Read Homing for Free Online

tissue paper and ribbons, enchanted to find that Stephen and Evadne had sent a parcel, with American stamps, all the way across the ocean.
    She was a lovely child to give to, knowing by instinct how to express her thanks, as well as having been brought up on Virginia’s parable of the Stingy Receiver, which she had drummed into the heads of all the young in the family: There was once a very old lady (Virginia would begin) who was bedridden but quite lively in her mind and heart, and enormously wealthy. She had no immediate family, so when the unknown daughter of a faraway niece was about to be married, the old lady made herself a divine game by taking over the trousseau as her wedding gift to the bride. Everything was brought to her bedside, said Virginia, until sometimes the coverlet and the furniture all round the room were strewn with fabulous garments , from the ivory brocade of the wedding gown itself to dozens of pastel-tinted, cobwebby under-things—shoes, hats, furs, gloves, even the luggage to put it all in. Each smallest item was inspected and chosen by the rich old lady in bed, regardless of expense, her eyes bright with anticipation of the bride’s no doubt speechless rapture as she in her turn beheld the same item when she unpacked it. Speechless was right, said Virginia. When the happily awaited letter of thanks was opened it read:
    Dear Aunt Jessie,
    Thank you so much for your magnificent gift. I am sure no girl ever had a finer trousseau. You were very generous to send it and I am very grateful.

    With love,
    Ethel.
    Well, what was wrong with that? Virginia would inquire rhetorically. Why was the dear old lady so disappointed that she cried? Because, said Virginia, that idiot girl never singled out one thing for itself—never said if the pink chiffon negligée made her look like a bonbon, never mentioned that the shoes and handbags were all meant to match, never said if she liked the blue suit better than the brown one, or if the sapphire velvet brought out the colour of her eyes—never indicated one particular gift out of all that lavishness which appealed to her in a special way, never named a favourite item. And that, Virginia would conclude impressively, was being a Stingy Receiver.
    So Mab said all the right things, and still Jeff’s present had not appeared in the pile. She truly loved all her gifts, would not willingly have parted with any one of them—but it was alwaysJeff’s present she looked forward to the most. It wouldn’t be lumped in with Sylvia’s, now that they were married. She knew there would still be something from him to her, as always. Even if war had already overtaken them, Jeff would have remembered to buy her present.
    She could hear his voice on the telephone in the hall, talking to Bracken at the office—low, unhurried, but with now and then the comic querulous note he sometimes brought into it, especially with regard to Hitler and the Germans. It was a long conversation , as Dinah had anticipated. Perhaps when he came in to lunch he would have to say that the party for tonight was off—Bracken’s party at the Hungaria where the gypsy orchestra was, and the Mr. Chips film to follow. Well, she could bear that, if there was another crisis on. Newsmen had to watch the tickers in Fleet Street and the radio monitors, they were all used to that in the family. So long as she had Jeff’s own personal present she could bear it.
    Finally he came to join them, and their faces turned to him, grave and questioning, and he sat down in the empty chair at the table slowly, without meeting their eyes, still preoccupied by the news from Bracken. Gradually he became aware of a silence, and of the chaos of gift wrappings which foamed around Mab’s chair, and of the fact that they were all waiting.
    “Oh,” he said, coming to by degrees, glancing round at them one by one—at Virginia with her short crisp curls, so slightly greyed, and her slender body which never used the back of a