An Irish Christmas Feast (10 page)

From such unfailing corroborations are lasting marriages nurtured, are peace and probity maintained within the family and are Christmases revered and relished in the simple homesteads of Booleenablawha.

The wren, the wren, the king of all birds

On St Stephen's Day he was caught in the furze

Although he was little his family was great

Rise up landlady and give us a treat.

For those who found Christmas Day a trifle stifling St Stephen's Day or Boxing Day came as a boon to the residents of the town. There were some who simply called it Wrenboys' Day for the very good reason that from morning onwards until the public houses closed that night the wre-boys of the rustic hinterland converged on the streets and square. They came singly, in pairs, in small groups and great bands, bringing with them their songs and dances immemorial to gladden the heart and disperse the post-Christmas queasiness. They came in traditional costume of calico with tinsel-bedecked, peaked caps and a wide range of musical instruments, most notable of which was the goat-skin
bodhrán
.

They played, sang and danced their merry way by highway and byway until their cashiers and captains decided that sufficient monies had been gathered to cover the cost of the annual wren-dance which would be held in early January.

Those wrenboys and, indeed, wrengirls who chose to travel singly and in pairs retained the spoils for their own uses and benefits. Some used them to discharge outstanding debts while more availed of the windfalls to buy boots or shoes for themselves and their offspring. The remainder which represented the majority drank their fill without let-up until the proceeds had vanished. None, not even the virtuous, pointed the finger of denunciation at the profligates who might have spent their earnings more profitably for, in that place and in that time, life was often tedious and diversions few.

Our tale concerns two elderly wrenboys who were martyrs to the annual squandermania aforementioned. The years, as is the wont of years, had taken their toll on the pair and although the vigour had departed their steps they resolutely refused to submit themselves to infirmity. Both have now passed on to that happy clime where the gentle drumming of goat-skin
bodhrán
s forever assails the ear and wren-dances are celebrated on a non-stop basis. This would be their concept of heaven and why not! Hath not the Lord said ‘In my father's house there are many mansions'. Then it must be remembered that life itself isn't exactly a wren-dance so that men may dream of the everlasting one.

Anyway, there they were, our intrepid friends away, away back in 1939 as drunk as two brewery rats on the very evening of Christmas Day. All around them the other illicit public house patrons spoke in rich whispers about the vagaries of life and the ultimate futility of excessive thrift, about wren-dances past and wren-dances to come and, in between, about brotherly love. They toasted friendship and loyalty and they clinked their glasses gently, vowing that they would surely meet again in the same venue at the same time on every succeeding year until they were called to another place. All they craved was that it be half as good as the present one.

Outside on the streets the forces of law and order paused in their perambulations outside the frontages of suspect public houses and listened intently or pretended to listen intently and then, satisfying themselves that no intoxicating drink was being served within, proceeded on their majestic way without the batting of an eyelid or the breaking of a step.

In those days there was in every town and village a public house or even two which would always remain open on Christmas Day. The publicans in question, otherwise above reproach, would proffer the excuse that they could not bear to see so many downcast souls suffering from untreated hangovers wandering the streets and laneways without hope of recovery. Out of the goodness of their hearts and nothing more these soft-centred public house proprietors would discreetly admit the needy and the suffering provided they were versed in the secret knock and had the price of the drink.

Our two elderly friends sat quietly in the darkest corner of the bar drinking their half-pints of stout and occasional nips of whiskey. In low tones they plotted the following day's itinerary. If their wren-day peregrinations were to be successful it was imperative that the route they would eventually settle on should be kept secret; hence their isolation and their inaudible murmurings. To be first on the scene was imperative if they were to extract the maximum dues which might quite easily amount to a shilling or even more whereas late arrivals might expect only pence and half-pence and sometimes nothing at all in houses where numerous bands of wrenboys would have already called. All the loose change, so carefully saved for the occasion, would have been expended. Timing, therefore, was of the utmost importance, timing and pacing, the latter meaning that only a limited amount of strong drink should be consumed so that drunkenness be kept at bay at least until the wrenboy itinerary had been completed. Then they would be free to relax in any pub of their choosing for as long as they wished.

