A Mother Forever Elaine Everest (best beach reads of all time .txt) 📖

‘Who was that at the door, Mum?’ Pat asked, coming out to join her, still hugging her new dolly.

Ruby stroked her hair. ‘It was a man to tell us that the lady next door has gone to heaven.’

‘Was it the bomb?’ Pat asked with sudden interest.

‘No, my love; she was just a very old lady, and poorly,’ Ruby said. There was no need for Pat to know that Miss Hunter’s death was a result of the bombing. The child still had a morbid interest in bombs.

‘So, she will be in heaven with Donald?’ Pat asked.

Ruby smiled at the thought, remembering the time Donald had been chased up and down the street by Miss Hunter after a ball he’d been kicking about had bounced off her window. It had taken Wilf to come out of his front door in his slippers, shirt undone and braces hanging around his waist, to stop the woman in her tracks. Miss Hunter had been even more horrified by Wilf’s attire than by the ball incident, and had rushed into her house shouting loudly about the terrible family at number fourteen. ‘Why don’t you put Dolly to sleep in the armchair and help me place the knives and forks on the table? Everyone will be here soon, and it will be lovely if it’s all ready for them.’

Pat set to, helping her mother and chattering nineteen to the dozen at the same time. They’d just finished when George let himself in the door, ushering Irene in front of him. ‘Hello, Mum, is anyone else here yet?’

‘I am,’ Pat said. ‘Do you want to see my new dolly?’

Irene ignored Pat and stood still as George slipped her coat from her shoulders.

‘That’s a very smart coat,’ Ruby said, admiring the green woollen fabric and fur collar.

Irene smiled politely. ‘It was a gift from my parents.’

‘A very generous gift,’ she said. ‘Would you like a drink while we wait for Frank and Stephen? I have a rather nice port wine that Frank put by for today. We are having goose,’ she added, thinking that at least that ought to be something Irene would approve of.

Irene rejected the wine and then informed Ruby, ‘I have a very sensitive stomach at the moment. I’ll say no thank you to the goose. A little soup might be better for me,’ she suggested.

‘I’ll take Irene into the front room and let her rest in an armchair for a while,’ George said, looking rather pale himself. ‘I’ll come back in to help you after,’ he went on, as Ruby gave him a puzzled look. She wasn’t about to cook a small bowl of soup for her guest. The girl would have to eat what was offered to her, or go without.

With Stephen and Frank suddenly appearing with arms full of gifts, Irene’s indisposition was soon forgotten. Stephen handed Pat a large item covered in brown paper. He helped her put it on the floor before the child dived in, ripping the paper away. ‘Oh look, it’s a pram for my dolly,’ she exclaimed, excitedly hugging Stephen’s legs before he leant down to accept a kiss on his cheek.

‘Here’s the other part of your present,’ Frank said, giving the child a soft parcel which turned out to be bedding for the pram.

‘You spoil the child, the pair of you. You already gave her that fine dolly! That would have been enough,’ Ruby said. They were as good as uncles any day.

George joined them, and was thrilled with his gift of a pipe and a pouch of tobacco from Frank. His initials had been carved into the soft leather.

He gave his mother a shy look, but Ruby nodded. ‘You’re old enough now to smoke a pipe, and that’s a fine specimen,’ she said as her son unwrapped the tobacco ready to feed the pipe. ‘Perhaps not now, though, George. I’m about to dish up our dinner,’ she added.

‘Before you do,’ Frank said, ‘you have to sit down and open your own gifts.’

‘Oh, you shouldn’t have,’ Ruby said. ‘Why did you bother with me? Christmas is all about the children.’

The men ignored her as they handed her a parcel each. Stephen’s was a delicate silk scarf. She ran her fingers through it and smiled. ‘I shall keep it for best and remember you every time I wear it. Thank you, Stephen.’

‘Don’t save it for best, Mrs Caselton, wear it every day. We never know what tomorrow will bring.’

Ruby held the scarf to her cheek: its softness and gentleness reminded her of Stephen. ‘I’ll do that – yes, I’ll certainly do that. Thank you. But please, Stephen, do I have to keep reminding you to call me Ruby?’

Stephen gave her a shy smile and promised that he would.

Frank’s gift was a larger package and felt quite heavy. ‘I hope you’ve not been spending your money on me too,’ she scolded, thinking she sounded just like her mother. Eagerly pulling off the paper, she gasped in delight.

‘It’s not new,’ Frank said quickly, knowing how thrifty Ruby tried to be. ‘I spotted it months ago at a sale. I just knew you would love it.’

Ruby ran her fingers over the carved wooden box. The use of different colours of wood made a pattern so intricate that all she could do was stroke its shiny surface and sigh. ‘I’ve never seen anything like it,’ she said.

‘It’s called marquetry: all the patterns are made from small slivers of wood.’

She smiled as she traced the pattern of birds that seem to fly across the surface of the box.

‘Open it up,’ Frank urged her.

Ruby turned the small brass key and slowly lifted the lid. As she did so, a tinkling tune started to play. The box was lined with red velvet.

‘The tune is called the “Waltz of the Flowers”,’ Frank said, as Ruby leant closer to listen to the wonderful melody. ‘I thought the box would be somewhere you could store your memories. I know how you love to keep