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The New Zealand Railways Magazine, Volume 10, Issue 9 (December 2, 1935)

A Feather to Fly with

page 12

A Feather to Fly with

The winning story in the New Zealand Women Writers’ and Artists’ Society's competition.

As Jill Weston moved deftly about her spotless kitchen preparing the mid-day meal, she sang softly. It was the Tuesday before Christmas Eve, a dazzling summer's day with the sunlight shimmering in the air, and the vast stretch of blue sea below glistening like dancing silver.

How happy she felt for this afternoon she would don her only decent frock, the spotted crepe-de-chine, and with the few shillings saved from ‘selling eggs and making frocks, she would sail into one of the biggest shops and buy Peter a good silk canoe shirt for a Christmas box. Peter would be in to dinner soon, but she would not tell him the motive of her visit to the city. As usual, he would say she must spend the money on herself, and until he was able to provide a crust, it only made him feel miserable for her to spend on him. Poor, willing Peter, how desperately he had tried to get work, but for three long years now, it had seemed almost impossible, and he found it difficult enough to earn a bare pittance a week to keep them in food alone. Jill, by sheer enterprise and optimism had supplied the rest, which had enabled them to keep up the payments for their quaint little home, “Hamurana.”

Peter never lost heart that one day would see him in a decent job, when a chap could feel some respect for himself and then he would see that Jill had leisure like other young women, and, above all, the pretty clothes so dear to a woman's heart.

Jill had just placed an apple pie in the oven, when she heard Peter talking to little Bryan Huxley from next door, down in the rockery. Almost immediately Peter was wiping his soilclogged boots on the door mat.

“What do you think, Jill,” he called, “those Warren ‘boys have had a male chaffinch penned up for three days and his mate is in a terrible dither, flying against the cage which is out on their lawn.”

“The horrid little creatures!” cried Jill indignantly, “it's probably one of those poor chaffinches we've been feeding. Bryan, ask Billy Warren to come in and see me, I'll talk to him.”

Within a few minutes, the chief culprit of the bird trappers arrived, a thatch of sandy-red hair framing his round freckled face.

“‘Morning, Mrs. Weston,” he greeted Jill, grinning rather sheepishly, “did you want me?”

Jill eyed him gravely. “Is it true Billy,” she began, “that you have a poor chaffinch penned up in a cage, while his little mate is nearly fretting herself to death over him?”

Billy looked abashed. “Why,” he replied quickly, “we've been all the winter and spring trying to catch a chaffinch, and this is the only catch of the whole school. They're worth a lot of money, too,” he added importantly.

Jill decided to sound the sentimental side of Billy's nature, for those blue eyes were not devoid of kindness.

“Surely Billy, you wouldn't deprive a poor chaffinch of his mate just before Christmas, would you?” she appealed, a note of pathos creeping into her voice.

But Billy was not to be won over by mere feminine whims.

“I'll let a green linnet free for you,” compromised Billy ruefolly.

“I'll let a green linnet free for you,” compromised Billy ruefolly.

“I can't help that,” he replied shrugging his shoulders. “If he'd been quicker he wouldn't have been caught, it's his own fault really.”

“What do you intend to do with him?” demanded Jill, a trifle crestfallen that her best trump card had been a failure.

“I'll sell him to Mick Morgan. He pays the best prices for good birds, in the school and he'll give me half a crown for this one.” Billy's face flushed with pride.

“Wouldn't you let this one free just to please me and for the sake of his poor little mate?” coaxed Jill.

“I'll let a green linnet free for you,” compromised Billy ruefully, “but oh, I couldn't lose the chaffinch, I should never catch another.”

Peter, who had been planting verbena amongst the marigolds in the rockery, pricked up his ears.

“Here, you young mischief, will you sell me that bird for half a crown?” he boomed.

“Sure, I will,” replied Billy, fairly bubbling over with enthusiasm. “You can have him right now if you like.”

Peter fished eagerly in his pockets, but strangely no money seemed to be forthcoming.

Suddenly he looked up in dismay and embarrassment.

“Great Scott!” he blushed, “I remember now, I paid in that half-crown yesterday to have my boots fixed, and it has left me without a feather to fly with. Sorry, old man.”

Jill did not hesitate. She went to her little tin box in the bedroom and drew from it a precious, shining halfcrown page 13 that was to have gone towards Peter's silk shirt.

Her eyes were a little misty as she handed Billy the half-crown, but she was happy in doing so, for to Jill's sweet nature, she could never have forgiven herself if she had refused to liberate a poor wild creature when it was in her power.

She felt Peter's strong, brown arms around her, and he was kissing her fondly. “Dearest, I could kick myself for being such a chump. If only I had remembered, I wouldn't have dreamt of making a bargain with that young Shylock, for I know how difficult it is for you to keep even a half-crown for yourself.”

