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Aunt Phyllis, in the act of walking away, stopped in her tracks, turned slightly and looked at Ronnie, and such vas the expression in her eyes that Ronnie's head dropped before it

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and he turned gauchely towards the fire again, while Aunt Phyllis muttered something under her breath which I could not catch. But what she made sure I did catch was her parting shot, for at the kitchen door she turned on me almost in a white fury and exclaimed, "By!

you'll have something to answer for. "

As the outer door banged I turned to Ronnie, the pan still in my hand.

"What in the name of goodness have I done now?" I asked.

"All because the cabbage is a bit watery. Oh, I'll squeeze it again."

I was flouncing back into the scullery when he caught my arm and said soothingly, "Take no notice of her. The cabbage is all right. That woman's mad, she should be locked up. There'll be trouble with her one day, you'll see."

Don and Sam came in every day to inquire after my mother, yet Don never went through to the front room, he always stayed in the kitchen.

But he never managed to get me alone, nor did he manage to meet me outside, for whatever shift he was on I arranged to go for the shopping when I knew he would be at the pit.

Sam would sit by my mother's bedside as long as he was allowed, until she would say, "Well, Sam, you'd better be trot- tin'," or until he heard Aunt Phyllis yell, "Sam! You Sam!" Often he would say to me,

"Can't I do anything for you, Christine, get coal in or anything?" And nearly always my answer was, "No, Sam, thanks; Dad's got it."

The doctor's visits were spaced more widely apart now, which made Dad angry and he exclaimed one day, "He'd be on the bloody doorstep if he could get his seven and a tanner each time. He'll get his bill." And then he ended, "My God! it makes you wish there was a bloody war, for then there'd be no shortage of money. They'd be crying out for us then."

The week before Christmas my mother came into the kitchen and it was a time of rejoicing. I felt so happy that I seemed to do everything right; even the pastry I made turned out light and fluffy, and this caused the first real laugh there had been in the house for months.

The world seemed to be right again. Dad put up the chains, Mrs.

Durrant sent mother a big parcel of food, and Mollie came to see me and told me that she had left the shop for she couldn't stand it with out me.

I had been surprised to see Mollie at the door, and I had invited her in after whispering to her, "Don't swear, will you?" and she hadn't sworn for half an hour. I saw that my mother liked her. Then Stinker came in and, wanting to be friendly, put his paws on her leg and tore her stocking. At this she exclaimed in dismay, "Oh, you bugger! And me best pair." Then giving a laugh she ended, "That's another bloody one an' eleven gone down the drain cost price, too." She gave me a push.

I glanced at my mother and saw that her face was surprised and straight, but Ronnie and Dad were almost convulsed.

Mollie soon took her departure, and Mam asked me, immediately the door had closed on her, "Does she usually swear?"

"No, Mam," I lied. I knew that my mother did not believe me.

Christmas over, Mam's energy seemed to flag again, and one day I found her crying and she said, "Go down to Father Howard and ask him if he will kindly say a mass for me." Then she drew her purse to her and, counting out five shillings in sixpences and coppers, added, "You'd better take this with you. Offer it to him, but he may not take it."

Her request sounded so ominous that I hurriedly put on my hat and coat and went out. There was a cold wind blowing but the coldness of my hands, feet and face could not in any way compare with the coldness I was feeling round my heart. My mother was very ill; she was getting up, but this did not hide the fact that she was very ill.

Even in the biting wind there were men lining each side of the bridge and they called out to me and asked how she was.

The nine o'clock mass was just finishing and I saw Father Howard in the vestry. I made my request and offered him the five shillings, which he took quite casually and laid it on a shelf as if it were of no account.

When I returned home, Mam said, "Well?" She did not ask if he was going to say the mass for her but ended, "Did he take it?" I nodded silently and she said somewhat bitterly, "My God!"

From this time on I started to go to mass every morning, even when there might be a chance of Don waylaying me. I went to Our Lady's altar after each service and begged her to

spare my mother. And she answered my prayers, for in the months that followed my mother gradually regained her strength and, though she could not lift anything heavy or do housework, she resumed the cooking and became something of her former self. Then it was my birthday, 26th April. For my birthday present my mother had made me a coat. She had unpicked and turned a coat that Mrs.

