An Irish Christmas Feast (22 page)

‘You won't believe this,' the Reverend Mother turned her attention to the nuns who had been highly entertained by the exchanges, ‘but they want him to go to the very top of Ballybuggawn at his age without a bite inside in him.' All the nuns tut-tutted obediently and reproachfully.

‘I'll have to fetch my car.' The canon was already moving towards the door of the dining-room, his face alight with joy, a surging youthfulness in his step.

‘Wait, wait!' Mother Francesca called after him. ‘The sisters will drive you as far as your car and you can take your dinner with you.' Here she summoned the younger members of her community and in no time at all a pair of eager sisters appeared from the kitchen with a large wickerwork basket containing the delights already mentioned.

‘No need, no need.' The canon raised his hands aloft. It required his best efforts to control his happiness. He wanted to leap, to shout, to dance while Mother Francesca lifted the white cloth which covered the massive array of goodies which they had prepared for him. He feigned inexpressible gratitude and announced that he would do justice to the fare before the night was out. Then he was gone, followed by the two nuns who bore the basket between them. They would deposit it in the boot of his car on his instructions and he would proceed airily to Flanagan's of Ballybuggawn and, if it was on top of the highest hill in the parish itself, he wouldn't have minded were it twice as high or the road twice as dangerous. He was a free man and, more importantly, a clergyman on his way to succour some unfortunate soul who desperately needed forgiveness. Otherwise why would he or she seek the services of a priest on Christmas Day?

Canon Coodle regretted that he would not be able to keep his promise about doing justice to the contents of the basket but he promised himself that it would not be thrown away untouched. With this in mind he drew to a halt near an iron gate which led to a green field half-way up the hill of Ballybuggawn. A large flock of crows had just alighted thereon and who better to consume and relish an unwanted meal than the birds of the air. Entering the field, basket in hand, he looked all around to see if anybody was watching. He need not have worried. Man, woman and child in the area were sitting down to dinner or had finished dinner and were resting.

Then, hastily, he unceremoniously dumped the entire convent dinner and returned each plate to the basket before going back to his car. Nobody would ever know and when Mother Francesca would ask if he had enjoyed his Christmas dinner he could truthfully reply that it had gone down well and there wasn't a single one of the crows, already gorging themselves with delighted squawks, who would contradict him. He stood contentedly, hands clasped behind back, surveying the snow-covered summit of Ballybuggawn. He brought his hands to his midriff and entwined them prayerfully as he expressed his gratitude to the Lord of Creation for his happy lot. If, at the end of his days, he should be asked to nominate the happiest day of his life he would have no hesitation in selecting the day that was in it.

At Flanagan's of Ballybuggawn he was well received. Here in this humble cot he was respected above all other men in the parish for his humility and saintliness. Joe and Sarah Flanagan, a childless couple in their late seventies, were mystified when the canon asked to be shown into the presence of the sick party. As the elderly pair continued to exchange baffled looks the canon announced that he would administer the sacrament of Extreme Unction without further delay.

‘I'm afraid there's been a mistake canon,' Joe Flanagan forestalled him, ‘there's nobody sick here.'

Joe's wife Sarah curtsied and spoke next. ‘We haven't been sick a day thank God these fifty years canon,' she said proudly.

‘And is there another Flanagan in the neighbourhood?' the canon asked politely.

He was informed with equal politeness that he was looking at the only two Flanagans on Ballybuggawn Hill from top to bottom.

‘And is there anybody in need of a priest hereabouts?' the canon ventured. No. There was nobody sick in the vicinity thank God but might it not be some other Flanagan in some other part of the parish?

‘Oh dear, oh dear!' Canon Coodle looked out through the small window of the kitchen and saw that the first stars were beginning to appear prematurely as dusk embraced the snow-crested hill.

‘It's a long journey back to town canon,' Joe Flanagan reminded his parish priest.

‘And a cold one canon,' Sarah Flanagan was curtsying again.

‘Would you take a drop of something canon,' Joe Flanagan asked in a most respectful tone, ‘a tint of the hot stuff now for the journey?'

‘Or there's port,' Sarah put in, ‘Sandeman's Five Star or there's brandy if you'd care for it?'

‘Port,' the canon divested himself of his overcoat and took the chair which Joe had moved closer to the fire, ‘a port would be much appreciated.'

An hour later after the canon had swallowed a large glass of port and eaten two boiled eggs with several slices of homemade brown bread the trio knelt and recited the Rosary after which the canon thanked his hosts from the bottom of his heart and assured them that he had never eaten such flavoursome eggs or such nourishing bread in his entire life.

