Star over Bethlehem - Agatha Christie [14]
“It was not enough.”
“What more do you want to do?”
“We had Faith—burning Faith. We had the Faith that can move mountains. Two thousand years have taught us that we could have done more. We did not always have enough Compassion …”
The word came from his lips like a breath from a summer sea. It whispered all round the Heavens …
“This is our petition: Let us go back to Earth in Pity and Compassion to help those who need help.”
There was a murmur of agreement from those around him.
The Recording Angel picked up the Golden Intercom on his desk. He spoke into it in a low murmur.
He listened …
Then he spoke—briskly, and with authority.
“Promotion Granted,” he said. “Approval in the Highest.”
They turned to go, their faces radiant.
“Hand in your Crowns and Halos at the door, please.”
They surrendered their Crowns and Halos and went out of the Court. St. Thomas came back.
“Excuse me,” he said politely. “But what you said just now—was it Permission Granted? Or was it Promotion Granted?”
“Promotion. After two thousand years of Sainthood, you are moving up to a higher rank.”
“Thank you. I thought it was promotion you said. But I wanted to make sure.”
He followed the others.
“He always had to make sure,” said Gabriel. “You know—sometimes—I can’t help wondering what it would be like to have an immortal soul …”
The Recording Angel looked horrified.
“Do be careful, Gabriel. You know what happened to Lucifer.”
“Sometimes I can’t help feeling a little sorry for Lucifer. Having to rank below Adam upset him terribly. Adam wasn’t much, was he?”
“A poor type,” agreed the Recording Angel. “But he and all his descendants were created in the image of God with immortal souls. They have to rank above the Angels.”
“I’ve often thought Adam’s soul must have been a very small one.”
“There has to be a beginning for everything,” the Recording Angel pointed out severely.
Mrs. Badstock heaved and pulled. The smell of the village dump was not agreeable. It was an unsightly mass of old tyres, broken chairs, ragged quilts, old kerosene tins, and broken bedsteads. All the things that nobody could possibly want. But Mrs. Badstock was tugging hopefully. If that old pram was anyway repairable—She heaved again and it came free …
“Drat!” said Mrs. Badstock. The upper portion of the pram was not too bad, but the wheels were missing.
She threw it down angrily.
“Can I help you?” A woman spoke out of the darkness.
“No good. Blasted thing’s got no wheels.”
“You want a wheel? I’ve got one here.”
“Ta, ducks. But I need four. And anyway, yours is much too big.”
“That’s why I thought we could make it into four—with a little adjustment.” The woman’s fingers strayed over it pushing, pulling.
“There! How’s that?”
“Well, I never! However did you—Now, if we’d got a nail or two—or a screw. I’ll get my hubby—”
“I think I can manage.” She bent over the pram. Mrs. Badstock peered down to try and see what was happening.
The other woman straightened up suddenly. The pram stood on four wheels.
“It will want a little oil, and some new lining.”
“I can see to that easy! What a boon it will be. You’re quite a little home mechanic, aren’t you, ducks? How on earth did you manage it?”
“I don’t know really,” said St. Catherine vaguely. “It just—happens.”
The tall woman in the brocade dress said with authority: “Bring them up to the house. There’s plenty of room.”
The man and the woman looked at her suspiciously. Their six children did the same.
“The Council are finding us somewhere,” said the man sullenly.
“But they’re going to separate us,” said the woman.
“And you don’t want that?”
“Of course we don’t.”
Three of the children began to cry.
“Shut your bloody mouths,” said the man, but without rancour.
“Been saying they’d evict us for a long time,” said the man. “Now they’ve done it. Always whining about their rent. I’ve better things to do with my money than pay rent. That’s Councils all over for you.”
He was not a nice man. His wife was not