I’ll be home for Christmas

by Roisin Meaney

  And the long and the short of the whole thing was that they’d been landed with Mr Whatshisname, who turned out to be from America, for two nights, until he was due to leave the island. Laura couldn’t bring herself to say no to poor Henry, who kept a stack of leaflets advertising the donkey rides on the hotel reception desk all through summer. She supposed it was a bit like Mary and Joseph looking for a place to stay in Bethlehem: she couldn’t be like the no-room-at-the-inn ones who’d refused to give them shelter.

  Mind you, her guest wasn’t anywhere near as nice as she imagined the other two to have been. He didn’t seem at all thrilled to have got a room at her inn. In fact, he looked as enthusiastic at the prospect of staying with them as Laura felt – and to be fair, he had good reason to be put out. Not only, she learned, had he been woken in the small hours by over half of the hotel roof being wrenched off, doing a fair bit of damage to his bedroom ceiling in the process, but his luggage had somehow managed to get lost in the subsequent kerfuffle, and was being urgently sought by hotel staff, who were no doubt feeling every bit as harassed as the suitcase’s owner.

  It must have been delivered to someone else by mistake, said poor Henry, who kept glancing at his watch, and who really did look at the end of his tether. I’m sure it’ll turn up in no time at all – and of course it would, Roone being far too small for a missing suitcase to stay missing for long.

  By now the boys had migrated to the scullery, where Laura knew they were craning to see what was going on outside, and the girls, still in the princess dresses that Santa had brought, were squabbling over crayons, having apparently forgotten about the animal tragedy, and Charlie was under the table finding fallen bits of sausage from earlier, and Gavin had yet to return with Dr Jack for Gladys, who might well have passed away peacefully by now, unattended by anyone.

  Thank God for Nell, who appeared like a mirage at the scullery door and bundled all five children into jackets and ushered them and Charlie back to her house for ‘Christmas surprises’, leaving Laura free to see Henry off the premises and show Mr Newcomer to his quarters – Lord, what on earth had Henry called him? She couldn’t admit she’d forgotten his name: he was bad enough. She brought him to the second-best guest room (Gladys, naturally, was in the best) figuring that the man probably deserved a bit of pampering after what he’d been through.

  And while she was putting sheets on his bed and stuffing pillows into cases and finding towels for his bathroom – you’d think he’d offer to help all the same, instead of scowling out the window while she worked: it wasn’t as if he’d lost the use of his limbs, just had a bit of plaster fall onto his bed – Gavin finally arrived back with Dr Jack, allowing Laura to make her escape, and let him sulk alone.

  Do check out our library in the sitting room, just by the front door, she suggested. Unlike Gladys, he might appreciate the old books. Make yourself a snack in the kitchen if you’re peckish, just have a rummage in the fridge – wondering, as she spoke, what there actually was in the fridge that might constitute a snack. Cheese, maybe. Tub of yogurt.

  I’ll be serving Christmas dinner at six, she told him. I’ll give you a shout. She left the room swiftly before he could tell her he was vegetarian, or lactose intolerant or something. And he’d eat in the kitchen with the rest of them: he needn’t think she was going to cart trays into the dining room.

  And now it was heading for eleven, and it looked like Gladys wasn’t about to shake off her mortal coil anytime soon, and none of them was going to get to Mass for Christmas this year. Pity: she liked the church on Christmas Day, all decked out in holly and ivy and whatever bit of colour Maisie Kiely and her cohorts had been able to scavenge from the island’s bushes and fields.

  She enjoyed seeing the women dressed in their finery, the farmers and fishermen of Roone scrubbed and polished for Christmas, the children still bubbling with the excitement of Santa. Above all, she never tired of Father William taking the phone call from the North Pole midway through the proceedings, as he always did.

  The first time she’d witnessed it, their first Christmas on Roone, she’d been appalled. A mobile phone rang just after the sermon, and she wondered who’d forgotten to silence it – and then Father William broke off the prayers with an abashed face. I’m terribly sorry, he said, but I’d better see who this is – and he hunted about in his vestments and pulled out the ringing phone.

