Gifts

Coral brought me a cute pansy bouquet in 1968. She visited me at home following the car crash.

My best friend came to my place after school. I had to stay home for two more days following the smash, as did Josh. My eye looked like I had lost a brutal boxing match.

Coral knocked and came into my bedroom. She wore her grey school dress and jumper. I lay in bed, as I had for most of the day.

"I've never seen skin so black and purple - I mean – okay, maybe I have, but only in small scrapes. This covers half your face!"

Coral reached out to touch the bruising, hesitated and drew back.

I understood it wasn't fear but rather good manners.

"It's blacker and bluer, like those liquorice straps. They are sweet and sorry; currently, you are not."

Her head leaned towards me, "I should have brought liquorice!" she joked.

We shared a giggle fit.

We discussed how soon I would be returning to school.

Coral said she missed Josh and me, though she recounted playing four square with our classmates. She informed me that she intended to visit Josh tomorrow after school.

Coral laughed, saying, "I miss his concentration in four square."

I said, "It's boring at home, only reading and listening to the radio all day." 

Then my mum called us for hot chocolate and salted caramel slices.

I pulled my dressing gown over my pj's, and we dashed to the kitchen for our snack. I had been out of my room for breakfast and lunch and smelt the slice yesterday when my mum baked. Today, it gained its chocolate top and sea salt flakes and tempted lip-smacking ready.

Coral loved the caramel slice from her first day in my kitchen.

"My, my! It's yummy," she cooed today, licking the caramel off her fingers, "The salt and caramel are so good; you are a lucky boy."

We were mutual fans of the slice base: delectable, firm and crumbly. It specked on her palm under the piece she nibbled. The chocolate layer atop her piece cracked as she bit into it. Her reaching tongue whipped the flecks of sea salt into her mouth. I enjoyed watching Coral savour food.

My mum allowed us a rare second slice. I thought it was because I was so black and blue. In truth, I didn't feel sore around my eye, and I wasn't old enough to care about my appearance. I was old enough to treasure my bestie's regular company.

I thought my mum gave Coral the second slice because she made an effort to visit me. Her charming personality helped, too.

Charm was not my word. I heard adults use it about Coral.

They would repeatedly say, She's so charming — My, she is charming! —Such a charming lass!

The word sounded nice.

The words adults used about me were quiet and shy.

I grew to dislike hearing shy.

The extra slice for Coral and me was because my mum had another plan.

She casually asked Coral, "Does your family watch the Christmas nativity scene, pet?"

"Yes," Coral replied, "at the shopping centre where Mr Moore dresses as Santa Claus."

Coral took another bite of her slice.

After her mouthful, she replied, "I've seen Luke play a shepherd."

Her face leaned towards me, and she grinned.

I participated because, as a Sunday school boy, it was compulsory. I coped okay in the role of being a shepherd because I didn't have to speak. I merely stood on the stage holding a crook.

Coral scrutinised her caramel slice; she had a good half left.

My mother continued, "Do you like dressing up?"

Coral managed "Yes" between small bites.

Next, my mum explored, "Could I ask your mother for you to be the angel in the nativity this year?"

Coral nodded as her mouth was full.

My mum excused herself on shopping errands.

Mary and James were not at home either, as they were participating in an after-school gymnastics program, and Dad would collect them.

Coral and I enjoyed the lounge room to ourselves. Our prospects shaped as an hour to talk and muck around before my mother returned and her mum picked Coral up. We chatted as television cartoons provided extra laughs.

My bestie slid our banter to how yummy the salted caramel tasted.

She led me astray. "Let's have another slice," she spurred, nudging me.

Earlier in the kitchen, we watched my mum count the remaining slices into two square cake tins and place the matching containers on a shelf in a high kitchen cupboard.

The slices for my family tonight lay on the table under a muslin cloth. I knew the two cake tins were off-limits. Their destiny was a morning tea indulgence for the women's bible fellowship my mum attended each week.

Temptation won; I liked Coral cheery.

So, we ventured speedily, rib-digging each other to the kitchen. I used a chair, stretched, and reached the cake tins carefully so as not to shake or slide their contents. I eased both containers down, passing them to Coral.

Prising off the lids and folding back the layer of waxed paper, I removed a slice from each cake tin and cleverly rearranged the pieces. I made it appear nothing was missing. Chuffed, I stood on the chair, and Coral handed me the tins, and I shut the cupboard.

We carried our stolen slices to the lounge room balanced on our palms. I heard my dad's car at the garage side of the house. Then, the closing of car doors.

I scoffed at my slice, the chocolate top splintered in my hand and over my light blue dressing gown. Coral gobbled piggishly. Her slice broke and crumbled over her school dress despite her cupped hand. We were denied the sticky, lingering melt-in-your-mouth delight.

Lucky for us, Dad stayed in the garage.

Mary and James whizzed past us, heading upstairs, offering quick, "Hi, Coral."

Their greeting remained unanswered.

The beautiful rectangles of caramel slices lay lumpy in a sticky ball in our hands. We bolted down the pulverised blob. I saw Coral gulp uncomfortably, hoping James and Mary stayed upstairs. After licking chocolate and caramel-smeared fingers hastily, we attempted to focus on the cartoons.

The funny parts failed to make us laugh.

I tried erasing brown smudges from my dressing gown using a spit-wet finger.

Coral and I didn't interact or speak.

Occasionally, my bestie brushed stray crumbs off and under her and down into the fold at the back of the lounge.

She glanced at the wall clock every couple of minutes.

Coral gave a closed-lip smile when Mary confirmed Sandy's arrival.

She stood, brushed her hands down her school dress, though it was clean and proceeded with uneven steps to the hall doorway before turning and gripping her hands in front of her tummy.

My best friend wanted to speak, but words deserted her and me.

I missed too her usual vigorous wave goodbye.

Two days later, there was hell to pay.

I paid for it solo.

My punishment for stealing the two extra slices was no desserts for a week. I sat at the dinner table, my hands under my thighs and an empty, salivating mouth seven nights straight while everyone else enjoyed a range of treats.

Coral made an adorable angel at that year's nativity and the next. My bestie roped Josh to play Joseph the year she debuted as an angel. I scored a role as one of the three wise kings—a promotion from being a background shepherd.

My mum and the ladies at my church made the costumes and accessories. They crafted a box for me to give the baby Jesus as the magi gifting gold.

My empty box was wrapped in reflective, shiny gold paper with a golden bow. I didn't understand why such a perfect box contained nothing. The glossy paper glinted like a gold leaf under the stage spotlights during rehearsal.

When we finished practising, puzzled, I asked my mum, "I like my box. It needs something in it."

My hands presented the box before me, expecting her to take and fill it.

"Don't be silly," she answered, "There is no point. Take your cloak and crown off. We are leaving soon."

"I am giving a gift," I insisted.

I stuck to my guns.

"In a play," she touched her face near her nose.

She continued, "It's not real!"

"But," I restarted.

I saw her neck reddened.

"Get changed," she insisted, waving her hands.

I understood this closed the discussion.

I removed my cloak and folded it neatly. Atop the empty box, I centred my glitter-strewed paper crown. I sat bored, my hands in my pockets as my mum talked to a church friend.

My thinking gained confidence even as my fingers found only fluff in my trousers.

There should be something in the gift box, even if the item has no meaning. 

I know now: A gift box and its contents unfailingly carry import.