An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  Everyone applauded and looked all around to see who the lucky winner was.

  O’Reilly tried not to look smug. He looked for Eileen. She was laughing as she and her brood moved to the front. She handed the marquis her ticket. “Here, sir.” She turned to her children. “See, you’ll get your turkey now.”

  O’Reilly watched the wee ones jumping up and down. He realized that the significance of the numbers all being the same had not dawned on Eileen.

  The marquis read it, beamed, and stooped to her, saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

  “Eileen. Eileen Lindsay, sir,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

  “Don’t thank me. It was the luck of the draw.”

  She beamed at him. “It’s very good luck then, sir. A big turkey and all.”

  “It’s more than that, Eileen.”

  She looked puzzled.

  “I think, people,” the marquis roared, “in case anyone has not noticed, the ticket numbers are identical. That means—”

  There was a great joyous shout of approval.

  “Congratulations, Eileen.” He handed her an envelope. “The money’s in there, and will you please give Eileen her bird, Mr. Jordan?”

  “Thank you, sir. Thank you, everybody.” She gathered her children around her and told them. “It’s going to be the best Christmas ever. The very best.”

  Johnny Jordan moved forward as Donal started making his way toward O’Reilly. He recalled Donal saying he suspected Johnny had a crush on Eileen. The man certainly looked excited, almost as excited as Eileen herself. “Eileen.” He offered her the bird. “Here’s your turkey. Congratulations.”

  “Thank you.” She leant forward to take it. “And thank you for donating it.”

  He was holding something over her head. It was a sprig of mistletoe.

  “I’ll settle for a Christmas kiss.” He kissed her firmly and soundly. He looked breathless when he stopped.

  Everyone waited silently to see what Eileen would do.

  She didn’t slap his face. Instead she said, “Shame on you, Johnny Jordan.”

  He blushed deeply and hung his head.

  She took the mistletoe from him, held it over his head, and kissed him back. Then she said, “It’s a very big bird and you a bachelor man. Would you like to come to us for your Christmas dinner?”

  His obvious assent was drowned by the cheers.

  Donal had finally arrived, still carrying the hat he’d used for the draw. “Didn’t I promise you, Doctor, sir?” he said with a bucktoothed grin.

  “You did. Well done, Donal, and the timing’s very good,” O’Reilly remarked. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, so Eileen will still have time to shop. Santa will come to her house after all.”

  “I’m pleased about that, sir. She and her chisellers deserve to have a merry Christmas. I’m glad I could help, so I am. Julie’s pleased too.”

  O’Reilly bent closer and said, sotto voce, “How did you do it?”

  Donal offered the hat to both O’Reilly and Barry. “Take a ticket.”

  O’Reilly did. Barry did. He showed his to O’Reilly. Both tickets read 4444.

  “I told you I got them from a printer friend of mine. Sure, as well as the ones we sold, didn’t I have him run off a couple of hundred all the same, and didn’t I put only those stubs in the hat?”

  Barry laughed.

  O’Reilly guffawed so loudly that people turned around to see what was so funny. He put an avuncular arm around Donal’s shoulder. “I wonder about you sometimes, Donal,” he said. “It’s only the Lord who is meant to move in mysterious ways.”

  It Came upon a Midnight Clear

  The stern, fifteenth-century nonconformist Martin Luther would not have approved of O’Reilly’s suggestion, but then, Barry thought, it was unlikely the old Puritan would have approved of O’Reilly at all.

  “Why don’t we go to midnight mass?” O’Reilly asked. “Father O’Toole does the service very well.” He finished another mouthful of his Christmas Eve dinner.

  “I’d like that, Fingal,” Barry said. “I’d enjoy that very much.”

  “Good. And we’ll ask Kinky if she’d like to come. Even if she is a Presbyterian, she’s very broad-minded. You know now—you were at the pageant—that there’s quite a tradition here of ecumenism, particularly at Christmas, and I think Kinky approves.”

  “Even if Bertie Bishop doesn’t?”

