Coming Home for Christmas (17 page)

There was an energy around the village that was different to other days, and even though she knew it was fanciful, it was as if there were magic in the air. She saw a neighbour further along the
road with her little boy going into the church grounds and she watched him skipping along like the twins and wondered what was it about children that they couldn’t walk anywhere, they had to
run or jump or skip.

Houses still had a sleepy look about them, blinds drawn, gates closed, cars resting in driveways. In half an hour, the village would come to life as Mass-goers in their Christmas finery made
their way along the main street to the old stone church opposite White Horse Lane. The clip-clop of high heels against pavement, the giddy gaiety of excited children, neighbours calling out
Christmas greetings to each other. Clusters of friends and relatives standing on the steps of the church or in the porch making plans to visit and meet up. It was always a morning unlike any other
in the village, a special blessed morning.

Later, new bikes would be tried out, first-timers wobbling unsteadily with fathers offering encouragement and a steady hand under the saddle. Rollerskaters, likewise, the nervous beginners
tottering and trembling along, the more experienced speeding with nonchalant ease. Then, as late afternoon and dusk encroached, silence would descend as people went home to sit at tables laden with
Christmas fare, and the lights of the trees would sparkle and shine in windows, their light spilling out into the cold, dark evening. For most, it would be a good day, for many a happy one, but for
the lonely, bereaved and homeless it would be hellish, a day that couldn’t go by quickly enough.

Thank God she wasn’t any of those poor unfortunates, she thought with sudden gratitude, following the girls around the side of the church to the small community hall where they would
change. Frozen leaves crunched underfoot, a robin hopped out of the holly bush, a black cat strolled past tail high. For luck, Olivia thought, an omen for the New Year. In the distance she could
hear her daughters tell their friends what Santa had brought and she was so glad they were still of an age to believe in his magic.

She went and sat in the church to wait instead of going back home. Sun streamed in through the narrow stained-glass windows and in the nooks where statues of the Sacred Heart and Our Lady and St
Anthony rested. Candles lit at the first Mass burned and flickered, casting comforting shadows.

The crib, a work of art from the Ladies Club, was outstanding as always, even down to the fresh straw used for the manger. It was rumoured that Martha Walls and Louisa Kelly had had words and a
falling-out over the placement of the Angel of the Lord atop the crib, one wanting it dead centre, the other at an angle. It wasn’t about the actual position of the angel per se; it was more
a case of uppity newcomer coming up against intransigent old-timer, and not even the season of peace and goodwill to all would temper that particular battle.

A few other mothers like herself sat dotted around the church, relishing a peaceful few moments before the festivities and all they entailed took hold. One was even asleep, head nodding on to
her chest. An early start, too, thought Olivia in sympathy, longing for forty winks herself as the children arrived to practise.

‘Look at the two angels on the right,’ she whispered out of the side of her mouth to Alison an hour later, as the nativity play was in full swing. A silent battle was taking place
between two five-year-olds in white robes and bobbing halos who were jockeying for position in the hills of Bethlehem, aka the top step of the altar. Balthazar was standing on Caspar’s robe,
nearly causing the startled Wise Man to choke, giving Melchior a bit of a fright. St Joseph was yawning his head off, making his beard come askew. Kate, in her role as the innkeeper, was giving it
socks on the other side of the altar, shaking her head robustly and pointing in the direction of the manger at the foot of the steps.

The ten-year-old who was playing Our Lady clutched her tummy dramatically, gave a groan and was hastily instructed to get to the manger. Lia, the shepherd, pointed vigorously to the star that
hung from a rafter to distract the audience as Holy Mary whisked the infant from underneath the manger and placed him in it with a deft flick of a wrist.

‘Oh that it were that easy,’ muttered Olivia, and Alison giggled, enjoying the goings-on immensely. Ellie, proud as Punch, was a bell ringer, as was another little girl, who promptly
burst into tears when it was her star turn.

Olivia glanced over at her mother and father as they sat engrossed in the drama on the altar. Esther still had a touch of pallor from the flu, and Liam gave the odd chesty cough. Her parents
were getting old. She and Alison would cook the dinner in their house, she would insist upon it. Their mother had cooked enough Christmas dinners, today she could relax and have fun with the girls
and be treated like the Queen that she was.

