Grandma’s Christmas Cake by Peter Lingard, egg nog

Grandma puts the cake on the table

then retreats to the hot kitchen.

Feeling the stress of Christmas catering,

she can’t witness the cake being cut.

 

She gathered the fruits in their seasons,

carefully dried them and set them aside.

Then, on a cold and bitter January day

she mixed and baked the holiday loaf.

Her creation dwelled in dry darkness

of brown paper and an airtight tin.

Fruit, eggs, nuts and drops of whiskey

maturing and growing full flavour. 

 

On Christmas Eve, she unwrapped the paper

and searched cake’s surface for flaws.

She spread a thick layer of almond paste,

then a snow-white crown of icing.

 

 

Eldest grandson has a duty.

Before the opening of presents,

he stands on a chair in the pantry

and rummages for the special platter

that sees daylight once a year.

When found, it’s dusted, washed and dried

and graced with a large white doily

before the cake is carefully placed on top. 

 

The knife is thrust downward

and back to make the first cut.

Turn the cake around, slice it again

and the moment of truth has arrived.

 

Grandma’s ears are alert as she waits

to hear diners assess her skill.

She grips eldest grandson’s shoulders,

prays the centre will be good and firm,

the cake moist and full of rich flavour. 

 

About the auhtor 

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Have a Grumpy Christmas by Penny Rogers, a snowball (advocaat, lemonade and Ice)

For Christmas just give me an angle-poise lamp,

and bake me a large reindeer cake.

Please don’t bother with perfume or jewels,

if you’ve bought them they’re sure to be fake.

 

As for the dinner, I’ll give it a miss,

eschew sprouts and turkey and spuds.

They’re bad for the planet and not good for health,

the same goes for custard and puds.

 

To get in the spirit I’ll festoon a tree

with baubles of red, green and gold.

I won’t chop it down, force it into a pot

just let it grow out in the cold.

 

I’ll finish the cake, welcome in the New Year

by the light of my new angle-poise.

Be thankful that I can be having a ball

away from the parties and noise.

About the author 

 Penny Rogers lives in Dorset in the south of England. She writes mostly short stories, flash fiction and poems and facilitates an informal writing group. She is a regular contributor to CaféLit. When she’s not writing Penny makes jams, pickles and preserves from home grown or foraged produce. 

 

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Wandering Teeth by Madeleine McDonald, horlicks

‘Bloody relatives!’ The manager banged the phone down. ‘That was Betty Turner’s son. He’s one of them. Doesn’t come near the place all year round but gets an attack of conscience at Christmas and decides to visit.’ 

 ‘Oh! What about–’ ‘

Exactly. What about her teeth!’ 

Charlie Chaplin, the care home cat, chose that moment to pad into the office. ‘Out, Charlie,’ the manager ordered, without malice. ‘Unless you can tell us where to find those teeth.’ 

 Betty’s dentures had been missing for a week. She had developed the unfortunate habit of removing both the upper and lower plates and putting them on the table while she ate, although her table companion Cora complained loudly that this was unhygienic. Betty countered by pointing out that Cora cleaned her reading glasses with the same handkerchief she used to blow her nose. The two women had struck up a companionship of sorts in the care home, largely based on sniping at each other’s habits. 

The overworked and underpaid staff took little notice. The ones who stayed in the job learned to accept the residents’ various versions of reality, and to work around their foibles. They also learned to let distress and grievances go in one ear and out the other. Too much compassion led to burnout. Mealtimes were a matter of routine, so long as each resident was seen to eat something, and so long as the awkward customers did not throw food on the floor or at each other. 

What usually happened was that the carer who cleared away the dirty plates wrapped Betty’s teeth in a paper napkin and returned them to the wash glass in her bedroom. This time, no-one remembered having done so. 

Cora kept quiet. She had taken the dentures to teach Betty a lesson, but had no real idea where to hide them until she spotted the Christmas tree. As always, it took pride of place in the residents’ lounge, a reminder to many of happier times. A carer hurried across the room when she saw Cora fiddling with the strands of tinsel wound in and out of its green branches. ‘Cora, love, let’s leave the pretty decorations for everyone to enjoy. What have you got there?’ 

Cora opened her hand to reveal a felt reindeer minus one antler. The carer dropped it into her pocket and settled Cora back in a chair. She failed to notice Betty’s upper plate, gleaming pink and cream among the profusion of fairy lights, tinsel and sparkly decorations. 

Delighted with her own cunning, Cora forgot about the lower plate, which was still in her trouser pocket when the carers collected the week’s washing. 

