An Irish Christmas Feast (21 page)

Canon Cornelius Coodle stood with his palms on the parapet of Ballybradawn bridge and surveyed the swirling, foaming flood waters below. The canon could never cross any bridge at home or abroad without pausing to inspect the waters that passed beneath. He had once been a salmon angler and was locally regarded as something of an authority on lures, particularly artificial flies and minnows which he frequently made himself. He was of the belief that every major river needed its own particular bait.

Generally speaking, suitable baits were to be found in shops which catered for the needs of anglers but because of the contours of local river beds and because of the related agitation of the changing waters the canon believed that one had to be specific. There were other factors too such as the light and shade peculiar to certain stretches of water influenced by the arboreal canopies at particular times of year. All of these and many other features, too numerous to mention, had to be taken into account when a man sat down to prepare his angling gear for the beginning of the angling season which was no more than ten days away.

Canon Coodle had not fished for several years. Now in his early eighties he lacked the sprightliness which once saw him vault the most formidable of stiles in his stride and leap unerringly from rock to crag to grassy inch where a false step might easily mean permanent immersion or at the very least a broken limb.

As he looked down the river's course he recalled doughty salmon which he had landed in his heyday. A happy smile crossed his face but was at once replaced by a frown for which he could find no apparent justification. This was the worrying part. His memory had started to fail him as well as his physical agility and he wondered what it might be that had occasioned the frown. In vain he tried to bring it to mind. He knew for certain that there was a problem and undoubtedly it was an unpleasant task and it would hang over him until it presented itself at the most unlikely and unfavourable time such as when he might be sitting in his study after dinner smoking his pipe or savouring a sip from the glass of port in which he sometimes indulged after a satisfactory meal. Then the forgotten obligation or predicament would intrude not because he would remember it of his own accord but because it would be thrust upon him by a reminder from his housekeeper or curates or by a visit from the person or persons involved.

Always when making a promise that he would perform a particular function he would start right away in the direction of his study to make a note of the business but by the time he reached pencil and paper he would have forgotten. He was a prudent enough man about the maintenance of his health so that when he found the chill of the river winds penetrating his overcoat he began his return journey to the presbytery.

Every evening before dinner he would walk briskly as far as the bridge and back again. He never dawdled on such excursions. The pangs of hunger and the prospect of an excellent dinner saw to that. It was the only business, apart from celebration of his masses, of which his housekeeper did not need to remind him. It was said of him that he had a good stroke which simply meant in the everyday idiom of the place that he was possessed of a healthy appetite.

Upon his return he knelt for a while in prayer. Then came the persistent tinkling of the housekeeper's bell. After a decent interval he joined his curates in the dining-room. Throughout the excellent meal the talk centred on Christmas duties. It was during dessert that the younger of the curates reminded the canon that he was expected at the local convent at two o'clock on Christmas Day where, as had been the custom for the eighteen years of his canonship, he would be expected to join the sisters for the Christmas dinner.

The curate had been waylaid by Mother Francesca, a towering figure of commensurate girth for whom both curates and their beloved pastor had a healthy respect if not regard.

‘Was she born a reverend mother,' a wisecracking bishop had once asked, ‘because,' he continued, ‘I just cannot imagine her as a novice.'

It would be true to say, however, that Francesca was not as bad as she was painted. All she ever wanted was her own way and as long as that was forthcoming life could be tolerable enough for those who came into contact with her on a regular basis. So that was it then, the canon, relieved after a fashion, pushed away his half-finished dessert and declined the offer of coffee from the senior curate. At the mention of Francesca's name and the awful prospect of the Christmas dinner which he could not avoid he had instantly decided that instead of the glass of port to which he would normally address himself he would finish off the bottle which contained, in his humble estimation, at least three glasses. He felt it was his inalienable right in view of what he would have to suffer shortly as a consequence of parochial custom.

After the port he would go straight to bed for, as he well knew, he would be in no condition to go anywhere else. His curates no longer allowed him to go on sick calls after dark unless it was a special occasion and then only if one of the curates was available to transport him.

The younger men had noted his reaction when reminded of his unwelcome seasonal responsibility. They had both dined with Mother Francesca and they had both been obliged to resort to Vesuvian belches in order to get rid of the trapped winds and obnoxious gases which had built up to dangerous levels after the meals which Francesca insisted on preparing herself, especially if those invited to dine were members of the clergy. She had been brought up to believe that the clergy needed and were entitled to richer, meatier and generally more substantial meals than lay people no matter how pious. The official convent cook, Sister Carmelita, never interfered when her superior became involved. She had been tempted often enough especially during the preparation for the Christmas dinner but like all the other inmates she opted for the peaceful way out and kept her mind to herself.

Christmas, which was not the norm for Christmas days in that part of the world, broke mild and balmy and belied the time of year that was in it. The presbytery housekeeper had taken off at first light on her bicycle for her sister's home in the nearby hills and, after the masses, the curates would head for the homes of their families in the north and south of the diocese.

The canon would look after the sick calls, if any, and one of the curates would return before darkness to relieve the canon who would be in no fit mental condition to go anywhere, anyway, after his ordeal at the convent and it was to this venerable institution that he wended his way shortly before two o'clock on the appointed day to partake of the Christmas fare so lovingly prepared by Mother Francesca.

During Francesca's brief absences from the kitchen Sister Carmelita would furtively and speedily modify the more distasteful aspects of the reverend mother's preparations. ‘Otherwise she might poison us all!' she told herself not without justification.

