by Geraldine McCarthy
hot toddy
Fairy lights adorned the
trees in the churchyard. They shone silver and white, like pearls on a thin
piece of string. Myself and Mick mounted the steps to the church door,
sure-footed, despite the coffee-brandies we’d downed in Murray’s to fortify
ourselves against the cold night air. Elderly neighbours murmured ‘Happy
Christmas’, while teenagers skulked at a distance from their parents. It was too
late for children to be out; bar one little girl, in a pink woollen coat, with
rosy cheeks and an inquisitive turn of the head.
My heels clicked on the tiles
as I made my way up the centre aisle. I went half-way to the altar, before
sliding into a seat. Mick followed, scowling. He was a back-of-the-church man,
but made an exception for tonight. I sat on the hard pew and plunged my hands
into the pockets of my faux-fur coat. We weren’t weekly Mass-goers, or even
monthly ones. I clenched and unclenched my fists, while Mick fidgeted with his
handkerchief.
The choir started up ‘Away in
a Manger’ and the priest glided onto the altar. We responded to the prayers on
auto-pilot, years of childhood conditioning kicking in. The little girl in the
pink coat squirmed between her parents three seats ahead of us, playing with a
baby doll, giving her a bottle. If she were mine I would have had her tucked up
in bed, waiting for Santy.
The priest began the homily
and I tried to clear my head of brandy fumes, and disappointments, and unease.
He spoke of the Holy Family, of their unity, of the perfect love between them.
My mind wandered to the party at Wilson’s afterwards, the hot whiskeys that
would be drunk, the jokes that would be told. Myself and Mick could stay there
until morning if we wanted. We had no one to rush home to.
We didn’t go to Communion.
Mick jigged his right leg, gave a small sigh. At last the choir sang ‘Silent
Night’ and we were free to go. As I genuflected at the end of the pew I noticed
the small girl run to the crib with her parents, her right arm outstretched,
pointing to the baby Jesus. I turned around but Mick was gone for road. A tear
ran down my cheek, and I followed in my husband’s wake, as I had done these past
twenty years.
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