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Uncles Three

Chapter VI — Christmas comes but once a Year

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Chapter VI
Christmas comes but once a Year

For two days after the shed had gone heavenward Jock, Pipi, and I kept very much in the background. We felt that perhaps the uncles would like us better if they did not see too much of us just then. We had meant to be so specially good these holidays, like children in a Sunday-school story, always in our places, always willing, bright, and smiling. And, we had blown up the shed first thing. It would hardly encourage the uncles to think highly of us.

They were very nice about it, though. We wanted to save our pocket-money for a time, and pay for the damage, but Uncle John wouldn't hear of it. He said he couldn't think of burdening us for the next three hundred years. Uncle Stephen never scolded us at all, and even if Uncle Dan did tease a little we had something to thank him for, and bore his jokes as best we could.

Even without konini jam, Christmas at Kamahi was a season to be remembered. The uncles celebrated Christmas in what Uncle John called page 73"good old-fashioned style," which meant presents and puddings, mince-pies, and a Christmas-tree. Uncle John went to the city, and returned looking like a bulging Santa Claus, and a week before the twenty-fifth, mysterious-looking parcels began to arrive at the homestead. Jan, Jock, Pipi, and I eyed them with interest, but Pipi confessed to a misgiving.

"I b'lieve Uncle John's got me a woolly lamb," she whispered. "I feel it—in my insides. Or if it isn't a woolly lamb it's a squeakin' doll. I know it's a squeakin' doll," she finished slowly.

I did not say so, but I thought that probably she was right. Not so very long ago Uncle John had presented me with a puffing engine, and I'm thirteen past.

It was real Christmas weather, hot, scented, and still. The sun rose early on Christmas Eve, but not earlier than we did. There was so much to do. Uncle Dan took one party—Kathie, Jan, and Jock—over the river in search of trailing greenery and star-eyed clematis for decorations, and Uncle John drove another—Pipi and me—up the river to bring back Nan.

"It will do the child good, and one, more or less, won't make any difference," Uncle said, beaming around. I believe Uncle John enjoyed the rush and bustle and cheery atmosphere of the Christmas preparations as much as any of us.

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Uncle Dan's party returned with great bunches of greenery and bush flowers, but Pipi and I failed to secure our guest. Nan really wanted to come—we could see that—but her shyness had taken possession of her, and we could not persuade her to leave Kinloch.

"There's a pudding," Pipi urged, "a whopping big one, and your stocking hanging up, and carols. We've got presents for each other, and I'll give you some of mine. Jock's got me a dissectin' puzzle. I saw it stickin' out of the parcel. An' I've got him a whistle. It was very expensive— it cost sixpence," Pipi said, and added as a special inducement, "I guess he'll let you blow on it if you ask him. It makes an awful noise."

Nan looked at us in her wide-eyed, silent way.

"My brother sends me lots of presents," she said, at last. "Whistles and puzzles, and a—a doll with long hair, just like yours," she added, turning to Pipi. "It can walk and talk. It can say anything."

We were silent for a moment; then Pipi spoke.

"It must be a French doll," she said.

"What did you say that for?" I asked when, our journey having proved fruitless, we were on our way home. "Talking dolls only say 'Mamma' and 'Papa,' and anyway I don't believe her brother ever sent her anything at all. I don't believe he sent her even a penny whistle. He's not that sort."

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"That's why," Pipi answered surprisingly. "'Cause he didn't send her anything. That's why." And she would say no more.

If Nan could not come, the McLennans could. Uncle John invited the whole half-dozen of them —Mr McLennan, Alan, Denise, Nancy, Watty, and Peter. They drove over from "The Point," eighteen miles away, arriving in time for dinner. We had quite a large party. Uncle John sat at one end of the table, and carved the goose, which was the biggest and fattest bird you ever saw. Uncle Stephen served the pudding. A splendid pudding it was too, decorated with a sprig of holly with red currants hung on the green to imitate berries. Some people—grown-ups, of course—say that the old-fashioned Christmas dinner is out of place in a land where Christmas comes in the height of summer. They declare that you can't enjoy goose and pudding and mince-pies then, but if English children eat any more than Jock, Pipi and Peter McLennan— well, I don't know how they feel afterward. I didn't do so badly myself.

After dinner we had a Christmas-tree out on the lawn. The uncles and Kathie had hung one of the smaller fruit-trees with toys and books, sweets and glittering things. It looked so pretty that we could hardly bear to spoil it, though we gazed longingly at the presents it held.

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And Pipi got her squeaking doll. Really and truly she did. Uncle John handed it to her from the tree.

"Here's something for Pipi," he said, beaming, and Pipi had to smile, and thank him nicely. It had a beautiful squeak, like a dying pig, and it was only when she saw the teddy-bear with a grunt which fell to me that Pipi cheered up. Still, it was easy to forget the teddy-bear and the squeaking doll. The uncles seemed to have thought of just the very things we were longing for. Jan was saving up for a tennis-racket, but she had only two shillings and had spent that. She nearly died of joy when she saw the one the uncles gave her. Kathie wanted a set of furs just a little more than anything else in the world, and when she opened her parcel and found a wrap and a muff to match, she grew quite pink with pleasure. She had nothing to do but sit down and pray for cold weather. Rob was in ecstasies of silent appreciation over his microscope, and I nearly expired when I saw my books. Jock, Pipi, and Peter McLennan rode their auto-scooters up and down the drive and into each other and then into Kathie, while Alan, Denise, Wally, and Nancy could hardly express their thanks when they found how the uncles had remembered them. It was a lovely Christmas.

"And what shall we do now?" asked Uncle page 77John, smiling at Kathie, who had donned her furs over her white frock; she really could not put them back in the box. "Play games?"