Durrant had sent down and had passed the hours, when she had to keep her feet up, by sewing the whole of it by hand. It was a beautiful coat, tight at the waist and full in the skirt, and I could not wait to get it on. Our Ronnie bought me a scarf, and Sam, who never had any money except for the odd copper my mother slipped him, carved my name with a penknife on a round piece of oak, with holes pierced in it so that it could be hung up like a picture. I was delighted with his present, and my pleasure pleased him greatly I could see. Don bought me nothing, and that also pleased me, for I did not want to have to thank him for any thing, although during the last few months he had said nothing to me that anyone eke could not have heard. Aunt Phyllis, Don and Sam were invited to tea. My Aunt Phyllis refused on some pretext or other, but Don and Sam came, and as we all stood in the kitchen looking at the lovely spread my mother had managed to make, Don moved to where his mack was lying on the head of the couch and from under it he brought a parcel, and, coming to me, put it into my hands, saying "Here's your birthday present."

I tried to smile and mumbled some words of thanks. And then he said,

"Well, aren't you going to open it?"

My mother had not spoken, but she took the scissors from where they hung on a nail at the side of the mantelpiece and handed them to me. I cut the string and opened the parcel to reveal a green leather case.

It was in the shape of an oblong box, and when I lifted the lid my eyes popped in amazement. It was a dressing-case, complete with bottles and jars, and the inside of the lid was fitted with glass to form a mirror.

There was even a little case which held a manicure set.

I raised my eyes from the gift and looked at him and said, "Thanks, but1 can't take it."

He turned away and sat down at the table, saying, "Don't be silly."

My mother and Dad were standing one on each side of me now looking down into the box, and my mother said clearly, "This must have cost a pretty penny, Don."

"Aye, I'm not saying it didn't. Nobody's arguin' about it. Are we going to start eating. Aunt Annie?"

"Christine's not used to gifts like these...." My mother stopped and everybody moved uneasily. Embarrassment filled the room.

We all came under it except Don who, swinging round in his chair, faced my mother, saying, "Look, Aunt Annie, I didn't steal the money, I worked for it. I've got a job on the side. She needn't be ashamed to take it."

"What's this job you've got on the side, Don?" asked Dad quietly, as he took his seat at the table and motioned us all to be seated.

"Selling things. Uncle Bill," said Don.

"I do odd things for Remmy, the second-hand dealer, you know, I sell things for him."

"What kind of things?" Dad was not looking at him but at my mother as he took a cup from her.

"Oh all kinds, junk and such. There's a car in at present. I wouldn't mind going in for it me self He only wants twenty quid for it."

"Put that down," said my mother quietly.

I was still standing with the dressing-case in my hands.

"But, Mam"

"Put it down. We'll talk about it later."

As I sat down at the table Don, looking at me, exclaimed with a laugh,

"I didn't buy it to 'rice you to make up, your skin's fine as it is, isn't it, Aunt Annie?"

My mother was still pouring out the tea and she did not look at Don as she answered, "Yes, it's quite all right as it is."

My birthday tea that had promised to be a joyful occasion turned out to be only a stiff, rather ceremonious one, where everybody said "Thank you' and " No, thank you' and nobody laughed much except Don.

Our Ronnie, I saw, was furious, and after tea, as we all sat round the fire, I could not bear the stiffness in the atmosphere any longer, and so I said to him "What about that funny rhyme you made up about Miss Spiers. Go on, read it." I turned to my mother.

"It's funny, Mam," I said. Then again

turning to Ronnie, I urged, "Go on, read it. You said you would after tea."

"Yes, go on," said my mother.

Somewhat mollified, Ronnie pulled from his pocket a piece of paper and, glancing self-consciously around the room, said, "It's called " The Prayer of Mary Ellen Spiers"." Then he gave a little laughing "Huh!"

before he began:

0 Lord, she said, look after me And dont make me like the likes of she, Who, next door, in dark sin abounds A lipstick, rouge and film hound.

0 Lord, I beg, look after me Who only ever imbibes tea; Not like others with drops of gin, Which is the stimulant of sin.

