set the plate down in front of him, but he continued to stare up at me. "That is the essential message of Christmas, wouldn't you agree?" Colin's smile warmed me to my very core. "For those who accept God's gift, all is well."

  TWENTY-ONE

  When Marissa came downstairs the next morning, Christmas was there to greet her.

  "Ooooh." She walked into the living room, where brightly wrapped presents were spread out around a tree with its cheerfully blinking lights. Silver streamers caught the fire's glow and transformed the tree into a greenand-gold beacon.

  Her grandmother came up behind her, set down the two steaming mugs of cocoa, and gave her a warm hug. "Merry Christmas, darling."

  "Merry Christmas, Gran." Marissa could not help glancing at the mantel clock over her grandmother's shoulder. "I'm afraid you're going to have to wait a little while for your present though."

  The hug tightened. "Child, I am holding the best present I could possibly ask for."

  She stood there, wrapped in her grandmother's arms, feeling that they were both different people from those who had come together just a few short days ago. It was not just Marissa who had been changed, at least not in her own eyes. Her grandmother had become more than just an older relative. She was now a woman with experiences and wisdom all her own.

/>   Sharing these gifts of a life that was Gran's and Gran's alone had eased away some of the harsh lines that had creased her face since Granpa's funeral. Somehow, the act of sharing was changing Gran as well. The thought warmed Marissa right down to her toes.

  It was only the phone's ringing that opened Gran's arms. "That will be your mother."

  Marissa accepted the phone and spoke with each of her family in turn, wishing them all a Merry Christmas, trying to put as much heart as she could in the words. Pretending to be excited over what her brothers received came easy; all she had to do was direct her impatient ferment in their direction. When she set down the phone, she glanced at the clock once again, and released a sigh. It was going to be a long three hours.

  Gran misunderstood her sigh. "You mustn't be sad, child. The distance between us and them really isn't that great. Here in our hearts, they are with us still."

  "I know," she said, not correcting her grandmother. In any case, Gran was partly right. "But could we wait a little while before we open our presents?"

  "If you like." A small smile played over Gran's features. "What should we do in the meantime?"

  Marissa grinned. "You know exactly what I want to do."

  "Well, I suppose I should make you some breakfast while we talk." Gran rose to her feet. "Are you tired of oatmeal yet?"

  GRAN'S STORY

  That final week before the children were scheduled to be farmed out to camps passed in a continuous blur. I worked until I could work no longer, then fell into my bed, sometimes not even bothering to undress. The village was a hive of activity.

  There were delegations of every make and model, from farmers to housewives to the entire village council, all traveling to London to beseech the Ministry to let the orphanage stay open. The thought of our children being dispatched to an array of nameless DP camps left everyone distraught. But nothing did any good. I could tell whenever someone had just returned from London, for they walked with shoulders slumped and face turned down. It was a very hard time for us all.