An Irish Christmas Feast (15 page)

It transpired that shortly before Kitty died she summoned Patcheen to their bedroom. She bade him be seated on the sole plush-covered chair which, up until this moment, had never been used to fill the role for which it had been designed. Coats, blouses, trousers and other articles of clothing had been draped across its back or dumped on the seat but it had never, in the course of its existence, been sat upon. It had none of the sturdiness of the kitchen chairs, was frail and rickety but was, after all, ornamental.

Patcheen sat awkwardly and listened intently to his wife's carefully prepared recital. She wished to be buried in the same grave as her late parents and she made him promise that when his time came for leaving the world he would join her there and Pius too if he so wished. He assured her that it would be their dearest wish. She next handed him a slip of paper with instructions for the smooth administration of her wake and funeral. On it was meticulously pencilled all that would be required in the line of drink and edibles. A silence followed. It was as though the business of briefing him had exhausted her. After a long pause she informed him that it was her wish to be laid out in her navy blue costume and white silk blouse.

‘In the drawer over yonder,' she pointed weakly in the direction of the dressing table, ‘you will find a blue ribbon to bind my hair.' Patcheen nodded. Her wish would be carried out were the heavens to fall.

‘In the bottom drawer,' she continued hoarsely, ‘you will find two envelopes. In one which is marked wake money you will find sufficient to cover the cost of my wake and funeral and in the other which is addressed to Canon Mulgrave is the money to pay for the special masses for the repose of my soul and all the poor souls wherever they may be.'

During the long spring and summer which followed, the twins kept to themselves and were seen abroad only when they shopped at the crossroads or attended mass.

Despite the provision made by Kitty they found themselves in debt. Instead of the modest oak coffin for which she had allowed in her calculations they opted for the most expensive walnut with the most ornate trappings.

They found themselves faced with two choices: to sell the Morris Minor or abstain from intoxicating drink until the undertaker was paid. In the space of a year according to Pius's reckoning they should be free of debt and also free to resume their visits to the crossroads pub. Then came the heavenly intervention referred to by Pius.

It so happened that after the funeral mass when Patcheen approached Canon Mulgrave to pay for the mass the canon had expressed reluctance in accepting the extra money for the masses which would be said for Kitty and the poor souls.

‘Now, now,' Canon Mulgrave said, ‘there's no need at all for that. You've paid for the high mass and that in itself is sufficient.'

Patcheen would have none of it. Mindful of his wife's clearly expressed instructions he forced the envelope upon the canon and hurried from the scene.

Later that afternoon when the canon opened the envelope he was surprised at the amount therein. Normally he would have been gratified if a pound or two had been forthcoming but he was truly astonished when he beheld the neatly folded twenty-pound note. His conscience dictated that the money would have to be returned with the suggestion that a pound or two would do nicely in its stead. He knew for a certainty that the twenty-pound note was far and away beyond the means of the twins. He resolved to return the note intact at the earliest opportunity. Some time would pass before he did. He would agonise every time he looked inside the envelope which he kept atop the mahogany desk in his study. He dithered for several months. There were times when he told himself that the money had been given with a good heart and there were other times when he tried to convince himself that it would be against the spirit of the dead woman's intent if he did not accept the money. He decided that the masses should be celebrated without more ado and he also decided that further cogitation would be required before he finally decided on the destination of the twenty-pound note.

It turned out that shortly before Christmas the canon's letter box was flooded by a deluge of neglected bills. He withdrew the twenty-pound note from its envelope. With infinite care he smoothed it on top of his desk. It would go a long way towards discharging his debts. Then he manfully reminded himself that the Christmas dues would shortly commence to replenish the presbytery coffers. This left him with only one choice. The twenty-pound note would have to be returned.

He chided himself for his long-term tardiness and lack of Christian resolution. He sat in his car and drove to the abode of the Mickelows. Pius it was who greeted him at the door. The canon gracefully declined the invitation to enter.

The canon, like all the canons and curates before him, had long since given up the impossible task of telling the twins apart. However, as far as this particular mission was concerned, one twin was as good as the other.

Earlier that morning Patcheen had set out for a distant grove where he would cull a sufficiency of holly and ivy to decorate the crib and the kitchen.

‘Now my dear man,' Canon Mulgrave held the twenty-pound note aloft, ‘I must tell you that this note you see before you is rightfully yours. It was far too much and I am conscience-bound to return it.'

Mystified, Pius Mickelow gazed with open mouth at the money and when he had gazed his fill he gazed secondly at his visitor. When the canon thrust the twenty-pound note into the gnarled hand Pius decided to play along although his mystification had greatly increased and he was now convinced beyond reasonable doubt that the canon had succumbed to the dotage which few escape at the end of their days.

