Against a slate grey sky snow was falling over the perfume bottle towers of the city. The sidewalks of the Broadway were alive with the wrapped parcels of streetlife snug against the cold air of the dark afternoon. Somewhere in the winter gloom Morden Fairchild hailed a hansom cab from the street corner and bundled his packages into the seat beside him.

"Where to, fella?"
"Lambspring Acres, Bud!"

And with that the carriage was away with a clattering of hooves on cobblestones and a ringing of bells. Fairchild loosened his scarf and checked his home service drone on his handset: The kid was okay. It had been a close thing last night when he'd found her in the bad end of the old Mansions up on Beacon Hill.

"Only three more weeks until Christmas, huh?" The cabbie shouted over the rattle and ring of the streets.
"Uh huh!"
"Got some presents for the kiddies?"
"In a manner of speaking. You got a family yourself, fella?"
"Uh huh, I'm a family man buddy-boy! When I put this baby away for the night I'm taking my youngest to see a show in the Hippodrome."
"No kidding!"
"Fourth birthday - she getting to be a right little lady."
"I bet she is. Just take a right here - I'm on the good end of the Acres."

The cab rolled around the curve with a jingle of sleighbells. Tall town houses emerged from well tended front gardens, high ornate topiaries, elegant conifers.

"Drop me anywhere here," Fairchild unloaded his packages onto a low wall. He handed the cabbie a pair of green notes, "Keep the change, buddy - get that baby daughter of yours a new outfit."
"Hey, thank *you*, mister! I might just call it a night."

Morden Fairchild waited for the cab to rattle away over the hill before hefting his shopping over his shoulder and crossing the road to climb a long dark path between untended pines. It had been a long time since Fairchild could afford to rent rooms anywhere in Lambspring Acres. Two divorces and two vengeful wives had reduced his inheritance to nothing. But Fairchild wasn't bitter, even though he was certainly a good deal wiser than the twenty two year old graduate who had walked up the aisle with Edith Wadsworth all those years ago.

Half way up the rutted path Fairchild stopped at his letterbox. A couple of letters, a bill, some correspondences and a parcel from his mum. Dear old Mum! She hadn't forgotten a birthday in thirty-five years. He stuffed them into the pocket of his greatcoat and ran up to the ruined gateway, all filigree iron work and art nouveau blooms, through the gateway and up the path to the Old Schoolhouse on the Hill. Three stone steps took him up to the big front doors, he opened the door a crack and slipped through into the entrance hall. Dark but for a small halogen lamp hanging from a hook under the stairs.

He took his coat off, hung it on the overburdened hatstand beside the mirror. The mirror looked back at him: He still looked good. He brushed some snowflakes out of his hair and slicked down his moustache. Might need to give that a trim in the morning. Picking up his packages with renewed vigour he ran up the curving stairs two at a time and knocked on the door of the master chamber.

"Come in."

Milly was still in bed, sitting up and reading one of his old books. She had a china cup of sweet tea in one hand and a plate of cinnamon toast on her lap. She had pulled the patchwork throw over her legs and was still wearing the fox-fur hat she had been wearing when he'd first seen her.

"Hiya, Kiddo!"
"Hello Morden. I'm afraid I used up the last of the cinnamon."
"Hey, don't worry. We'll get some more when I go into town tomorrow. I got some wood - we don't want you catching a death of cold."
"That's sweet of you, Morden, but I'm really feeling very much better."
"I'll be the judge of that!" Fairchild frowned in mock stern disapproval. It didn't last long and his face cracked back into a smile, "and I bought you a present."
"A present? You shouldn't have - it's not my birthday."
"That's okay, Kiddo. It didn't cost very much I found it in one of the junk shops near Peersporter," he handed her a crumpled Jones Brothers' carrier bag. She opened it cautiously a bought a tatty square envelope out.
"An old gramophone record. Oh! It's Ellery Laverne and the Django Brulac Quartet!"
"It sure is!"
"It must have cost you of fortune! It's an original."
"It sure is. I don't think the old bird in the shop had any idea what it was worth."
"You robbed her!" Milly scowled disapprovingly.
"I guess I did. I feel kinda bad about that but I told her she'd given me the wrong change."
"But even so - this record must be worth..."
"It's worth seeing you smile, Kiddo. Now, are we going to put it on the gramophone."

It was getting dark outside. Fairchild closed the heavy drapes and shut out the snowbound trees and the turrets of the run down chapel. He lit the long tapers on the mantlepiece and wound up the gramophone. Milly climbed out of the bed and into her shoes. She brought over the tatty old envelope and gingerly removed the old vinyl from its sleeve and placed it on the gramophone. Carefully she placed the needle on the record.

There was some scratching and poping from the old paper horn and then the bittersweet sounds of melancholy brass and strings and then that voice: Ellery Laverne - the songbird of Petit Charleroi! The exagerrated querulous vibrato in her voice was outdated back in the thirties when it had been recorded but only a cynical heart could not be won over by her sad songs of unrequited love, thwarted passion and an almost religious sense of loneliness.

"Oh, she's perfect!" Milly danced around the room hugging a pillow to herself.

copyright z.j.krishna 2002

copyright z.j.krishna 2003