  “But Flo does. We’ll see her there.” Then O’Reilly, who had once pronounced the adage “Eating time is eating time, and talking time is talking time,” nodded, grunted, and applied himself with vigour to devouring his share of Kinky’s roast goose. She’d ignored his instructions about no more fowl.

  Barry was glad she had. He was quite content to savour his own meal in silence. It would be pleasant to bring in Christmas by going to midnight mass, he decided. It would make a change from sitting up past midnight and listening to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast by the BBC from King’s College Chapel. When he’d lived at home, his parents made listening to it a family Christmas tradition. Ever since he’d turned nine, his parents had allowed him to stay up for it.

  He exhaled hard through his nose. King’s College? Humbug. Barry didn’t want to be reminded of anything to do with Cambridge. One of the reasons Patricia had given for staying there was that her friend Jenny’s father had got tickets for this year’s service.

  Fair enough, it must be spectacular to be there in person. He remembered how, as a boy, once the service was over, he’d been allowed to open one Christmas present. Then, after a small piece of Christmas cake, he was bundled off to bed to try to sleep, because everybody knew there’d be no presents in the pillowcase at the foot of the bed for any child who stayed awake. Oooh, the anticipation, but for a little chap the very late night had always produced the effect his parents had hoped for. Sleep came quickly then.

  But tonight, after the mass, would he be able to drop off? Barry sighed. He was missing Patricia, still worried about her. Would he lie awake picturing her in the chapel at King’s College and, despite her reassurances, wondering who she was with?

  He speared a piece of roast parsnip and looked around as Kinky came in.

  She was carrying the iced, beribboned, and decorated Christmas cake on a large plate. It was accompanied by a serrated cake knife. She set them on the sideboard. “For later,” she said.

  Barry wondered if Kinky observed the same tradition as his folks, who cut the cake—“opened it,” as the locals said—once they had come back from church.

  “Mrs. Kincaid, you’ve done yourself proud,” O’Reilly said. “The chestnut stuffing and applesauce set off your goose to perfection. Perfection.”

  “And,” Barry added, “the roast potatoes were simply marvelous. Thank you, Kinky.”

  “I’m glad you enjoyed them, sir. I roasted them in the fat from the goose.” She put the cake in front of O’Reilly. “I learned that trick from my mother down in Béal na mBláth in West Cork . . .

  “Where the Big Fellah was shot?” Barry asked.

  “Michael Collins himself, God rest him.” Kinky paused. “He was a darlin’ man, so.” She lifted the plate on which rested the wreckage of the goose. “We always had a goose on Christmas Eve, but my aunty preferred to serve salted beef.” She peered at O’Reilly’s florid complexion. “I believe, sir, too much salt is not good for the blood pressure, so. Not even on Christmas Eve. That’s why I never do it.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “All right, Kinky. You’re right.”

  “That’s why,” Kinky continued, “I’ve had tomorrow’s ham soaking since eight o’clock last night, and I’ll take it out at eight o’clock tonight.

  “Twenty-four hours? Why so long?” Barry asked.

  “To get all the salt out before I boil it tonight and then roast it tomorrow along with the turkey.”

  “How long will the boiling take?” O’Reilly pushed his now empty plate away.

  “A ten-pou
nd ham at twenty minutes per pound?” Kinky frowned and looked up before saying, “Three hours and ten minutes, so.”

  “So if you start boiling it at eight, you’ll be done by eleven-thirty?” O’Reilly enquired.

  “I will, sir. Why?”

  “Doctor Laverty and I are going to midnight mass. I know you usually go with Flo Bishop, but this year we thought you might like to come with us.”

  She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “I’d like that,” she said. “I’ve to finish the house cleaning, but I’ll be done in time.”

  “House cleaning? On Christmas Eve?” Barry said. “It seems a bit of an extra chore to me.”

  “Oh, no, sir,” she said quite seriously, “it’s no trouble at all, at all. Country folks everywhere in Ireland do it. It’s for the same reason we leave a candle burning in the front window.”

  “Why’s that, Kinky?”

  “Our Lord came at Christmastide once before. He’d nowhere to stay. You’d want the house to be ready if he comes again.” She looked him directly in the eye. “And not only him. You never know who might be coming to stay tomorrow.”