  Really, Laura thought indignantly, that’s a bit much – and she looked around to see if anyone else disapproved, but nobody seemed at all put out, which she found unbelievable. Didn’t anybody mind that a mobile phone – the priest’s mobile phone – was disrupting the Mass, on Christmas Day of all days?

  Hello? Father William said – and immediately his troubled face cleared. Oh, it’s you! he cried, and lots of smiling and nodding and yes, yes-ing followed, while Laura continued to fume silently. The nerve of him, to carry on a conversation just like that – and to think she’d liked him. To think they’d given him a trio of potted hyacinths for Christmas.

  And then he said, Hang on, they’re all here, I’ll just ask them – and he held the phone to his chest and told them it was Santa, just arrived back at the North Pole and wondering if they were all happy with their presents.

  It was so perfectly executed, the pretence fooling Laura completely. She looked at her boys’ enchanted faces, at all the happily surprised children around her, at the smiling parents who’d known what was coming – and she thought yet again how glad she was that they’d decided to relocate to Roone.

  And every Christmas the same trick fooled the island children afresh. It was as if they entered into a conspiracy each January to wipe the previous phone call from their collective consciousness. They were as newly charmed by the ruse each time it happened – and as she came to be familiar with the benevolent magic of Roone, Laura thought it wasn’t outside the bounds of possibility that their memories of the call had indeed been gently erased by whatever force was at work on the island.

  Of course, Santa wouldn’t be able to phone this year, not with the lines down. But he’d contact them another way, she was sure. A letter might be delivered by someone running excitedly up the aisle in the middle of the proceedings, saying he’d found it in a bottle washed up on the beach, or dropped by a seagull on the road outside the church – and the surprise would delight the children like it always did.

  After seeing the doctor off the premises, and before Gavin returned to the business of restoring order in the field, Laura told him about their unexpected guest. The news didn’t go down well.

  ‘What? Henry landed someone in on top of us, just like that? On Christmas Day? As if we don’t have enough to cope with.’

  ‘Gavin, the man was desperate – half the roof blew off the hotel last night and he has to rehouse all his guests. He kept apologising.’

  Gavin wasn’t mollified. Of course he wasn’t, his mind still on his dead animals, and his mother who might have had a mini-stroke, or possibly a heart attack. Still, there wasn’t much point in kicking up a fuss.

  ‘Well, it’s done now. I’ve taken him in, and that’s all there is to it.’

  ‘I’m only thinking of you,’ he said. ‘The extra work.’

  ‘I’ll manage,’ she told him. ‘You should get back to the others’ – and he turned and walked out without another word. She watched him go, remembering too late that she’d forgotten to thank him for the necklace. Some Christmas this was turning out to be.

  The tree looked woefully shabby in the daylight. They really must invest in a few new baubles, and maybe a string of decent lights for next year. She plumped cushions, straightened rugs, ran a duster around the place, retrieved a forgotten plate from the floor by an armchair, got the Hoover from under the stairs and plugged it in before remembering that the power was out.

  She cleared the ashes from the grate and brought them to the metal bin that stood near the gate into the field. The air was icy and calm, not a puff of wind – no wind left to puff after
yesterday. Her steps crunched on the frosty grass. She tipped the ashes into the bin and paused to survey the scene of last night’s calamity, shoulders hunched against the cold.

  One small corner of the shed was still standing; the rest had collapsed beneath the fallen tree, and was still pretty much inaccessible. Jim Barnes was in the process of dismembering the trunk with his chainsaw, section by section; the others were hauling the chunks away and piling them up by the far hedge. The rest of the orchard seemed mercifully intact, none of the other trees affected by the fallen one. It would leave a sad space behind though.

  Hugh spotted her and walked across, brushing leaves and twigs from his jacket. ‘I’ll come in and get a bag,’ he said, ‘and gather up the apples. You may as well have them.’

  Everyone on Roone knew about the tree that bore fruit most of the year, and everyone accepted it as just another of the island idiosyncrasies. ‘How soon before you can get the animals out?’ Laura asked as they walked back together to the house.

