Movie Shoes (18 page)

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving was a lovely day. You would have thought that in Aunt Cora’s house there was no need for anybody extra to come for Thanksgiving because she had her brother his family with her already, but Aunt Cora was a great person for parties. In her whiny voice, which sounded as if she could never enjoyed anything, she would say, “I could just do with a wonderful time.” So for Thanksgiving afternoon she planed an especially gorgeous party, which kept her busy for days beforehand, decorating the house with horns of plenty with flowers and fruit pouring out of them, all of which she made herself.

In the morning John drove everybody to church.

On the way, Rachel said, I don’t think everybody goes to church to say thank you. Aunt Cora is much more interested in her party than in church or Thanksgiving dinner, and I think there are lots of people like her.”

Jane stuck her chin in the air

“As Dad’s here, I won’t say what I think about Aunt Cora, but I’ll tell you who does observe Thanksgiving properly, and that’s Bella; not only is she going to her church, but she’s sung hymns all the morning.”

Aunt Cora’s party was a great success and this time it wasn’t only Jane over whom a fuss was made. Over and over again Aunt Cora’s whine rose above all the other voices.

“This is my nephew, Tim. You must listen to him week. He’s playing the piano on
Hiram’s Hour.”

Jane, in the yellow muslin frock that Aunt Cora had her for the first party, was fussed over by Aunt Cora Aunt Cora’s friends, but this time she behaved differently. She was polite, but she did not look half as smug and pleased with herself as she had at the previous party. “How queer,” Rachel thought. “Now that Jane really is acting Mary they’re pleased with her, she’s nicer instead of worse.” She did not know about was a conversation Jane had had with Mr. Phelps the day before.

It was between shots. Mr. Phelps came up to Jane.

“Come on, Jane. We’re ready for you.” He took her by the hand and led her to the set. On the way he said, “Seeing you sitting there playing with Shirley, I wouldn’t have known you for the same girl I’ve been fetching all these weeks.”

Jane knew just what he meant, but of course, Mr. Phelps did not know why she was doing so much better.

“I like it now. I like it especially now that we’re using the garden.”

Mr. Phelps stopped and looked at her. “That’s not the reason, and you know it. I’m wondering what’s made you decide to behave yourself.”

Maurice’s being a chipmunk was Jane’s secret; nobody in the studio was ever going to know that. She wanted to change the subject, and she remembered a way of doing so,

“You said if I asked you someday, you would tell me something I’d like to hear. “

“I did too, and now I’ll tell you. You’re the spitting image of that girl Mary, and though Ursula is the best child actress I ever saw, if you go on as you’re doing you’ll be better as Mary than she could ever have been.”

“Why?”

Mr. Phelps shrugged his shoulders.

“You’re contrary and Mary was contrary, but that’s not the half of it. Maurice is contrary, and he could make the Statue of Liberty cry. I was saying last week must be something in the blood, that there wasn’t a pin to put between you when it came to conceit and contrariness; now I’m not so sure. There are times when you can be as nice as Ursula or Shirley Norstrum, maybe even as nice as David.

Jane turned scarlet. “I’m not a bit like Maurice.”

“Everybody thinks you are. Too good to know anybody. Puffed up like a toad over nothing.

Jane for once was silenced. Was that what everybody was thinking? She was not like Maurice. She would not be like Maurice.

“It’s not true; I’m not the smallest, tiniest bit like Maurice.”

“We’ll see. Personally, I don’t believe you are, but everybody else does.” Mr. Phelps lowered his voice. You won’t be with us very long. Why not show people they’ve made a mistake, that you are a darling girl?”

They were on the edge of the set.

“Like David?” Jane asked.

Mr. Phelps nodded. “Like’ David.”

It was very difficult for Jane to change much, but she did notice what was worst in Maurice and tried to be the opposite.