“We'll never miss it, when we think of the joy it will give those poor birds, honey,” replied Jill fastening a flower in his coat.

When the warm, fluttering little life had been pressed into her hand, Jill felt wonderfully happy. There was something so appealing and pathetic about those terrified Jittle eyes that gazed into hers. It made Jill wonder how anyone in the world could dream of hurting anything so beautiful as a bird.

She opened her hand and set it free, watching its joyous flight down into the pine trees fringing the sea.

Light-heartedly they went into dinner.

It was quite evident now that Jill's trip into the city would have to be postponed, for, sadly, fifteen shillings is quite inadequate when the gift contemplated is seventeen and six.

It would mean putting it off for a few days, and Jill sat down to do some more sewing.

She had been puzzling out rather a tricky pattern for a georgette frock, when the door bell rang loudly, causing her to jump and prick her finger. Throwing off her apron, she hastened to the door, blessing a probable hawker for disturbing her work.

Jill found herself confronted by a dark, youngish-looking man with a pleasant face.

“Mrs. Weston,” he began immediately, “my small son has just confessed to transacting a bargain with you, and I was amazed to learn that you had paid him half a crown to set a chaffinch free. I have just returned from the Dunedin branch of our firm and I had no idea the young rascals were penning wild birds to sell them. I must insist that you accept your half-crown back again, and I shall give those boys a good talking to. By the way, if Mr. Weston isn't too busy, I wonder if he would spare me a few minutes?”

No one was more surprised and pleased than Jill, as she went off to summon Peter, the shining half-crown miraculously back in her hand again. Thank goodness she would be able to buy Peter's present before Christmas Eve after all.

Resuming her sewing, she reflected that probably Mr. Warren sought Peter's advice about his Virginian Stock, for no one else in the street could grow stock quite as well as Peter could.

Just then there was a knock at the back door and Jill sighed as she laid down her sewing as it seemed for the fortieth time.

“Lady, would you like a fine turkey for Christmas?” coaxed a small urchin. “I'm taking orders for Sunnyhill Farm, and you won't get ‘em fresher or cheaper anywhere in town.”

Turkey! Jill smiled. Why the last time she had tasted turkey was on their honeymoon, Christmas, six years ago. Peter had had a good post then and it had been a glorious Christmas—just the two of them together in Rotorua, but now it would have to be a sirloin of beef; turkey was a past dream.

At Jill's rather sorrowful shake of her head, the lad pulled out of his pocket a number of squares cut from an empty biscuit carton. Handing her one, he said, “Well, lady, in case you change your mind, here's my card, and if you ring the farm, don't forget to say that Dick Plimmer asked you to buy a turkey. I get ninepence for each one I sell. You see, I'm saving up to buy Mum a Christmas present, and I want to buy a bike for myself some day.”

Jill glanced at the card and smiled. This was certainly a most enterprising young gentleman to present his prospective customers with hand-printed cards, made from biscuit cartons.

She slipped it beneath the clock on the kitchen mantlepiece, and began meditating on the wonderful Christmases of the past, when they had given open-handedly, and the table had fairly groaned with delectable Christmas fare. There had always been a fine, fat turkey, garlanded with crisp, brown sausages, and rich, fruity plum puddings with brandy sauce. If only she had been able to give Dick Plimmer an order for turkey to make it seem really like Christmas! Ah, but it was of no use wishing, times were so very different now.

Peter and Mr. Warren were still talking in the sitting-room, so Jill decided to pop the kettle on and make them a cup of tea.

Just then she heard the front door click, and to her amazement, Peter came charging out to her like an excited young buffalo.

“Jill dearest, put that rotten sewing away and hear something too good to be true,” he cried triumphantly.

“I've found a job at last, Jill, and one that'll suit me down to the ground. You see, darling, Mr. Warren met Billy padding up the path, and demanded to know how he had acquired the half-crown. On learning the story and knowing that I was out of work, he immediately rang a friend who has a large bird and dog shop here, and recommended me for the position which has just fallen vacant. Mr. Rogers replied that on his friend's recommendation, I could start immediately if I cared to accept the position. You see what my kind, self-sacrificing little wife has done for me!”

“Oh Peter, it's marvellous I” exclaimed Jill as she threw her arms about his neck in an ecstasy of happiness. “Daring, I never thought that poor chaffinch would send us our feather to fly with.”

Then instantly Jill went to the clock and drew from beneath it a quaint-looking card which she handed to her husband.

“Peter darling,” she said, her eyes sparkling, “this is to be a very special celebration, so I want you to ring Dickie Plimmer at Sunnyhill Farm and tell him we'll be ordering a fine, fat turkey for Christmas dinner.”

“Peter came charging out to her like an excited young buffale.

“Peter came charging out to her like an excited young buffale.

page 14