A Very Irish Christmas

by Claudia Carroll

‘Jesus Christ,’ says Jess, bursting into the kitchen, face flushed scarlet red and with steam all but streaming out her ears. ‘Get me out of this house and get me a drink. Now.’

  *

  ‘Be thankful you never had kids,’ Jess snarls as we clamber back into the still-waiting cab. ‘And if you ever feel a maternal urge coming on you in mid-life, then just borrow one of mine for half an hour – that’ll cure you.’

  I don’t say anything; instead I’m still dwelling on all the memories that little Emma’s photo collage has thrown up. What is it about today, I wonder. Why can’t I stop myself from thinking about the life I once had, all those decades ago? Meanwhile Jess whips all manner of tinted moisturizers and eyeliners out of her clutch bag and does a full make-up job on herself. Without a mirror. She’s like a fireball of fury tonight and doesn’t pause for breath the whole time it takes us to get to Mum’s house.

  ‘Jesus Christ, I could strangle Dave, I really could,’ she practically spits, cursing as the car has to stop sharply and her eyeliner goes skew-ways. ‘And no jury in the land would convict me.’

  I stay resolutely silent, but then when it comes to Useless Dave, Jess will get absolutely no argument from me in his defence. Instead my eye drifts to a gang of Friday night revellers lounging outside a pub by the Grand Canal, messing and larking about and totally taking their youth, high spirits, and energy for granted. Doing nothing more than enjoying a boozy Friday evening at the very start of the Christmas holidays.

  I used to be like you, I think. I used to be young and carefree too. I used to spend the weekend getting plastered with my pals and my lovely boyfriend Jack Burke, all of us laughing till we were sick. I used to wear baggy jeans with bright pink streaks in my hair and, like you, I didn’t care.

  ‘I’m so sick of always having to say no to the girls,’ Jess moans on, ‘only for Dave to go and undermine me by telling them they can do what they want. Have you any idea what it’s like having to be the disciplinarian all the time, while he gets to be Fun Dad? And he’s way behind in the mortgage payments this month – yet again … surprise surprise. But of course, he still has plenty of dosh to go out with his mates at the weekend. We had the biggest row about it last night. I’m totally shattered from the whole thing …’

  Jess drones on about Useless Dave and his multitude of shortcomings, without realizing she’s already lost her audience of one.

  Because I want to say to her, you didn’t used to be like this and nor did I. You used to be mad and fun and wild: the kind of sister who even made sitting on the top of a bus an adventure. Jess used to smoke rollies and was permanently on the mitch either from school or work; the one thing you could rely on her for was that she was never where she was supposed to be.

  So what happened? When did Jess turn into this tight, coiled little ball of tension, prematurely middle-aged and with a permanent scowl on her face? When was the last time she actually rolled her head back and laughed that big throaty cackle I remember so well? Come to think of it, when was the last time I laughed myself?

  Jess whines on, but all I want to do is roll down the window of the taxi and yell at the Friday evening teenage revellers. Do you realize how fleeting this happy time in your life is? Do you know how cruelly short your tiny window of opportunity is for you all to meet someone to spend your life with? Work is important but you know what? So is life. Look at me and learn from my mistakes! Because you’ll blink, then wake up one sunny day to find that you’re all alone for Christmas and all the things you prioritized in life suddenly won’t seem half as important any more.

  Soon, way too soon for my liking, our taxi pulls up outside Mum’s house.

  ‘Right, come on then,’ says Jess with a sigh that comes from her boots upwards. ‘The sooner we go in, the sooner we can get it over with.’

  Which pretty much sums up my attitude to the whole evening too.

  ‘Here we are then, ladies,’ says the taxi driver, parking right outside. ‘Have a great night!’

  As we clamber out of the back of the car and I lean in to pay him, he locks eyes with me.

  ‘And Happy Christmas, love. Christmas comes but once a year, so you just make sure to enjoy it. And don’t forget to make a Christmas wish!’

  I was about to tip him a fiver, but round it off to a twenty and to hell with it anyway.

  After all, it’s Christmas, isn’t it?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  ‘Oh Christ,’ Jess groans, as we let ourselves into Mum’s hall and take off our coats. ‘It’s like Dante’s ninth circle of hell in here.’