0 Lord, I beg, take care of me From all those men who go to sea; Shield me, I pray, from their winks, And dont blame me. Lord, for what I thinks;

And from those men who swarm the air, Fair bait I am for them up there.

If I am not to become a flyer Work overtime. Lord, on .

MARY

ELLEN SPIERS.

From actors. Lord, protect me proper, Or else I'll surely come a cropper;

Keep my dreams all dull and void, And lock the door. Lord. on Charles Boyd.

Let me not mix, Lord, I pray, With poets and writers of the day; Keep my hands from their craft, And stop me. Lord, from going daft.

And when I die, 0 Lord, remember My life has been one grey December; I ain't never had men, wine or beer, And, 0 Lord, ain't I bored down here.

Don, Sam and Dad were roaring before he had reached the last verse, and even Mam was making a vain effort to hide her amusement, but she admonished him, "You shouldn't write things like that, 'tisn't right.

Poor Miss Spiers. "

"Oh, Mam, it's only fun."

"Poor woman," said Mam again; then she turned to Sam and said brightly,

"Come on, Sam, sing us a song."

Sam was nearly fourteen. He was growing but still had a shy reticence about him, and now he put his two hands between his knees and rocked his shoulders from side to side as he protested, "Eeh! no. Aunt Annie, I can't sing properly."

"You've got a lovely voice, lad. Come on, sing something. That one you were humming the other day."

He turned his head sideways and glanced up at her, asking shyly, "Which one was that?"

"Oh, I dont know. It went like this." She hummed one or two bars, and he said, "Aw, you mean " You May Not be an Angel"?"

"Aye, I suppose that's it. Come on now, on your feet."

Lumbering from his chair, he turned it round and, holding the back for support, he began to sing. His voice was clear and true and pulled at something inside of me.

The song finished; we clapped and clapped, that is, all except Don, and he, laughing, said, "He's got a cissie voice."

"Nothing of the sort," said my mother sharply, 'he's got a beautiful voice, a tenor voice. Sing again, sing something else, Sam. "

Sam shook his head and was about to resume his seat when I put in, "Go on, Sam, sing another. Sing that one I like, " I'm Painting the Clouds with Sunshine"."

He looked at me and said, "I dont know all the words of that one but I'll sing, " That's My Weakness Now", eh?"

The title and his shy look struck us all as very funny and once again the kitchen was ringing with laughter, and when he began, he himself could hardly get the words out for laughing. The tears were running down his cheeks, and as I looked at him I thought. Thanks, Sam, for he more than anyone else had made my birthday party.

Later, when Don and Sam had gone in next door, the dressing-case remained on the sideboard and we had a discussion about it as we sat round the fire.

"There's nothing much you can do," said Dad, 'without causing trouble.

"

"But I dont want her to have it," said my mother.

"And," I put in, "I dont want it either."

"Give it back to him," said Ronnie, angered again at the thought of the present, and though Dad was for letting things rest as they were, he said, "But that's the finish, mind, you'll take nothing from him again."

"I won't use it," I said; 'it's there for him when he wants it. " But later, when I took the case upstairs and looked at it under the light of the candle, I thought, " Oh, if only I could use it. " It was so beautiful. If only Dad or Mam or Ronnie had bought it for me ... or Sam. Sam who never had a penny.

I went to bed and, strangely, it was of Sam I lay thinking, Sam and his nice voice. He would be leaving school this summer and he wanted to get a job on a farm if he could. There was little prospect of that hereabouts, but he had said to my mother he wouldn't mind going away, ahhough, he had added, he would miss us all very much. Sam was nice.

Thinking of him brought no conflict to my mind, not like when I thought of Don or even our Ronnie.

I dont know how long I had been asleep before I heard Ronnie's voice saying, "Christine, I want to talk to you." He hadn't come to my room for months. I thought he had got over all that silliness of wanting to talk to me in the night, but now he was whispering, "Christine ...

Christine."

"What is it?" I said.

I was sitting up hugging the clothes around me, and he repeated, "I want to talk to you." He put his hand out to me, but I pressed away from him. I could see his face, for the night was light; it was white and his eyes were shining darkly.