Miracle (19 page)

“I thought she didn’t want a doll.”

“She said she just wanted to look at them,” she said. Yes, I thought, and hide a safe two floors away from her parents’ fighting.

“Christmas Eve won’t work,” Margaret said.

“What?” I said blankly, though I knew already what she meant, felt it like a blade going in.

“We need to take an earlier train. Robert’s parents are having a friend of theirs down who’s an orthodontist, and he’s agreed to look at Gemma’s overbite, but he’s only going to be there for Christmas Eve.”

“I’m to have Gemma Christmas Eve,” I said stupidly.

“I
know.
That’s why I came, so we can rework the schedule. We’re coming back the day after New Year’s. You can have her then.”

“Why can’t she see the orthodontist after New Year’s?”

“He’s a very busy man. Ordinarily Gemma would have to be put on a waiting list, but he’s agreed to see her as a special favor. I think we should be very grateful he was able to fit us in at all.”

“I have to work inventory the day after New Year’s,” I said.

“Of course,” she said, and let her voice die away. “The next weekend, then. Whenever you like.”

And the next weekend she will have to be fitted for the brace, I thought, and the following one it will have to be tightened or she will have to have bands put on. “I was counting on Gemma’s being with me Christmas Eve. Can’t you take a later train?” I said, though I already knew it was hopeless, knew I was standing against the bookcase the way Gemma had, looking hunted.

“The only trains are at four and half-past ten. The late one
doesn’t get in till one o’clock. You can hardly expect Robert to ask his parents and the orthodontist to wait up for us. I really do think you could be a bit more accommodating….”

“Mr. Grey, we’re out of chits,” Mr. Voskins said. “And I need to speak to you about the queue.”

“We’ll come back a day early, and you can have Gemma for New Year’s,” she said.

“It’s nearly to the end of the aisle,” Mr. Voskins said. “Should we loop it round?”

Margaret started toward the jammed aisle. “Wait,” I said, “I have Gemma’s present at home. Just a moment.”

I hurried over to the literature shelves and then remembered those books had been moved over under Travel. I knelt and looked for the other copy of
A Little Princess.
It wasn’t wrapped, but she would at least have it for Christmas.

It wasn’t there. I looked through the B’s twice, and then ran a finger along the backs, looking for the dark-blue cover. It wasn’t there. I checked Children’s, thinking Yet to Come might have put it there, but it wasn’t, and when I stood up from checking Literature again, Margaret was gone.

“I’ve made it a double queue,” Mr. Voskins said. “This is going to be a great success, isn’t it? Mr. Grey?”

“A great success,” I said, and went to write more numbers on slips of paper.

Sir Spencer arrived at a quarter till two in a Savile Row suit. He settled himself in the straight-backed chair, looked disdainfully at the table and the queue, and uncapped one of the fountain pens.

He began to sign the books that were placed before him, and to dispense wisdom to the admiring queue.

“Christmas is an excellent time to think about your future,” he said, scrawling a squiggle that might have been an S followed by a long, uneven line. “And an excellent time to plan your financial strategy for the new year.”

Four persons back in the queue was someone who could only be meant to be Marley, an old-fashioned coat and trousers draped with heavy chains and a good deal of gray-green greasepaint. He had a kerchief tied round his head and
jaw and was clutching a copy of
Making Money Hand Over Fist.

“They’re actually going to try to reform him,” I thought, and wondered what Sir Spencer would say.

Marley moved to the front of the queue and laid his open book down on the table. “In life …” he said, and it was a curious voice, brittle, dry, a voice that sounded as if it had died away once and for all.

“In life I was Jacob Marley,” he said, in that faint dead voice, and shook his chain with a gray-green hand, but Sir Spencer was already handing his book back to him and was reaching for the next.

“There are those who say that money isn’t everything,” Sir Spencer said to the crowd. “It isn’t. Money is the
only
thing.”

The queue applauded.

At half-past two, Sir Spencer stopped to flex the fingers of his writing hand and drink his Armentières water. He consulted, whispering, with his secretary, looked at his watch, and took another sip.

