Miracle (18 page)

“You
know.
The one where the little princess is rich and then she loses her father and Miss Minchin makes her live in the garret and be a servant and the Indian gentleman feels sorry for her and sends her things. You
know.
It’s my favorite book.”

I do know, of course. It has been her favorite for two years
now, displacing both
Anne of Green Gables
and
Little Women
in her affections. “It’s because we’re just alike,” she’d told me when I asked her why she liked it so much.

“You both live in a garret,” I’d said.

“No. But we’re both tall for our age, and we both have black hair.”

“Of course,” I said now. “I forgot. What do you want for Christmas?”

“Not a doll. I’m too old for dolls,” she said promptly, and then hesitated. “The little princess’s father always gave her books for Christmas.”

“Did he?”

Mr. Voskins appeared at my elbow, looking agitated. “I’ll be right there,” I said, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece.

“It’s nearly half-past,” he said.

“I’ll be right there.” I promised Gemma I’d purchase figs and red-currant
something
, and told her to tell her mother I’d phoned, and went to meet the secretary, wondering if he’d look like Bob Cratchit. That would make the cast complete, except for the Spirit of Christmas Past, of course, who was in America.

The secretary wasn’t there yet. At a quarter to three, Mr. Voskins informed us that the secretary had phoned to change the meeting time to four. I used the extra time to purchase Gemma’s present, a copy of
A Little Princess.
She owns a paperback, which she has read a dozen times, but this was a reproduction of the original, with a dark blue cloth cover and colored plates. Gemma looked at it longingly every time she came to see me, and had given all sorts of not-very-veiled hints, like her “The little princess’s father bought her books,” just now.

I had Yet to Come ring the book up for me, and I put it with my coat and went back into the stockroom to get another copy so Gemma wouldn’t see it was gone when she came to the store the day after tomorrow, and guess.

When I came out with the copy, Mr. Voskins was there with Sir Spencer’s secretary. I was wrong about the secretary’s
looking like Bob Cratchit. She was a smartly dressed young woman, with a short, sleek haircut, and a gold Rolex watch.

“Sir Spencer requires a straight-backed chair without arms, with a wood table seventy centimeters high, and two fountain pens with viridian ink. Where did you plan to have him sit?”

I showed her the table in the literature section. “Oh, this won’t do at all,” she said, looking at the books. “A photographer will be coming. These shelves will all have to be filled with copies of
Making Money Hand Over Fist.
Facing out. And the rest of them
here,”
she said, pointing at the history shelves, “so that they’re easily accessible from the queue. Who will be in charge of that?”

“He will,” I said, pointing at Yet to Come.

“Single file,” she said, looking at her notes. “Two books per person. New hardbacks only, no paperbacks and nothing previously owned.”

“Do you want them to write the name they wish inscribed on a slip of paper,” I said, “so they won’t have to spell their names for him?”

She stared at me coldly. “Sir Spencer does not personalize books, he signs them. Sir Spencer prefers Armentières water,
not
Perrier, and some light refreshments—water biscuits and dietetic cheese.” She checked off items in her notebook. “We’ll need an exit through which he can depart without being seen.”

“A trapdoor?” I said, looking at Yet to Come, who seemed positively friendly by comparison.

She turned to Mr. Voskins. “How many staff do you have?”

“I’m hiring additional help,” he said, “and we’re getting in additional books from the publishers.”

She snapped the notebook shut. “Sir Spencer will be here from eleven to one. You were very lucky to get him. Sir Spencer is very much in demand.”

We spent the rest of the day bringing up books and scouring the basement and the furniture department for a table that would meet specifications. I had intended to shop for the ingredients for Gemma’s feast after work, but instead I went from shop to shop looking for Armentières water, which I
found on the sixth try, and for red-currant juice, which I did not find. I bought a box of black-currant tea and hoped that would do.

It was nearly ten when I got home, but I phoned Margaret twice more. Both times the line was engaged.

Next morning I left Yet to Come in charge of the department and went down to the food hall to arrange for the dietetic cheese and water biscuits. When I got back, Margaret was there, asking Yet to Come where I was.