There were squeals of delight when the Mass was over, and the girls, back in their own clothes, came into the pews to greet their grandparents. ‘Come on, Gran, come on, Grandad,
you’re coming back to our house for breakfast. It’s in the oven cooking.’ Kate kissed her grandmother soundly. They loved when their grandparents visited, and today was extra
special because there were new toys to show off.

They emerged blinking out into the sunlight to the sound of laughter and lively chat, and when the neighbours had been spoken to and wished the season’s greetings, they all strolled back
to Olivia and Michael’s house, where a feast of thick Vienna roll slathered in creamy butter and crispy sausages and rashers which had been cooking in the oven while Mass was on, was
devoured, with mugs of hot, sweet tea to wash it down.

The bikes were taken out and shown off, as were the contents of the stockings and the rest of the toys, and the energy of delight and innocent pleasure was palpable. ‘It’s a
wonderful time for children,’ Esther said wistfully. ‘We had so many happy Christmases with you two.’

‘Well, they’re still happy, just different, Mam,’ Alison pointed out.

‘True, and this one is all the more special because you’re home.’

‘Indeed it is. I don’t know what you want to be going back to that place for. Sure, couldn’t you get a job over here?’ Leo interjected.

‘It might not be so easy to get a job in this economic climate, she might be better off where she is for the time being,’ Liam remarked as he drew a picture of a Christmas tree for
Ellie. Olivia caught Alison’s gaze and gave her the tiniest wink, and received one back in return.

Alison had just slid the tray of crisp, golden roast potatoes back in the oven when she heard her cell tinkle telling her she had a message. It must be Melora, she thought,
pulling it out of the small pocket in the side of her bag. She had sent Melora, and her friends in New York, a text to wish them a Happy Christmas. She opened it and her eyes widened:

How nice of him to send her a text on Christmas Day, she thought, grinning at his message. Naps, indeed – would he never let her live it down? She’d temporarily forgotten about
meeting him, there’d been so much going on but, now that he’d reminded her, she was looking forward to it. How easily her life in New York had drifted from her memory, the balm of
family erasing all the worry and tension she’d come home with. Even if there was only to be friendship between them, it was a friendship well worth having.

She texted swiftly back. She thought ‘peaceful’ was an appropriate word, as it was hardly a happy day for him if he had to visit his wife’s grave. What a horrible, horrible
thing for him to have to do, she thought sombrely, putting her phone back in her bag.

‘You look a bit down – anything wrong?’ asked Olivia, as she expertly carved moist white turkey breast into slices.

‘Ah no, just got a text from the friend I was telling you about. The one from the West. It’s kinda sad really, here are we having fun and he’s been standing at a
graveside.’

‘That’s awful. You just couldn’t imagine it. How fortunate are we when you think about it?’ her sister remarked.

‘Very, very lucky,’ agreed Alison fervently, snaffling a piece of stuffing and savouring every mouthful.

‘You won’t eat your dinner if you keep picking,’ warned Olivia.

‘Yes, Mammy,’ teased Alison.

‘Oh God! I
have
turned into a real mammy, haven’t I? I hear myself saying things that Mam said to us, and I can’t believe I’m saying them. I feel middle age
galloping towards me. It’s the pits.’

The sound of a pot boiling over distracted them, and they turned to see green, steamy foam erupt down the sides of a saucepan in a lava flow that spread out over the cooker.

‘Those friggin’ mushy peas,’ Olivia cursed. And Alison laughed.

‘That’s not Mammy talking.’

‘Just wipe it up. You’re supposed to be watching them not scoffing stuffing – you’re the commis chef, allegedly,’ ordered Olivia.

‘Yes, bossy boots,’ Alison retorted, helping herself to a taste of the ham, golden with baked honey and mustard and cloves. They could hear gales of laughter coming from the sitting
room and Uncle Leo booming as he called one of the girls a little scamp.

‘I’m starving, Mom, when are we having our dinner?’ Kate barrelled through the door.

‘Five minutes. Tell everyone to go and sit down and ask Daddy to pour the wine please.’