Charlie Chaplin got the blame, as he got the blame for many minor incidents. ‘What have you done with Betty’s teeth, you naughty cat?’ The question was rhetorical, a way for the carers to acknowledge his presence as they went about their work. 

With his glossy black coat, white shirt front and white paws, Charlie Chaplin was a firm favourite with residents and staff. Oak Tree Lodge had once been a grand Victorian villa, but an extension built in the 1980s had doubled its size. Charlie patrolled both parts of his territory tail held high, slipping out at night to hunt mice in what was left of the garden. 

During the day, he headbutted his favourite residents on their ankles and left black and white hairs over all the cushions. Both manager and staff felt that vacuuming up a few hairs was a small price to pay for putting a smile on the residents’ faces. 

Many residents led confused, resentful lives, abandoned by relatives who could not cope with their decline. For some, Charlie was the only living being who showed them affection. Like Annie, who so wanted to keep busy ‘helping’ the care staff. Usually, they asked her to dust the windowsills of the entrance hall, which she did, back and forth, over and over again. Unless she encountered Charlie sunning himself on one of the window ledges. Then she tickled his ears and talked to him. Charlie flicked his tail in acknowledgement. 

He found an enemy in Ms Miller, the new cook. Ms Miller had graduated from catering college with top marks; the manager lost no time in placing her photo and certificates in a prominent position on the home’s display board. Apart from a genuine love of food, Ms Miller had a passion for cleanliness, leading by example and scrubbing the kitchen equipment to within an inch of its life. ‘I want that floor clean enough to eat off before you go home,’ she barked at her team. They obeyed, grudgingly, but since no-one could accuse her of idleness, the grumbles were muted. 

In theory, the manager and her staff agreed with the requirement for scrupulous hygiene, but life had taught them to turn a blind eye to some regulations if that kept the residents comfortable. Good cheer was too much to hope for, but a comfortable atmosphere eased the load on the staff. The manager knew certain residents enticed Charlie into their bedrooms, and even up onto their beds, although the rules forbade it. She made sure Ms Miller’s diktats stopped at the kitchen door. 

Until the night Charlie Chaplin found the kitchen door open. Betty’s upper denture had fallen out of the Christmas tree in the lounge right under his nose. The smell was irresistible and Charlie worried at it like prey, rolling it over and batting it along the corridor. 

Somewhere a door banged. Stopped in his tracks, Charlie’s ears swivelled. The wind rattled the windows, but the house remained sunk in slumber. Charlie followed a new, enticing smell to the door of forbidden territory. The scent was all the more enticing for that, and he squeezed his lithe body through the now open door. 

With a leap onto the counter worktop, he discovered a chicken carcase that had been left to cool under a mesh dome. He knocked dome and plate onto the floor, on top of the teeth. 

What were plastic teeth compared to succulent chicken bones? Charlie crunched, nibbled, slept, and nibbled again. 

The first person to arrive in the kitchen the next morning was a trainee. By now Charlie was digesting his feast in the residents’ lounge, and all she saw in her panic was a broken plate and scattered bones. She scooped up the bones and set them on another plate. A quick mop of the floor and all appeared normal. No need to report the unfortunate accident to that pernickety Ms Miller. She would only make a tremendous fuss and want to fill in an incident form. Besides, didn’t she always boast you could eat off her floors? 

Thus Betty’s upper plate, trapped under the chicken’s breastbone, found its way into nourishing, homemade soup. Despite her martinet tendencies, Ms Miller knew the art of using up leftovers, and conjured up tasty dishes on a limited budget. It was one of the reasons the manager put up with her. 

Ladled out by a distracted member of the care staff, Betty’s denture plate plopped into Priscilla’s soup bowl. As ill luck would have it, Priscilla decided the teeth looked sparkly clean – as indeed they did after simmering for hours in chicken broth. When no-one was looking, Priscilla swapped the sparkly white teeth for her own yellowing ones. They did not quite fit, but that did not matter. She admired herself in the mirror every day and the carers were too busy to notice that her top and bottom teeth no longer matched. 

On the other hand, they beamed with relief on reuniting Betty with both dentures. ‘Betty, love, we found them!’ True, Betty’s teeth were no longer the same colour but that was not surprising when the upper plate had been found in a soup bowl and the lower plate had been through a hot wash. 

‘There’s a poltergeist at work,’ one carer declared. ‘Something has disturbed the spirits in the old house. There will be more trouble, you’ll see. ’ But she was known for the doom-laden interpretation of her own daily horoscope, which she downloaded in the tea break and read aloud, so the other carers took no notice. Some happenings were destined to remain a mystery. 