So when Aunt Cora’s friends said, “My! So you’re playing little Ursula Gidden’s part! I’ll say that’s something!” Jane was careful how she replied and said sensible things, such as “It’s because I’m like Mary in the book that they’ve let me act her,” with the result that Aunt Cora’-s friends said to one another, “That little Jane is just the nicest child.”

When the party was over, Aunt Cora stretched her self on a sofa while everybody else cleared up. She said giving a party was fun, but what it did to her nerves was nobody’s business. Because it was Thanksgiving, the children were being allowed to stay up and eat turkey sandwiches. As they tidied the living room, they looked at Aunt Cora and more than ever wondered how she could be John’s sister.

While Bella was fixing the sandwiches, the family went for a short walk up the street. The air was full of the queer, spicy smell which trees and plants seemed to give out in California. The sky was blazing with stars. The ocean rolled in with a gentle swish-swash. The tree frogs raised their nightly hymn. John stood still.

“Listen and smell. It’s all so different from home and so exciting. We’ll never forget our Thanksgiving here, will we?”

As he spoke
it
was if wild joy grabbed them all. California was exciting. It was different. It was queer. In a minute they were playing follow-the-leader up the street, John was leading. Then came Tim. Then Rachel. Then Peaseblossom. Then Jane and last Bee. John did the silliest maddest things, which the all copied as well as they could. And as they skipped hopped, and jumped, they sang a new version of “California, Here I Come,” John making up the words as they went along.

Christmas

Tim’s piano came the week after his first radio show, which was like putting whipped cream on top of an already iced cake, for Tim enjoyed every second of
Hiram’s Hour.
Mr. Hiram P. Sneltzworther had said his announcer was just the funniest man, and Tim could not have agreed with him more. The things the announcer thought funny were just the things Tim thought funny, and finding the same things funny is a shortcut to being friends. The announcer, whose name was Brent, liked funny things to happen as well as to be said. He roared with laughter when the seat fell out of the chair somebody was going to sit on or a toy snake jumped out of the piano as the player opened it, and Tim laughed, even louder. After the very first broadcast, they were conspirators, planning wilder and better jokes for Hiram’s next Hour.

Oddly enough, as well as being perfect about jokes, Brent loved music. Tim had found this out at his first rehearsal; he played several pieces of music and found that discussing music with Brent was like discussing it with Mr. Brown. It was looking at Mr. Brown’s letter with Jeremy Caulder’s list that made Brent ask about the piano. Tim had, of course, told Mr. Brown all about his hoping to rent one, and Mr. Brown had written, “Hope that piano comes soon.”

“What’s this about a piano?” Brent asked.

Tim explained everything. And Brent said, what were they waiting for? They would go out and choose the one today.

John drove Tim back from his rehearsal and was the first to hear the good news that the piano was on its way. He was not pleased.

“Coming next week! But, Tim, your aunt won’t let it inside the house.”

Tim patted John’s knee “Don’t worry Dad. Bella said that when the Lord sent my piano, He’d fix it with Aunt Cora where it was to be set down.”

Tim rushed to tell Bella about his piano. And the next morning, when she brought Aunt Cora her breakfast tray, Bella stood by the bed, her wrinkled face looking serious. She explained that the piano was coming and was not put off by squeaks and moans of horror from Aunt Cora.

“It’s no use fussing and fretting. That piano’s coming into this house and all there is or you to say is where it’s to sit.”

Though she would never have admitted it, Aunt Cora was scared of displeasing Bella for fear she would leave. Also, she did not tell Bella, at her Thanksgiving party a number of guests had said it was a pity there was no piano in the house so that they could hear Tim play. So though her voice whined more than usual and she kept her eyes shut while she spoke, Aunt Cora said, “Clear that chiffonier out of the living room; the piano can stand in its place. Now go away and leave me.”

Bella hurried downstairs to Tim so fast that she arrived at the bottom breathless. She clasped her hands.

“I have said time and again the Lord would fix it, and He sure has.”

As soon as the piano arrived and had been set down in the living room. Tim rushed off to tell his news to the Antonios. Although the Antonios would stop getting money in their money box when Tim stopped playing in their drugstore, they were as pleased at Tim’s news as if he had brought them a present.