  Barry felt tingly. The locals would say he felt as if a goose had walked over his grave. A strange idea, considering he’d just finished eating a goose. Kinky couldn’t mean Patricia, who’d already told him that coming home wasn’t physically possible.

  “Well,” said O’Reilly, “you carry on, Kinky, but don’t worry that Miss O’Hallorhan’ll be staying. She’s just coming for the dinner.”

  “There’ll be plenty for all. I’ll see to that,” she said, still looking at Barry. “And there’ll be room here even if there was no room at the inn once—”

  O’Reilly chuckled and said, “Twice, if you count the pageant.”

  “True, sir, but at Number One we’ll be ready no matter who comes.” She lifted the cake. “But we’ll not be ready if I don’t go and get on now.”

  “Leave the cake, Kinky.” O’Reilly had half risen.

  “Sure, sir,” she said, moving the plate out of his range. “I think maybe we should observe another of my mother’s traditions. We’ll open the cake tomorrow morning when the three of us get back from the mass.”

  Although the moon was not many days past full, there was no moon glow nor any stars to be seen when O’Reilly parked at the chapel. Barry got out and inhaled the scent of the sea borne on a chilly northeaster. The bells in the steeple pealed, chimed, and merrily ding-donged in the out-of-sequence cadence of hand-pulled church bells. He could picture the ringers hauling on the bell ropes.

  He opened the car’s back door for Mrs. Kincaid; then they both followed O’Reilly through the high-arched, oak front door and into the narthex. Incense filled the air. Inside the chapel, someone was playing the harmonium. Saint Columba’s was too small to afford an organ.

  “That’s Bach’s Toccata and Fugue in D Minor,” O’Reilly remarked quietly, as he removed his hat and stepped aside to give a parishioner access to the font of holy water. The man dipped his fingers, crossed himself, and genuflected toward the altar.

  O’Reilly led the way into the nave, nodding greetings to those seated patients he recognized and receiving their nods and smiles in return. The place was packed.

  It was unlike his senior colleague, Barry thought, but Fingal indicated a pew one row from the back. Ordinarily he’d head straight for the front of anything and expect space to be made for him. He bowed to the altar and sidled into the half-empty pew. Barry bowed, followed O’Reilly, and let Kinky bring up the rear. Barry took his seat and for a few moments closed his eyes and lowered his head.

  He opened his eyes and sat up. “Good evening, Doctor Laverty.” He turned to see that he was seated beside the Finnegans—Fergus the jockey, his brother Declan, and Declan’s French wife Mélanie. “Joyeux Noël,” she said. It was too dim to see Declan’s face clearly, but Barry knew it would be nearly expressionless because of his Parkinson’s disease.

  Barry struggled but managed to say, “Et à vous et votre famille, Madame.” French had not been Barry’s long suit at school.

  “Merçi, Monsieur le Docteur.”

  Barry nodded his thanks, smiled, and looked around.

  The chapel was small, intimate. There was no transept. The chancel was separated from the nave by three low steps, at the top of which was the communion rail. Behind it on his right side was a dark wood lectern; to his left, the pulpit. The communion table, immediately behind the low wooden railing and in front of the altar, was flanked by two enormous wrought-brass candlesticks. Barry reckoned they must be at least five feet tall. In each candlestick a large white wax candle flamed and cast fluttering shadows, as tiny draughts swirled into the church from the open door. Candles seemed to burn everywhere; they illuminated the garishly painted wooden crucifix that hung from the far wall and inclined out over the altar.

  The harmonium music died, and as it was reborn as the first chords of “Once in Royal David’s City,” the congregation rose. Barry turned to watch the processional.

  Father O’Toole led. He was resplendent in his red cope with a gold midback seam running up the centre and splitting at shoulder-blade height into two arms that reached the tips of his shoulders. Beneath he wore a surplice, white for Christmas. In his vestments, he personified the panoply of the Catholic church so denigrated by the Nonconformists, yet so much a part of the ancient ritual.

  He was immediately ahead of two altar boys in white surplices. Each swung a censer, and as they passed, the aroma of incense became more powerful. The members of the little choir—six boy trebles, four altos, eight tenors, and four basses—were robed in white, but sported scarlet, ruffled, high collars. Each held his hymnbook before him.

