A Gift to You (4 page)

And then, last year, everything changed utterly! The theme for that particular Christmas was Swarovski. All crystal baubles that cost a fortune, and blue velvet bows and blue lights, on an
artificial silver Christmas tree. It was a hideous look. So cold and stark, a far cry from the twinkling warm hues of Lillian’s and Matthew’s tree that scented the house with the smell
of fresh pine.

It was a far smaller group than they usually entertained on St Stephen’s night. An edgy, nervous energy percolated through the rooms as a miasma of uneasiness settled on Sunnymede. The
Hendersons didn’t come. They’d lost four million in a ‘sure fire’ investment Theo had convinced them to put their life savings into. The Wentworths lost two million in the
same venture. Others had lost high six-figure sums. There was talk of property crashes in Spain and Dubai, and stocks and shares on the floor, pensions decimated, and fortunes owed to the banks.
Seanie and ‘Fingers’ had come crashing down from their pedestals.

Theo, behind the façade of hail-fellow well-met bonhomie, was like a tautly strung violin, and Saundra’s Botoxed forehead hid a tension headache that lasted for the entire three
days they were in situ. Things turned nasty when Bert Lewis, the worse for drink, cursed Theo and said he’d lost everything because of his advice and what the hell was he going to do about
it? Drunk, bitter and angry, he said what everyone else was thinking and the party ended abruptly. The guests filtered out with indecent haste, murmuring awkward goodbyes.

‘We’ve become outcasts,’ Saundra wailed, as their ‘best friends’ drove away and life as they’d known it came crashing around their ears.

Sunnymede and the villa in the Algarve were put up for sale as Theo sought to secure his assets by buying property in New England in Saundra’s name. He’d sold most of his stock for
top dollar in a company just before it began its steady and inexorable slide to the bottom, a company he continued to urge his ‘friends’ to invest in even as it went belly-up. There was
talk of insider trading. It didn’t particularly bother him; business was business. There were always risks. But it did bother him that his reputation was ruined. No one in their circle would
ever take advice from him again and slowly, like the tide going out, their former chums withdrew from him and Saundra, and the façade of friendship dropped like icicles melting on the
eves.

It was a bad time for selling property. While there were many viewers there were no takers. The steamer trunks, sofas, mirrors and distressed picture frames were gone. The house was quite bare.
The price dropped . . . several times. And then, one wintry afternoon, the door opened and a young couple walked in, hand in hand.

‘Oooh, I like it!’ the girl exclaimed. She had long, wavy brown hair with glints of gold. She reminded me of Lillian.

‘Well, thanks to my wonderful grandma, we can just about afford it.’ The young man smiled. He was fair-haired with a smattering of freckles and lovely green eyes.

‘Mam said we could have her old sofa, the one with the big cushions, and the pine dresser. Oh, Pete, it’s perfect for us!’ The girl was excited and I felt myself relax. All was
going to be well. I just
knew
it.

Five weeks later, I’m sitting atop the tree, and the smell of cooking and the sound of laughter is drifting from the kitchen. Tara, my new owner, found me under the stairs, dusted me down
and said to her smiling husband, ‘Isn’t she
gorgeous!
’ I had a delightful sense of déjà vu.

Lillian would approve, I thought, as Pete made sure I was facing in the right direction, perfectly positioned. I was back where I belong.

‘You’re coming home for Christmas? Fantastic! We’ll have to get together. You’ll have to come over for a meal.’ Izzy Reynolds injected a note of
false gaiety into her voice as she spoke to Mari Clancy, an old schoolfriend who was ringing from Dubai. ‘Is Brett coming with you?’

‘Er . . . no, not this year. Things are a bit crazy at work and he can’t take time off Mari sounded glum.

‘Oh . . . poor Brett,’ Izzy sympathized, privately relieved that the wealthy consultant wouldn’t be around to patronize her and Bill with his boastful tales of life in the
Emirates.

‘So, look, how about the day after Stephen’s Day? You know the way the diary fills up, and Mam will have me doing the rounds like nobody’s business,’ Mari said
briskly.

