Short story

The Gift

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Marie stood at the gate of the tired building and considered changing her mind. She’d no need or wish to walk up the path, almost hidden under the arms of a holly bush. 

 

‘Go and see you what you can do for old Mrs Bunting,’ her mother had said. ‘She can hardly walk up to the shops, poor woman. We ought to try and be good neighbours.’

 

Her mother liked being neighbourly and this old lady had become her next target. Marie wished she wouldn’t keep dragging her into these little altruistic schemes but, well, that was Mum for you.

 

A twitch of the greying nets at the cracked, timbered windows left Marie with little option. Mrs Bunting knew she was there and she would have felt more awkward walking away.

 

She dropped the pitch black knocker on to its plate. Chains were freed and bolts retracted like the soundtrack of a horror movie. The door opened a few inches.

 

‘What do you want?’

 

The woman lent on two sticks and stared at her through rimless glasses that magnified her piercing eyes. Her grey hair hung loosely round her neck. On her left cheek was the largest, hairiest mole Marie had ever seen.

 

‘I’m er... I’m Mrs Turner’s daughter. My mum said she met you in the high street and picked up some apples you dropped.’

‘Did she? Oh, yes that’s right. Well, she gave them back. I don’t want any more.’

‘She was wondering if there was anything we could do for you. You know, clean or get some shopping.’

‘Well, tell your mum I can look after myself perfectly well, thank you.’

‘Oh, all right then.’

 

As Marie took a step back and turned to go, her dress caught on a bunch of holly leaves. She made a futile attempt to tear herself away and reach the comfort of the pavement the other side of the gate.

 

‘Don’t struggle like that. You’ll make it worse,’ said the old woman.

 

Another battalion of leaves grabbed at her clothes.

 

‘Just keep still,’ said Mrs Bunting, manoeuvring genteelly with her sticks over the front step. ‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

 

She put her sticks down and slowly released Marie from the bush. The mole hung like a withered grape close to Marie’s arm. Marie closed her eyes and pretended she was somewhere else.

 

‘How old are you, dear?’ asked the old woman.

‘Sixteen.’

‘Nice age. It’s terrible getting old. The secret is not to let it beat you.’ As she neared the end of the operation she asked, ‘Did your mother tell you to come round?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not been much of an afternoon for you has it?’

 

Marie said nothing.

 

‘Listen. Perhaps you can cut this bush back. The postman’s complained a few times. Could you do that?’

‘I’ll tell Mum. I expect we can.’

‘Good. Sorry about your dress.’

​

‘She looks horrible, Mum,’ said Marie when she arrived home. ‘and my dress is ruined. I don’t think she wants any help.’

‘Of course she does,’ said her mother as she removed her plastic apron. ‘Asked you to cut her bush didn’t she? Some people have a problem asking for help.’ She straightened her tight skirt. ‘There’s some shears and step ladders in the shed. You can go round this weekend.’

‘Do I have to?’

‘We have to help others in this life, Marie. One day you’ll be grateful for it.’

 

She was back home before lunch.

 

‘I did a bit,’ explained Marie, ‘but she said it was going to rain and thought I should go home.’

‘And you agreed, I suppose,’ said her mother as she busied herself at the sink.

‘I cut the bush clear of the path.’

‘When will you finish the rest?’

‘I won’t. I’ve done what she wants.’

Her mother dried her hands briskly. ‘Or what you want, Marie.’

 

Marie didn’t answer.

 

‘I think I’ll buy her some groceries on Monday,’ said her mother.

‘Why? She doesn’t want any groceries.’

‘’Course she does. Everyone needs groceries.’

‘I think you should ask her first, Mum.’

‘What d’you think she’d say if I did?’

‘She’d say “no”.’

‘Well, there you are then.’

 

The box looked impressive, Marie had to admit, stacked with tea, coffee, cereals, sugar and marmalade.

 

‘I’m not taking it round,’ said Marie. ‘She doesn’t want anything. If you want to give her something, you do it.’

‘Don’t be unkind. Look, we’ll both go. It’s a bit heavy anyway. We could share the load.’

 

Marie sighed. It always worked this way. The more she fought the more she felt guilty about what she was fighting for.

 

‘Well I must say the bush does look better,’ said her mother as  she rapped sharply on the door.

‘It’s Mrs Turner,’ she said as the door creaked open. ‘I’ve brought you some groceries.’

‘Who?’

‘Mrs Turner. My daughter cut your holly bush.’

‘Oh, yes. How’s your dress dear.’

‘A bit snagged I’m afraid.’

‘These groceries are for you, Mrs Bunting,’ repeated Mrs Turner.

 

Mrs Bunting turned towards the box of food and the woman holding them.

 

‘Why have you bought me groceries?’

‘Well, I...er...I thought you might need them.’

‘I don’t remember being asked if I need them.’

 

Marie could see her mother’s cheeks colouring a little.

 

‘Mum was just trying to be kind.’

‘I know she was dear. That’s why I let you cut my holly bush.’

 

She turned to Mrs Turner.

 

‘You think I’m some poor old woman who doesn’t know what time of day it is don’t you?’

‘No, not at all. It’s just that....’

‘I manage well enough, thank you.’

‘Look, I’m sure there’s one or two things there you’d find useful.’

‘No doubt but that’s hardly the point is it? Wait there a minute.’

 

Mrs Turner stowed the box as far inside the house as one foot on the doormat would allow.

 

‘I told you she doesn’t want anything,’ whispered Marie. ‘Let’s take them back home.’

‘Goodness no.’ Her mother looked horrified. ‘What would people think?’

 

A few moments later, Mrs Bunting reappeared.

 

‘Here you are.’

‘What’s this?’ asked Mrs Turner.

‘It’s a cheque. It should cover the cost of the food.’

‘A cheque? I can’t possibly take money from you.’

‘Why not? You want me to take food from you.’

‘But that’s quite a different matter.’

‘What’s different about it?’

 

Marie could see her mother searching for words. None came. Her cheeks were now crimson.

 

‘You take it dear,’ Mrs Bunting said to Marie. ‘It’ll help towards a new dress.’ She turned back to her mother. ‘If you want to get involved in missions, I suggest you leave your daughter out of it.’ Then she closed the door.

‘Well, really,’ said Mrs Turner as they hurried down the street. ‘What an unpleasant woman. Telling me how to bring up my children.’

 

Marie silently studied the cheque for a few moments. Suddenly she found herself liking Mrs Bunting. She hadn’t realised old people could be so full of spark.

 

‘And you can tear that cheque up,’ continued her mother. ‘I can’t have your father finding it. He’d be mortified.’

‘Dad’s not going to see it,’ replied Marie. ‘She’s made it out to me.’