  ‘Hard to say. It’s slow work – and even when the tree is cleared there’ll be the blocks to shift … There’s more help on the way, though. Jim met Dougie and Leo on his way here. They’re coming later, and they’ll bring anyone else they can get.’

  ‘People are very good, on Christmas Day too.’

  He shrugged. ‘We help each other out, that’s all.’

  ‘I know … I suppose there’s no hope that any of the animals survived?’

  He shook his head. ‘Not under that lot, I’m afraid. They wouldn’t have had a hope. It’s an awful shame.’

  Laura gave him her shopping basket for apples and brought firelighters and kindling inside, and started a new fire in the sitting room. She picked up the empty coal scuttle and carried it out to refill it – and almost collided with a fully dressed Gladys outside the door.

  ‘What are you doing up? The doctor told you to stay in bed.’

  ‘Oh, I couldn’t, I’d be a nuisance to everyone. Anyway, I wouldn’t get a bit of sleep with that chainsaw.’ Gladys eyed the scuttle. ‘You have the fire lit?’

  ‘Just this minute.’

  ‘I’ll pop in there then. I’ll sit quietly and bother no one. I think I left my knitting in there last night.’

  ‘You did – I put it on the sideboard.’

  ‘Thank you, dear, that’s all I want. I suppose we’ve missed Mass – was the eleven o’clock the only one?’

  ‘It was, I’m afraid.’

  A martyred sigh. ‘On Christmas morning too. I’ve never missed Mass at Christmas before.’

  Nor had the rest of them. ‘Would you eat a bit of breakfast?’

  ‘Ah no – although I suppose I should keep my strength up. Maybe just something small, with the big dinner ahead of us.’

  ‘What about a boiled egg?’

  ‘That’d be nice … or maybe I’d manage a sausage, and a small rasher if you have it, and if you could scramble the egg, you know I don’t care for them fried. And a bit of toast, I think, just the one slice. I can come out when it’s ready, if you like – or you could bring it in, if it’s easier.’

  ‘You stay put. I’ll bring it in.’

  Easier to leave her parked in the sitting room, out of everyone’s way. It occurred to Laura, as she took the frying pan out of the sink, that Gladys hadn’t enquired about the fallen tree, or the fate of the animals in the demolished shed. Not a single question.

  Could she possibly have forgotten? Might Dr Jack be right in his suggestion of a mini-stroke, one that might have affected her memory?

  And then she thought: No, of course Gladys hadn’t forgotten. She’d mentioned the chainsaw: she knew exactly what was going on. No interest then, no concern for anything that happened outside her own selfish little orbit. Some things didn’t change.

  She made the breakfast, reminding herself that it was the season of goodwill to all men, and mothers-in-law. Approaching the sitting-room door, she was surprised to hear voices within. Who on earth—? And then she remembered Mr Scowling Visitor, who must have found his way to the sitting room, and who had now been thrown into the company of one Mrs Gladys Connolly: let’s see how that went.

  ‘Well, I must say—’ Gladys broke off as Laura entered. ‘My dear, you never told me we had a guest. Mr Kawalski has just been telling me of his terrible ordeal in the hotel last night.’

  Kawalski: that was it. And look at Gladys – the woman was practically glowing, the knitting bag thrust aside in honour of her companion. Ankles crossed demurely, hands clasped together in her lap. Butter wouldn’t melt.

  ‘Thank you so much, dear,’ she said, as Laura set the tray on a little table by her chair. ‘I’m an awful nuisance to her,’ she added, twinkling at Mr Kawalski, who sat across the fireplace from her with a face as long as a horse’s. Didn’t look like he was quite as captivated by Gladys as she appeared to be by him.

  ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ Laura asked him, wondering if she was going to spend the day running around after the two of them, but to her relief, he shook his head and told her he was good.

  ‘At least have some tea,’ Gladys said, ‘and then I won’t feel too shy about eating my breakfast in front of you. Laura won’t mind bringing in another cup, will you, dear?’

  ‘Not at all.’ It wasn’t as if she had anything else to do today.

