Foreign Affairs (10 page)

‘Look.’ Her daddy pointed to another smaller box which she hadn’t even noticed. Paula couldn’t believe her luck. Another gift as well as her nurse’s outfit. Santa
must have thought she was a very special girl indeed. Her heart almost burst with happiness when she saw the pair of gold high-heeled Cinderella slippers which nestled in white tissue. High heels!
How grown-up. She couldn’t wait to get into them.

Paula was not allowed to wear her magnificent new shoes to Mass and so she threw a mighty tantrum. She knew she was quite safe in misbehaving as Santa had come, and there was no danger that she
would be the recipient of a sack of ashes.

She wanted so badly to show off her new Cinderella shoes. She wanted everyone at Mass to look at her and admire her golden curls and glorious high-heeled slippers. Emily Leahy would be
so
jealous of her.

‘They’re not for wearing outside. They’re not real shoes, pet. You couldn’t walk to Mass in them. You can wear them when you get home,’ her mother explained
patiently as she pulled the velvet dress that Auntie Helen had bought her over Paula’s head.

‘But I
want
to wear them.’ Paula was outraged that her mother would not give in to her wishes.

‘Paula, don’t be a bold girl now on baby Jesus’s birthday, after Santa was so good to you.’ Maura began brushing her daughter’s hair.

Paula pulled her head away and said petulantly, ‘Don’t want you to brush my hair. Want Auntie Helen to do it. She’s my
kind
auntie.’

Maura gave a sigh of exasperation. ‘Suit yourself.’ She handed her daughter the brush. Paula was one of the most stubborn little characters she knew. She’d have a face on her
for hours because she wasn’t allowed to wear her Cinderella slippers to Mass. Well let her, Miss Paula had to learn that she couldn’t always have her own way. The trouble with her was
she got her own way far too often.

Helen pulled her cashmere scarf tighter around her neck. It was a crisp cold morning and frost-wrapped leaves crunched underfoot as they all made their way to the Star of the
Sea Church for the first Mass of Christmas.

It was still pitch-dark and Helen took great pleasure in gazing at the sky. You’d never get a sky like this in the city, she mused. It looked as if someone had flung a scattering of
sparkling diamonds into a sea of black velvet. The stars were so bright and so near, it added to the sense of wonder and magic. All around, people were making their way to church, calling out
Christmas greetings to their neighbours. Everyone was dressed in their best finery and Helen smiled to herself as she saw Florence Crosbie wearing a frothy veiled creation in rich emerald green.
Florence was noted for her hats and always had something new for Easter and Christmas. Her hats were almost a village tradition. Children danced up and down, calling out to their friends what Santa
had brought them for Christmas.

She’d forgotten the closeness and community spirit of village life, especially around Christmas time. Living in an affluent suburb in Dublin, going to Mass on Christmas Morning in that big
cold Corpus Christi Church which was their parish church, couldn’t compare with this joyful morning in Star of the Sea. Maybe if she had children of her own it would have been different up in
Dublin.

Now, as she entered the sturdy wooden doors of the church, Helen felt almost like a child again. Some things never changed. The wooden posts along the nave were entwined with holly and ivy. The
altar was a picture in green and red-berried glory. To the right, behind the altar rails under the big statue of Our Lady, an enormous crib with large realistic figures of the Nativity was the
focus of wide-eyed wonder as children crowded two and three deep to look.

Passing under the gallery, Helen could hear Nancy Farrell, the organist, tuning up as the choir shuffled their music and cleared their throats. Helen knew they were in for a treat. The choir was
the pride of the county and they had been practising for weeks. She saw the Todd sisters and their niece Maureen heading up to the gallery at speed. They were the stalwarts of the choir and had the
sweetest voices. It was something she really looked forward to, coming back and hearing St Margaret’s Bay Choir sing the hymns of her childhood. How she wished Anthony was with her to share
it. He would enjoy the carols, they were the part of Christmas that he liked most. Helen felt a surge of resentment. If it wasn’t for that old bitch Stephanie and her carry-on, they would
have been together.

She had called him last night from the phone opposite Mooney’s bar, because Maura and Pete didn’t have a phone. Stephanie answered the phone, full of beans, and not at all like
someone as near to death’s door as she was supposed to have been.

