by Alice Taylor
My father always had matches in his pocket to light his pipe and it was his job to light the candle. We gathered in a semi-circle around the window where the candle rested on the deep sill. The world outside was dark, and when my father cracked a match the flame was reflected in the window pane. When he put it to the candle, at first the wick spluttered and blackened but then it slowly reddened and a yellow flame kindled and rose upwards. Its reflection glowed in the window and another family looked in at us.
My mother had the bottle of holy water ready and she sprinkled us liberally, which brought a protest from my father: “Len, are you trying to bless us or drown us?”
I licked up the salty spatter of holy water that had landed on my chin and watched the first tiny stream of candle grease run down on to the holly. The lighted candle was the symbol that Christmas was finally here. The magic of Christmas was out in the moonlit haggard with the cattle and down the fields with the sheep, but most of all it was here in the holly-filled kitchen with the little battered crib under the tree and the tall candle lighting in the window. The candle was the light of Christmas and the key that opened the door into the holy night.
Then we gathered around the table and as we tucked in we were like our geese in the haggard after the threshing. The first onslaught over, my mother decided to cut the Christmas cake. She had on a new bib which she very aptly termed her “coat-overall” and the starched cotton folds crackled as she rose to bend over the cake. The hard icing resisted her efforts and my father asked, much to my sister’s annoyance, “Will we bring in the sledge?” But soon the first dark cut emerged and we discovered that heavy fruit cake was not to be scoffed with the same abandon as the other cakes. At last we were all creaking at the seams. My father withdrew to his seat by the fire and we washed up the ware in a tin pan on the corner of the table. One of us washed, another dried and the third stacked them back into the kitchen press. We made no delay because we wanted to bring the gramophone down out of the parlour and the time to do this was when we had cleared away after the supper. Then my brother went to town for confession. We had gone the previous Saturday but he considered himself too big to go with the children.
The place for the gramophone was up on the corner of the table that held the Christmas tree, and as soon as it was in position we started to play our new records, my father warning us not to wind it too tightly and break the spring. If that happened we would be in right trouble because it would mean the bleak prospect of a Christmas without the gramophone. All the records got trial runs, and as the night progressed a favourite emerged in the form of “Come Back, Paddy Reilly, to Ballyjamesduff ”.
My mother once told me that when I was born,
The day that I first saw the light,
I looked down the street on that very first morn,
And gave a great crow of delight.
Now most new born babies appear in a huff,
And start with a sorrowful squall,
But I knew I was born in Ballyjamesduff,
And that’s why I smiled at them all.
The baby’s a man, now he’s toil-worn and tough,
Still, whispers come over the sea,
“Come back, Paddy Reilly, to Ballyjamesduff,
“Come home, Paddy Reilly, to me.”
This was played constantly until my father began to regret that his mother had not drowned Paddy Reilly in his baby bath water; even my mother decided that her eardrums needed a break and suggested lemonade and biscuits. It was only at Christmas that we had this treat, so we lined up eagerly as my father forced the tin tops off with the bottle opener; then we sat around the fire sipping and slugging out of the bottles and helping ourselves from the plate of biscuits on the table. My father, Uncle Andy and Dan drank porter, which my mother poured into glasses with sugar; then my father plunged a hot poker into the cold black porter and it frothed up and ran down the sides of the glasses. It smelt gorgeous, and when my mother was not looking Uncle Andy gave me a sip, but it tasted horrid and I was glad to go back to my lemonade.
My brother arrived home as we were having our lemonade and he had a brown parcel under his arm which immediately started an inquisition. He held us in suspense for a long time, baiting our curiosity, but in the end he took off the brown paper and inside was a box of chocolates. What a box of chocolates! It was the first to find its way into our house. Long, sleek and golden with the name written in darker gold writing. It spelt out Urney, and when I ran my fingers over the letters they were slightly raised and felt like velvet. We smelt it and we felt it. It was something from another world!
The explanation of how he had got this unaccustomed luxury delighted my mother much more than the box itself.
“Arthur O’Keeffe is home from America: I met him in town,” he told her. She was delighted and it seemed to add to the charm of the box that her cousin Arthur was home and had bought it for us. We children did not care where it had come from, only that it was here and waiting to be opened. As my brother was the recipient, he got the honour of doing the opening. When he eased off the outer wrapper the box beneath was a replica, and when he lifted up the cover there was dark brown glossy paper covering the hidden treasure. When this was turned back a soft white pad appeared with gold lettering and beneath, in sunken sections, lay rows and rows of chocolates, some wearing gold and silver wrappings. When we had satisfied our visual senses it was time to taste; they looked so perfect that I felt it was a shame to take one out, but still my mouth was watering in anticipation. The white pad which told the story of each chocolate was consulted before decisions were made. My choice was big and smooth in my mouth and then it melted slowly and its coffee contents poured out over my tongue: it was gorgeous! After the first free round they were rationed and the box placed on top of the radio in full view of everybody, so that even distribution would be guaranteed at regular intervals.