‘Not a word now sir!' the canon raised an admonishing finger, ‘not a word no matter what. This is strictly between you and I. The masses have been said so you can set your mind at rest. The money is yours to do with as you please. I'll be on my way now and I sincerely hope that you and your brother enjoy a happy and a holy Christmas.'

The canon would relish the forthcoming Christmas. His conscience had been salved. He had acted as a true Christian.

On the Sunday evening before Christmas the twins sat at either side of the hearth. They had sat for over an hour without exchanging a word. It was Pius who broke the silence.

‘What say we go to the pub,' he suggested matter-o- factly. Thinking that he had not heard aright, Patcheen inclined his head.

‘What's that you say?' he asked.

‘The pub,' Pius threw back.

‘And what will we use for money?' Patcheen asked sarcastically. Pius produced the twenty-pound note for the first time.

‘Is it real?' Patcheen asked as he took the note in his hand. Satisfied that it was the genuine article he asked where it came from.

‘I am not at liberty to say,' Pius answered solemnly, ‘but it wasn't found and it wasn't stolen. The man who gave it to me made me promise that I would never tell.'

‘Let's move,' Patcheen rose and donned his overcoat. Pius followed suit.

‘And you can't say where it came from?'

‘Can't say,' came the reply, ‘but this I will say, ‘it came from God through man and if it came from God you may be sure that Kitty had a hand in it.'

Let him who can boast of no failing take a bow for he is a unique fellow. He is elite among the elite but I would not have his impeccable status for all the lamb on Carrigtwohill.

Carpers will ask why I open on such a vein, what arrant nonsense am I proposing to inflict upon them as winter deepens and Christmas draws near.

I am actually about to recall an outing which took place a week before Christmas, at a time when my hair was black and you'd get a pint for two bob. The hero of the piece is no longer with us but if ever a man was cut out to play Santa Claus, he was that man. He could, in fact, fill any role.

It is many years now since this Mayo friend of mine and I set out for his native county where we proposed to spend a few days carousing and visiting the friends of his boyhood.

As we left Tubbercurry one evening shortly before Christmas on our way into Mayo he recalled the school where he had spent, according to himself, a wasted youth.

His teacher had been a grumpy fellow who regarded my friend and most of the other pupils as irredeemable illiterates and he would warn them day after day that they would never be fit for anything but the most menial of tasks.

‘O'Donnell,' he would say to my friend, ‘all I want is to see you able to spell for when you go to England your people won't know where you are because you won't be able to write and tell them.'

Actually O'Donnell was able to read and write before ever he went to the national school but he realised that if this fact became known he would find himself out on a limb. His illiterate companions might have no more to do with him. Better, he felt, be a fool among other fools than a star whose brilliance might be his undoing.

When we arrived in Claremorris we stopped at a well-known hostelry. Outside the door we noticed a large van full of jam. There were crates of one-pound and two-pound pots from floor to ceiling. There was raspberry, strawberry and plum. There was gooseberry, marmalade and mixed fruit.

‘It's a terror,' said my friend, ‘to see so much jam exposed to the naked eye and half the world starving.' He shook his head at the injustice of it.

In the bar we treated ourselves to two amber deorums of Irish whiskey and while were sipping from same a young girl entered and approached my friend.

She had somehow mistaken him for the driver of the jam van. In fact he could be mistaken for anybody. He had that kind of face. A woman once gave him a pound to say mass. He had been wearing a dark suit on the occasion.

‘Sir,' said the young girl, ‘my mother wants to know would you have any cracked pot? Strawberry or marmalade or mixed fruit or anything at all will do.'

‘Musha what do you want a cracked pot for?' my friend asked, ‘and the van loaded with sound pots.'

‘Can I have a pot so sir, a one-pound will do?'

‘And has your mother a conveyance?' my friend asked.

‘Oh she has sir,' said the girl. ‘She has an ass and cart.'

‘Tell her to load a few crates,' said my friend, ‘but not to overdo it. Ye don't want to make pigs of yeerselves entirely.'

‘Oh no sir,' said the girl and she ran from the bar, a transformed creature.

Shortly afterwards we left the pub and proceeded to our car which we had parked nearby.

There was no sign of the jam van.

We walked through the town and a delightful walk it was. I would recommend a walk through Claremorris for any and all persons down in the dumps. The friendliness of the people was matched by the cleanliness of the streets and the disposition of the town as a whole.