  Father O’Toole stopped just before the altar rail, turned, and faced the congregation. His right arm was outstretched above his head. The choir filed into their stalls behind the altar rails to Barry’s right. The hymn ended, and as all the Catholics present crossed themselves, the priest made the sign and said, “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”

  Barry, who had had to pass an examination in Latin to gain admittance to medical school, had no trouble translating, “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  He joined in the communal “Amen” and sat along with everyone else.

  The service continued with a greeting, an invitation to partake in an act of penitence, and a communal confession.

  “Confiteor Deo omnipotenti, beatae Mariae semper Virgini . . .” and on until the final “mea maxima culpa.”

  Barry found the sonorousness of the Latin words for “I confess to Almighty God, to Blessed Mary ever Virgin,” right through to “my most grievous fault,” dignified and comforting even to him, an agnostic.

  The priest pronounced the prayer of absolution.

  The congregation responded in song. “Kyrie eleison . . . Christe eleison . . .” Their heartfelt tones carried a palpable feeling of relief for sins forgiven and for the promise of the new day and, at this season, of a new year to come. He remembered O’Reilly’s explanation for why the last surgery of the year had been packed with people getting rid of their old year’s ailments.

  Barry looked around at the backs of the heads of familiar people. Donal’s carroty tuft beside Julie’s shining gold. Miss Moloney’s pepper-and-salt, Helen Hewitt’s red. He smiled as he glanced sideways to see Kinky’s shining silver half hidden by her green hat. He noticed the Reverend Robinson and his wife. The Presbyterian service would have been over hours ago. Barry was not surprised to see the minister. He and Father O’Toole golfed together every Monday.

  “Gloria in excelsis Deo. Et in terra pax hominibus bonae voluntatis . . .”

  “Glory to God in the highest. And on earth peace to men of good will . . .” What a shame, Barry thought, that in September the second Vatican Council had published its report recommending that mass be said in the vernacular. There was a wonderful resonance to the Latin mass. But whether Lati
n or English, perhaps if only for this night, the men and the women of this congregation were all of good will, and peace did fill this hall.

  Barry Laverty, outsider until five months ago, felt himself being silently absorbed by the body of the village while he was wrapped in the serenity and mystery of the ancient, changeless mass.

  “Adoramus te. Glorificamus te.” We worship Thee. We glorify Thee.

  The Gloria ended, and the priest held silence for several moments.

  After a short prayer, a lay reader, a man Barry recognized by his bulbous red nose as Mr. Coffin, the undertaker, walked to the pulpit and read from the book of Isaiah. “For Zion’s sake I will not keep silent, and for Jerusalem’s sake I will not rest . . .”

  Barry allowed himself to flow with the congregation, rising, sitting, and kneeling with them as the service demanded.

  He recited the prayers that he knew as best he could with his schoolboy Latin.

  He sang the familiar hymns as best he could in his off-key voice.

  He listened to the old words, the words he’d heard as a child, read as a boy and as a young man until they were part of his fabric. He could whisper them in concert with the reader.

  “Behold a virgin shall be with child, and bring forth a son, and they shall call his name Emmanuel, which being interpreted is, God with us . . . And he knew her not till she brought forth her firstborn son: and he called his name Jesus.”

  Barry Laverty closed his eyes and pictured Christmases past, happy and safe in the fold of his family, and he wondered about Christmases yet to come. He hoped they would be celebrated here with his new, larger family in Ballybucklebo. He knew his eyes were not entirely dry.

  When the time came, neither Barry nor O’Reilly nor Kinky took communion, as they were not confirmed in the Catholic faith. Barry watched the procession to the altar rail, noting the reverence of the communicants as each received the bread and wine. He saw Kinky with a gentle smile on her open face.

  O’Reilly looked somehow different, and it took Barry a moment to realize that the man’s ordinarily craggy and wrinkled visage had somehow become smooth and frown-line free. Soon the service ended, as the priest faced the congregation and said, “Ite, missa est.” Go, you are dismissed.