I’ll be home for Christmas

by Roisin Meaney

  Colette nodded. ‘I know her. I’ve met her often. In fact,’ she said, ‘she lives right next door to my son and his wife. She’s lovely,’ she added.

  And just like that, Tilly jumped another step closer. She was talking with someone who knew her sister, whose son was her neighbour. It felt surreal.

  Tell me about her, she wanted to say, hungry for more – but something stopped her. Maybe she wanted to find out for herself when they met. Maybe she wanted them to come together on an equal footing, neither knowing anything about the other. Although Tilly was already at an advantage, aware at least that she had a sister.

  The subject was left alone. Colette said nothing further, and Tilly was grateful for her discretion. Here was a person, she imagined, who could be entrusted with the most precious of secrets.

  And later, as she lay under the patchwork quilt in her little attic room, as the storm gusted on outside and sleep evaded her for a change, as Christmas Eve turned without fuss into Christmas Day, Tilly went back over everything that had occurred since she’d touched down in Dublin, and she came to the conclusion that even if things were a little unorthodox here, Ireland was undoubtedly a place where you could depend on the kindness of strangers.

  FRIDAY

  25 DECEMBER

  CHRISTMAS DAY

  ‘Who’s for another sausage?’

  ‘Me.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And what,’ she enquired, jabbing a sausage with her fork, ‘is the magic word?’

  A simultaneous ‘please’ came from the gathering around the table. Laura doled out the second helpings, marvelling at the resilience that had allowed the girls in particular to bounce back from their fright of the night before.

  All four of them had got a shock. The boys and a barking Charlie were already out on the landing when she got upstairs; in the darkness she’d collided with them.

  Are you OK?

  Yeah.

  Nothing happened in your room?

  No – we just heard a really loud noise, like an explosion.

  And the light doesn’t work.

  Their voices small and scared, but themselves unhurt. Wait here, she ordered. Stay here. Dad’s coming – because he had to be following close behind, he had to. She felt her way along the wall to the girls’ room, from which terrified screams continued to issue. Every instinct urging her to hurry, hurry up, get there, get to them, pushing away nightmare scenarios of exploded gas pipes and collapsed walls and rubble-strewn rooms and broken bodies as she patted her way along with trembling fingers. I’m coming, she called. It’s Mum. I’m coming. Praying it was fear and not pain that was causing their shrieks.

  She felt the outline of their door and threw it open. Pitch black – but as far as she could see, still intact. It’s OK, she told them, shouting above their screams. It’s OK, it was just a bang. Flicking the light switch on and off repeatedly and uselessly – forgetting, in her agitation, that it wouldn’t work. She groped her way towards them until her foot collided with their bed. She crouched and gathered them both into her arms and told them it was OK, it was OK, they were alright, it was just the silly storm knocking something over.

  And as she was stroking hair and patting backs, as their cries began to abate, she was thinking, Poppy, Poppy, Poppy, and fighting against the urge to leap from the bed and hurtle back into the pitch black corridor. Poppy, Poppy, Poppy, who was in the room just across the way, and who was making no sound at all that her mother could make out.

  I’m here— Gavin’s voice at last, at last, in the doorway.

  Poppy, she said. Check on Poppy. He vanished, and even as she continued to hush and soothe the other two, she strained to hear the cries of her youngest daughter.

  I dot a big fwight, Mama, Evie whimpered woefully.

  Me too dot a big fwight, Mama.

  I know, I know you did, darlings, it was very scary. But it’s OK now, it’s all over now, and you’re safe with me. She went on crooning to them, every sense alert for his return. Where was he? Why wasn’t he coming back?

  It wasn’t all over, far from it. Something big, something huge had happened to cause that noise: something had exploded, or collapsed, or been flung by the wind into a place it had no right to be – and the longer Laura didn’t know what it was, the more terrified she was becoming.

  Why in God’s name was Poppy still making no sound? What devastation had he found in their room?

