On Christmas morning, Frances Mountbatten stumbled down the stairs from her second-floor bedroom and gazed at a glowing Christmas tree.
As she looked out the window of her Notting Hill Gate flat, snow covered the red telephone box on Lansdowne Crescent.
“Frances, is he here yet?” her mother called from her upstairs guest bedroom, as Frances waited for a knock on her door.
“It had better be a big ring!” her father called. “We could be spending Christmas at home in Cambridge.”
“I didn’t tell Spencer that you were coming,” Frances explained. “So, stay upstairs until I figure out what’s going on! I’ll bring you Christmas breakfast in bed.”
After feeding her parents in hiding, she waited for her boyfriend and prepared a full breakfast to share with him: bacon, poached eggs, fried tomatoes and mushrooms, fried oatcakes, black pudding, baked beans, and fresh orange juice.
“Oh, where is he?” Frances asked, watching the clock. “He’s always late. It’s so rude.”
“He just parked outside!” Mrs. Mountbatten called. “Try to stay calm.”
“He’s only an accountant,” her father snapped. “You can do better.”
“Coming, dear!” she called to Spencer Arthur, her longtime love that stood at the door with a pile of packages.
“This has to be the year,” she whispered to herself. “He has to finally ask me to marry him . . .”
On the side table sat a stack of Frances’ romance novels. Of course, she was one of Britain’s most famous authors.
“Merry Christmas, love!” Spencer expressed to Frances, kissing her on the cheek and handing her his armful of gifts.
“Oh, I wonder what’s in these boxes!” Frances gestured, placing them beneath her Christmas tree. “Wait until you see what I got for you! I hope you love it,” she hinted, smiling. “I just finished making breakfast . . .”
“Brilliant!” Spencer cheered, looking at the feast placed around Frances’ Santa Claus tea pot with a candy cane handle.
“Do you want to open gifts first or eat breakfast?” Frances questioned, kissing him, and wrapping her arms around him.
“Why don’t we open gifts first?” he suggested, hanging his jacket on a hook. “Just keep the breakfast warm for a few minutes.”
After Frances had opened all five boxes, she had a pearl necklace, a wool sweater, an ink pen, a journal, and a stocking of toffees. “Anything else that I missed?” she appealed, biting her lip, breathing deep, and exhaling slowly.
“No, that’s everything, dear,” Spencer assured her. “Hope you like your gifts! Now what did you get me?”
Frances shook her head, thinking of all the years she watched her other girlfriends get married, some even at Christmas. In her angst, she saw her parents try to tiptoe down the steps, and she shooed them away without Spencer noticing.
“Definitely open this gift first,” Frances demanded, stiffly handing Spencer a large, heavy box.
He ripped open the gold wrapping paper, pulled off the lid, only to find a pair of red boxing gloves. Frances grabbed the gloves and shoved them on her tiny hands, saying: “These are for me!”
Then, she punched Spencer on the cheek, knocking him over in one full swing—he toppled onto the wooden floor in shock. Moments later, when Spencer regained consciousness, he held his head, sporting a right black eye.
“What did you do that for?” Spencer wailed. “It’s Christmas! I love you. I really do love you.”
“The gift that I gave you is a set of boxing gloves for me!” Frances clarified. “Tomorrow morning, on Boxing Day, Harrods is having sale. It starts at 10 o’clock sharp. You are buying me an engagement ring by noon, or I’m knocking you out for good!”
“Well, I was planning to do just that thing,” Spencer lied. “Not one minute past noon . . . In honor of the Queen! But really, are you sure that you don’t want to go to a rugby match with me instead? I’m even up for a horse race!”
“I’m not taking off the boxing gloves until you put a ring on my left hand!” Frances insisted. “Do you understand me?”
“Of course, darling, anything you want,” Spencer placated her, looking at his stack of unopened gifts, wondering if they would be re-gifted. “Can I have some ice for my eye from the freezer?”
“Now, if you want some breakfast, you can serve yourself!” Frances advised. “I’ve been cooking since seven o’clock!”
Slowly, but surely, Mr. Mountbatten stomped down the stairs.
