The Mistletoe Matchmaker

by Felicity Hayes-McCoy

  With dinner prepared and ready to be assembled, Brian joined Hanna by the fire. ‘Look, just in case you were wondering, I’m not going to say a word.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Hanna. You’re going to make up your mind about where you’ll spend Christmas eventually, and until then we have two logical choices. To avoid the subject or to avoid each other. I’m damned if I’m going to keep away when I could be with you. Any more than I’m going to go round treading on eggs.’

  Stung by a pang of guilt, Hanna snapped at him: ‘Oh, great! So you’re going to play the martyr instead?’ As soon as she’d spoken, she reached out her hand. ‘Oh, Brian, I’m sorry. That was fatuous. I know I should be giving you an answer. I just . . . don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Which is exactly why neither of us should say anything. Leave it, Hanna. I’ve told you before, I’m not one of your lame ducks that needs looking after.’ Suddenly he smiled. ‘Or, put it another way, I’m buggered if you’re going to treat me as if I’m your mother. Or Jazz. Or Conor and Aideen. I don’t want to be added to your guilt-list. I want you to come if you want to come. And if you don’t want to, that’s fine.’

  26

  ‘So! As chair of the Winter Fest Committee, I’d like to call this meeting to order and address the first item on the agenda, which is . . .’ Phil checked her paperwork conscientiously ‘. . . The Chair’s Report!’

  Bríd picked up her pencil. She’d intended to record the minutes on her phone, but her neighbour at the table had told her she was mad. ‘Transcription’s a mug’s game, lovey. Get your action points down there next to your agenda items, and make the rest up later when you’re writing up your minutes.’

  Slightly shocked, Bríd had been about to argue when she realised that only a mug would be sitting here taking minutes without knowing how she’d landed the job. At the call for volunteers, everyone else had begun scrutinising their paperwork while she, who’d never been on a committee before, had looked up at the sound of Phil’s voice. The next thing she knew, Phil had fixed her with a triumphant eye and, before she could take in what had happened, everyone else was clapping. Presumably, in the interval, her appointment as secretary had been proposed and seconded, but it had all happened so quickly that she’d hardly had time to blink.

  So now she’d probably do well to listen to advice from her neighbour, a large countrywoman who was explaining in a loud whisper that she’d always done decorations for the Christmas Fête. ‘I wouldn’t go climbing on chairs, mind. But I’d keep an eye on the paper chains and see they got rolled up right.’

  Phil gathered her papers into a pile and banged it briskly on the table. ‘So! The Chair’s Report! Well, you’ll all be glad to know that things have moved on considerably. Which means that there’s good news and bad news, but isn’t that always the way?’

  Bríd found herself idiotically scribbling ‘good news’ and ‘bad news’, before catching her neighbour’s eye and firmly putting her pencil down.

  ‘The bad news is that Carrick and Ballyfin are going to be pretty stiff competition. Carrick’s got a celebrity presenter from RTÉ for their opening ceremony, and Ballyfin are planning a Snow Queen‒themed tea dance, held in the Harbour Hotel. The good news is that when our date came out of the hat, it turned out to be Christmas Eve!’

  That didn’t sound like unmixed good news to Bríd. If their event was the last in the competition, wouldn’t people have spent their money at the other ones first? And hadn’t most people got their Christmas presents bought by the twenty-fourth?

  On the other hand, it probably wasn’t a bad date for those, like herself and Aideen, who’d be selling fresh produce. No one was ever averse to an extra cake or some homemade cookies at the last minute. In fact, people seemed to go mad on Christmas Eve, when it came to food. They’d be out buying all round them, as if the fact that shops closed on Christmas Day meant they’d never open again.

  Around the table lips were pursed and heads were shaking. It was clear that the people with craftwork and gifts to sell weren’t impressed.

  Before anyone could speak, Phil waded in again: ‘So Lady Luck is on our side so far. And we have a unique setting here in the Old Convent Centre, and ours will be a Winter Fest wholly focused on what we uniquely provide.’

  A woman at the end of the table raised her hand. ‘I’m not certain that all of us know what that entails. The Christmas Fête has always been about raising money for charity.’

