Unexpected Star

by Margreta Spencer

In Belfast I had two roommates—Carol and Anne. None of us had any extra money. Our apartment was dismal, but we could find no other place within our means.

Nevertheless, we decided to give a Christmas party for 12 needy children. I had seen some of the miseries of the slums and wanted to help.

Our Christmas tree was only two feet high, decorated with nine small glass balls, one package of tinfoil icicles, and a star we had made from the foil inside a cracker box. The food was simple. The gifts were small and inexpensive: a string of plastic beads, a doll’s feeding set, a young child’s picture book, small toys and games, and a package of molding clay.

The children arrived in their best clothes, which were ragged. They stood in a group at the door, afraid to come in. But we coaxed them inside and we played games, told stories, and sang songs until we were decidedly tired of the children’s favorite, “Jingle Bells.”

“Last year,” announced the oldest girl, trying hard to be sophisticated in an ill-fitting sheath dress and high heels that were much too large, “I was to a party in the Linen Makers’ Hall. Hundreds of us there was, and a tree 30 feet high.”

“Was it grand?” asked a slightly envious voice.

“It wasn’t, for no one had time to talk with us like these good ladies are doing.”

Then we served the food, which first brought forth cries of delight and then the silence of serious eating. Most had never had that much food on their plate.

“Tis the best party I was ever at,” someone announced after we had passed out the toys. “I felt right at home.”

The older girl in the high heels I noticed had traded her beads for the clay, the clay for a toy car, the car for a baby’s picture book. She was trying to rewrap it, but the cellophane tape wouldn’t stick.

“Would you have a bit of string, Missus? And a pencil, please?” I produced them, wondering. She tied the parcel awkwardly, and in large uneven letters she printed on it “TOMMY.”

She saw me looking and explained “Tis me wee brother, Missus. Nobody invited him to a party, and we can’t afford him no present.”

Ragged, messy little girl in your run-over, outsized high heels, I seem to remember that you are beautiful.

(December 1973, p. 14.)