Star over Bethlehem Read Free Page B

be solace and distraction in “the ward” because Mrs. Chubb’s daughter liked people.
    Mrs. Hargreaves stood there by the sobbing mother and longed for the gift she hadn’t got. What she wanted was to be able to put her arm round the weeping woman’s shoulder and say something completely fatuous like “There, there, my dear”—and mean it . But going through the motions would be no good at all. Actions without feeling were useless. They were without content …
    Quite suddenly Mrs. Chubb gave her nose a final trumpet-like blow and sat up.
    â€œThere,” she said brightly. “I feel better.
    She straightened a scarf on her shoulders and looked up at Mrs. Hargreaves with a sudden and astonishing cheerfulness.
    â€œNothing like a good cry, is there?”
    Mrs. Hargreaves had never had a good cry. Her griefs had always been inward and dark. She didn’t quite know what to say.
    â€œDoes you good talking about things,” said Mrs. Chubb. “I’d best get on with the washing up. We’re nearly out of tea and butter, by the way. I’ll have to run round to the shops.”
    Mrs. Hargreaves said quickly that she would do the washing up and would also do the shopping and she urged Mrs. Chubb to go home in a taxi.
    Mrs. Chubb said no point in a taxi when the 11 bus got you there just as quick; so Mrs. Hargreaves gave her two pound notes and said perhaps she would like to take her daughter something in Hospital? Mrs. Chubb thanked her and went.
    Mrs. Hargreaves went to the sink and knew that once again she had done the wrong thing. Mrs. Chubb would have much preferred to clink about in the sink, retailing fresh bits of information of a macabre character from time to time, and then she could have gone to the shops and met plenty of her fellow kind and talked to them , and they would have had relatives in hospitals, too, and they all could have exchanged stories. In that way the time until Hospital visiting hours would have passed quickly and pleasantly.
    â€œWhy do I always do the wrong thing?” thought Mrs. Hargreaves, washing up deftly and competently; and had no need to search for the answer. “ Because I don’t care for people .”
    When she had stacked everything away, Mrs. Hargreaves took a shopping bag and went to shop. It was Friday and therefore a busy day. There was a crowd in the butcher’s shop. Women pressed against Mrs. Hargreaves, elbowed her aside, pushed baskets and bags between her and the counter. Mrs. Hargreaves always gave way.
    â€œExcuse me, I was here before you.” A tall thin olive-skinned woman infiltrated herself. It was quite untrue and they both knew it, but Mrs. Hargreaves stood politely back. Unfortunately, she acquired a defender, one of those large brawny women who are public spirited and insist on seeing justice is done.
    â€œYou didn’t ought to let her push you around, luv,” she admonished, leaning heavily on Mrs. Hargreaves’ shoulder and breathing gusts of strong peppermint in her face. “You was here long before she was. I come in right on her heels and I know. Go on now.” She administered a fierce dig in the ribs. “Push in there and stand up for your rights!”
    â€œIt really doesn’t matter,” said Mrs. Hargreaves. “I’m not in a hurry.”
    Her attitude pleased nobody.
    The original thruster, now in negotiation for a pound and a half of frying steak, turned and gave battle in a whining slightly foreign voice.
    â€œIf you think you get here before me, why not you say? No good being so high and mighty and saying” (she mimicked the words) “ it doesn’t matter ! How do you think that makes me feel? I don’t want to go out of my turn.”
    â€œOh no,” said Mrs. Hargreaves’ champion with heavy irony. “Oh no, of course not! We all know that, don’t we?”
    She looked round and immediately obtained a chorus of