As Canon Coodle drew near the tree-lined entrance his steps faltered and he cast about him that sort of despairing look which was to be seen on the faces of condemned souls as they ascend the steps to the gallows. Although he tried to banish them, visions of the previous years' dinners began to take shape before his mind's eye. How could he ever forget the monumental heap which covered the huge dish so that not a solitary speck of the esteemed willow pattern was to be seen anywhere beneath. There was, to begin with, a mound of mashed turnips which would comfortably cope with the needs of a small hotel for the round of a day and there was a mighty heap of potato stuffing which would go a long way towards assuaging the hunger pangs of the average family with a grandparent or two thrown in for good measure.

There had been peas and beans, white meat and dark as well as the outsized thigh of the largest cock turkey that could be found in the countryside for miles around and all of this on the same plate, covered with fat-infused gravy. Worst of all, the victims were expected to consume every trace of food on their plates. The canon shuddered at the memory. Mother Francesca always took it as a personal affront if anybody failed to clear the plate. She eschewed containers for the different vegetables, stoutly maintaining that there was too much trouble involved and that, anyway, it was nothing more than grandiose nonsense.

All her charges from young postulants to elderly sisters who had all but forgotten where they originally came from had the foresight to cut down on food intake for days before and especially on Christmas morning with such a challenge looming in front of them. The canon had expressly foregone breakfast so that he would be capable of making inroads into Francesca's plate not to mention her specially enriched plum pudding which followed hot on the heels of the monstrous main course. The plum pudding in turn was followed by Christmas cake and several freshly opened tins of assorted biscuits which had to be liberally sampled and seen to be liberally sampled.

The saddest aspect of the entire orgy as far as Canon Cornelius Coodle was concerned was that not a single drop of intoxicating drink was on display although it would have to be said that this was not entirely the fault of the reverend mother. Rather was it the fault of the canon's predecessor Canon Montague and the reverend mother's predecessor Mother Amabilis.

The late Canon Montague, poor fellow, had the reputation of being the heaviest drinker in the diocese and would drink any other two clerics under the table, at any given sitting, without exerting himself. His friend Mother Amabilis was what locals would call an innocent sort, that is to say she was a trifle naive as far as the ways of the world were concerned. She would ply the late canon with his favourite poison, Hooter's Heart-throb whiskey, until, I turn to the locals again, it came out through his eyes.

Always, by the time the dinner ended he was incapable of negotiating the journey from convent to presbytery of his own accord. Before he expired at the astonishing age of eighty-nine from sheer senility and a perfectly functioning liver, he had consumed a veritable reservoir of Hooter's Heart-throb. On the Christmas of his eighty-sixth year he was so plied with his favourite tincture by Mother Amabilis that he was unable to perform his priestly duties for three whole days. Word inevitably reached the bishop of the diocese and, as a consequence, the mother-general paid a surprise visit to Mother Amabilis shortly after Christmas or to be exact on the afternoon of the feast of the Epiphany. She called her aside, as it were, and from that moment forth an embargo was placed on intoxicating drink within the confines of the convent. All existing stocks were transferred to the local hospital where they might be used in moderation for purely medicinal purposes.

Oddly enough Canon Coodle placed not a particle of blame on his otherwise illustrious predecessor or on the open-handed Mother Amabilis. There is none of us who does not suffer in some small way from the sins of our ancestors but the balance is nearly always redressed by the goodness they leave behind.

Canon Coodle, with apologies to none, fortified himself, to a limited degree, by imbibing two glasses of twelve-year-old whiskey prior to his departure for the convent and he now found himself flushed of face but sound in mind and limb, with no prospect of further drink, at the hall door of the convent. He was warmly received and it must be said that there wasn't a nun there, Mother Francesca apart, who would not have gladly lifted the cruel restriction given the authority to do so. There was no doubt but that Mother Francesca had the power to do so because the present incumbent of the bishopric would have yielded to any demand she might make rather than incur her ire.

Francesca, alas, had been born of drunken parents and since there are some who believe that it is better to be born in hell there was no way she would countenance the lifting of the ban on alcohol. Rather than possessing a genuine vocation for her calling the reverend mother was a refugee from the real world and like all refugees she was so thankful to be in a safe haven that she would rather die than invalidate an established procedure.

As the nuns tripped merrily into the spacious dining-room the canon trudged behind escorted by Mother Francesca. They sat according to rank and age along both sides of the table with the canon at the head and the reverend mother at the bottom.

All present then reverentially entwined their fingers and sat rigidly as they waited for the canon to start the proceedings with the Grace Before Meals. He had but barely concluded when the phone rang. All sat silently in the hope that it would go away but go it did not. Mother Francesca lifted her mighty frame slowly from her seat. What a rugby forward she would have made, the canon almost laughed aloud, if she had been born of the opposite sex, although as she bore down upon the offending phone she looked more like a battleship. A heated argument ensued. It was obvious that the person at the other end of the line was determined to have her way.

‘Can't it wait a half hour?' the Reverend Mother shouted. Her frown suggested that the answer was in the negative.

‘But he's just about to begin his Christmas dinner, poor man,' the Reverend Mother persisted vehemently. The anger on her face as she listened intimated that the caller did not really care what the canon was sitting down to.

‘All right, all right!' the Reverend Mother called at the top of her voice, ‘we'll let him decide for himself.'

Meanwhile Canon Cornelius Coodle, vicar general of the diocese and the eldest of its priests, had been an eager listener. Was the possibility of a reprieve on the cards?

‘You are required for a sick call,' Mother Francesca spoke as if the canon was to blame, ‘but I have suggested to this person,' she distastefully indicated the mouthpiece in her hand, ‘that you be allowed finish your dinner first.'

The canon rose to his feet, touching the sides of his mouth with the large white napkin provided by his hosts in an effort to conceal his absolute delight.

‘Find out where it is,' he asked gently, ‘we must never keep a poor soul waiting.' He laid the napkin on the table and blessed himself although he had neither sipped nor eaten.