Harriet Maudsley never complained. She knew she was better off than most people, but mainly she had nobody to complain to. Every day she fed the birds outside her little garden flat and scolded the cats lining up on the high garden wall, their jaws cracking and their eyes glittering. She knew this was mostly show, because they were all sleek and well-fed, but she worried for the birds. They might be put off coming to feed, and go hungry.
Harriet’s days passed slowly. Since being widowed several years before, she missed the companionship of marriage most, having someone else to think about and do things for. Her sons had long since moved away and married. They would come to see her occasionally, but the joy and activity they generated seemed like a visit from a flock of exotic birds, passing through on their way to somewhere else. Her days passed in a slow, quiet rhythm, like the ticking of a grandfather clock.
She had an upstairs neighbour. His name was William Harris. She knew that from catching sight of letters sometimes. They shared a front door and met occasionally on the stairs, mumbling good day and averting their eyes. People are often accused of being standoffish, but it’s usually just shyness. She would see him going out, wrapped up, especially in the cold of early December, with his binoculars hanging round his neck. They were large and heavy, and she worried about them swinging and hitting things. She thought they would be cold to the touch. They should be warm and protected.
As the days went by she found herself thinking more and more about this. The binoculars needed a bag. Something strong and hardwearing. It would need to accommodate the straps and not get in the way when using the binoculars.
When a picture came into her mind it seemed she had no choice but to get out her sewing things. She was astonished at the amount of pleasure making it gave her.
When the bag was finished she propped it on the mantelpiece and stood back to admire it. The bag was indeed a beautiful thing, and for a moment she felt very pleased, until the realisation struck her. How on earth was she going to give it to him? Suppose he didn’t like it? The thought that he wouldn’t even want it made her feel weak and slightly sick.
In the days before Christmas the bag stared at her accusingly from the mantelpiece. She became giddy from holding her breath, she kept forgetting what she was doing, she couldn’t concentrate on even her favourite programmes.
Eventually Christmas morning arrived, after a sleepless night. She wrapped the bag in ridiculous cheerful paper and forced herself to go upstairs. She stood in front of his door for ages, until she lost her nerve and placed it on his doormat. She was about to retreat down to the safety of her flat when she stopped, worried that he might not open his door, or someone might steal it. She reached out and tapped his door knocker, preparing to run down the stairs.
The door opened before she could move. She reddened, thinking about him maybe standing behind his door all the time she had stood in front of it.
“Oh! I thought I heard something by the door. It was you!”
Harriet pointed down at the parcel. “I thought… It’s a present… For you.”
William looked down at the brightly-wrapped thing at his feet for a while before bending to pick it up. He held it reverently in his large hands before looking directly at her. “I don’t know what to say… Thank you.” He frowned. “I don’t have anything for you.”
Just as Harriet was about to mutter something about it not mattering before turning tail he became very still. “No! That’s not quite true. Would you like a cup of tea? There’s something I need to do. Please. Come in.” He opened the door and gestured her inside.
He offered her a chair. “Please sit down. I’ll only be a minute.” He put his present down very carefully and disappeared into another room. Harriet looked at the view from his window. You could see so much further up here. And there were lots of drawings of birds on the walls.
William arrived with a tray and a hastily-wrapped parcel of his own. “Sorry, I wasn’t able to wrap it up as beautifully as you did.”
They drank their tea, and then ceremonially opened their presents. William beamed when he saw the bag for his binoculars. “Isn’t it funny? Sometimes you never realise you needed something until it appears. And then you wonder how you managed without it all those years.” The binoculars fitted into it very snugly.
Harriet opened her package carefully. It was a drawing of her feeding the birds in her garden. “I hope you don’t mind. You’re so kind to the birds and I just drew this one day. I’ve been meaning to give it to you but I didn’t know how you might feel about it.” The drawing was wonderful. Harriet had never seen how someone else might look at her before, and she was overwhelmed.
William cleared his throat. “Do you have any plans for dinner today? I’m sure you do. It’s just that I have a chicken I was planning to roast. Turkey is too much for one. I would be honoured if you would share it with me.”
Something stirred in the depths of Harriet’s chest. A small fluttery feeling, like a little bird cracking its egg, looking towards release. She smiled.
“Yes. That would be lovely. I have some sherry. Shall I bring it?”
“Merry Christmas, Harriet.”
“Merry Christmas, William.”
If you have been, thank you for reading this.
And Merry Christmas to you all.
Image: Keith Laverack under CC BY 2.0