‘Din dins. Din dins. We all have to sit down. Dad do the wine,’ Kate roared theatrically.

‘That one is hyper, she’s going to be an actress.’ Olivia shook her head, amused at her darling’s antics as she and Alison began to plate up the food.

‘I’ve waited for three hundred and sixty-five days for this dinner,’ Kate declared as a plate of steaming food was placed in front of her a few minutes later.

‘Well, eat it up and enjoy it,’ Mrs Harney said happily, red-cheeked from the glass of sherry she’d been sipping earlier.

‘Because it will be another three hundred and sixty-five days before you get it again, ye little rascal,’ Leo chuckled.

‘Lia, will you say grace please?’ Esther smiled at the granddaughter who was sitting beside her. Silence descended on the table as the little girl joined her hands, followed swiftly
by her sisters. Everyone bowed their heads as she said earnestly:

As she finished, Kate picked up her fork and dived in like a kamikaze pilot, spearing a sliver of turkey. ‘My favourite,’ she enthused, much to the amusement of her grandmother.

It was a jolly meal, full of laughter and jokes, and there was great excitement when the pudding was placed on the table, steaming and wafting the most heavenly fruity aromas around.

‘That’s
my
pudding,’ Ellie declared proudly. ‘I made that one, didn’t I, Gran?’

‘You did, darling.’

‘And ours are at home, we made them too.’ Kate was not to be left out.

‘And who made my one?’ Leo asked.

‘We all did, Uncle Leo. ’Cos we just love you,’ Ellie said, matter-of-factly, and Olivia could have kissed her for the beam of pleasure her childish declaration brought to the
old man’s face.

‘And I love you too.’ He patted the back of Ellie’s hand.

‘You’re a lucky man, Leo Dunwoody. I can’t remember the last time I was told someone loved me,’ Mrs Harney said a little tipsily. She had imbibed a glass of wine as well
as the sherry and, being unaccustomed to alcohol, it had gone to her head somewhat.

‘Well, we love you,’ Kate said stoutly, ‘’cos Gran and Grandad wouldn’t ask you for Christmas dinner if they didn’t.’

‘Exactly,’ said Esther. ‘I couldn’t have put it better myself.’

‘Well, isn’t that just lovely. I’m very pleased to be here.’ Her cheeks grew even more rosy, and she gave a delicate little burp.

‘Have some pudding,’ offered Liam.

‘
Plum
pudding actually.’ Lia was nothing if not precise.

‘Plum pudding. I stand corrected,’ Liam said gravely, trying not to laugh.

As she watched the exchange with amusement, Alison wondered why she’d left it so long to come home to celebrate Christmas with her family. Perhaps her years of absence helped her
appreciate it all the more, she reflected as the children eagerly pulled the crackers after the pudding had been eaten and began reading the jokes.

‘Where should a dressmaker build her house?’ Kate read out.

‘Where?’ they responded.

‘On the outskirts. Ah hahhha,’ she guffawed.

‘Tee hee hee,’ tittered Mrs Harney as everyone groaned.

‘My turn, my turn,’ insisted Lia, planting a yellow crown on her grandfather’s head. ‘How do snails keep their shells shiny?’

‘How?’ came the long-suffering reply.

‘They use snail varnish.’ She creased up laughing.

‘Ho ho ho,’ chortled Leo. And Alison smiled, thinking he was as much a child at heart as the girls were. She watched Liam tenderly wiping brandy butter off Ellie’s mouth before
she pulled her cracker with him. ‘Mine! Mine! Cam you read mine, Grandad?’

‘Yes, let me see.’ Liam put on his glasses. ‘Aaa haa, they’ll never guess this one. Who is the most famous married woman in America?’

‘I know, I know,’ Ellie said confidently, knowing her grandfather would whisper it in her ear.

‘Mrs Sippy,’ whispered Liam.

‘Mrs Hippy,’ shouted Ellie triumphantly.

‘I don’t know her, I’m Mrs Harney, dear.’ Mrs Harney came to from the little daydream she’d been in.

‘Will we have coffee?’ Esther suggested, wanting to sober her neighbour up a little. It would be dreadful to send her home tipsy.