A Gift to You

by Patricia Scanlan

  Izzy smiled. Her neighbour was pathetically childish, really. Maybe there was some reason for his juvenile behaviour. Maybe he’d had a terribly deprived childhood. Who knew? Who knew what went on in people’s lives? Who knew what went on behind the façades? Look at poor Mari. Who would have believed it?

  She and Bill were lucky; they had each other and they had the children. She could hear the three of them laughing and chattering in the kitchen. Closing the curtains, Izzy straightened the folds, switched off the light and went downstairs, where Bill took the opportunity to kiss her soundly under the mistletoe, before she went back into the snug, warm sitting room to rejoin her friend.

  The Christmas Tree

  I couldn’t make up my mind whether or not to put up a Christmas tree this year. It seemed a lot of trouble when I was going to be here on my own. Don’t get me wrong, I’d had invites to spend Christmas with family, but did you ever just want to stay at home in your own house and sleep in your own bed?

  I could understand of course, why my son and daughter didn’t like the idea too much. When I was their age, if my own widowed eighty-year-old mother had refused my invite to spend Christmas with us, I’d have been upset and worried at her being alone on Christmas Day.

  I’ve spent the last decade trotting between their houses, for the festive season. And while I love them, and my five grandchildren, and have spent many Christmases with them since my much-loved husband, John passed away; this year, I had a yen to stay at home.

  I didn’t buy a turkey. I don’t really care for it. The only part I like is the dark meat under the legs. Instead, I bought a fillet steak to have with fried onions and fried potatoes. A tasty dinner, with little fuss. I’d cooked a ham, though, so I’d have meat to make sandwiches for visitors.

  As I say, I’d dithered about putting up a tree. But then, when I saw the gleaming, twinkling lights in windows in the village, I was sorry I’d told my daughter not to bother.

  It came up in conversation with my new neighbour, Sarah. She and her husband, Simon, had bought the bungalow next door at the end of summer. I was worried about who would move in after old Mr Kelly died. When I heard a young couple had bought the house, I won’t deny I was apprehensive. I wondered whether they would have loud and frequent parties, but to my relief I couldn’t ask for nicer neighbours.

  I met Sarah at the post office, when I was collecting my pension, and complimented her on the lovely Christmas lights she had laced around the fir tree in the front garden. They’re delightful to look at, especially when the dusk is settling. That was how we got into conversation about the Christmas tree and I told her I regretted not putting one up this year.

  Well, an hour later, there was a knock on the door and it was Simon. Now, between you and me, if I was fifty years younger, he’s exactly the type of man I’d have fallen for. He’s the tall, broad muscular type. Like my own dear John. A manly sort of man, not like these young chaps today who have too much to say for themselves and spend half their lives sitting at computers, with their nets and their twitts, and emails and the like.

  Simon is an electrician. He has his own company and is doing well, even in the recession. His father is a farmer and Simon helps out on the farm. He has the look of it, a real outdoors type with a strong face and the brownest of brown eyes, with a tan that is most certainly not out of a bottle.

  ‘Mrs Kenny,’ he said, standing at my door with his thumbs hooked into his jeans, ‘Sarah told me that you can’t decide about your Christmas tree. If I can be of any use at all, I’d be delighted to help out.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you,’ I said, ‘but I left it too late to buy one now. There’ll only be rubbish left. I’ve always put up a real tree. My late husband had no truck with artificial ones. When I saw the one you have lit up in your garden I got a little nostalgic for one, that’s all. But thank you very much for offering, Simon.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’ He smiled. He had a lovely lopsided smile, just like John had. He waved from the gate and I waved back, warmed by his and Sarah’s kindness. Just before tea, there was a knock at my door. Simon was there, with the most beautiful, perfectly shaped Christmas tree. The scent of it brought back such memories. I felt a terrible pang of loneliness for my beloved husband. The passing years have not eased the sense of loss; at times like Christmas I miss John more than ever. But Simon looked so pleased with himself I hid my sadness from him and opened the door wide.