  She’s not wrong. It’s awful. God-awful. I knew it would be a nightmare, but not this bad. For starters, the place is packed out with all of Mum’s neighbours and pals from her tennis club and I don’t think there’s a soul here under the age of seventy.

  Mum’s living room is crammed to bursting; in the far corner, I see my Auntie Betty and her husband Sam bickering, as they always seem to do in public. My mum’s coven of best friends are all gathered over at the dining table laying into the cocktail sausages and barely defrosted vol-au-vents. Other than that, the rest of the guest list seems to consist of a roomful of distant relatives, some of whom I haven’t set eyes on since Dad’s funeral.

  ‘Right. Drinks. Now,’ says Jess bossily. ‘Because dismal and all as this may be, it’s a hell of a lot better than my alternative, which was a night at home sniping at Useless Dave and a teenage daughter who hates me.’

  ‘Fizzy water, no ice, no slice for me, please,’ I tell her crisply, as she stomps off in the direction of the kitchen, where there’s a makeshift bar. ‘And just to warn you: I’m doing one lap of the room and then I’m out of here in an estimated forty-five minutes tops.’

  ‘Oh loosen up, would you, darling?’ says a familiar voice from behind me. ‘You’re not at work now, you know. It’s a party – you’re meant to have fun!’

  My head swivels around and there she is, the Mother Ship herself, dressed in a flowing long white kaftan she bought on her last walking tour of India, under the misguided impression that she was channelling Judi Dench in The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. She’s even ripped off Dame Judi’s trademark cropped silver pixie haircut and it’s only a matter of time before she starts pestering me to take her to the West End to see her great idol onstage.

  ‘Happy Christmas, Carole dearest,’ the Mother Ship says, lightly air-kissing me, then immediately following it up with a swift up-and-down look, taking in every stitch I’m wearing from head to foot.

  ‘Oh God, Carole, is that the only thing you had to wear? Black, again? And you’re far too thin, you know. Here, have a nice vol-au-vent. Careful though, some of them still haven’t defrosted properly. Oh and look, there’s Victor! Come and say hello, he’s been dying to see you all evening.’

  Oh Christ; if I needed any further motivation to make my exit as speedily as possible, Victor is bound to do it. Victor is officially the Mother Ship’s doubles partner at the tennis club, but clearly the pair of them are more than ‘just good friends’. Victor is a widower, mid-seventies and retired from a forty-year career working as a flight attendant with Aer Lingus.

  Although if you were to hazard a guess, you’d say he worked as a lingerie salesman, he’s that oily and insincere. I dislike him intensely and have told my mother repeatedly that she certainly doesn’t need this git in her life. All to no avail; although I’m determined that one day I’ll get her to see sense.

  ‘Ahh, here’s your lovely daughter,’ Victor says, sidling up to give me a peck on the cheek and ignoring my outstretched hand that clearly says, a handshake will do me fine, thank you very much.

  ‘Victor even bought you a Christmas gift, Carole,’ the Mother Ship chirrups, glowing a bit now that he’s joined us.

  ‘A lovely scented candle,’ he says, somewhat ruining the surprise. ‘Well, what do you get for the career girl who has everything?’

  ‘Most kind of you, thanks,’ I say curtly, wondering how quickly I can get away. Then s
ome man about his own age collars him and as Victor turns away, I take this opportunity to speak to Mum.

  ‘What did you have to invite Victor for?’ I hiss. ‘He’s just … awful!’

  ‘Oh now, darling –’ she smiles ‘– don’t be like that. He’s a real sweetie when you get to know him. Besides, I’m happy now. Don’t you want to see your old mum happy?’

  With that, she ambles off to chat to more people as Dolly Henderson, her best friend going back about a thousand years and indeed my godmother, sidles up to me.

  ‘Carole,’ she says, giving me a warm hug. ‘It’s good to see you, but I’m afraid to say, you don’t look well, love.’

  Coming from anyone else, this may sound rude, but Dolly has known Jess and me since we were in nappies and she has that bluntness you can only employ when dealing with those you know intimately.

  ‘Oh, don’t mind me, I’m just tired,’ I say. Which is the truth too. Suddenly just looking around this room makes me exhausted.

  ‘You’re far too thin and pale for it to be healthy, you know,’ Dolly says quietly, shaking her head as she takes me in. ‘Your mum worries about you so much and so do I. I know you work all the hours God sends, but would it kill you once in a while to take a little bit of time out for yourself?’