‘I’ll be looking forward to it,’ Izzy lied, thinking that a visit from Mari was the last thing she needed. They talked for another while, swapping gossip and news and Izzy was
glad it was Mari who had called. It must be costing a fortune, but Mari was loaded and money wasn’t an issue for her. It never used to be an issue for her and Bill, either, she thought
dolefully, replacing the receiver.

Later, in the kitchen, she found herself humming ‘My heart is low’. To her way of thinking, ‘Only A Woman’s Heart’ was one of the greatest songs ever written for
and about women. The writer of that song knew
exactly
what Izzy was feeling at that moment. Low, disheartened, dispirited, depressed and extremely agitated.

She wiped her worktops vigorously. When Izzy was stressed she cleaned her worktops over and over again, lifting the bread bin and matching set of coffee, tea and sugar containers, annihilating
any unfortunate crumb lurking in the vicinity. Today the worktops were getting a rigorous going-over, as were the fridge-freezer doors and the top of the cooker.

It was funny, how she headed for the kitchen when she was under pressure. Her sister always attacked the bathroom in her moments of stress. Izzy’s best friend would invariably cut the
grass.

She sighed deeply. Her husband Bill had been out of a job for the last fourteen months and there was no sign of anything on the horizon. Christmas was just ten days away and her three children
were up to ninety with excitement at the thoughts of Santa’s impending arrival.

The Christmas shopping had to be done. She and Bill had just had a row about it. Now, to crown it all, she’d had the call from Mari, to say she would be back in town for Christmas. More
expense. Normally, she loved having visitors and it would have been a pleasure to see her old schoolfriend, but these days she didn’t want to see anyone. She just wanted to shrivel up inside
her shell and stay there.

In the last few months, all her hope that Bill would have no problems in finding another job had become harder and harder to sustain. As money got tighter, their savings dwindled and their
standard of living noticeably diminished. Izzy increasingly felt like burying her head in the sand like the proverbial ostrich.

She didn’t want Mari Clancy coming to her house when she had no oil for the central heating. Izzy didn’t want her to know that she’d sold her Fiesta and Bill’s Volvo was
in the garage because they hadn’t got the money to tax and insure it. Mari would have to put up with cheap wine and a simple meal. Izzy just didn’t have the money for steaks and
champagne. It was months since she’d been able to afford luxuries like that.

Izzy rubbed viciously at a particularly stubborn piece of grit that was embedded between the curved edge of her drainer and the muted beige worktop. To think she couldn’t even afford to
drive any more. Who would have ever thought it? Who would have ever thought that their family’s affluent, comfortable lifestyle would have been so severely shaken and disrupted that
gut-wrenching evening when Bill had come home from work, grey-faced and shaken to tell her that the multinational computer company that he worked for was closing its Irish operation in favour of
their American outfit, with a loss of five hundred jobs.

‘I’m finished, Izzy, I’ll never get another job at my age.’ Bill sat with his head buried in his hands while Izzy tried to take in what her husband had just told her.

‘Don’t be daft, Bill!’ she said firmly. ‘You’re only forty-three. That’s young, and people are always going to need human resources managers.
Experienced
human resources managers.’

‘Izzy, you don’t know what it’s like out there, I’m telling you, it’s cut-throat. They can get fellas half my age with better degrees that’ll work for half my
salary because they’re so desperate to get a job. The Celtic Tiger’s well and truly vanished.’ Bill had tears in his eyes and Izzy, horrified at the state her usually cheerful and
easygoing husband was in, flung her arms around him and hugged him tightly.

‘Stop worrying, Bill, we’ll manage fine. You’ll get a job, I know you will. You’re the best there is; you’ll be snapped up in no time,’ she comforted,
absolutely believing every word she spoke. Bill was bloody good at his job. He’d get another job . . . and soon.

Week after week, month after month, she’d said the same thing over and over, trying to keep her spirits up as much as his. Unemployment didn’t happen to people like her and Bill with
their pretty, four-bedroom semi-detached dormer bungalow in a tree-lined cul-de-sac in Clontarf. They had always been able to afford a fortnight abroad every year and trips to London where
Izzy’s sister lived. Music and swimming lessons for the kids had been the norm and Izzy had never envisaged that it would ever be otherwise.