  ‘It has, of course, Mrs Draper. And you yourself have chaired it with great energy down through the years. Naturally that will remain an essential focus. But the central focus of the Winter Fest will be on what makes Lissbeg uniquely great.’

  The woman raised her eyebrows and said that what had made the Christmas Fête great was the amount it had raised for charity.

  Various members of the redundant fête committee nodded their heads. Mrs Draper, who was now on a roll, said that this year they’d been planning to donate to the homeless refuge in Carrick.

  Phil bared her teeth and said that was a brilliant idea. Perhaps it could be tweaked, though, and focused more on Lissbeg?

  ‘Well, it could, of course, if Lissbeg had a homeless refuge. Or a homelessness problem. But I doubt if we’ll be able to whip up either of them in a matter of weeks.’

  There was a pause in which Phil visibly controlled herself and Mrs Draper pointed a commanding finger at Bríd. ‘“Down through the years” is not an expression that accurately describes my previous position as an elected chairwoman of Lissbeg’s Christmas Fête. I served three terms but I’m not exactly Methuselah.’

  As something was obviously expected of her, Bríd wrote down ‘Methoosala’, squinted at it uncertainly, and hastily crossed it out.

  Phil adjusted her zebra-patterned specs. Mrs Draper was quite right, she said, and if apologies were in order, she’d be happy to have them recorded.

  Mrs Draper inclined her head majestically. But before Bríd could record anything Phil was off again.

  ‘Now, I understand that the Christmas Fête has always had a raffle. And I’m sure that if we add online ticket sales to our package, we can really ramp that up. In the past, I know, the committee has gone out and rustled up fabulous prizes. So that’s a definite action point for today.’

  Bríd’s neighbour dug her in the ribs and nodded at her pencil, and one of the women beside Mrs Draper said that they always used to start by traipsing round shops and businesses. ‘I’d say the crowd of us that did it before could go round do it again. You never get the same result by just making phone calls. And, God knows, by this stage, we’ve all developed hard necks!’

  Phil waved an authoritative hand at Bríd. ‘Perfect! The Christmas Fête ladies will concentrate on the raffle, then. And we’ll hope to hear great things about it when next we meet!’

  She swept on, listing the number of Lissbeg businesses who’d agreed to take part in the Winter Fest, and saying that everyone involved would be putting large posters in their windows and, hopefully, bumper stickers on their cars. ‘By the time we meet again, our official logo will be out there. And the web page will be live. It’ll be a special section within the Edge of the World website, so we’ll encourage the judges to toggle to and fro and take in our wider picture. The subliminal message is that we’re a four-season destination. Utterly focused on winter, in this instance, naturally. But, essentially, attractive to tourists all year round.’

  The fact that not everyone was happy about that idea had obviously been dismissed.

  A quiet-looking girl, who ran a graphics company, put up her hand and asked about the logo. ‘I mean, do we have a working party, or an approval committee? Do we put it out to tender or . . . I dunno . . . how do we plan to generate the design?’

  ‘I am so glad you asked that question! The really good news is that I’ve spoken to the council’s Tourist Officer, and he’s in complete agreement that getting behind the Winter Fest is a positive use of my time.
So, design, posters and all related marketing issues can be handled right here in the Old Convent Centre. At no cost of anyone else’s time and incurring no expense!’

  A forest of hands shot up around the table but Phil kept on regardless: ‘And that truly is wonderful news, isn’t it? Because we certainly don’t want to have to deduct vast expenses from the money we raise for those poor homeless souls.’

  27

  Pat mostly got her books out from the library, so there wasn’t much in the way of shelves in the flat. When the lads were young they’d have schoolbooks up in their bedrooms and, after a while, Ger had a few shelves put up there. They’d come down since, though, when the rooms were done over, and now the few books in the house were kept in a glass-fronted press in the kitchen, in amongst old ornaments and boxes of bits and pieces.

  She was always meaning to give the press a good clear-out, but then you’d take things down and find you’d no other place to put them. She’d given a lot of family stuff to Frankie, though she wasn’t sure that he’d wanted it. And she’d sent one or two small things off to Canada over the years.

