The Gift

The Gift

It was later than usual when I finished work on Christmas Eve. The
streets were mobbed of course, but although people were busy and
harassed, the atmosphere was cheerful, with noise and laughter floating
in the air. The crowds jostled their way through carol singers and
shops, weighed down under armfuls of carrier bags, bright lettering
telling us where they had shopped. It was a chilly night; people
huddled into overcoats and wrapped themselves in colourful scarves as
they stepped from brashly-lit buildings.
I just didn't know what to get for Lil this year. Of course I had
presents for her, but every year now we exchanged a 'special' present
on Christmas Eve. Just a little gift, but one that went beyond the soap
and candles, the gloves and cigars.
I headed through town, thinking furiously. I knew that Lil would love
whatever I bought, but this year in particular I wanted it to mean more
than that. Lately I had noticed that she seemed a little quieter, my
bright, bonny Lil, and sometimes when she thought I wasn't watching, I
caught a look of lingering sadness on her face.
Lil was beautiful. Not in the 'babe' sense, although most men still
gave her a second glance, with her tumbling hair, ready laughter and
way of looking at life through positive, clear blue eyes. But it was on
the inside that Lil was most beautiful; she had a great big heart, and
wrapped her kindness and her sense of fun round you like a hot water
bottle. Twenty years on she was just the same, although she wouldn't
hear of it.
"Just look at my wrinkles," she'd say.
Well, I couldn't see many of those, but if I couldn't see the wrinkles,
had I missed something else? Although we didn't talk of it any more, I
knew that she'd never given up hoping for a child. Sometimes in the
evening she would watch the children play in the street, her face
wistful, and I would curse a fate that denied her this dearest wish.
Lil would have made a great mum, and our child's hours would have been
filled with laughter. I had my own regrets, of course, and yearned for
a little one to spoil, and teach how wise their dad was.
I had reached the Old Town Bridge when I had my brainwave. Of course -
the charcoal artist. Down under the arches of the bridge you could pay
to get your portrait drawn. The artist was always there at busy times,
and had a deft hand and a sure eye when it came to likenesses. Some
said that he went a long way further than that, and looked into your
soul as he drew, and handed you your life history, told in soft
charcoal lines. Just the thing for Lil; she'd love a sketch of
me.
Self consciously I became the artist's sitter. Minutes later, and money
exchanged, I headed for home, pleased with my idea, and not a little
proud of the drawing under my arm. I still looked pretty good for a man
of my years I thought: hair just a little grey at the temples, good
features; I knew Lil would treasure it. The artist had rolled it into a
scroll and tied it with a red ribbon, so it was all ready for my
lady.
A golden stream of light met me at the gate. Lil was standing in the
doorway, waiting to greet me, eyes sparkling, lips smiling, as she
helped me out of my coat, and bustled round me with cups of tea and
snippets of news. She was extra bright tonight, my golden Lil. There
was a barely suppressed air of excitement about her, like a child with
a secret; her eyes glittered and her cheeks were flushed.
"Shall we have our special presents now, Jim?"
They say that when you live with someone for a long time, you start to
think alike. We laughed together as we produced identical scrolls, both
tied with festive ribbons.
The giving and receiving of gifts. Identical gifts, but in no way the
same. I unrolled Lil's present as she exclaimed over mine. Even in grey
charcoal her face glowed - the artist had captured her perfectly.
Unusually, he had sketched her standing; smiling; and there in the
folds of her coat, delicate but sure, he had shaded the slight but
unmistakable, gently rounded belly of a woman with child.