The trio had concluded earlier that the canon had been the victim of a mischievous joke and privately the canon could not find it in his heart to condemn the mischief-maker if such indeed it was. Reluctantly he took his leave and promised faithfully that he would visit for his supper again when the snow had departed from the hilltop and the slopes brightened by the lengthening days.

That night in the presbytery sitting-room the canon sat with his two curates and housekeeper. Between sips of port he recounted the events of the day but made no reference to the convent basket or the delighted crows. He waxed eloquently about the simple but incomparable fare given with such a heart and a will by the Flanagans.

‘There is nothing on the face of creation,' the housekeeper said solemnly, ‘as good as a free-range egg, freshly laid.' Her listeners lifted their glasses in agreement while she rearranged the knitting which lay upon her lap. ‘What crowns it all, of course, is fresh brown bread made with expert hands and Sarah Flanagan has years of breadmaking behind her.'

Again the listeners lifted their glasses, this time without drinking from them.

‘But,' the housekeeper was continuing as she resumed her knitting, ‘if there was home-made butter going with the brown bread you would have a feast fit for a parish priest.'

Here they all laughed, none more so than the canon. The housekeeper smiled to herself when the laughter had abated. She had made the call from her sister's phone and she had adopted a sharp Ulster accent in an effort to conceal her identity. There was no doubt in her mind that she had escaped detection. She had no qualms of conscience about the call. Her primary role in life was to protect her canon against all-comers whether bishops, mutinous curates, rampaging reverend mothers or whosoever threatened the canon's well-being. Other executives in the lay world had wives and secretaries to look out for them whereas Canon Coodle, on the threshold of infirmity, was easy prey for assorted parochial predators. She had watched him suffer over the years at the indelicate hands of Mother Francesca, a pampered virago who couldn't fry a sausage properly and who had burned more rashers in her time than any ten women in the parish put together. Of late the housekeeper had noticed a slight decline in the canon's health, especially during the days leading up to Christmas when she knew that the awful prospect of Francesca's cooking was about as much as he could bear. She had made up her mind irreversibly before she left for her sister's on Christmas Day. Nobody else seemed to notice the extreme distress of Canon Coodle. She resolved that something drastic should be done and that she was the one to do it. She knew Joe and Sarah Flanagan as well as she could know anybody. She knew of their genuine regard for Canon Coodle and she knew that the Flanagans would see to his welfare foodwise. She was proud of what she had done. She had won a reprieve for her lord and master and now that the precedent had been established she would ensure that he would never again have to endure the murderous concoctions of Francesca and thus guarantee a longer and less stressful life for her ageing parish priest.

Jenny Collins had a philosophy about Christmas. She shared it with her friends and neighbours as she did with everything else she had.

‘Christmas,' said Jenny, ‘is like an egg. If you don't take it before its date of expiry it will turn rotten.' The trouble with Jenny was that she took her own words too much to heart. For instance she would send out greeting cards from the middle of October onwards. This would be acceptable if the cards were destined for such far-off places as Tristan da Cunha or Faizabad but the opposite was nearly always the case. Mostly the cards were for neighbours or for friends who lived nearby. Occasionally there would be one addressed to Dublin or Cork, places to where delivery was assured after a day or two.

‘Jenny,' her father had said to her once after she served him his Christmas dinner at eleven in the morning, ‘you are in mortal danger of passing yourself out.'

It was widely believed in that part of the world at that time that those who passed themselves out rarely caught up with themselves again. Jenny's father, who was in his eighties, would explain to his friends that she brought the trait from her grandmother who set out all her life for twelve o'clock mass at ten minutes past eleven and this despite the fact that the church was less than a hundred yards from her home. When the old lady eventually expired after a visit from the family doctor the latter was seen to shake his head in amazement when he was asked to pronounce her dead within the hour. He had predicted that she would hold out for at least a fortnight but true to form she had quit the land of the living fourteen days before her time. Her granddaughter Jenny had never been late for school and neither had any one of Jenny's three children, two girls and a boy who won every school attendance prize that was going and who were to be seen on all mass days with their parents in the front pew of the parish church at least a half hour before the priest and his retinue appeared at the altar. Others who were never in time for anything would shake their heads in disbelief at the folly of it all but Canon Coodle, the parish priest, was heard to say to his housekeeper that Jenny and her brood were to be commended.

‘It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead,' the canon said solemnly, ‘so that they may be loosed from their sins.'

Jenny's husband Tom was of the strong silent variety. As far as he was concerned his wife's injunctions were law and, anyway, he was a most devout person. As well as that he seldom spoke and rarely contradicted. Jenny, therefore, was free to do as she pleased without previous consultations, not that she was ever likely to do anything untoward in the first place.