  What was left in the press now probably wouldn’t be wanted by anyone. Still, a lot of it belonged to Ger’s people, so she didn’t want to throw it away. The few times she’d asked Ger about it, he hadn’t shown much interest, but some of the books, and an old photo album, had once belonged to his mam, of whom he’d been fond.

  When Cassie had been over visiting, she’d eyed the press a few times, and today, as Pat was making tea, she asked if she could look inside.

  ‘You can, of course, love, though I’d say things might be dusty.’

  Cassie opened the doors and lifted down a lustre vase. It was an ugly-looking pink and purple thing, with three curly feet on it. It had arrived in the flat in a box of stuff when Frankie had cleared the farmhouse and Pat, who’d never liked it, had stuck it in the back of the press. Ger’s mother used to have it on the mantelpiece back on the farm. She’d always keep a few flowers in it, next to a plaster statue of the Sacred Heart. In winter it’d be a bit of evergreen, when she couldn’t get flowers, and on Palm Sunday it’d be a bit of palm, picked up after Mass.

  The Sacred Heart hadn’t been in the box, and Pat was glad. She’d never found the idea of a heart with big thorns stuck in it comforting; and, though she’d never said it to anyone, the hangdog look on the face always made her cross. She’d had a statue of the Infant of Prague on her own mantelpiece, but when the lads were horsing round they’d knocked the head off it, so that, too, had ended up in the press.

  Cassie blew dust off the wreath of pansies round the rim of the vase. ‘This is kind of cool. Where did it come from?’

  ‘God knows, love. It would have been your great-grandmother’s. Though she could have had it from her own mother, now. I don’t know.’

  ‘Was she your mom?’

  ‘No, your grandad’s. There’s a photo of her there in the album up by the books.’

  Pat hadn’t looked at the album for ages. It was dirty enough when she took it down, so they spread an Inquirer out on the table to save the cloth. The album had a leather cover, with a brass clasp, and ten gilt-edged pages inside, made of thick cardboard. There was a square hole in each, and the pictures were slipped in back-to-back, so that, when you turned the pages, each photo had its own frame. They were all sepia prints, with people sitting on bamboo chairs up against painted backdrops.

  ‘Wow. Which of these is Ger’s mom?’

  ‘I’d say she wasn’t born, love, when those were taken.’

  ‘They all look pretty prosperous.’

  ‘I think her family had a shop inside in Carrick. Anyway, in those days, having your photo taken was a big event. You’d be wearing your best.’

  At the back of the album were more modern photos, inside in a cellophane bag. Pat shook them out on the table. ‘That’s her now. She married around 1940, when she was in her twenties, so that one must have been taken in her teens.’

  Cassie picked up the photo. ‘She doesn’t look much like Ger.’

  ‘I suppose not. Though he has a kind of a look of her sometimes, round the eyes.’

  ‘Who’s this?’

  It was a little black-and-white photo, with wavy edges. Pat took it and peered at the row of people standing up against a field wall. ‘That’d be Ger’s dad, and Ger himself, and his brother Miyah. I’d say it was taken at the farm.’

  It was hard enough to recognise the people in the photo. Three of them had their faces screwed up against the sunshine, and Ger, who was beside his dad, had his head down. Pat hardly knew him from Miyah, except by the set of his shoulders. He must have been about eleven, or maybe ten.

  Cassie grinned. ‘I guess he never liked having his photo taken, did he? Who’s the old lady in the shawl?’

  ‘That’s Ger’s Aunt Min. Well, she was his great-aunt. She wouldn’t have been that old, either. All the countrywomen wore shawls then.’

  ‘That’s so cool.’

  ‘Min the Match, they used to call her.’

  Cassie’s eyes widened. ‘Oh. My. God. That’s Min the Match! Why did they call her that?’

  ‘She was a matchmaker.’

  ‘No! Really? Like in Fiddler on the Roof?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know about that, love. She was a quiet woman, and well liked, and people could trust her. She’d take a message from one family to another. Or, if it was a case of a couple who were older, she might go to the man on behalf of the woman and give him a nudge. You’d get a lot of bachelors in a country place that might be a small bit shy of talking to women. Widowers, too, you know. Men that might be glad of a wife on a farm.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very romantic.’