For the final time they went over the carefully laid plans. They proposed to start in the morning, a full hour before first light, to daub their faces, one with black boot polish and the other, for contrast, with brown, then to don their calico suits and caps and finally to shoulder the embroidered green sashes which placed them a cut above the orthodox and the pedestrian. Each would carry an extra pair of shoes or boots strung around the waist to ensure dry and comfortable travel over the twenty miles of town and countryside which they had made their own over two generations. There would be no intoxicating drink until the first half of the journey had been completed but they would breakfast well. They would wrap their instruments in strips of discarded table coverings made from moisture-resisting oil-cloth. The
bodhrán
and the concertina need not be utilised, in the event of rain storms, until they found themselves indoors or sheltered by the tall houses of the town. If the weather remained fine they would lighten their journey with lively march tunes. The
bodhrán
and concertina, always an agreeable and harmonious combination, carried afar to the more isolated homes of the countryside so that the inhabitants thereof would have no trouble identifying the approaching wrenboys and have the appropriate contribution ready. Their plans finalised they sat back on their seats and, being somewhat incapacitated by the mixture of exhaustion, age and liquor, dozed fitfully until a kind neighbour alerted them before closing time and volunteered a lift home in his horse and rail. Both had earlier agreed to spend the night at the abode of the bachelor member of the duo to facilitate early travel. It would not have been the first time that the pair had spent the night together. On special occasions when the intake of drink far exceeded moderation the married member wisely decided to avoid a confrontation with his querulous spouse. Also there was the fact that the same spouse always exercised a poorly concealed antipathy towards her husband's best friend on the rare occasions when he chose to call to the house on some business or other. Hence her husband's willingness to accept his friend's offer to spend the night. The long hours passed blissfully and from time to time the friends would arise from their comfortable feather beds and sup from the fine stock of beer, wine and spirits which the carefree bachelor had the foresight to install under his own bed and the bed of his friend.

When one would awake at whatever the hour he made sure not to neglect his companion. There would be a tap on the shoulder and a bottle pressed to the lips of the party abed. Before returning to a trouble-free sleep they would sing and reminisce for short periods and then signify with deep, satisfying snores that nature was taking its course.

Then after a particularly long period of sleep both woke at the same time.

‘Is that a thrush I hear or is it a blackbird?' the bachelor asked.

‘It would seem to me like a blackbird,' came the drowsy response and with that both arose. Only then did they draw the curtains and peer into the darkness of the winter morning. Sure enough, birds everywhere were tuning up for the morning chorus as the darkness began to lighten. Opening the back door of the tiny abode the bachelor cast the waters of the night into a rivulet which flowed cheerily by. Afterwards he peered at the mantelpiece clock in the kitchen and was pleased to see that it still wanted twenty minutes for nine o'clock. He blew on his hands and lighted the bogdeal fire which had been specially set before his excursion to the town on Christmas Day. He applied a lighted match and at once there was a flame of many colours. Swinging the crane around he positioned the bottom of the black kettle above the leaping blaze. Both proceeded with the setting of the table and in this respect their needs were few. In those days side plates were often regarded as the emblems of upstarts and the large tea mugs were never designed to sit comfortably in a saucer. Egg stands were placed at either side of the table in readiness for the two brace of boiled duck eggs which had been lowered in a ladling spoon into the churning bowels of the kettle from the very moment that the first jets of steam came whistling from its spout. Ravenously and speedily they devoured the four boiled duck eggs and with them several mugs of strong tea as well as their fill of bread, butter and jam. It was, after all, Christmas and they were well entitled to jam in addition to the butter. Sated with this sustaining fare they drew on their calico suits and caps. Each placed the traditional sash around the shoulder of the other and applied the facial polish, brown and black. Then they sat for a while humming and didling to themselves as they sorted out their respective repertoires. Then came the first notes of the day and sweet they were, sweet as wild honey the bachelor
bodhrán
player was quick to admit. ‘I declare to God,' said he, ‘but that oul' doodle box grows sweeter by the year.' The rehearsal ended, they sloped out into the mild morning. From every bower and bush, bare and all that they were, came the songs and chirpings of a hundred birds. The pair would be cheered along their way by the contributions of thousands more, all eager and willing to extol the benevolent morning.

