Just after six o’clock there was a knock on the front door of number 7 Cairo Street. Martha had just returned from the yard and was helping her mam get the tea ready.
Not long before that Mr Perkins had staggered in with a rather emaciated Christmas tree, but it was a tree all the same. He had then gone up into the attic to bring down the decorations.
‘Who’s that at the door?’ Mrs Perkins said, drying her hands on her pinny. ‘We’re not expecting any visitors, are we?’ She looked at Martha, who shook her head.
‘Who’s that?’ Mr Perkins stuck his head out of the square opening in the landing ceiling.
He watched, his vision upside down, as his wife answered the door. Martha was behind her. Forever protective.
‘Oh, goodness me,’ Mrs Perkins said. ‘Well, this is a surprise.’
She looked at the delivery boy who had somehow managed to cycle with the wicker picnic hamper balancing on the basket on the front of his bicycle. He had put the bike on its stand and was now standing, knees bent and arms outstretched, holding the hamper that had a huge red bow tied around it.
‘Are you sure you’ve got the right address?’ Mrs Perkins asked.
She felt herself being nudged aside as Martha squashed past and took the delivery from the skinny young lad before he collapsed under its weight.
Martha looked at the tag dangling from one of the leather straps that were holding the hamper intact.
‘“Mr and Mrs Perkins”,’ she read.
‘Well, this is a surprise,’ Mrs Perkins said, flattening herself against the wall of the hallway to allow Martha and the hamper to get past.
‘Wait there, young man,’ she said, grabbing her handbag by the front door.
She took out a coin and pressed it into the lad’s cold hands.
‘Merry Christmas.’
The boy looked down at the shiny coin and gave Mrs Perkins a big smile.
‘Merry Christmas to you too!’ A stream of smoky cold air accompanied his words.
Shutting the front door, Mrs Perkins hurried into the back parlour.
‘William, get yourself down here,’ she shouted.
Mr Perkins was already doing just that and was halfway down the ladder. He picked up the bag of decorations he had dropped down onto the landing and hurried down the stairs.
He found his wife and Martha standing around the table, looking down at the hamper.
‘Well, it’s not going to open itself,’ Mr Perkins laughed. ‘Go on, open it!’
Mrs Perkins carefully unbuckled the straps and slowly lifted the lid off the basket.
She gasped when she saw what was inside.
It was a hamper like no other she had ever seen. Certainly not since the start of war.
Partially hidden by straw, she could see a tin of fruit, a jar of marmalade, another jar of chutney and an oblong packet of biscuits – but it was what had been placed in the middle of the picnic basket that had her eyes out on stalks.
A massive gammon joint.
‘Look,’ Martha said, picking out an envelope that was lying next to what would most certainly be their Boxing Day meal. She read out the inscription on the front: ‘“Mr and Mrs Perkins”. Nice handwriting.’
‘You open it, William,’ Mrs Perkins said, anxiously.
Mr Perkins did as he was told and carefully opened the envelope.
He read the few lines that had been written in blue ink on thick, good-quality writing paper.
Then he handed it to his wife.
Mrs Perkins took longer to read the note.
When she put it down, she had tears in her eyes.
‘Come here,’ she said to Martha and gave her a big hug.
Later on, after they’d all decorated the tree and Martha had gone to bed with a big mug of hot chocolate and a couple of biscuits from the hamper, Mrs Perkins settled herself in the old rocking chair that had once belonged to her father.
She picked up the note she had put on the mantelpiece and read it once more.
Dear Mr and Mrs Perkins,
If it wasn’t for your brave daughter Martha, I would not be here now, nor would a mother and her little girl be celebrating this Yuletide.
You must be very proud parents.
Wishing you all a very Happy Christmas,
Kind regards,
Helen Crawford (Miss)