  Gavin! she shouted finally, unable to bear it any longer – and at that instant, thank the sweet Lord Jesus, she heard Poppy erupting into outraged bawling, and it was music, it was a symphony that brought silent tears of relief and gratitude pouring out of her.

  She’s fine, he called from across the corridor. She was asleep, she never woke – and he was there, the two of them were at the door, Poppy still yelling her protestation at having been woken, their faces lit now by the candlelight that had arrived, courtesy of James.

  We’re thinking it was one of the apple trees, he told them, his face ghostly in the candle’s glow. Hugh and Pádraig have headed out to investigate.

  And as soon as he said it, Laura had thought, Yes, of course, that was it, that was what they’d heard. The noise of a tree falling, the creaking and groaning of its timber as it had toppled, the enormous crash as it had landed – that was it, that was one of the trees. The size of it, the weight that must have been in it. Thank God, it was just one of the trees.

  Only a few hours ago she’d looked out at them and wondered if they’d still be there for her grandchildren – and now one of them was gone, just like that. Far enough from the house not to have damaged it, whichever way it had fallen, but she dreaded to think what the aftermath must be like.

  And then she thought of the shed, on the far side of the orchard, right next to it. The animals sheltering inside, George and Caesar, Cheryl and Maddie. Let it have toppled the other way, she prayed silently. Let it not have come down on the shed. Let the animals be safe, let us not have lost those too.

  Eventually order was restored. The four older children were placated with reminders of Santa, who was still on the way, and promises of imminent hot chocolate that Gavin had been despatched to make. James, with his candle, was left on corridor duty until torches could be located, and Poppy was sung back to sleep by her mother.

  When Laura eventually returned downstairs it was to find the partygoers drinking tea, Nell having located the stovetop kettle every Roone kitchen kept tucked away to use during power cuts. Hugh and Pádraig were still absent. The mood was sombre, the earlier merriment banished by what had happened. It felt to Laura like a gathering of mourners, except there was no body.

  Within a few minutes the investigators returned, their findings grim. The shed had taken a direct hit and as far as they could see, had been pretty much demolished. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until it gets light, Hugh reported.

  Laura’s heart sank. The four animals crushed to death; they must be. She mourned their loss, particularly gentle-natured George, who had carried countless children without complaint around the field for the past two summers. No more donkey rides, or none anyway that involved poor old George.

  On foot of this dismaying news the party had broken up. Coats were retrieved, goodbyes and happy Christmases exchanged. Gladys was despatched to bed with a torch as Laura and Gavin stood in the doorway, waving until the minibus had disappeared.

  Dying down a bit now, Gavin said, but Laura couldn’t see any lessening of the storm’s ferocity. I think I’ll go out and take a look—

  No, she’d said fiercely, pulling him back inside and closing the door. It’s still too wild – you won’t be able to see anything. You heard what Hugh said: wait until morning.

  Her recent anger towards him had been swept away in the face of this calamity. She couldn’t have him finding what was left of the animals in the dark on his own; it would kill him. The men had promised to come b
ack at first light, and no doubt a few others would turn up as well when they heard, Christmas Day or no Christmas Day. The island community would rally, like it always did in times of trouble.

  By candlelight they’d given a desultory tidy to the sitting room and arranged the presents around the tree. Upstairs they’d stood by the window in their room, looking down at the enormous dark muddle that was the fallen apple tree, and the destroyed shed beneath it.

  And to her sorrow, Laura realised it was the special tree that had been taken from them. Yes, it had stood just there, on the furthermost edge. No more apples all year round, the magic gone from the orchard.

  They’d gone to bed in silence, no more words passing between them. For the first time ever, Poppy had slept through the night: a phenomenon that Laura decided to regard as her child’s Christmas present to her. And now it was the morning after, it was Christmas Day, and mercifully the storm had passed over and left them with a morning that was icy cold and perfectly calm. Santa’s presents had been opened, the children were being fed, and the turkey was stuffed and ready for the oven.