My mother hung the kettle over the fire and brought a big red glass bowl from the parlour and placed it on the kitchen table, where she lined it with the left-over swiss roll and broken biscuits. We tore up squares of red jelly, dropping them into a white enamel jug; when the kettle was steaming my mother poured the boiling water over the jelly and we took our turns at swirling it around in the hot water until it melted; then my mother poured it into the red bowl where the swiss roll and biscuits soaked it up.
My father lit the storm lantern and went out to see the cows and when he came back in he sat in front of the fire and slowly unlaced his heavy leather boots. Sometimes he paused and gazed into the fire and I sensed that his thoughts were of other Christmas nights and the people who were gone with them. He did not say anything, but after my chat with Mrs Casey I knew that Christmas held many memories for him. Then it was time to say the rosary, and as my father slid to his knees and rested his elbows on the súgán chair, I sensed that he was glad of this period of quiet reflection. I knelt inside the candle-lit window and out there I saw Mary and Joseph on their way to the stable.
Once the rosary was over my father, after winding the clock, headed for bed, telling us as he went that if Santa came by and we were still up he would keep going. Faced with this terrible possibility we sat on the warm flagstone before the fire and unlaced our boots and eased off our long black stockings. The fire had burnt low in front of the Christmas log, which crackled gently, sighed and sent a soft white smoke drifting up the chimney. I looked up after the smoke and imagined that I could see a red boot coming down. As we put our stockings across the crane, the certainty that later that night while we were sound asleep upstairs the wonderful figure of Santa would actually come down this chimney and step from the crane on to the spot where we were now standing was a thrilling prospect. The stockings were arranged and rearranged until finally my mother gently intervened and advised on the best layout; as they all hung there they presented a picture of great expectations.
Then, bearing a candle and sconce, we went upstairs to bed.
Christmas
BECAUSE
IT WAS cold that night, my mother lit a fire in the small iron grate beneath the white mantelpiece in the bedroom. We sat on the floor around it in our long flannelette night-dresses, our bare feet lined along the top of the black fender, warming our toes and wondering if Santa would make a detour off the main chimney and peep in at us on his way down to the kitchen, where our stockings were hanging off the black crane over the fire.
I had watched Black Ned sweep the chimney, so I knew that the way downward was clean and ready to welcome Santa when his sleigh parked on top of our roof. Ours was a real Santa Claus chimney: because it was wide he would have no difficulty in getting in at the top, and down along were iron brads to act as footholds. The only thing that worried me slightly was the fact that he might get some of the fresh soot on his lovely red suit, but I decided that Santa probably did not mind just a little bit of soot. Sitting on the bare, fawn mat in front of the fire, we watched imaginary pictures fade and reappear in the red sods of turf between the iron bars of the narrow grate. I saw the donkey with Our Lady on his back climbing a steep hill; the sods shifted, that picture disappeared and Santa sped into view, and then he was gone and I saw a full stocking hanging off a crane. We took our turns describing what we had seen. The fine turf ashes beneath the high grate glowed and with the long poker we drew sketches of Santa on his way across the sky to us. Our minds were full of the wonder that during this very night his mysterious figure was going to be really here in our own house.
A candle in a white enamel sconce sat on the mantelpiece above us and joined the firelight in casting shadows along the low timber ceiling. We were reluctant to leave the pool of warmth before the fire, to run across the icy-cold lino on the floor and into the still colder beds. But the thought that Santa might come and look in the window and pass on because we were not in bed forced our decision.
The last in the race to the two big iron beds under the sloping roof had to dash back and quench the candle. The top of the wick glowed red for a few seconds in the darkness and its smouldering smell and that of the hot candle-grease filled the room. The dying fire sighed in the grate and its orange glow was the only light in the pitch-blackness of the bedroom. We pulled the heavy quilts up under our chins and burrowed our bottoms and heels into the soft feather ticks, bouncing the spring bases up and down to keep ourselves warm.
Our whispered conversation gradually faded and I started to doze off with my eyes on the door in the far corner, thinking that Santa might come up from the kitchen just to peep in at us. Then I jerked myself awake and sat up to check on the fireplace, bringing a squeal of protest from my sister because I had let the cold in around her. But there was no Santa peering down the chimney. Then through the black bars of the iron bed I watched the window in case he might look in that way. Despite my visual journey around the room, sleep got the better of me and I drifted off, thinking that Santa’s face was smiling down at me between the twisted timber knots in the low ceiling.
When I awoke the room was full of darkness and absolute silence. I listened and tried to detect from the breathing beside me and from the bed across the room if anyone else was awake, but it was impossible to be sure. I wondered if it was still the middle of the night, but then from the hen-house in the yard the cock crew loud and clear. It was morning.
“Anyone awake?” I whispered.
“I am,” came a voice from the other side.
“Will we go down and see what he brought?”