I went over to the order desk to get another bottle, and when I came back I nearly collided with the Spirit of Christmas Present. He was carrying a huge plum pudding with a sprig of holly on top.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Christmas is an excellent time to think about your future,” he said, winking, and started toward the table, but the sleek secretary interposed herself between him and Sir Spencer.

He tried to give the plum pudding to her, still laughing, but she handed it back. “I specifically requested
light
refreshments,” she said sharply, and went back over to Sir Spencer, looking at her watch.

Present followed her. “Come, know me better,” he said to her, but she was consulting with Sir Spencer again, and they were both looking at their watches.

She came over to me. “The queue needs to move along more quickly,” she said. “Tell them to have their books open to the title page.”

I did, working my way back along the queue. There was a
sudden silence, and I looked back at the table. Yet to Come had glided in front of a middle-aged woman at the front of the queue, and she had stepped back, clutching her book to her wide bosom.

He’s going to do it, I thought, and almost wished he could. It would be nice to see something good happen.

Sir Spencer reached his hand out for the book, and Yet to Come drew himself up and pointed his finger at him, and it was not a finger, but the bones of a skeleton.

I thought, he’s going to speak, and knew what the voice would sound like. It was the voice of Margaret, telling me she wanted a divorce, telling me they had to take an earlier train. The voice of doom.

I drew in my breath, afraid to hear it, and the secretary leaned forward. “Sir Spencer does not sign body parts,” she said sternly. “If you do not have a book, please step aside.”

And that was that. Sir Spencer signed newly purchased hardbacks until a quarter of three and then stood up in midscrawl and went out the previously arranged back way.

“He didn’t finish,” the young girl whose book he had been in the midst of signing said plaintively, and I took the book and the pen and started after him, though without much hope.

I caught him at the door. “There are still people in the queue who haven’t had their books signed,” I said, holding out the book and pen, but the secretary had interposed herself between us.

“Sir Spencer will be signing on the second at Hatchard’s,” she said. “Tell them they can try again there.”

“It’s Christmas,” I said, and took hold of his sleeve.

He looked pointedly at it.

“You’ll miss your plane to Majorca,” the secretary said, and he pulled his sleeve free and swept away, looking at his watch. “Late,” I heard the secretary say.

I was still holding the pen and the open book, with its half-finished S. I took it back to the girl. “If you’d like to leave it, I’ll try to get it signed for you. Was it a Christmas present?”

“Yes, for my father,” she said, “but I won’t see him till after Christmas, so that’s all right.”

I took her name and telephone number, set the books on the order desk, and began taking down the posters.

I had thought perhaps Yet to Come would have disappeared after his failure with Sir Spencer like the others had, but he was still there, putting books into boxes.

He seemed somehow more silent—which was impossible, he had never spoken a word—and downcast, which was ridiculous, as well. The Spirit of Christmas Yet to Come was supposed to be dreadful, terrifying, but he seemed to have shrunk into himself. Like Gemma, shrinking against the shelves.

It’s Sir Spencer that’s terrifying, I thought, and his secretary. And her gold Rolex watch. “Scrooges are praised and much rewarded for their greed,” Present had said, and so they were, with Savile Row suits and knighthoods and Majorca. No wonder the Spirits had fallen on hard times.

“At least you tried,” I said. “There are some battles that are lost before they’re begun.”

Children’s came over to buy a gift. “For Housewares. I told her I didn’t believe in exchanging with colleagues,” she said irritably, “but she’s bought me something anyway. And I’d planned on leaving early. I suppose you are, too, so you can spend the evening with your little girl.”

I looked at my watch. It was after three. They would be leaving for the station soon, and Robert’s parents, and the orthodontist.

I cleared away the refreshments. I put foil over the plum pudding and set it next to the girl’s book, which I had no hope of getting signed, and went back to help Yet to Come take
Making Money Hand Over Fist
down from the shelves, trying not to think about Gemma and Christmas Eve.

The spirit stopped suddenly and drew himself up and pointed, the robe falling away from his bony hand. I turned, afraid of more bad news, and there was Gemma in the aisle, working her way toward us.

She was pushing steadily upstream through shoppers who all seemed to be going in the opposite direction, ducking between shopping bags with a determined expression on her narrow face.