Older, wiser matrons along the street felt that Tom Collins should exercise a little more control over his wife's comings and goings on the grounds that it was not altogether correct to give a woman all the rein, especially a young woman. Be that as it may, as the man said, Jenny and Tom Collins were never at loggerheads and the children were healthy and happy.

Jenny's father who resided with them since his wife's death was well looked after although from time to time he would issue cautions to his daughter about the dangers of presumption and presupposition not to mention the awful consequences of passing herself out. He would issue these dire warnings on a daily basis as Christmas approached but he was too old and too infirm to realise that Jenny would have long beforehand anticipated Christmas. She would have scoured the shops near and far during the post-Christmas and New Year's sales seasons in the hope of finding inexpensive but suitable presents for not-so-near relations and not-so-close friends. Then when the sales fever had worn off she would relax for a brief period but once St Patrick's Day had slipped by she would begin to feel the pressures of Christmas once more.

A suitable Sunday would be set aside so that she might engage two turkeys, one for Christmas and one for the feast of the Epiphany or the Women's Christmas as it was called thereabouts.

Sometime between the last week of March and the first week of April the entire family would fare forth on foot into the countryside as soon as the midday meal was consumed and the ware washed and dried. This particular excursion would always fall on a Sunday and so it happened that on the fifth Sunday of the Lenten period the family set out to the same farmhouse with the same Christmas order for turkeys, all five firmly wrapped against the wind and the rain. Jenny had seen to her father's wants before her departure and when she informed him of her plans he protested, insisting that there was plenty of time with Christmas more than eight months away.

‘And how do I know,' his daughter informed him, ‘whether turkeys will be scarce or plentiful this coming Christmas and how do I know,' she went on, warming to her task, ‘whether or not some disease might strike the turkey population between now and then and who's to say but a plague of foxes will not descend on the countryside and devour half the birds or who is to say what may or may not happen so isn't it better be sure than sorry?'

‘Away with you,' he laughed, extending his face for a kiss, ‘you're every bit as bad as your grandmother.'

Secure in the knowledge that there would be turkeys for the distant festivities, Jenny Collins placed an order with her local butcher for spiced beef, standing close by to ensure that the order was properly entered in the appropriate ledger and that her name was spelled correctly.

Some would remark that it was just as well that she was not nearly so fastidious about other festivals. She would surely pass herself out altogether, they maintained, if she was. For instance she would not bother with shamrock for her husband's lapel or badges for her daughters' coats until the very morning before St Patrick's Day nor would she bother with sprigs of palm for Palm Sunday until that very morning whereas others would have it ready, cut and blessed for days before. The simple truth was that Jenny Collins looked upon all other festivals as mere diversions on the road to Christmas. Her father would agree.

‘Jenny,' said he, ‘sees the ending of one Christmas as the beginning of another. Personally speaking I do not wish to hear of Christmas until a week or so beforehand. It becomes diluted if it drags out too long. What's going to happen eventually is that they'll drag out Christmas so much that it will snap.'

Nobody took any notice of the old man and who could blame them! Had he not prophesied the end of the world three times and had not nothing happened! He was, it must be said, genuinely worried about his daughter.

‘A lot of people do what I do,' she explained. ‘It saves money and it saves time.'

He had shaken his head ominously at the time and would not be reassured. When Christmas finally came around Jenny became nervous and fidgety and began to natter to herself when she thought nobody was listening.

Most of the time when we talk to ourselves we merely indulge in harmless quotes or we hum and we haw and vice versa. We do not, as Jenny Collins did, remind ourselves about the future. Quite unexpectedly she began to purchase odds and ends for the next Christmas despite the fact that the Christmas being celebrated was not yet over. Her father became greatly alarmed and went so far as to suggest that what Jenny was doing was sacrilegious. Her children, for the very first time, became worried and her husband decided it was time to speak. Is anything more eagerly awaited than the utterance of a man who has steadfastly kept his mouth shut over the years whilst others all around are pontificating! Consequently, when Tom Collins cleared his throat with a view towards expressing what could well be described as his maiden speech there was widespread alarm in the house. Jenny, anticipating a statement of unprecedented importance, called for order by rapping noisily on the milk jug with a dessert spoon. All the members of the family were seated at the table quite accidentally on the occasion. Jenny's father sat at the head completing his favourite crossword while his son-in-law Tom sat at the bottom with a face like a slipper trying to contain two blood-thirsty greyhounds who have just sighted a hare. He was waiting for precisely the right moment to unleash his two words. At one side sat Jenny and her son while at the other sat the two girls. The old man placed his crossword underneath the milk jug. The two girls put aside the text-books with which they were involved. Son and mother jointly closed the history book which lay before them and Tom cleared his throat for the second time.