When she’d thought about unemployment she’d had a mental image of people whose lifestyles were a million miles from her own. Izzy wasn’t a snob or anything like it; she was
lucky and she knew it. She’d never thought that unemployment could happen to her family. Bill was a trained professional, for God’s sake, with years of work experience. Being a human
resources manager for hundreds of employees was an important job. People like him didn’t end up on a dole queue. Or so she’d thought.

‘Get real, Izzy!’ her younger sister, Stella, remonstrated one day several months after Bill had been made redundant, when she had been moaning about their situation. Stella was a
community welfare officer and she knew a lot about unemployment. ‘Don’t kid yourself that it’s all people from so-called deprived areas that are on the dole, it isn’t.
There’s a hell of a lot of people like Bill, in middle management, who are out there suffering behind their lace curtains and going to the St Vincent de Paul for help with their mortgage
repayments. People who enjoyed a lifestyle just like yours.’

‘St Vincent de Paul, but that’s for poor people!’ Izzy exclaimed in horror.

‘These people are heading for poor,’ Stella said gently. ‘They’re living in lovely houses, with no heating and no phones and not enough money to pay the mortgage, and in
danger of their homes being repossessed. They need help too.’ Seeing her sister’s stricken face she said gently. ‘Look, I’m not suggesting you’re ever going to need to
go to the St Vincent de Paul, but what I’m saying is, start economising. Use some of Bill’s redundancy money to whack a bit off your mortgage. Get rid of one of the cars. I’m not
saying that Bill won’t ever get a job again, hopefully he will, but just don’t think that he’s going to waltz into a new position just like that. It doesn’t happen like that
any more, unfortunately. There’s a recession out there and it’s not going away anytime soon.’

Izzy came away from her chat with her sister more scared than she had ever been in her life. For the first time since Bill had been made redundant she had lifted her head out of the sand and
taken a long, hard look at their situation. Stella’s words might have been harsh but they had stiffened Izzy’s resolve. It was time to sit down and take stock and face the hard facts.
Bill was unemployed and likely to stay that way. The future had to be faced.

That night, when the children were in bed, she sat down with her husband and calmly announced that it was time for them to discuss their financial situation so that they could make long-term
plans. Bill slumped down at the kitchen table twiddling a biro. She could see his fingers shaking. ‘I don’t know how we’re going to manage,’ he muttered.

I’d like to kill the bastards that did this to him,
Izzy thought viciously, as she saw her husband’s hopes and dreams fade to ashes. He flicked on his calculator and they
began to work on the figures he had in front of him. They talked of her going back to work,
if
she could get a job; but then they would have to pay for childcare for the three children,
which was so expensive it would take up most of her salary.

Bill said they had to reduce their mortgage by two thirds – that was vital – and at least they’d have the comfort of knowing that their home was safe enough. They’d use
his lump sum for that. They’d sell her Fiesta and with the money they’d make from that they’d continue the insurance policies, the most important of which was the policy they had
taken out for their children’s education. They’d pay the VHI for another year. If Bill didn’t get a job after that there’d be no more private health insurance.

They went to bed subdued.

Izzy began to take her calculator to the supermarket. Before, she had never considered the cost of food that much. Whatever she felt like had gone willy-nilly into the trolley, as had make-up,
books, magazines, and a couple of bottles of wine. But those days were gone. Every cent counted now. It was coming up to the second Christmas of Bill’s unemployment and her money was cut to
the bone. Any saving, no matter how small, was welcome. Thank God for big impersonal supermarkets, she thought one day as she stood at the cash desk with her trolley full of Yellow Pack and Thrift.
It would be a tad mortifying if the neighbours saw her, or the girl at the check out knew her. That was always a little worry. Silly, she knew, but she couldn’t help it.

It wasn’t that Izzy normally gave a hoot what people thought of her, it was just these days she seemed to be a bit more vulnerable. Only the other day, her seven-year-old son, Keith, had
come in, his little face scarlet with emotion. ‘Mammy! Jason Pierce says that Daddy’s got no job an’ that we’re going to be poor an’ that you can’t afford to
bring us to Disneyland in Paris. He’s a big liar, isn’t he? I told him to put his dukes up an’ I gave him a puck in the snot an’ he went home bawling,’ her son added
with immense satisfaction.