  Gavin had given her a necklace. She’d found it sitting on his pillow when she woke, a package wrapped in paper stamped with holly leaves, her name on the accompanying envelope.

  ‘Happy Christmas from your useless husband, who loves you’, he’d written in the card, the words bringing a wry smile to her face. The necklace was sweet, a little guitar suspended on a slender silver chain. She wondered where he’d got it. She slid it into her locker drawer: Poppy would only pull at it and break it if she wore it.

  Her present to him had been new wellingtons, handed over a few days ago when his old ones had finally sprung a leak. She’d got James to buy them for her in Dingle: he was going anyway, it made perfect sense. She supposed wellingtons were a bit functional for a Christmas present, but Gavin needed them and they didn’t have money to spend on fripperies.

  She hoped the necklace hadn’t cost too much. She wished he’d got her something less … pretty.

  No sign of Gladys yet, despite last evening’s promise – or threat – to get up early to help. No sign of Gavin either since they’d come downstairs, out the back probably since first light. He’d been joined a little while ago by James and Pádraig; Laura had spotted them arriving together.

  She was praying that none of the children would enquire about the animals. They didn’t know that the tree had fallen on the shed, only that it had been knocked over in the storm. We can’t go out just yet, she’d told the boys, not until Dad and the others make sure there are no more wobbly trees – and thankfully they were still preoccupied enough with their presents not to pursue it.

  She dreaded breaking the news of the animals’ fate to them: they’d be heartbroken, particularly for George, whom they’d all loved. They might buy another donkey; it might soften the blow. She had no idea how much they cost.

  When the children were finishing breakfast the back door opened, and they heard the men’s voices in the scullery. Laura waited in dread for them to appear – and Gavin’s face, when the kitchen door was pushed open, told her all she needed to know. He gave a small shake of his head, and the last faint hope she’d been hanging on to flickered out. All gone then, no survivors.

  She made them coffee and handed round some of last night’s mince pies. ‘Nobody is to go out the back,’ Gavin said to the children. ‘Not until we make sure it’s safe.’ And for once, not one of them argued or tried to get around him.

  ‘Jim Barnes will be over shortly,’ Pádraig told Laura. ‘I called into him on my way here. He’s bringing the trailer and the chainsaw. And Hugh is coming too, he’ll be along in a while.’

  She was glad to hear the extra help was coming: this would take some clearing up. She had no idea how the animals would be disposed of – were they to be buried, was there some protocol to be followed? Whatever it was, it had to be done before the children got wind of what had happened.

  But it could happen so easily: all it would take was for Ben or Seamus to remember that Caesar hadn’t yet been fed, or for one of them to look out a window on that side of the house and figure out where the tree had landed, and the questions would begin. She’d face it when it happened.

  At least the hens were safe: the henhouse had survived, its flock intact. What kind of a storm uprooted a tree, and spared a henhouse at the other end of the same field? It made no sense.

  Within minutes, the sound of Jim’s Jeep was heard. The men pushed back their chairs and left. Laura cleared the table and found crayons and paper for the girls, and sent the boys into the sitting room – which faced away from the orchard – with a notebook and a pen.

  ‘This is a special Christmas game,’ she told them. ‘I want you to write down all the things you can find in this room that begin with C, starting with the Christmas tree. I’ll give you ten cents each for every one you find – and if you spell them right I’ll make it twenty.’

  Bribery, she realised, probably didn’t feature in the top five recommended strategies for bringing up children, but it certainly worked for her. Back in the kitchen she changed Poppy’s nappy – prompting noises of disgust and much finger-flapping from the older sisters – and settled her with Rabbity in the playpen.

  She’d better deliver Gladys’s morning tea, or they’d never hear the end of it. Normally that task fell to Gavin, but not surprisingly he’d forgotten it today. Getting on for half past nine – Gladys would want to be up by ten if they were to make Mass by eleven. So much for her early rising. Laura filled the kettle and set a cup and saucer on a tray, and added a Ferrero Rocher in an eggcup for the day that was in it.