There were some who came forward and shook our hands, tendering to us the most profuse welcomes to Mayo and the town itself.

One old woman complained of dizzy spells when we enquired after her health. My friend took her pulse and asked if she was taking anything for her complaint. She recalled visits to several doctors and reeled off a long list of medicines. None had done her any good. She seemed to be growing worse rather than better. My friend shook his head as he listened.

‘Do you take a lot of spring water?' he asked after he had heard all he wanted to hear.

‘Only in tea,' she said, ‘and mostly from the tap.'

‘Drink plenty spring water,' he advised. ‘Spring water never did anybody any harm.'

The old woman nodded eagerly.

‘Eat plenty vegetables,' he went on, ‘especially cabbage and take a drop of the hot stuff morning and night.'

‘I declare to God and His blessed Mother,' said she, ‘but I feel better already. It was God sent you this way. I'll pray for you.'

‘Pray for us all,' said my friend and he strolled off in the direction of the mountains or more particularly in the direction of Ballyhaunis where he had a large number of relations from his mother's side. I was left holding the baby as it were.

‘Is he a doctor?' the old woman asked.

‘No,' I informed her, ‘he's not a doctor.'

‘A specialist then?' she asked hopefully.

‘Yes,' I replied, ‘he's a specialist.'

Of course he was a specialist, a specialist in cheering people up and a specialist in dispersing gloom.

Eventually we found ourselves driving out of town. A slight mist was drifting down.

In Mayo mists don't fall down. They drift down. We drove slowly. There was no need for words between myself and this natural dispenser of goodness.

‘Glory be to God!' he exclaimed when we beheld an ass and cart on the left hand side of the road. At each side of the body sat a female. One was shawled and old. The other was young and beautiful. Their faces were radiant with happiness and contentment.

In the cart were two cases of jam; one was filled with one pound pots and the other with two pound pots. He lowered the window of the car and saluted the pair. The girl waved at him ecstatically. Turning to me he said: ‘Were we to depart life now we would surely see heaven for the happiness we spread this day.'

A drunken Santa Claus is better than no Santa Claus. I heard the remark in the kitchen of a neighbour, a genuinely frustrated mother of seven whose spouse had not returned as promised from an alcoholic excursion downtown where, as he maintained afterwards, he had been waylaid as he was about to return home by some whiskey-sodden companions from his childhood. Sensing that he would not return in time Maggie Cluney, that was the unfortunate mother's name, looked speculatively in my direction but after a brief inspection shook her head ruefully.

In those days I was a lathy, bony youngster about seven stones adrift, especially in the midriff, from an acceptable Santa Claus. The only other person in the kitchen over the age of ten was Maggie's sister Julie Josie who had earlier intimated that she was drunk, which had given rise to the opening statement of our narrative.

After an hour's coaxing and two steaming hot whiskeys we convinced her that nobody would fit the bill as she would. Drowsily, giddily she rose and inarticulately informed us that she was returning to her maidenly abode so that she could sleep off the excess spirits to which she was unaccustomed. Before she managed to stagger through the doorway we ushered the children out into the backyard and burdened her with the Santa Claus outfit from false beard to long boots, from tasselled headgear to vermilion greatcoat and finally the bag of gifts, one for every member of the household.

No great notice would be taken of her in the streets. She lived around the corner and besides there would be many other Santa Clauses abroad in various stages of inebriation but most would be sober and composed, conscious of the sacred missions with which they had been entrusted. Our particular one, Julie Josie, made her way homewards without mishap and also made it upstairs to her single bed where she fell instantly asleep.

Soon the room was filled with gentle snores, even and rhythmical, sonorous and richly feminine, snores that somehow suggested that deep in her subconscious was the need of a male companion who might take the sting out of the frost of life and fulfil her in a manner beyond the capacity of seasonal whiskey. In her sober everyday world she would never admit to any need whatsoever and often when questioned jocosely about her single state she would belittle all members of the opposite sex with a vehemence that made some believe she protested too much. For all that she was a good sister and a good aunt and an even better sister-in-law for she would always present herself
in loco parentis
whenever her sister gave birth and was a great favourite with her nephews, nieces and brother-in-law for the duration of her sister's confinement.

The night wore on until the ninth hour and it was precisely at this time that Julie Josie rose from her unassailable bed. She betook herself to a downstairs room where she donned the Christmas paraphernalia. She slung the bag of gifts across her shoulder and made her way to her sister's house where she was warmly received by her brother-in-law who insisted that she fortify herself with a drop of whiskey before the distribution of the gifts. Then and only then were the children called from the two small, happily overcrowded bedrooms adjoining the kitchen.