  ‘I have some lights too, in case all yours aren’t working,’ he told me eagerly, all ready to start decorating.

  I was overwhelmed as he set to, positioning it in the bay window, turning it this way and that for the best angle to show off its glory. Sarah came to help and between us we decorated it from the big box of baubles I had in the attic. They devoured the slices of the baked ham I served them, on thick Vienna roll slathered in butter, which we ate under the luminous glow of the tree, with the fire crackling and flickering in the grate.

  The tree was magnificent, the soft reds, blues, silver and greens of the lanterns reflecting on the baubles as they glistened and shimmered. Despite my feelings of loss and sadness, I was delighted to have a decorated tree and very touched by my young neighbours’ kindness. I sat up until late, admiring it after they had gone. And only when the glow of the embers had dulled to dusty grey did I go to bed.

  ‘Nana you have a real tree!’ My grandchildren were ecstatic when they called on Christmas Eve. They have an artificial tree at home. My daughter has neither the time nor the patience to vacuum up pine needles. The children oohhed and aahhhed, their joyful faces reflected in the shining decorations that swung gaily from the branches. I was reminded of my own children when they were young. Simple pleasures are still the best.

  ‘Mum, I would have put it up for you,’ Charlotte, my daughter, chided.

  ‘I wanted to surprise you,’ I fibbed. ‘Simon and Sarah from next door got it and we put it up together. It was a nice way of getting to know them.’

  ‘How kind!’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s beautiful, just like the ones Dad used to put up.’ We squeezed hands as grief shadowed us momentarily. ‘I was thinking, I could cook dinner here, if you’d like?’ she’d offered. ‘Then we’d all be together. And we could enjoy the tree.’

  ‘Perfect!’ I was delighted with the suggestion. Christmas in my own home after all these years. What could be nicer? I slept like a log that night in my own comfy bed, and looked forward to going to Mass on Christmas morning with my grandchildren, and seeing the crib.

  ‘Mum must have had an inkling,’ I hear Charlotte say to Sarah and Simon. ‘She was so insistent on staying at home this year.’ I gaze down at them as they follow the coffin into the church. My darling John is by my side here, and we watch together as relatives and friends crowd into our small village church.

  I have never been happier. I am young and carefree again. The New Year is one day old. The Christmas lights shimmer in windows around the village, incandescent in the deepening, snowy gloom. My tree glows brightest of all. Charlotte was determined to have it lit for me.

  They’ve given me a terrific funeral. It’s the hymns that have started them all crying. Here I am, Lord, it is I, Lord. I have heard you calling in the night. It nearly makes me cry as the soloist’s pure voice floats from the gallery, the notes dipping and soaring over the heads of the large group of mourners that are kneeling in this small country church where my funeral Mass is being held.

  My funeral! How strange to think that I am ‘dead’ and about to be buried beside my husband, when the reality is that I’m not dead at all.

  It all happened so quickly, really: one minute I was sitting in the armchair by the window doing my crossword, as I did every morning after breakfast, and then I felt a pain in my chest. But even as I crumpled, my mother and John came and held out their hands to me and I felt myself sort of float out of my body as I reached for them. It was the most indescribable feeling. I felt young again. I had no aches, no pains, my eyesight was pe
rfect. I felt reborn almost. I turned to look and got quite a shock I can tell you when I saw myself sitting in the chair. Who was that old woman with the grey hair, head tilted sidways, glasses a little askew, paper slipping out of lifeless hands. Then I realized it was me.

  ‘Am I dead? I must be if I’m with you and John, ‘I said to my mother.

  ‘Not a bit of it. There’s no such thing as death; you’ve just passed beyond the veil of forgetting’ she said laughing, hugging me tightly, and I felt such joy to be with her. My husband smiled at me, held out his arms to me, and my heart melted as I snuggled into his embrace. ‘It was a lovely tree, this year, not as good as mine, but good enough,’ he teased. ‘Next year, we’ll put up the Christmas tree together.’