“Oh, Noah, sir, I didn’t know you were here!” Spencer gasped.
“Amelia and I have definitely been here for the whole ordeal,” Frances’ father mumbled.
“We thought that Christmas might be merrier this year!” her mother suggested.
“That’s what I said!” Frances threatened, holding up the boxing gloves again.
Spencer held ice on his face, secretly hoping he wouldn’t go blind from Frances’ right hook. Under the watchful eye of the Mountbattens, Spencer quietly enjoyed a calm breakfast, noting that it was “the best Christmas breakfast he had ever eaten with a black eye.”
“This is your last breakfast as a bachelor!” Frances reminded him, raising the red gloves in his face. “That’s what this is, Spencer!”
Frances managed to hold a fork while wearing the boxing gloves and enjoyed her poached eggs with oatcakes. Her parents fumed at the seams while Spencer squirmed.
“Darling, we’ll meet in the Christmas World section of Harrods in the morning,” Spencer supposedly agreed. “Pick anywhere in the world for a honeymoon. I want you to be happy. I should’ve proposed before now, but I was just so nervous . . .”
“Well, you don’t have to be nervous anymore,” she declared. “Besides, this has been going on for almost seven years.”
As Christmas Day went on, Frances fell asleep on the couch with the boxing gloves fastened to her arms, and her parents dozed off on the rocking chairs next to her. When no one was looking, Spencer slipped out the door before Frances and her parents could stop him.
By the time morning came, Frances still had the red boxing gloves on her hands, ready to fight Spencer to fulfill his never-ending empty promises.
“Don’t get too disappointed if Spencer doesn’t show up!” Amelia told her daughter as Frances headed out the door.
“I never liked him!” Noah blurted out. “There are lots of eligible men at Cambridge.”
“Please, let me handle this myself,” Frances insisted, waving her boxing gloves in the air.
So, on the second day of Christmastide, Boxing Day—a British holiday—Frances took the Tube to Harrods in Knightsbridge. Gifts were piled high for the homeless men and women who lived in the subway tunnels. Passersby dropped donations into the Salvation Army’s red kettles as bandsmen played Christmas carols and rang bells.
“Boxing Day has a new meaning for me,” she announced, wearing the boxing gloves all the way to Christmas World despite odd looks from strangers. “Saint Stephen help me! At least my gloves are red for the Christmas season!”
While walking down the street to Harrods, she watched through the store windows as servants and tradesmen received Christmas boxes from their employers as gifts.
When she arrived in Christmas World, she took a seat next to Santa Claus’ house, waiting for Spencer. As noon arrived, Spencer had still not arrived, and she started to cry, causing the Harrods’ shoppers to stop with tissues.
“My dear lady, it’s Boxing Day, everything is on sale, please don’t cry,” approached a handsome gentleman with a handkerchief.
“Yes, I know, it’s Boxing Day! Look at my gloves,” she sobbed, grabbing his tissue, and blowing her nose.
“Well, if you’re free, I’d love to take you up to the second floor for lunch at The Tea Room,” the gentleman offered. “Do you like that proposal? I could propose something else if you’re not in the mood for tea.”
“I’m not sure . . . Spencer was supposed to meet me, but I don’t think he’s coming,” she blubbered.
“Yes, it doesn’t seem like he’s coming, does it?” the man concluded. “My name is Harry Williams. It would be my pleasure to spend the day with you. In fact, I think I’ve read your novels. Are you not Frances Mountbatten? I work in publishing.”
As Frances composed herself, Harry helped her take off the boxing gloves and left them in Christmas World for Santa. Months later, when Spencer appeared unannounced at Frances’ flat to propose, Harry quickly got his own pair of boxing gloves as Frances wearily considered the proposition. At the relief of her parents, Harry sent Spencer away once and for all.
By summertime, Harry proposed on one knee with a sparkling ring, and Frances married Harry on Christmas Eve in St. Paul’s Cathedral.
Spencer only heard about the wedding, and by this point had several black eyes from other women that he never married. Happier than ever, Frances never put on boxing gloves again, she only made sure to catch the good sales with Harry on Boxing Day—the most brilliant shopping holiday.
Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters
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