The great trouble about Christmas in America was that everybody gave everybody else presents, and more than one present; it seemed to be almost a competition of giving.

“It’s frightful,” Bee said to John. “What on earth are we to do if all the people we know send us something? You know how generous Americans are, and we can’t live up to it; we haven’t the money.”

John found a way out. It was not a very grand way, but it was the best they could do. He wrote a story of the Winter family coming to America in the nineteenth century and traveling by wagon down the Santa Fe Trail to Santa Monica as they might have done a hundred years ago. John found a printer and had copies of his story made as a Christmas-card present.

The children could not do anything like that, but they, too, did not want to be the only ones not giving in such an orgy of giving, and they all had people to whom they wanted to give presents. From an English point of view they had a lot of money to spend. Ever since Jane had been working and Bee had been getting a salary to look after her, they all had been receiving regular pocket money.

To add to the excitement, cards began to arrive from England. Rachel had dozens from the academy, and John and Bee had so many they did not know where to put them down. Jane was the luckiest of all. Dr. Smith had not sent her a card; instead he had taken Chewing-gum to one of those places where sheets of little photos are made. Chewing-gum photographed beautifully; there were two sheets, and each photograph, except one where he had moved slightly, was perfect. Jane was so pleased with them that she could not get her words out properly; she gasped. “It’s him! It’s him! It’s as if he were here.”

She was so thrilled that she could not part with the photographs; she even took them with her to the studio so could look at them between shots.

“Show them to Shirley and everybody,” Bee suggested, “They’ll like to see them.”

But Jane would not. She could not explain, but she did not want people fingering photographs and talking about them; it would make Chewing-gum seem less real

“I’ll
let David them when I can get him alone, but nobody else. Chewing-gum’s mine.”

Just before Christmas there was a little
Secret Garden
party. Jane’s-Mr. Browne made a speech wishing everybody a happy Christmas and then presents were exchanged. Jane had bought a book for Shirley and a set of tiny animals for David, but nothing for anybody else.

She did not know that one day Her-Mr. Browne had told everybody how he had met her through his dog Hyde Park and about the food parcel he had sent to Chewing-gum when she got the part. A few of the cast had asked her about Chewing-gum, and she had told them how his parcel had arrived very grandly by air.

“And Dr.
Smith
laid all the cans out in a row and let and Chewing-gum choose for himself which he would eat first, do you know what he chose? Something called Finest Liver, Inc., which was very clever of him, for he never had liver in his whole life unless it was when he was a tiny puppy and belonged to an American soldier.”

It was a startled Jane who, when the exchange of presents started, found herself holding a sheaf of envelopes. Except for David and Jane s-Mr. Browne, there was one from everybody working on the picture. There was even one from Maurice.

“Open them,” said Bee. “They’re cards, I think. You must go thank everybody.”

But they were not only cards. Inside each card was a slip of paper on which was written, “Food parcel sent to Chewing-gum,” and the name of the firm and the date the parcel had been sent.

Jane sat surrounded by envelopes, the cards in her lap, the slips about the parcels in her hands.

Bee was overcome by everybody’s kindness.

“How wonderful, darling! Just think, there must be enough food to keep Chewing-gum in luxury for years and years! Run and thank them all.” Jane got up. Her eyes were not shining. She looked her most black-doggish. She went into her dressing room. Bee followed her. “Jane, what is the matter? You’re behaving abominably. Scowling like that when everybody’s been so good to you!”

“May I have your sewing scissors?” Jane asked.

“What for?”

Jane was bent over the photos of Chewing-gum. “Ssh, I’m counting.” Then, after a minute: “There are just enough to give one to everybody. Maurice can have the one where Chewing-gum moved.”

Nobody expresses thanks for presents in a more pleased way than Americans. Even Maurice, who could not see Chewing-gum clearly in his photo, caught something of the American manner. He managed to sound as if a photograph of Chewing-gum were one of his best Christmas presents and added that he seemed a handsome dog.