‘Oh Helen, it’s yourself!’ Knowing that her daughter-in-law was more than a hundred miles away and in no danger of taking her darling son away from her this Christmas,
Stephanie could afford to inject a note of artificial warmth into her voice. ‘I’m feeling much better, you know. It’s such a tonic having Anthony with me. He’s a wonderful
son. It’s going to be a splendid Christmas. He’s taking me to Midnight Mass in the Pro-Cathedral. I haven’t been for
years
and I’m so looking forward to it. Then
the entire family are coming over tomorrow evening for mulled wine and mince pies. Such a shame you’re down there in . . . where is it . . . St Mary’s? You’ll miss it all.’
The honeyed falseness of her mother-in-law made Helen’s fingers curl in her palms. Oh what a two-faced bitch that woman was. There had been nothing wrong with her at all. It had all been a
great big act to have Anthony to herself for Christmas. And he, the fool, couldn’t see that. He had swallowed the act, hook, line and sinker, and because of it he was up in Dublin and she was
here feeling furious and resentful. Why couldn’t he stand up to his mother when it really mattered? Sometimes Helen wondered if her husband felt, deep down, that he had married beneath him.
God knows Stephanie had indoctrinated him enough. It was far from mulled wine Helen had been reared on, certainly, but she could carry herself anywhere and had always known how to behave. Her
parents might have been from a small country village, and not have been very well off, but they had taught all their children manners and how to treat other people with respect. Stephanie would
think that St Margaret’s was so parochial. Anyone outside the Pale was a peasant as far as she was concerned. For all her airs and graces and so-called breeding, the woman was
pig-ignorant.

Anthony sounded mightily pissed off when he came to the phone.

‘I miss you, darling,’ he sighed.

‘I miss you too,’ Helen said with forced cheeriness. ‘But I’m having a ball here with Maura and the kids. It’s all such fun.’

‘Oh . . .’ Anthony sounded a little surprised that she seemed to be enjoying herself. Well tough luck, if he was stuck with Stephanie, that was his choice. Not hers. Let him be
miserable on his own. She wasn’t going to play the role of martyr, she thought crossly.

‘Well enjoy yourself,’ her husband said.

‘Oh I will, Anthony, and you too. God bless, love,’ Helen said firmly. Let Anthony feel sorry for himself, she was going to enjoy her Christmas. But the phone call had upset her. The
spite of her mother-in-law in setting up the whole thing and her husband’s failure to see through her really annoyed Helen. It meant he was putting Helen second in his life. That depressed
her, especially when she saw the closeness of Maura and Pete in comparison.

‘Can I sit on your knee ’cos I can’t see anything?’ A much-loved voice interrupted her musings. Helen looked down to see Paula, looking adorable in a little red hat and
muffler, gazing up at her.

‘Certainly you can, my darling,’ she beamed, leaning down and lifting her niece in her arms. Of course, if it wasn’t for Stephanie she wouldn’t be spending Christmas with
her precious dote. She followed Maura, who led the way into a seat near the front of the church, and had to smile when the rest of the gang trooped in after her. Maura, Pete and their offspring
took up a whole pew.

The bell rang. The organ played forth and the glorious sound of sopranos, contraltos and baritones complementing each other in harmony as the choir raised the rafters with their first offering,
The First Noel
, brought a lump to Helen’s throat. This I am going to enjoy, she decided firmly. And to hell with the Larkins and their mulled wine and mince pies!

It was a scrumptious dinner, the stuffing – her favourite – tasted divine but now the washing-up was all done and the next exciting event was about to take place.
Paula felt a tingle of anticipation. There was an enormous pile of presents awaiting her under the Christmas tree. Presents from their nanas and grandads and aunts and uncles. There had been loads
of visitors after Mass and the house had been bursting at the seams. She was in her element having finally got to wear her high heels and nurse’s uniform. Everyone oohed and aahed at her and
told her she was cute and gorgeous. Her earlier bad humour evaporated and she swanned around feeling terrifically important.

But now Paula was glad all the hustle and bustle was over and it was finally time to settle down to the opening of the presents. Her mother was ensconced in the armchair beside the twinkling
Christmas tree. Her father put more coal on the blazing fire and the rest of them sat on the floor, waiting patiently for the ceremony to begin.

‘Come and sit on my knee.’ Auntie Helen held out her arms, but Paula shook her head. She wanted to be right beside her mother, to be first to get the presents. She didn’t see
the brief expression of hurt that flashed across her aunt’s face. All she was concerned about was her presents.