“Gemma!” I said, and pulled her safely out of the aisle. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to tell you goodbye and that I’m sorry I can’t come for Christmas Eve.”

I raised my head and tried to see down the aisle. “Where’s your mother? You didn’t come here alone, did you?”

“Mummy’s up on fifth,” she said. “With the dolls. I told her I’d changed my mind about wanting one. A bride doll. With green eyes.” She looked pleased with herself, as well she might. It was no small accomplishment to have gotten Margaret back here half an hour before they were to meet Robert at the station, and she would never have agreed if she’d known why Gemma wanted to come. I could imagine her arguments—there isn’t time, you’ll see him the day after New Year’s, we can’t inconvenience Robert, who after all is paying for your brace—and so could Gemma, apparently, and had sidestepped them neatly.

“Did you tell her you were coming down to third?” I said, trying to look disapproving.

“She told me to go look at games so I wouldn’t see her buying the doll,” she said. “I wanted to tell you I’d rather be with you Christmas Eve.”

I love you, I thought.

“I think when I
do
come,” she said seriously, “that we should pretend that it
is
Christmas Eve, like the little princess and Becky.”

“They pretended it was Christmas Eve?”

“No. When the little princess was cold or hungry or sad she pretended her garret was the Bastille.”

“The Bastille,” I said thoughtfully. “I don’t think they had figs in the Bastille.”

“No.”
She laughed. “The little princess pretended all sorts of things. When she couldn’t have what she wanted. So
I
think we should pretend it’s Christmas Eve, and wear paper hats and light the tree and say things like, ‘It’s nearly Christmas,’ and ‘Oh, listen, the Christmas bells are chiming.’”

“And ‘Pass the figs, please,’” I said.

“This is
serious,”
she said. “We’ll be together next Christmas,
but till then we’ll have to
pretend.”
She paused, and looked solemn. “I’m going to have a good time in Surrey,” she said, and her voice died away uncertainly.

“Of
course
you’ll have a good time,” I said heartily. “You’ll get huge heaps of presents, and eat lots of goose. And figs. I hear in Surrey they use figs for stuffing.” I hugged her to me.

A thin gray woman with rather the look of Miss Minchin came up. “Pardon me, do you work here?” she said disapprovingly.

“I’ll be with you in just a moment,” I said.

Yet to Come hurried up, but the woman waved him away. “I’m looking for a book,” she said.

I said to Gemma, “You’d best get back before your mother finishes buying the doll and misses you.”

“She won’t. The bride dolls are all sold. I asked when I was here before.” She smiled, her eyes crinkling. “She’ll have to send them to check the stockroom,” she said airily, looking just like her mother, and I remembered suddenly what I had loved about Margaret—her cleverness and the innocent pleasure she took in it, her resourcefulness. Her smile. And it was like being given a boon, a Christmas gift I hadn’t known I wanted.

“I’m looking for a book,” Miss Minchin repeated. “I saw it in here several weeks ago.”

“I’d better go,” Gemma said.

“Yes,” I said, “and tell your mother you don’t want the doll before she turns the stockroom inside out.”

“I do want it, though,” she said. “The little princess had a doll,” and again that trailing away, as if she had left something unsaid.

“I thought you said all of them had been sold.”

“They have,” she said, “but there’s one in the window display, and you know Mummy. She’ll
make
them give it to her.”

“Pardon
me,” Miss Minchin said insistently. “It was a green book, green and gold.”

“I’d better go,” Gemma said again.

“Yes,” I said regretfully.

“Goodbye,” she said, and plunged into the crush of shoppers, which now was going the other way.

“Hardback,” Miss Minchin said. “It was
right
here on this shelf.”

Gemma stopped halfway down the aisle, shoppers milling about her, and looked back at me. “You’d better eat the frosted cakes so they won’t grow stale. I’m going to have a good time,” she said, more firmly, and was swallowed by the crowd.

“It had gold lettering,” Miss Minchin said. “It was by an earl, I think.”

The book Miss Minchin wanted, after a protracted search, was Sir Spencer’s
Making Money Hand Over Fist.
Of course.