  ‘I guess …’ he said doubtfully – and when Laura returned with the cup he was examining the shelves of books, and Gladys was telling him that her son was very proud of his collection, making it sound like Gavin had put the library together all by himself. Not a mention of a silver fish now, no talk of the books smelling up the room. Say nothing, Laura told herself, and left them to it.

  In the kitchen she boiled the kettle again and made a cup of green tea, relishing the unaccustomed emptiness of the place. She sat on the bench by the window, picturing the boys there the night before, remembering how they’d looked out at the storm and worried that Santa would crash his sleigh. Bless them, bless their innocence: they wouldn’t have it for much longer.

  She sipped tea, her eyelids heavy, listening to the intermittent drone of the chainsaw outside. A nap would be wonderful, but out of the question with the children returning at any time, and two visitors in the other room. She’d soldier on, and hopefully get a reasonably early night.

  She finished her tea. She stretched her arms above her head and yawned. Shame not to just stretch out on the bench for a few minutes, even if there wasn’t time for a nap.

  She was awakened by the children bursting into the kitchen, the girls eager to show her the paper swans James had made for them, the boys clamouring for a place to hang the rings board that Nell had given them, Poppy beaming at her from Nell’s arms. Laura checked the time and was amazed to find that over an hour had passed since she’d lain down.

  ‘I would have held on to them for longer only Colette has just this minute arrived,’ Nell told her. ‘Would you believe she stayed in O’Loughlin’s in Kilmally last night – they got someone to bring her across just now. Oh, and I heard Con Maher found a door, of all things, on the beach this morning when he went for his swim.’

  ‘A door?’

  ‘The storm must have ripped it off an outhouse or something. And James told me about Gladys – how is she?’

  Laura lit the oven before reclaiming Poppy. ‘Fine, apparently. She’s in the sitting room talking to the hotel guest that Henry delivered to us earlier. You heard the roof was damaged?’

  ‘Oh dear, I did, Colette said it’s in a right state. Poor Henry. And you’ve been saddled with one of his guests – will you cope?’

  ‘Doesn’t look like I have a choice, does it? At least I have the space – and of all dinners, the Christmas one can stretch to feed a few more.’ Just then the doorbell rang again, making Charlie bark as usual. Laura made a face. ‘Lord, that better not be another refugee.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Nell said, opening the back door. ‘Shout if you need anything.’
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  ‘I will – thanks for the break.’ When she’d gone Laura turned to the children. ‘Wait here,’ she ordered. ‘Remember what Dad said: no going out in the garden. Ben and Seamus, take off the girls’ jackets please.’

  ‘Can we just hang the board for the rings?’

  ‘No – jackets first.’

  She went out to the hall, Poppy still in her arms, just in time to hear Mr Kawalski snap: ‘That’s not my suitcase. Can’t you goddamn people get anything right around here?’ and slam the front door loudly, causing Poppy to burst immediately into startled tears.

  Laura was outraged. ‘You rude man!’ she cried, above Poppy’s wails. ‘How dare you slam the door – my door – in anyone’s face! Look what you’ve done to my daughter!’

  His mouth dropped open. She took advantage of his speechlessness – momentary, she was sure – to reach past him and open the door again.

  A tall, slender teenage girl stood there, a look of bewilderment on her pale face, her lips blue with cold. She wore a navy jacket that didn’t look warm enough for the weather, and a green scarf that might be silk. Black jeans, black ankle boots. Beside her sat a large suitcase covered with thin stripes of blue and beige, an Aer Lingus label looped around its handle.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Laura said, wondering how long she’d been working for Henry. He hadn’t mentioned taking on anyone new, least of all someone not even from the island. ‘It seems the case doesn’t belong to this gentleman’ – laying special emphasis on the word, hoping he’d recognise the heavy sarcasm. ‘Perhaps if he gave you a description—’

  ‘I gave a description,’ he muttered. ‘I filled out a goddamn form—’

  Laura spun towards him. ‘Watch your language,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s quite clear your description didn’t get passed on to this young lady, who’s only trying to do her job – so you might trouble yourself to let her know what she’s looking for.’