“I suppose it was
your
idea to have a shopclerk that’s mute,” Margaret said.

“What are you doing here?” I said. “Is Gemma here, too?”

“Yes,” Gemma said, coming up, smiling.

“I needed to speak to you,” Margaret said. “Gemma, go over to the children’s department and see if you can find a hairbow to match your Christmas dress.”

Gemma was looking at Yet to Come, who was pointing at the travel section. “Is that the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come?” she said. “From
A Christmas Carol?”

“Yes,” I said. “The genuine article.”

“Gemma,”
Margaret said. “Go find a hairbow. Burgundy, to match the dress Robert gave you.” She sent her off, watching her till she was a good distance down the aisle, and then turned back to me. “It was obvious you weren’t going to return my call.”

“I did,” I said. “Didn’t Gemma tell you I’d phoned?”

“She
told
me you couldn’t wait even a few moments till I returned, that you were too
busy.”

Gemma told her no such thing, of course. “What did you want to speak to me about?” I said.

“Your daughter’s welfare.” She looked pointedly at the boxes of books. “Or are you too busy for that, as well?”

There are times when it is hard for me to imagine that I ever loved Margaret. I know rationally that I did, that when she told me she wanted a divorce it was like a blade going through me, but I cannot call up the feeling, or remember what it was about her that I loved.

I said ploddingly, “What about her welfare?”

“She needs a brace. The dentist says she has an overbite and that it needs to be corrected. It will be expensive,” she said, and let her voice die away.

Too expensive for a shopclerk, she means. An accountant could have afforded it.

There is no answer to that, even if she had actually said it. She believes I quit my job as an accountant out of spite, to keep her from collecting a large amount of child support, and there is nothing I could say that would convince her otherwise. Certainly not the truth, which is that having lost her, having lost Gemma, I could not bear to do without books as well.

“Robert has offered to pay for the brace,” she said, “which I think is very generous of him, but he was afraid you might object. Do you?”

“No,” I said, wishing I could say, “I want to pay for the brace,” but, as she had not said, a shopclerk doesn’t earn enough to pay for it. “I don’t have any objections.”

“I told him you wouldn’t care,” she said. “It’s become increasingly clear over the past two years that you don’t care about Gemma at all.”

“And it’s becoming increasingly clear,” I said, raising my voice, “that you are systematically attempting to take my daughter away from me. You can’t even stand to let me see her on Christmas!” I shouted, and saw Gemma.

She was over in the literature section, standing with her back to the shelves. She was holding the copy of
A Little Princess
, and she had obviously come back to see if it was still there, to see if I’d bought it yet.

And heard her parents trying to tear her in two. She huddled back against the shelves, looking small and hunted, clutching the book.

“Gemma,” I said, and Margaret turned and saw her.

“Did you find a burgundy hairbow?” she said.

“No,” Gemma said.

“Well, come along. We have shopping to do.”

Gemma put the book back carefully, and started toward us.

“I’ll see you tomorrow night,” I said, trying to smile. “I found some black-currant tea for our feast.”

She said solemnly, “Did you get the figs?”

“Come along, Gemma,” Margaret said. “Tell your father goodbye.”

“Goodbye,” she said, and smiled tentatively at me.

“I’ll get the figs,” I promised.

Which was easier said than done. Harridge’s food hall didn’t have them, either canned or fresh, and neither did the grocer’s down the street. There wasn’t time to walk to the market and back on my lunch break. I would have to go after work.

And I didn’t want to go to Mama Montoni’s. I didn’t want Christmas Present making more inquiries about whether we were hiring additional staff. And I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, sane or not. I ducked down the alley to Wilson’s, intending to get a bacon sandwich to take.

The Spirit of Christmas Present was there, sitting at one of the tiny tables, reading
Making Money Hand Over Fist.
He looked up when I came in and motioned me eagerly over to the table.

“I am supposed to meet Jacob Marley here,” he said, waving me over. “Come, we’ll discuss
Ivanhoe
and
The Mystery of Edwin Drood.”
He pulled a chair out for me. “I have always wondered if Edwin were truly dead, or if he could be brought to life again.”