  VALENTINE’S DAY

  The Angel Of Love

  It was definitely the most comfortable bed that she had ever slept in, Irene O’Shaughnessy decided sleepily, as she snuggled into her cosy hollow and pulled the patchwork quilt, which she had made herself, up over her ears. She would make herself a cuppa in a while. There was no rush to get up. She could lie in bed all morning if she chose. She could do just what she liked. It was pelting rain, drumming on the Velux window in the ensuite in an angry tattoo. She had a great new detective novel to read; what better day than today for a laze in bed with a book.

  The sound of an ambulance siren coming closer followed by a blue flashing light illuminating the grey morning gloom gave her a start. It must be Mrs Andrews again, she thought in dismay, as she slipped out of bed and padded over to the window. Her elderly neighbour, who lived across the road, was in very poor health and had been whisked off to hospital by ambulance just a month ago, a few days after Irene had moved into her new house. How different it was, she mused, living in the city with your neighbours so close to you that you could know what was going on as it was happening rather than hearing about things second-hand at the village post office.

  Irene peeped through the curtains as the drama unfolded and watched as a figure was stretchered into the ambulance, followed by an agitated middle-aged woman sheltering under an umbrella. Irene recognized her as Mrs Andrews’s daughter. The poor woman never had a minute’s peace with her ailing mother. Moments later, the ambulance was gone, siren wailing, and peace descended once more on the small circle of houses known as Sea View Close.

  Irene shivered. She was so lucky to have her health and to be able to enjoy life, unlike her poor stricken neighbour who couldn’t make the most of her lovely new home and pretty garden. She let the curtain fall back into place again and hurried back to the warmth of her bed. She switched on the electric blanket and arranged the pillows cosily around her. The rain battered the windowpane relentlessly, the wind moaned and wailed under the eaves but she was as snug as a bug in a rug with nowhere to go and no one depending on her. It was the greatest feeling in the world, Irene thought with satisfaction, as she stretched languidly and curled her feet up under the hem of her winceyette nightie. She knew that friends and relatives felt sorry for her, thinking that she was lonely living by herself but her widowhood had liberated her. She was as free as a bird.

  Irene sighed. That was a terrible reflection on her marriage. But the truth was, she’d been just as lonely when her husband, Jim was alive. Jim had been a hard worker, a good provider. He’d left her well looked after. There was no denying that. Her lovely new home was proof that her late husband could not be faulted for looking after her material well-being, but the same could not be said for the way Jim had dealt with her emotional needs.

  Her marriage had been such a disappointment, she reflected drowsily. She had started out with such hopes because she really had loved Jim. And at the beginning, she’d felt that he’d loved her. He’d wooed her in his quiet, shy way, taking her for long walks along the winding country roads of Waterford, where they’d both grown up. They’d known each other since childhood but it was only when Jim had become an apprentice to a carpenter in Wexford and left their small village, that Irene had realized how much she missed his quiet, stalwart presence.

  When he’d asked her to go to the pictures with him, one weekend that he was home, she’d been delighted. Jim O’Shaughnessy was a challenge and she wanted him. She was going to bring down those barriers and get under his skin and find out what made him tick. During the following weeks, she’d drawn him out of himself, got him talking about his work, made him laugh and felt slowly but surely that she was getting through his reserve. His grey eyes with their incredibly long, curling lashes would light up when he saw her and the shy smile that curved around his firm, well-shaped mouth always lifted her heart and made her feel incredibly happy.

  When Jim kissed her for the first time, Irene kissed him back with a passion that surprised him.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered, burying her face in his neck.

  ‘Do you?’ he whispered back, holding her tight against him. ‘What do you love me for? Sure, you could have any man you wanted. All the fellows in the village are mad for you.’

  ‘I don’t want any of the fellows in the village. I want you. I’m happy when I’m with you.’

  ‘I’m happy when I’m with you, too. You’re beautiful, Irene.’ Jim blushed a dull red as he said the words with bashful shyness.

  Irene was over the moon with happiness. He loved her as much as she loved him; it was just that he found it hard to say the words. His kisses were passionate and hungry. The kisses of a man in love. What more could she want?