The younger ones held back in awe whilst the older ones rushed forward to greet their beloved aunt, pretending as they did that she was really Santa Claus. Some people become imbued with the true spirit of Christmas when they don the red coat and Julie Josie was one of these. After the gifts were distributed they all sat around the fire, the children drinking lemonade and eating Christmas cake, the oldsters sipping whiskey and telling tales of bygone days when geese were really geese and Christmases were always white, when ghosts of loving ancestors whispered in the chimney and a tiny infant was turned away because there was no room at the inn.

Between the whiskey and the sentimental recall many a tear was shed. There were some in the neighbourhood who would say that Julie Josie shed enough tears at Christmas to float the
Titanic
. She was, truly, a sentimental soul, well meaning and generous to a fault. Several whiskeys after her arrival she announced that it was time to go home. She refused all offers of assistance and even more adamantly refused to hand over her Christmas gear. She knew her way home didn't she! Wasn't she going back there now for the thousandth time and anyway what could possibly befall anybody at Christmas when men's hearts were full of goodness even if their bellies were full of beer!

She was, alas, drunker than she thought for she by-passed the corner which led to her house and went downtown in the general direction of the parish church. Mindless of her error she hummed happily to herself staggering to left and right and executing one daring stagger of record proportions which took her first backwards and then forwards, then hither and then thither, until she had travelled the best part of a hundred yards. Had her ever-increasing momentum not been arrested by the parish priest, Canon Coodle, she might well have wound up in the suburbs or even on the bank of the river which circled the town.

Luckily for Julie Josie the canon was a man of considerable girth and without any great strain he steadied the drunken representation of Christmas which wound up in his arms. Although a moderate imbiber himself he always made allowance for those who took a drop in excess on special occasions. He might shake his great, leonine head reproachfully when confronted by extreme cases and he might deliver the occasional sermon condemning the evil of over-indulgence to the detriment of the drunkard's wife and family but he never got carried away. If he had a fault, poor fellow, it was that he suffered from absent-mindedness. This was perhaps why he failed to identify the party who had collided with him. He presumed, and who would blame him, that the creature was male so he did what he always did with unidentified drunks. He directed this one to a warm room over the garage as he had all the others over the years, placed the now incoherent Julie Josie sideways on the bed and left her to her own devices convinced that she was a man and would sleep off the drink in a matter of hours before returning to wife and children.

As he tip-toed down the stairs the reassuring snores convinced him that all would be well in the course of time.

Earlier that night another intoxicated soul was chosen at random to fill the role of Santa Claus although he had never done so before, having neither chick nor child.

His name was Tom Winter and indeed it would have to be said that he looked wintry even in the height of summer for the poor fellow had a perpetually blue nose and was almost always a-shiver.

It was widely held by authoritative sources that he was generally emerging from a skite or booze or bender, call it what you will. Those who knew him best would explain that he only drank at weekends but that he drank so much during those particular days he spent the following five days recovering.

He was the proprietor of a small hardware business specialising in such commodities as sweeping brushes, mousetraps and chamber pots and, of course, nails, screws, hinges and what-have-you. He carried a considerable amount of his stock on his person. His waistcoat pockets, for instance, would be filled with shoelaces and his coat pockets with scissors, penknives and screwdrivers while his trousers' pockets played host to less dangerous articles such as picture cord and pencil toppers. Whatever the customer needed, provided it wasn't a plough or a mowing machine, he would generally find it in a matter of moments on one of his shelves or in one of his pockets.

At six o'clock in the evening he closed his premises and partook of a large cheese sandwich and a double gin before proceeding happily to his favourite tavern where it was his wont to indulge until closing time throughout the weekend and on festive occasions such as Christmas, Easter and St Patrick's Day or, of course, any other special occasion which might provide him with a break from routine.

Tom Winter, for all his wintry features, was a warm-hearted chap, gregarious in his own fashion so long as he didn't have to converse with more than two persons at the same time. He always bought his round and he frequently stood drinks to those who were less well off than himself or seemed that way.

Often it would occur to him that he drank too much and that he was wasting his life. His conscience would prick him from time to time and suggest that he might more profitably pursue some health-giving pursuits but, alas, when a weak-willed man wrestles with his conscience all the weight is on his side and the conscience is the victim of an unfair contest. So it was on Christmas Eve that Tom Winter found himself in the heel of the evening sitting on a high stool with a whiskey-sodden companion at either side of him.