The answer was a ghostly figure in a long white night-dress rising out of the other bed and jumping on to the floor with a thud. She felt her way along by the wall and opened the door and the loose brass knob rattled and woke our other two sisters. We groped our way in the darkness along the narrow landing, under the skylight which glinted with grey frost and threw an eerie light down the high, narrow stairs. We trooped down silently, breathless with anticipation, and I was glad of the comfortable warmth of the kitchen where the Christmas log still glowed under the crane; it was a welcome change from the chilly upstairs regions.
Bulging stockings hung off the crane and interesting looking packets lay on the floor beside the bellows. We forced the lumps out of the stockings, squealing with delight as oranges, crayons and coloured pencils popped forth. Then the packets on the floor yielded story books, snakes-and-ladders, ludo, two jumpers and a new school bag. I searched around through the discarded stockings and papers, hoping that the doll that I had written to Santa for was buried in the debris, but after a few minutes I gave up hope. A stab of disappointment shot through me: I had been so sure he would bring one. But when I picked up my school sack and put my nose deep into it to absorb the gorgeous smell of the fresh leather, inside I discovered a little green cloth doll with black button eyes. He was soft and cuddly and I immediately christened him Patsy. Santa had not let me down after all!
We sat on the floor playing snakes-and-ladders and tried out the new crayons in the light of the Christmas candle, which had stood overnight in the big turnip in the window. As the hands of the eight-day clock on the wall moved on towards seven o’clock, two of us went reluctantly back upstairs to get ready to walk the three miles to eight o’clock Mass in the town.
We burst into our parents’ room to show them what Santa had brought and were surprised that they were not more surprised by what we had got. My sister put on the new red jumper, which had a row of small white ducks across the front of it. I envied her a little but put Patsy into the pocket of my coat, and as my fingers curled around him, I decided that he was better than any row of white ducks.
When we opened the door we gasped as the cold early morning air hit us like an icy cloth across the face. The pathway out through the garden was covered with a hard black frost and our leather shoes clattered over the slippery stones. We peered in through the kitchen window at our sisters still playing on the floor inside. The red-berry holly glistened in the candlelight and a stream of candle-grease like a giant icicle had formed overnight on the turnip. Next year it would be the turn of our other two sisters to go to the early Mass and to come home to mind the goose that my mother would put into the bastable over the fire, to cook slowly while she was at Mass. The goose now sat in the green dish inside the window waiting for the next stage of her journey on to the Christmas table.
As we walked up the hilly, winding boreen that led from our farmhouse to the road, I was glad that we were out early on that Christmas morning. The stars sparkled high in a dark blue sky and Christmas candles saluted us from the windows of the houses on the hills that stretched away into the Kerry mountains. We were alone out there in that quiet countryside. The silence was impressive and we felt part of this solitary world. On an ordinary morning the hills would have been covered in a blanket of darkness, but Christmas morning was different because the candles lit up the hills and the valleys as far as we could see.
As we walked along we strained our ears for the sound of horse’s hooves, which would mean a lift in a horse and trap to shorten the journey. But no sound broke the silence, and as we walked together we discussed the wonders of Santa and I held Patsy firmly in my pocket where no cold could touch him and my sister felt the ribbed edge of her new red juniper that peeped down the sleeves of her coat. No one in the world was as wonderful as Santa that morning and as we walked along we stopped when we reached gaps in the ditches to look across the moonlit countryside to see if he was still doing his rounds.
When we arrived in town the streets were deserted, but as we walked up the steep hill to the church we were joined by people hurrying in the same direction. After the darkness outside we blinked in the blaze of light inside, and the high white marble altar, which normally looked cold and remote, was bright and festive with red-berry holly. From the choir high up in the gallery came waves of exuberant Christmas carols, while peals of organ music vibrated off the arching rafters. I knew very few of the carols but still loved to listen, joining in with the bits that I did know. Fr Roche, our grey-haired parish priest, wished us all a happy
Christmas and welcomed home the emigrants, whom I recognised easily because they were more smartly dressed than the rest of us.
There was a long line for communion, including ourselves, and we had been fasting since before midnight. I became restless waiting for Mass to be over because I wanted to visit the crib. Deep in my pocket I had two big brown pennies to drop into the timber box. When Mass was finally over we made our way down the red quarry-tiled church to the stable sheltered in the corner under the gallery steps. We peered in over the golden straw at the donkey and cow at the back with the shepherds, and at Our Lady and St Joseph. I felt a bit sorry for St Joseph because he looked frail and bald and I thought that he was maybe a bit too old for his new responsibility. Our Lady was young and beautiful and I hoped that she would be kind to Joseph. But it was the baby we both wanted to see. There he lay with outstretched arms, smiling up at us, and I thought that Our Lady should have more clothes on him as the morning was so cold. But he looked as happy as I felt. I closed my eyes and wished him “Happy Birthday” and dropped his present of my two big brown pennies into his box.