  As she waited for the water to boil she peeled Brussels sprouts, half listening to the girls’ chatter as they covered their pages with scribbles. She thought of Susan, and wondered what kind of Christmas she and Luke were having. Would they dine alone today, or had they arranged to eat, like they normally did, with other childless couples?

  They wouldn’t be childless next Christmas. Let’s see how that went.

  Susan would attempt to ring later – she always did on Christmas morning – and she would have no luck, the phone lines still as impotent as the electricity cables. Tomorrow at the earliest, Laura reckoned, before either of them came back. Little wonder every house on Roone had a gas cooker: the islanders had learned over the years not to depend on electric power.

  Laura’s early memories of Christmas, with her mother still around, were vague. She supposed they’d done the usual present exchanges and turkey dinners that everyone else did, but none of them had left any lasting impression on her. She did remember the dinner-table rows, her father’s black moods, her mother’s tears – but they happened all the time, not just at Christmas.

  After her mother’s departure, Christmas dinners became anonymous hotel affairs for her and Luke, during which he ate little and smoked a lot, and tried not to look at his watch too often as his daughter scanned the room and made up stories in her head about the occupants of the neighbouring tables.

  She wondered if he and Susan fought like her parents used to, and thought that they probably didn’t. She couldn’t imagine Susan staying with him if he made her miserable. She wondered if leaving him had caused her mother to be any happier, and hoped that it had.

  The kettle boiled. She made tea. ‘Want to come up and see Granny?’ she asked the girls. Strength in numbers.

  They laid down their crayons and pattered on all fours, like little monkeys, up the stairs. They slapped Gladys’s door with their palms. ‘Wake up, Gwanny!’ they chorused. Hopefully the poor woman was already awake.

  Laura reached past them to turn the handle and push open the door. The girls spilled into the room ahead of her.

  Gladys lay on the floor by the bed, the duvet half tumbled around her, as if it had reached out to catch her in her fall.

  ‘Go down to the boys,’ Laura said quickly, dread pricking her all over. ‘They’re in the sitting room. Go down the stairs
on your bottoms.’

  ‘What’s wong with Gwanny?’

  ‘Mama?’

  Small scared voices, like her boys’ last night.

  ‘She’ll be fine, just go downstairs. Be careful, go slow’ – and away they scuttled.

  And as Laura set the tray on the locker and stepped towards the prone figure of her mother-in-law, Ben shouted up the stairs, over the heads of his descending sisters: ‘Mum, the tree fell on the shed! It squashed all the animals!’

  And directly afterwards, as the girls burst into simultaneous shocked tears, the doorbell rang.

  Such a difference, such a transformation. She sat on the bed, swaddled in blankets, and surveyed the scene beyond her window, trying to take it all in.

  The storm was gone. The sea was like glass this morning. Not a ripple, not a white cap to be seen. And the colours, the incredible colours of it, the rich shades of blue and green she had no names for. Swathes of colour, turning the sea into a thing of indescribable beauty.

  The strip of Roone lay on the horizon, dark and squat. Much too far away to make out any of its features, no matter how she squinted. Maybe with strong binoculars she’d see buildings, fields, roads, beaches. Or maybe not, until she got closer.

  The sky was a uniform blue-white, not a single cloud to mar it. No sun visible from her vantage point, but it must be somewhere behind her because the light was like nothing she’d witnessed before. Everything gleamed, everything sparkled, everything looked freshly rinsed. Birds wheeled and swooped across the clear sky, their cries muted through the glass.

  Her little sash window was edged with frost. She tugged and wriggled the paint-encrusted catch until it gave. She pushed the window down an inch, and the air that rushed through was icy and delicious. She breathed it in, listening to the louder shrieks of the birds.

  A movement on the sea below caught her eye. A boat had appeared, grey and functional, a working boat. Someone fishing on Christmas Day? The chug of its engine carried easily to where she knelt. She watched it cutting through the water, saw the white frill it left behind. She recalled Bernard promising to try and get them to Roone today, and she wondered if he’d remember.