  Pat laughed. ‘Romance wasn’t the fashion in Min’s day. Marriage was more like a bargain, I suppose. Not like it is now.’

  ‘And people liked her?’

  ‘Well, I’d say she did a lot of good.’

  ‘So were there matchmakers here in Finfarran when you were a kid?’

  ‘There was Min all right, and I suppose I remember another few. But that’d be back in my mam’s day, more than mine.’

  ‘You didn’t send someone round to give Ger a nudge?’

  Pat shook her head and began to gather up the photographs. ‘I didn’t, no. It was Ger proposed to me.’ She slipped the loose photos back into the cellophane bag and, before Cassie could say any more, turned it round to show her the torn sticker that had once sealed it. ‘Look at that, now. American Tan tights. I wonder, can you still get those?’

  ‘What are they? Oh, you mean pantyhose? What’s American Tan?’

  ‘It was a colour. I don’t know, it might still be. They were sheer and shiny, and you looked like you had a great tan on your legs.’

  ‘Oh, right. These days it’s “nude”.’

  ‘Is that what they call them?’

  ‘Well, yeah, if it’s the same thing. I don’t wear them. They’re a bit Sarah Jessica Parker. Or the Royal Family.’

  Pat laughed. ‘Would you say that the Queen of England has pasty Irish legs?’

  Cassie took the album back to the press and started fiddling round among the other bits and pieces. Pat stayed sitting at the table, thinking of the night on the starlit beach when Ger had proposed.

  They’d all been about twenty then. She’d been working in the seed merchant’s here in Lissbeg, and Ger was in the butcher’s shop, working for his father. The cousin who’d brought Tom up was getting feeble, so Tom had taken over running the shop and post office in the village his people came from. And Mary was talking about going over to England to be a nurse. But everyone knew that was nonsense. She was only playing hard to get with Tom.

  The four of them had made a plan to go to the pictures in Carrick, and they’d met in a pub in Lissbeg to have a drink first. If Ger wanted the use of a car then he still had to ask his dad, but Tom, who was more his own man, had driven Mary into Lissbeg and was going to take them all on to Carrick afte
r they’d had their drink.

  That night Mary and Pat were wearing new frocks that they’d made themselves. They’d gone to Carrick on the bus the week before to buy the Simplicity patterns. Mary’s was a sleeveless flowery poplin with a sweetheart neckline, a gored skirt, and a self-belt. Pat’s was a shirtwaist, which hadn’t been easy to cut out because the fabric she’d got was tartan. It was worth the trouble because, in the end, it looked great with her wide patent-leather belt. The sleeves were elbow-length, and it had a white piqué collar, and pockets set on the slant. Mary said it would give her hips like elephant’s ears. They both knew that it wouldn’t, though. It was Mary herself who was a bit buxom. Though she carried it well.

  The film they’d been planning to go to was a thing called The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance. Pat had fancied seeing Sweet Bird of Youth because Paul Newman was gorgeous, but the Roxy in Carrick had obviously thought they’d get more takers for John Wayne.

  In the heel of the hunt it made no odds because when Mary and Tom arrived in the pub you could tell that something had happened. Mary had two pink spots on her cheeks, and her eyes were narrow and shining, and Tom was looking like he’d won the Hospital Sweep. It turned out that they’d just got engaged.

  After that news they couldn’t just traipse off to the pictures, so they’d had a few drinks in the pub and persuaded the barman to sell them a bottle of wine to take out. They couldn’t go drinking toasts in the pub because Mary’s parents didn’t know yet, and half the town would be running round with the story if they’d let it out. So, they took the bottle of Blue Nun and a couple of bars of chocolate and Tom drove the car to the dunes outside town, and nearly down onto the beach.

  It was a night of bright stars. They hung like jewels in an inky sky and their pale light glimmered on the waves. The boys went foraging along the shoreline for timber, while Mary and Pat went up the dunes and pulled handfuls of grass and dry seaweed, to start a fire. And the boys took off their coats and made cushions so the girls could sit down.