Star over Bethlehem Read Online Free

assent. The thruster seemed to be well known.
    â€œWe know her and her ways,” said one woman darkly.
    â€œPound and a half of rump,” said the butcher thrusting forth a parcel. “Now then, come along, who’s next, please?”
    Mrs. Hargreaves made her purchases and escaped to the street, thinking how really awful people were!
    She went into the greengrocer next, to buy lemons and a lettuce. The woman at the greengrocer’s was, as usual, affectionate.
    â€œWell, ducks, what can we do for you today?” She rang up the cash register; said “Ta” and “Here you are, dearie,” as she pressed a bulging bag into the arms of an elderly gentleman who looked at her in disgust and alarm.
    â€œShe always calls me that,” the old gentleman confided gloomily when the woman had gone in search of lemons.
    â€œâ€˜Dear,’ and ‘Dearie’ and ‘Love.’ I don’t even know the woman’s name!”
    Mrs. Hargreaves said she thought it was just a fashion. The old gentleman looked dubious and moved off, leaving Mrs. Hargreaves feeling faintly cheered by the discovery of a fellow sufferer.
    Her shopping bag was quite heavy by now, so she thought she would take a bus home. There were three or four people waiting at the bus stop, and an ill-tempered conductress shouted at the passengers.
    â€œCome along now, hurry along, please—we can’t wait here all day.” She scooped up an elderly arthritic lady and thrust her staggering into the bus where someone caught her and steered her to a seat, and seized Mrs. Hargreaves by the arm above the elbow with iron fingers, causing her acute pain.
    â€œInside, only. Full up now.” She tugged violently at a bell, the bus shot forward and Mrs. Hargreaves collapsed on top of a large woman occupying, through no fault of her own, a good three-quarters of a seat for two.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” gasped Mrs. Hargreaves.
    â€œPlenty of room for a little one,” said the large woman cheerfully, doing her best without success to make herself smaller. “Nasty temper some of these girls have, haven’t they? I prefer the black men myself. Nice and polite they are—don’t hustle you. Help you in and out quite carefully.”
    She breathed good temper and onions impartially over Mrs. Hargreaves.
    â€œI don’t want any remarks from you, thank you,” said the bus conductress who was now collecting fares. “I’d have you know we’ve got our schedule to keep.”
    â€œThat’s why the bus was idling alongside the curb at the last stop but one,” said the large woman. “Fourpenny, please.”
    Mrs. Hargreaves arrived home exhausted by recrimination and unwanted affection, and also suffering from a bruised arm. The flat seemed peaceful and she sank down gratefully.
    Almost immediately however, one of the porters arrived to clean the windows and followed her round telling her about his wife’s mother’s gastric ulcer.
    Mrs. Hargreaves picked up her handbag and went out again. She wanted—badly—a desert island. Since a desert island was not immediately obtainable (indeed, it would probably entail a visit to a travel agency, a passport office, vaccination, possibly a foreign visa to be obtained, and many other human contacts) she strolled down to the river.
    â€œA water bus,” she thought hopefully.
    There were such things, she believed. Hadn’t she read about them? And there was a pier—a little way along the Embankment; she had seen people coming off it. Of course, perhaps a water bus would be just as crowded as anything else …
    But here she was in luck. The steamer, or water bus, or whatever it was, was singularly empty. Mrs. Hargreaves bought a ticket to Greenwich. It was the slack time of day and it was not a particularly nice day, the wind being distinctly chilly, so few people were on the water for pleasure.

    There were some