“And he couldn’t have said anything else,” Jane told Bee, “because it’s true.”

Bee thought Jane had behaved very well, and to tell the truth, it had surprised her. “It was nice of you to give the photos; everybody’s very pleased,” she told Jane.

Jane
looked
her worst “So they ought to be. They are the
loveliest
photographs any of them ever saw.”

Christmas day was quiet perfect. The children had stockings just bulging with presents. After church there was a glorious Christmas dinner in the middle of the day, with everything that
should
be there and lots extra. In the afternoon John took the family out in the car to deliver special presents. The first was Tim’s for the Antonios. He
bought
them scented
candles to
burn in front of their best picture. The Antonios were terribly pleased. They kissed Tim on both cheeks and gave him an enormous b
ox
of chocolates.

The family did not drive up to the Fossils’ front door since Bee said they must not be asked in or they would be late and annoy Aunt Cora so Tim was sent with Rach
el’
s parcel.
In
it was a needlebook she had made for Nana, a calendar for Aunt Sylvia, and for Posy a little pair of silver ballet shoes on a brooch.

To Jane’s great disappointment there was nobody at home at the Does’. She had hoped to see David. It had worried her that only he and Her-Mr. Browne had not given her presents. It was not that she wanted a present from David, but he said so little, and it’s difficult to know if a person likes you when he doesn’t
talk
to you. If David had h
1
given her a present, it
would
have been a sign that mean, before the picture was finished, he would like her enough to teach her his magic. Jane left her present for David on the empty porch; as she got back into the car, it seemed as if some of the shimmer of happiness that covered the day had gone.

At Aunt Cora’s the house was
full
of people. There was a huge Christmas tree in the room blazing with lights and around it were more parcels than it seemed possible,
could
be meant for one house. All the family had gorgeous things, but each of the children a one present which was so perfect it made all the others seem unimportant. Rachel had a huge box from Posy. In it were the special black tunic and tights Manoff liked his pupils to wear, one pair of new ballet shoes, and one pair of worn ones. On the worn ones was written, “I wore these the first time I danced the Sugarplum Fairy. Hope they bring you luck. Love, Posy.” As she undid her other parcels, Rachel’s heart felt as if it were singing.

“Posy’s shoes!
A
pair she’s actually danced in! Oh, lucky, lucky me!”

Tim had a huge box from Brent. Goodness knows where Brent had found it, but what was in that box might have been invented especially for him and Tim. There was not a practical joke missing. Pools of India-rubber ink to lay beside an over turned inkpot. Things that lifted plates. Things that squeaked and grunted and jumped. They were all there. Tim was spellbound by such a multiplicity of jokes.

“Look, Mom! I can do something new every day the rest of the time I’m here.”

Even on Christmas Day Bee could remember that jokes of that sort every day might not be a riot with Aunt Cora.

“Wonderful, darling. Do you think that tomorrow you and I might look at each one separately and decide what to do when?”

Jane thought her most beautiful present was the first she opened. It was a lovely little wristwatch. On the card with it was written, “From Hyde Park and- me with best wishes. Your-Mr. Browne.” But presently she opened a parcel which made her forget there were any other presents in the world. It was a plain cardboard box with none of the grand American fixings of massed bows and flowers. Inside was something done up in brown paper. And inside that were exact duplicates of David’s reed pipes. On a piece of paper David had written, “Merry Christmas. I’ll teach you to play these. David.”

The evening finished with carols Tim played, and everybody stood around the piano. On the top of the piano, where Tim could keep his eye on it was Brent’s trick box. Rachel was hugging Posy’s old shoes to her. Jane wearing her wristwatch, held the box with her pipes. As Tim crashed out the opening chords of “Oh Come
All
Ye Faithful,” everybody’s eyes, even Aunt Cora’s were bright, but nobody’s eyes shone quite so much as Jane’s.