  ‘It’s just not possible.’ I smile a bit patronizingly back at her. ‘As I always say to my work colleagues: the news doesn’t sleep, so therefore neither can we.’

  ‘Just take care not to wake up and find that life has passed you by, that’s all I’m saying,’ she says sagely. ‘Take a look at Jess! OK, so her marriage may have broken up, but at least she’s got two beautiful daughters to show for it. What have you got to show for all your years of grafting, Carole? It’s Christmas, so come on. Cut yourself some slack. Enjoy! Maybe find yourself a nice man to go out with?’

  ‘Nice men to go out with, you’ll find, are as rare as hen’s teeth when you’re on the wrong side of forty,’ I tell her. ‘Besides, I do enjoy myself,’ I add weakly, but it sounds like a lie from the moment I open my mouth. ‘All the time. Well, maybe not all the time, but frequently.’

  ‘This is me you’re talking to, Carole love,’ says Dolly. ‘No need to put a brave face on things just for me.’

  ‘Look, Dolly,’ I tell her. ‘While I really appreciate your concern, it’s completely misguided. I lead a great life, thanks very much all the same.’

  She looks at me for a long, long time. ‘Do you know what you sound like?’ she eventually says. ‘Like a woman who’s trying to convince herself more than anyone else.’

  Next thing, Jess bounds back with a most peculiar-looking cocktail for herself and a glass of fizzy water for me.

  ‘Here you go,’ she says, breathlessly handing it over, as Dolly drifts away to talk to another neighbour of Mum’s. ‘Sorry about the delay. I got stuck with Mum’s pal Brenda and you know what she’s like. She wouldn’t let me go until I’d heard the full story of how she had to get her cat de-wormed before her vet closed up for the holidays. It’s only nine o’clock and I think the woman is already plastered drunk.’

  ‘Now that,’ I say firmly, ‘is the only way to survive a night like this if you ask me. Sod this sodding water anyway. Where do I go to get a real drink?’

  By ten p.m., I’ve broken my own personal rule and allowed myself an extra 1.5 units of Sauvignon Blanc. (Marlborough region, 2012, not a bad vintage, I have invariably found.)

  By eleven p.m., I’m drinking just about anything and everything that Jess puts in front of me. Couldn’t tell you what I’ve imbibed; all I can be certain of is that my drinks are a) wet and b) alcoholic. And by midnight, I could barely tell you where I am. The whole room is swaying around me and I’m dimly aware of voices, coming at me disjointedly from every angle.

  ‘Carole? Are you all right, love?’ I can hear my mother’s distinctive contralto say, though I’m not really able to focus on her. Instead all I can see are vague blurry shapes wafting in and out of focus.

  ‘She looks very green about the gills,’ Dolly is saying. I try to answer them both, but it all just comes out as gibberish.

  ‘Do you think we need to call a doctor?’ says Mum worriedly. ‘Because this is most unlike Carole’s usual behaviour. She normally just stays for one quick drink, does a lap of the room, and then is straight back into a taxi.’

  ‘Ahh, she’s fine,’ I can hear Jess saying, through the dense fug I feel I’m swirling around in. ‘She’s just pissed, that’s all. Probably for the first time in decades. Let’s get her upstairs to bed and let her sleep it off.’

  ‘You mean, put her in her old bedroom for the night?’ says Mum, horrified. ‘Oh, darling, is that really such a good idea? I’ve completely redecorated that room and you know how fussy Carole can be. She’s fine now when she’s three sheets to the wind, but there’ll be hell to pay tomorrow when she sobers up and realizes that the walls and curtains don’t exactly match. You know what she’s like.’

  ‘With the hangover she’ll have in the morning?’ Jess says. ‘Trust me, your mismatched walls and curtains will be the least of her worries.’

  ‘This is just so out of character for Carole …’

  ‘Oh come on now,’ Dolly says, ‘we’ve all done it, haven’t we? Had one too many at a Christmas do? This just makes Carole human, that’s all. I was only telling her earlier that she really needed to enjoy herself once in a while.’