‘We are indeed blessed with the day,' said the bachelor.

‘God be praised,' said his friend.

‘It could be teeming rain!'

‘Or riddled with hail.'

‘Or that awful sleet. How would you like that?'

‘I wouldn't like it at all,' came the reply. With that the
bodhrán
player struck his drum in thanksgiving and for good measure the concertina launched into a series of rousing marches which would carry them as far as the town's outskirts. No happier pair ever trod the wintry road. No musicians ever revelled more in their vibrant renderings. No marchers ever tripped so lightly despite their ponderous years and no hearts ever beat so hopefully for by all the laws there were good times ahead and better times to follow.

‘We're the first thank God,' said one to the other when he saw that no other wrenboy or band of wrenboys had preceded them to the rich, early pickings of suburbia. They decided to serenade the occupants of the imposing edifices at either side of the roadway with tunes of a romantic nature. Having provided a pleasing if short succession of same they waited for the doors to open. They looked upward as they had done for so many years expecting the bedroom windows to be opened and the coins to come cascading down. They were truly perplexed when nothing happened.

‘Better knock 'em up and get 'em out of it.' The
bodhrán
player smote upon his goat-skin drum with clenched fist until the instrument trembled and boomed. The sound would carry through the empty streets and laneways from one end of the town to the other. As he advertised their presence his friend approached the first house and knocked lightly upon the door. It was an imposing residence with that kind of ornamental door which frowns upon loud knocking. After a short while a small, bespectacled boy answered. His mother, clad in dressing-gown and slippers, stood behind him, a confused look upon her kind face. The wrenboys knew her from other years. Always she was worth a shilling or a sixpence depending upon her mood.

‘I'm sorry,' she explained, ‘but we finished with all that yesterday.' Well used to rebuff, the pair moved on to the door of the next house only to be told the same story. Mystified they moved on to the next, now fearing the worst. The priest must have been at it again, turning the people of town and country against wrenboys! Baffled as to why the clergy should have undergone such an unexpected change of heart they decided nevertheless to proceed as planned. They were quickly brought down to earth when the crotchety old pensioner who responded to the irritating doorbell in the next house asked them if they knew the day they had.

Only then did it dawn on the luckless pair that they were a day late. To make doubly sure they asked the old man for a look at the newspaper which he held behind his back.

There it was, as plain as the ribs of the dangling concertina, 27 December 1939. So they were a day late. Little as it was in the calendar of the year it might as well have been six months. St Stephen's Day, the day of the wren, the day for which they had planned since the same day the year before, had slipped silently by while they drank and slept their fill in the curtained room of the tiny cottage.

‘It's a pity we didn't think of drawing the curtains,' said the
bodhrán
player as he smote his instrument with bent head.

‘If only we had taken a look at the clock now and then!' his friend moaned as he extracted a long, mournful note from his concertina. They stood silently side by side looking down at the roadway and tiring of looking down looked upward despairingly at the grey skies still devoid of rain.

‘What possessed us at all!' the
bodhrán
player asked.

‘What possessed us but drink!' came the instant answer. As they stood dejectedly not knowing which way to turn the housewives and children of the suburb where they found themselves stood in their doorways and gateways. None smiled at the plight of the elderly pair and there was no laughter, no titter and no guffaw to further confuse the latter-day wrenboys. Rather were their concerned faces tinged with sadness. They were reminded of the errors of age, of fathers and grandfathers once dearly loved but now, alas, gone forever from the scene, gone maybe but recalled for a while by the presence of the ancient pair who had arrived too late. After several uneasy moments the drooping, downcast musicians in their snow-white apparel and peaked caps decided to call it a day but then an odd thing happened. A postman with a bag of New Year cards slung around his neck came cycling past. The reason he had the bag slung around his neck instead of his shoulders was because he had a satchel, with a half dozen of stout inside, slung across his back. Upon beholding the strange pair on the roadway he dismounted.