‘Bad business,' he said solemnly and although he was given all the time in the world he would not add further to the little he had already said. A silence ensued. It was a long silence during which everybody exchanged looks except the man whose statement had occasioned them.

Everybody present knew what Tom meant. He was saying that while it was all right to plan one Christmas in advance it was not all right to plan two. The silence was allowed its allotted span before books were readdressed and the crossword resumed. They were a wise family in that they knew there would be no point in saying any more.

Time passed and Jenny Collins wisely decided to celebrate one Christmas without reference to the second but only for a while. The snows had but barely departed from the surrounding hills when a restlessness took hold of her. She was able to resist it for a while but when the daffodils put in their appearance she began to have brief glimpses of future Christmases. She turned to prayer but her powers of concentration were no match for the urgings which seemed to redouble their efforts and as April bestrewed the shady places with delicate blooms she found it impossible to subdue the Christmas feelings to which she always had yielded in previous years and yet she did. She was to discover, however, that it is wrong to over-subdue for when the urge can no longer be held at bay it reemerges with twice the power.

Jenny went on a Christmas buying binge all through the last week of April. It appeared that she was making up for the time she had lost, for instead of buying for just the Christmas ahead she bought for following Christmases as well. Surprised but considerate shop assistants would remind her that she had already bought certain items but she would explain that she was buying for an invalid friend. Normally she was not given to untruths but she would excuse herself on the grounds that it was inventiveness rather than strict lying. Her husband was aware of what was going on and when she became aware that he was, she was quick to point out that she wasn't squandering his money, that she would be spending it anyway sooner or later. He would say nothing. There would be no more pronouncements. The children took no notice. Adults could do what they liked and generally did.

As the summer sped by Jenny Collins bought more and more, inexpensive items mostly which she stored in the attic in an old chest.

‘Not for the coming Christmas,' she explained to her father, ‘nor for the Christmas after but for future Christmases.'

‘But where's the point?' her father had asked.

‘Better be sure than sorry,' she had answered and when he expressed dissatisfaction with such a reply she had merely shrugged her shoulders and asked what harm if any she was doing.

‘Things have come to a pretty pass,' her father scolded.

Later that night he invited his son-in-law to join him in a drink. They chose a quiet pub at the farthest end of the street. Half-way through the first drink the old man rounded on his son-in-law and asked somewhat petulantly: ‘Why do you condone it?'

‘I don't condone it,' came the considered response. ‘I put up with it because she has no other fault and I figure that a woman needs one fault at least if she is to remain normal.'

‘That's all very fine,' the old man said, ‘but where will it all end! If she's not stopped soon she'll be buying ten or even twenty years ahead of normal.'

There was no immediate answer from Tom. It was obvious that he had not contemplated this new aspect of the problem. He had no fault to find with Jenny but if what the old man had prophesied came to pass Jenny would have to be taken aside.

‘I'll take her aside,' he promised.

‘When?' the old man asked.

‘One of these days now I'll get down to it.'

‘Too late.' The old man shook his head ruefully and finished his drink. ‘It is my considered opinion,' he looked his son-in-law in the eye, ‘that she is in the process of passing herself out and, once they start, the trend becomes irreversible. I am not laying all the blame on you. I am also partly responsible.'

‘What do we do?' Tom asked anxiously.

‘We will have to take drastic steps, that's what we'll have to do,' the old man answered.

‘What do you mean!' Tom asked anxiously.

‘I mean,' the old man became deadly serious, ‘we shall have to enlist outside help.'

‘But who?' his son-in-law asked.

‘The parish priest.' The old man was unequivocal.

While the barman replenished their glasses they sat glumly in the snug to where they had retired after some regular customers, renowned for their acute powers of hearing and insatiable curiosity, had established themselves. Upon receipt of the drink they took up where they had left off. This time the exchanges were conducted in whispers.

‘But what can the parish priest do that a psychotherapist can't do?' Tom Collins asked.

‘If word gets out that she's seeing a psychotherapist,' the old man countered irritably, ‘she'll be the talk of the town and we'll never live it down. Anyway psychotherapists cost money whereas Canon Coodle will cost nothing.'

‘But what does Canon Coodle know about such matters?' Tom asked.

‘He's a priest,' came back the incontrovertible reply. From time to time there would be silence in the public bar. The customers had reverted to their normal roles of listeners. The pair in the snug responded with a corresponding silence. When the conversation resumed on the outside a deficiency became apparent to the pair on the inside. The latter would be well aware that one of those on the outside would have been delegated by common consent to eavesdrop on those on the inside. The volume of the conversation would be raised while the eavesdropper availed himself of the best possible listening position. Often juicy titbits would be picked up especially if the occupants of the snug were less than sober, titbits that could be profitably relayed to wives and sweethearts after the pub had closed for the night.