Two years ago that was, and since then Myra had been to see her mother three times, but her husband never.
The old lady was eight today. She had put on her best dress. Perhapsperhaps Myra might come. After all, eighty was a special birthday, another decade lined or endured just as you chose to look at it.
Even if Myra did not come, she would send a present. The old lady was sure of that. Two spots of colour brightened her cheeks. She was excitedlike a child. She would enjoy her day.
Yesterday Mrs. Morrison had given the flat an extra clean, and today she had brought a card and a bunch of marigolds when she came to do the breakfast. Mrs. Grant downstairs had made a cake, and in the afternoon she was going down there to tea. The little boy, Johnnie, had been up with a packet of mints, and said he wouldnt go out to play until the post had come.
I guess youll get lots and lots of presents, he said, I did last were when I was six.
What would she like? A pair of slippers perhaps. Or a new cardigan. A cardigan would be lovely. Blues such a pretty colour. Jim had always liked her in blue. Or a table lamp. Or a book, a travel book, with pictures, or a little clock, with clear black numbers. So many lovely things.
She stood by the window, watching. The postman turned round the corner on his bicycle. Her heart beat fast. Johnnie had seen him too and ran to the gate.
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