  I try to protest, to say that I’m actually fine, thank you very much, and that if they could just help me to a taxi I’d infinitely rather get home to my own bed. However, the two per cent of my mind that isn’t subsumed in this awful hazy reality blur is aware that it comes out like this:

  ‘I’m achhhhually ooookayyyyy I jushhhhhhht wannnna goo to bed … sooo soooo sleeeeepsh …’

  ‘OK, here we go, one, two three … UP,’ I can hear a man’s voice saying as I feel myself being hauled upstairs in a fireman’s lift. Worst of all is that I’ve got a horrible feeling that it’s Victor who’s carrying me. Bloody Victor. Drunk and all as I may be, I’d know the stink of that aftershave anywhere.

  ‘We should take a photo.’ Jess is giggling. ‘And use it to bribe her with in the morning, when she sobers up. She won’t believe us otherwise.’

  ‘You know, I really think it’s just tiredness,’ I can hear my mother saying. ‘That’s all that’s wrong with her. Are any of us really surprised? Carole works a seven-day week and the woman is flat-out exhausted. Naturally whatever she had to drink went straight to her head.’

  ‘I’m NOOOOOOT drunkkkk – I jushhhhhhhht wannnnna go HOOOOOME!’ I remember trying to say, but it’s too late. I’m plonked down on a bed, someone takes off my shoes, and the last thing I remember is Jess’s voice as they all shuffle out of the room.

  ‘Just leave some paracetamol on her bedside table with a big bottle of water, and she’ll be fine. Do her good to get pissed once in a while. I mean come on, when is the last time anyone can remember Carole letting her hair down? Hasn’t happened in decades.’

  A light is switched out, then darkness. Blessed, lovely darkness.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I’m jolted awake in the dead of night, and have the most awful feeling that there’s someone here in the room with me. Blearily, I open one eye and sure enough, there’s the silhouette of a man sitting in the corner of the room, just watching me. A man? In my bedroom? What’s going on?

  Slowly, my eyes come into focus as I rub them and sit up straight.

  And almost pass out in shock. Because it can’t be … can it? No. I’m either dreaming or hallucinating or else I’m still drunk.

  And yet it looks just like him. I could almost swear … that it is really him! It’s my dad. My darling dad, sitting on the little desk chair in the corner of my old bedroom, just like he used to when he was alive.

  ‘Dad?’ I say, rubbing my eyes in complete disbelief.

  ‘Well, Merry Christmas to you, pet.’ He smiles warmly.

  ‘Jesus,’
I say, ‘I’m dreaming. I have to be either dreaming or hallucinating. You look so … alive, Dad!’

  It’s been so many long years since he died and yet he looks so well and healthy. Vibrant and glowing with health, like he’s just come in from a round of golf. Just like he used to before he got sick.

  ‘Oh but it really is me, sweetheart,’ he says. ‘I get to keep an eye on you from the other side and I thought you could do with a little Christmas visit.’

  ‘Dad?’ I say mystified. ‘This is insane – did I bang my head last night or something? DO I have concussion? You’re as real as I remember and it’s the weirdest thing ever!’

  ‘You’re not dreaming,’ he says kindly. ‘Although you may choose to think that you are. But the thing is, Carole, I’ve been so worried about you, you know. I mean, look at you. And look at the life you’re living.’

  ‘What do you mean, Dad?’

  ‘Do you know, love, I often wonder if you’re really living at all,’ he says, getting up off the chair and walking over to the bed, where I’m sitting up on my elbows, unable to take my eyes off him. ‘All you seem to do is work and while that’s fantastic and there’s no one prouder of you than me, it’s not much of a life, now is it?’

  ‘But, Dad … I’m doing what I want to do and – well – I can’t imagine any other life, really.’

  ‘Oh can’t you?’ he says knowingly. ‘Because you know something? I can. Now come, Carole love, up you get and out of bed. We’ve got a busy night ahead of us and we really need to get moving.’

  ‘Dad?’ I say, as my head actually starts to swim. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘There’s something I want to show you,’ he says enigmatically, tapping on the side of his nose, in a gesture of his that I remember so vividly it almost gives me shivers. ‘And we don’t have a huge amount of time. So come on, throw something warm on and let’s get going.’

  Then in the distant background, I can hear a clock chime three a.m.

  ‘We need to hurry,’ Dad says, taking me by the hand, just like he used to when I was little. It’s just the weirdest sensation imaginable. I must be sleepwalking, I think. This is so obviously a deep dream and yet I don’t want to wake up. Because Dad just seems so real to me and how often do I get to chat to him on a one-on-one basis like this anyway?