Maura reached down and pulled out an intriguing-looking parcel wrapped in bright paper. ‘To Paula from Nana and Grandad Matthews.’

Paula beamed around at her brothers and sisters. She’d got the first present, she felt like the cat that had got the cream.

This was the part of Christmas Day that she liked best, Maura decided as she settled in her armchair and prepared to snooze. The fire was blazing up the chimney, bathing the
room in a yellow-orange glow. In the corner, the magnificent tree, with its twinkling fairy lights, shone with a soft magical incandescence that was beautiful to behold. It was just getting dark.
Soon she would have to pull the curtains and switch on the lamps, but this was her favourite time, when peace descended on the household after the hectic gaiety that had gone before. Pete was
already asleep in his chair, and she could see Helen struggling to keep her eyes open as she read the Agatha Christie novel that had been part of the children’s present to her.

Maura smiled happily to herself. There wasn’t a peep out of her offspring as they sat in various poses, on the floor, or on the sofa, deeply engrossed in the annuals which had been the
presents from Mammy and Daddy under the tree. Rebecca was swapping her
Bunty
for Louise’s
Judy
, and John, Joseph and Thomas were up to their ears in
The Beano
,
The Dandy
and
Boy’s Own
, jaws chomping on their toffees. Paula, her nurse’s hat awry, her beloved slippers half off her feet, had her arms curled around her teddy and
was fast asleep. The face of her that morning when she trailed down the stairs in her bare feet with her presents under her arm and walked into the sitting-room and saw the tree and all the
decorations. It had been such a precious moment for herself and Pete to see the awe and delight on their children’s faces. It had been worth all the hard work and lack of sleep.

They grew up so quickly. Louise had confided that she didn’t believe in Santa and Maura felt like crying. She wished she could freeze this moment for ever, that things would never change,
that her children would always stay as they were. But that was wishful thinking. It seemed like only yesterday that Paula was a baby. One day she’d want to go shopping for real high heels.
Today would be just a memory. A very treasured memory.

Chapter Eight

A long appreciative wolf-whistle brought a smile to Paula Matthews’s lips as she made her way past the building site where the new Credit Union premises was being built.
It was early, only seven-fifteen, but the builders were there already, shinnying up and down their scaffolding with lithe agility. Paula loved walking past the site. She enjoyed covertly eyeing up
the bronze bare-chested men with their rippling muscles. They were ever so sexy. Now that she was fifteen, a teenager at last, she was almost grown-up. She had a boyfriend, Conor Harrison, Doctor
Harrison’s son. He was quite a catch and three years older than her. Conor had just finished his Leaving Cert and, if he got enough honours, was going to UCD in September to study medicine.
Much as she liked Conor, Paula was enough of a realist to know that once her boyfriend went up to the big smoke, he wouldn’t be thinking of the girl he’d left behind. Not unless she
gave him something to think about . . . She smiled to herself as she walked past the whistling workmen. There was one whom she particularly liked. He was in his early twenties, fair-haired, about
six foot, with a body that would tempt any virgin. He was a good bit older than her, of course, but then she was attracted to older men. They were so much more sophisticated, not like the spotty
gawky youths of her own age. God, she wouldn’t give them a second glance. Jim Carr and Cormac Walsh were always mooning after her, pretending to be two real hard chaws, smoking and boasting
and swaggering around in two awful moth-eaten leather jackets.

Did they actually think that she was the slightest bit interested? Pathetic geeks like them with their spotty acne and greasy hair. At least Conor had a bit of class and sophistication. His
father, of course, being a doctor, was loaded and Conor always had plenty of money to treat her like a lady. He had bought her heated rollers and a curling tongs last Christmas and her friends, not
to mention her sisters, were pea-green with envy. Rebecca’s fella had given her one of those soap and talc sets and she’d been furious. And would you blame her? If any fella ever gave
her
one of those cheapie sets he’d have his walking papers before he knew it. Anyway, Rebecca was only going out with Niall Cronin because she was desperate to have a bloke. Niall
Cronin was a lazy good-for-nothing who didn’t even wash himself half the time. The smell off him sometimes. Paula wrinkled her pert nose as she walked past Mooney’s bar. If she’d
been Rebecca, she’d have given him back his soap and talc set and told him to use it on himself. How her sister could let that smelly oaf near her, Paula could not fathom.