Then a tall, thin, coatless man with his long, grey hair trailing behind his poll and ears dashed into the premises and allowed his gaze to wander from face to face. The obviously demented creature shook his head in despair and then his eyes alighted upon Tom of the wintry dial. He raised an imperial finger which greatly alarmed Tom for he thought at first that the new arrival was either a ghost or a madman. After taking further stock Tom recognised the intruder as a refugee from the northern part of the town, a sober hard-working chap with a large family and an even larger missus who kept him on his toes and who no doubt had dispatched him on some impossible mission on the very eve of Christmas.

Tom's alarm grew even greater when he noticed that the hen-pecked unfortunate was beckoning him. It was as though he had been summoned by an ancient and pietistic patriarch of superhuman power for he found himself dismounting from his stool. For the first time in his life he began to feel how the twelve apostles felt when they were called from their various vocations to follow the man whose birthday was at hand. The grey-haired elder caught Tom Winter by the sleeve of his coat and led him out of doors. His companions were to say afterwards that Tom's normally wintry features had assumed a radiance that lighted up his head like an electric bulb. They would concede that it had been already moderately lighted by the intake of seven large gins and corresponding tonics but as he left the premises in the wake of the coatless messiah it seemed as though a halo was about to encircle his head and shoulders.

Outside in the night air the coatless one explained his predicament. His brother-in-law, at the best of times an unreliable sort, had promised to fill the role of Santa Claus and was now nowhere to be found. Would Tom, out of the goodness of his heart, do the needful and don the red coat so that the poor man's seven children would continue to keep faith with Christmas!

Tom was about to decline when the coatless wretch fell to his knees and set up such a pitiful wailing that only a man with a heart of stone could continue to hold out. A stream of semi-coherent supplications that would bring tears from a cement block assailed Tom's ears.

‘If,' the kneeling figure was wailing, ‘I don't come back home with some sort of Santa Claus she'll have my sacred life!'

Tom could only deduce that the grovelling wretch was referring to his outsize wife whose shrill voice could be heard above the wind and the rain during the long nights when fits of dissatisfaction soured her and she became discontented with her lot. She had been known to assault her terrified husband with rolling pins, cups, mugs and saucers and once with an iron kettle which necessitated the insertion of twenty-three stitches.

‘Get up and behave like a man.' Tom Winter now adopted a wintry tone which had the effect of putting an end to the wailing. It was obvious that the poor creature was without backbone and if the right tone was adopted would obey any command. He struggled to his feet clutching wildly at Tom lest that worthy attempt to flee. Hope replaced the look of despair in his eyes as he babbled out his gratitude like a puling infant who has been lifted from the cradle.

On their weary way to the anguished fellow's abode Tom had the foresight to enquire if there was any gin on the premises.

‘Gin!' came the echo.

‘Yes!' Tom raised his voice and made several gin-swallowing motions.

‘There may not be gin there now,' came the immediate and generous response, ‘but there will be gin,' and so saying the greatly addled victim of wifely abuse dashed back into the pub and returned at once with a bottle of gin. Not only did he bring gin but under his other oxter was a bag containing several bottles of tonic water. Since he could not shake his hand for fear of damage to the bottles Tom Winter slapped him on the back in appreciation of his thoughtfulness.

When they arrived at the abode in question it was decided that they should use the back entrance so that the game might not be given away to the children. There, sure enough, hanging from a cobwebbed rafter was the Santa Claus coat, the Santa Claus hat and the Santa Claus beard. There were no long boots and for this Tom was grateful.

His companion acted as dresser and in jig time Tom was indistinguishable, boots apart, from any other of the numerous Santa Clauses who roamed the country that night. It was agreed that the man of the house should first enter and announce that he had seen Santa Claus in the vicinity and that they should prepare some gin and tonic for his arrival.

A liberal glass of gin was poured and some tonic water added. The lady of the house whose name was Gladiola announced that she had developed a pain in the back as a result of the stress she had endured because of the absence of Santa Claus. She was presented with an equally liberal dollop of gin.

‘Hush!' Gladiola raised a silencing hand and then entering fully into the spirit of the business called, ‘methinks I hear a step!'

Suddenly everybody from the youngest to the oldest was silent and indeed there was, sure enough, the sound of footsteps in the backyard. Then the back door of the kitchen opened and there entered with his tail in the air the family tomcat who had just returned from an amorous expedition to another part of town. He was followed by Santa Claus. The younger children hid behind their mother while the others crowded round their most welcome visitor and shook his hand and sang and danced and jumped atop the table while their father saw to it that their visitor was presented with his glass of gin into which, without delay, he made substantial inroads.