"Rest," Uncle Dan suggested. "Jan, my beloved, if I lie down under the trees on the grass at your feet will you feed me with some of those chocolates?"

"No, I won't," Jan answered promptly. "They're beauties. I'm not going to waste them."

Uncle sighed, and threw himself on the grass; Uncle John, Uncle Stephen, and Mr McLennan retired to the veranda for a rest and a smoke. Alan and Rob disappeared on some errand of their own; and Jan, Nancy, Pipi, Jock, and Wally went off to ride races up and down the twenty-acre lot. I stayed with Denise. You see, Denise could not join in our sports. Two years ago she had met with a serious accident, and now she was chained to a chair, and could not walk at all, much less ride. The colonial doctors had done all they could for her, and six months ago her father had taken her Home, hoping the clever surgeons of the Old Country would be able to cure her. Directly I saw Denise, however, I knew that the journey had been useless. She was thinner than she used to be, and her eyes held a hopeless look. Denise had once rebelled at her fate, but she had looked forward page 78to being well 'some time,' and now the doctors had said there would probably never be any 'some time' at all.

"They can't do anything," she told me. "They say there is nothing more to be done. And I'm getting worse, not better. I can hardly use my crutches at all now. My legs have gone to sleep, and they will never wake up. It wasn't so bad when there was hope, but it's when they take the hope away that it's so hard."

She looked at me, her eyes very big in her thin face. Denise is so pretty; her hair is soft and curly and her eyes dark. She should be the heroine of this book, for she looks just like the heroine of a story. I love dark eyes. Kathie says she would sooner have features if she were given her choice, but I wouldn't mind if my nose turned up enough to carry an umbrella if only I had eyes, big dark eyes, like Denise has.

I tried to think of something to say—something that would comfort her—but no words would come. It was such a big, big trouble. Only love, lots of love, could help her.

"We won't talk about it," Denise said. "It doesn't do any good. It was seeing you again that made me think so much of it. I meant to try and forget. I——"

"It isn't fair," I burst out. "It isn't fair. I'm sure God doesn't mean you to suffer so.

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I'm sure He doesn't want anyone to be sick or sorry or lame."

Denise looked at me.

"I don't think so either," she said, slowly.

"I'm sure He doesn't. Some day," I said, and somehow I knew it must be true, "some day your legs will wake up, and you'll say, 'Why, bless my soul!' just like Uncle John, 'they're walking me all over the place.' And they will, too. I'm sure they will."

Denise laughed, but just then Rob came up, and they began to talk together. Soon after her father drove her away in the big motor, and I watched her go with an ache in my heart. It seemed as if some spark, which had kept her bright in spite of her pain, had suddenly died out.

"It's been a wonderful Christmas," Jan said later, as we bade "Good night" to the uncles, and made our way to bed. "It only wanted Father and Mother to make it perfect."

"But Mother and Dad will be here soon," I said.

"And our holidays will be over," Pipi added, sadly. "I wish Christmas came every week. I could just live on Christmas pudding."

Jan and Pipi fell asleep directly their heads touched the pillows, but I lay awake for a long time thinking over the day—the carols, the page 80dinner, the Christmas-tree, Pipi's doll, and my teddy-bear with a grunt. I could not banish the thought of Denise, either. Poor Denise, and we had hoped—had hoped—had—had——

I awakened with a feeling of heaviness at my heart. At first I thought it was the pudding, but then I knew it was Denise's legs. I had fallen asleep with the memory of her, and I opened my eyes with the thought of her still troubling me. Poor, poor Denise, chained to a chair for the rest of her life, never able to run or ride or do the things we did. I remembered her words:

"It wasn't so bad when there was hope, but it's when they take the hope away that it's so hard."

I thought of her, of her eyes, so dark and so big in her thin face. She said she couldn't bear it; she said she couldn't. It wasn't fair—oh, it wasn't fair. She shouldn't have to suffer so.

I was only half awake, but I think I must have cried as I thought of it, for Jan sat up, and looked at me in surprise.

"What's the matter, Ngaire?"

"Wh——" began Pipi.

"What's wrong?" asked Kathie, appearing suddenly from the other room.

"It's—it's—Denise—Denise's legs," I sobbed, breaking down completely.

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Jan giggled.

"More likely the Christmas pudding," Kathie remarked, very decidedly. She wanted to get back to bed. "I knew Uncle John was letting you eat too much pudding."

This was hard. I was sorry for Denise, and it wasn't the pudding; Kathie didn't know anything about it. I tried to control myself, but only sobbed harder than before, while Kathie snapped, Jan tried to comfort me, and Pipi sat, with wide-open eyes, regarding me wonderingly. Then Uncle Stephen came into the room. He had on his dressing-gown and slippers, and he crossed over to the bed where Jan, Kathie, and I were heaped together.

"Why, what's all this? I thought I heard voices. What is the matter, Ngaire?" asked Uncle Stephen.

"It's Denise's legs, but Kathie says it's the Christmas pudden," Pipi explained.

"Be quiet, Pipi. It is the pudding," Kathie said hotly, and Jan giggled again. "Uncle, I can't make her stop. I don't know why she's crying. It's——"

"Suppose you all get back to bed," Uncle suggested. He took me in his arms, and wrapped a big blanket round me. "Ngaire and I will leave you for a while. It's past one."

There is soothing in Uncle Stephen's very page 82touch. We sat on the chair in his room, and somehow I found myself telling him of Denise, how she would never walk again, and how she thought God had forgotten her. And as I talked the troubles seemed gradually to smooth themselves out, and I knew that some day—there was a 'some day' after all—things would be well again, and Denise as strong and happy as any of us.

I love Uncle Stephen.