I sat down and picked up
Making Money Hand Over Fist.
“I thought you kept to the older authors.”

“Research,” he said, taking the book back. “Jacob has high hopes of a job for us. He went to the Old Bailey this morning to speak with a barrister.”

“Who specializes in divorce, no doubt,” I said. “Or did he go to speak to the barrister about getting his sentence reduced?”

“About repentance,” he said.

I laughed humorlessly. “You really believe you’re the incarnation of Dickens’s spirits.”

“Not Dickens’s,” he said.

“That you’re really Christmas Present and my assistant is Christmas Yet to Come? Is that why he never speaks? Because the Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come in Dickens’s story is mute?”

“He can speak,” he said, quite seriously. “But he does not like to. Many find the sound of his voice distressing.”

“And you believe your job is to reform misers and spread Christmas cheer?” I swung my arm wide. “Then why don’t you do something?” I said bitterly. “Use your magic powers. Help the needy. House the homeless. Reunite fathers with their children.”

“We have no such powers. A little skill with locks, some minor dexterity with time. We cannot change what is, or was. Our power is only to rebuke and to remind, to instruct and to forewarn.”

“Like books,” I said. “Which no one reads anymore.”

“Your daughter.”

“My daughter,” I said, and brightened. “Do you know where I can find figs?”

“Tinned or fresh?”

“Either,” I said.

“Fortnum and Mason’s,” he said, and as soon as I stood up, went back to reading Sir Spencer’s book. There was not time to go to Fortnum’s, though when I got back to Harridge’s and looked at my watch, I had nearly ten minutes of my lunch break left.

Mr. Voskins was waiting for me.

“Sir Spencer’s secretary phoned. Sir Spencer can’t be here till half-past one.” He handed me a stack of revised flyers. “The autographing will be from half-past one to half-past three.”

I looked at the flyers, dismayed.

“It was the only free time in his schedule,” he said defensively. “We’re lucky he can fit us in at all.”

I thought of the cleaning up afterward. “I’ll need to leave by four,” I said. “My daughter’s coming for Christmas Eve.”

It was a long afternoon. Yet to Come took the books down
from the literature shelves and put up Sir Spencer’s books, facing out, bright green volumes with a hundred-pound note design and gold lettering. I taped up flyers and dealt with customers who had gotten a gift they had not expected and who now had, grudgingly, to return the favor, “And nothing over two pounds.” I gave them credit-card receipts and flyers, thinking, Only one more day till I have Gemma.

After work I went to Fortnum’s, which had both fresh and tinned figs. I bought them both, and frosted cakes, and chocolates, which I intended to tell her the Indian gentleman had sent.

When I got home I rooted out an old red wool scarf to use as a tablecloth, and tidied up the flat. Only one more day.

Which day came at last, and with it a new flyer (half-past one to half-past three) and the Spirit of Christmas Present. “What are you doing here?” I said.

“We have found employment,” he said, beaming.

“We?” I said, looking around for Marley. I didn’t see anyone who looked the part, and Present was already piling copies of Sir Spencer’s book on the display tables.

“What sort of employment?” I said suspiciously. “You’re not planning some sort of demonstration against Sir Spencer, are you?”

“I’m your new assistant,” he said, stacking books on the floor by the order desk. “I’m supposed to pass out numbers for queueing up.”

“I can’t imagine that many people will come,” I said, but by ten o’clock there were twenty people clutching their numbered chits.

I sold them copies of
Making Money Hand Over Fist
and explained why Sir Spencer wouldn’t be there at eleven as advertised. “He’s a very busy man,” I said. “We’re lucky he was able to fit us in at all.”

Mr. Voskins came up at eleven to tell us we would have to forgo lunch, which was patently obvious. The department was filled with milling people, Yet to Come had had to go down to the basement for more books, and Present was writing numbers on more chits.

By noon the queue had begun to form according to the numbers and was halfway down the aisle.

“You’d best go get more books,” I told Yet to Come, and turned round to find Margaret standing there.

“What are you doing here?” I said blankly. “Where’s Gemma?”

“She’s up on fifth, looking at dolls,” she said.