  She would have gone the whole way; it was Jim who’d drawn away and said that he didn’t want to do anything to dishonour her. He respected her too much and besides he didn’t want her father after him with a shotgun, he’d murmured as his breathing returned to normal. Girls who went all the way were considered loose and beyond redemption but, at the time, Irene didn’t care. She just wanted to make love and be as intimate as she possibly could with the strong, virile young man who’d taken over her mind and soul.

  Jim fascinated her. She loved watching him work with his hands, his long fingers caressing a piece of wood as gently as they caressed her. He made beautiful ornaments for her and when he’d given her an intricately carved sandalwood jewellery box with a heart in the middle of the lid, on Valentine’s Day, she’d known that she was loved, even if he had yet to say the words. Irene waited patiently for his proposal. Eighteen months went by, and not a word, until finally, in complete frustration, she’d asked him, ‘Are we going to get married?’

  ‘I suppose so, if that’s what you want.’ He looked away, embarrassed.

  ‘Don’t be too enthusiastic,’ she snapped.

  ‘Don’t be like that, Irene,’ he muttered.

  ‘Do you love me?’ she demanded.

  ‘Ah, for heaven’s sake, woman, don’t be asking me questions like that.’

  ‘Well, do you, Jim? You’ve never said it,’ Irene said heatedly.

  ‘Calm down like a good girl.’ He jammed his hands in his jeans pockets and stared at her.

  ‘Is it so hard to say?’ She couldn’t understand his reticence. She’d tell him that she loved him twenty times a day, except that she knew that it embarrassed him. ‘Is it so hard to say, Jim?’ she repeated when he remained stubbornly silent.

  ‘Yes. For me it is. It’s not my way.’ He paced the floor agitatedly.

  ‘I need you to say it,’ she pleaded.

  He remained stubbornly silent, his jaw jutting out aggressively.

  ‘Do you love me, Jim?’

  ‘I suppose I do. Now are you satisfied?’ he demanded but he took her in his arms and his kiss was tender.

  She’d asked him many times during the first years of their marriage, especially in the precious moments after their lovemaking when she held him in her arms and felt that no one else but them existed in the universe. But he always shushed her and lay silently with his head against her shoulder stroking her long, black hair. Getting him to open up emotionally, to say endearments and to tell her that he loved her was like drawing blo
od from a stone.

  He worked long hours at his trade and when he came in from work, tired, he’d eat the dinner that she put in front of him and then stretch out in his favourite armchair and fall asleep. Irene would be as mad as hell. She’d be dying to talk, to tell him the news of her day. She worked as a legal secretary in Waterford and she loved meeting the clients. She’d want to ask him about his day and who he’d worked for making kitchens or wardrobes or stairs, or bespoke furniture, but all that she would get was a low rumbling snore as he slept in the armchair. Around nine, he’d wake up and head off to the village pub for his nightly pint. He wasn’t a heavy drinker, she never had a problem there, he’d just nurse a pint for an hour or so and then he’d come home and be in bed by half ten, ready for an early start the following morning.

  Gradually, over the years, resentment began to eat her up. Why couldn’t he make the effort, she’d ask him again and again? Why did he not take her needs and feelings into consideration? What was the point in being married if they didn’t share and talk and do things together as a couple?

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, woman! Don’t be bothering me with all this romancy stuff. Don’t we go walking on Sunday afternoons? Don’t I give you every penny I earn? What more do you want?’ was his retort.

  ‘You never tell me that you love me. You never say anything nice to me. Is it so hard, Jim? All I want is for you to talk to me and tell me that you love me now and again.’

  ‘I married you, didn’t I? Let that be the end of it.’

  ‘Yeah, but I had to ask you. You didn’t even have the guts to ask me yourself,’ she’d blurted out one day when she was particularly afflicted with her monthlies.

  ‘And aren’t I sorry I did, if this is the way you’re going to carry on,’ he’d snapped back at her and she’d nearly died. He hated it when she nagged him and he would take off to his shed at the end of the garden where he’d hammer and saw to his heart’s content while she’d be left fuming in the kitchen.