 Poor Betty could only mumble that her teeth did not fit properly, but the staff patted her hand and moved on. Betty’s family made little sense of her mumbling either, and their Christmas visit did not last long. Betty’s face crumpled with distress and her rheumy eyes filled with tears. 

‘Bloody relatives,’ the care home manager huffed as she locked the security door behind them. ‘One visit a year, and he thinks that gives him the right to interrogate me like he’s the Spanish Inquisition. Try doing the job 365 days a year, sonny.’ She paused to compose her own ruffled feathers before scooping up Charlie Chaplin and placing him on Betty’s lap. ‘Look, here’s Charlie come to say hello. You know how much he likes you.’ 

Charlie Chaplin, his crime unpunished, purred a greeting. Betty, recalling the warm weight of long-deceased pets, stroked him in silence. If she did not attempt to talk, her teeth felt almost comfortable. 

About the author

Madeleine McDonald's published work ranges from newspaper columns to Shakespearean sonnets and historical novels. 

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Assembly Required by Peter Lingard, strong lemonade

Everybody except Jones drank sparingly and acted with decorum at the office party on Christmas Eve afternoon.  Decorum is the last thing Tim and I like at parties, so, once we persuaded Melanie and April to accompany us, we high-fived our friends and important bosses, wished them whatever they wished for themselves, and headed for the bars.  The girls like a bit of fun so it was no surprise when they went topless at Pete’s Place around nine-thirty.  Their frivolity earned them too much attention and so Tim and I, heroes without hidden agendas, had to help them escape.  Well, Tim didn’t have any hidden agenda – he’s married with kids.  I hoped to get horizontal, vertical or askew with either or both of our companions.  When it turned out that the girls were inseparable, I told Tim to tell his wife not to expect me too early the next day. 

             June, Tim’s wife, said I looked bad.  ‘You look like death warmed up, Harry.’

            ‘I feel like it, too.  How’s Tim?’

            ‘The same.  Merry Christmas, by the way.’

            ‘Oh yeah!  Sorry.’  I gave her a hug.  ‘Merry Christmas to you, too.’

            ‘Phew!’ she said.  ‘You smell like a brewery.’

‘I smell like Christmas cheer,’ I said.

She gave me an insincere smile.  ‘A rose by any other name.’

The children realised I was at the door.  ‘Harry!’ they cried with painful enthusiasm.

‘Shhhhh,’ I said, ‘you’ll wake the baby Jesus.’

‘That’s silly,’ said Diana.  ‘They killed him last Easter.’

‘They couldn’t kill him before he was born,’ said Charles.  ‘They’ll kill him next Easter.’

‘Actually, they claim it was a few years later,’ I said as I handed each a present.  Charles looked askance at his sister’s much larger gift.  ‘Size isn’t everything,’ I said.

They ooohed and aaahed and said ‘thank you’.

‘That has to be assembled,’ I told Diana.  ‘I’ll help you do that later.  Okay?’

‘Okay,’ she said with a disappointed air.

I shook hands with Tim’s dad and kissed his mum on the cheek.  I found Tim in the kitchen, sweat rolling down from under a floppy red hat with a damp white fringe.

‘That’ll improve the taste of the gravy.’

‘You’re late.’

‘I did say.’

‘You know how to carve?’

‘I’ve been known to.’

‘So do a guy a favour and take that thing apart, will ya.’

I found the tools and started slicing.

‘How’d it go with April and Melanie?’

‘Good.  They’re a fun couple.’

‘I don’t wanna know.’

‘You just asked,’

‘I know I did.  But now I don’t want to know.’

‘Bad day?’

‘Nah.  How can Christmas Day be a bad day?’

‘But you don’t wanna know.’

‘No.’

‘Okay.’

 

‘Speech.  Speech.’

‘I just want to say how nice it is to have friends and family here on Christmas Day.  It’s been a good year.  We paid off the mortgage, had a great vacation...’

‘The turkey’s getting cold.’

‘Come on, Dad.  We wanna eat.’

‘Yes, well, as consensus of opinion seems to be I should shut up, I will.  Dig in folks.’

 

‘This wine is good.’

‘I’m glad you like it.  I’ve got some special port for afters.’

 

‘Jeeze, I’m stuffed.  Great meal, June.  Thanks.’

‘You’re welcome, Harry.  Why don’t you plonk yourself on the settee next to mum and relax.’

‘I’ll help you clear away first.  Tim and I’ll do the washing up.’

‘Did you check that with Tim?  What am I saying?  I accept.  Thanks.  I’m so glad you offered before you saw the kitchen.’

 

‘Come on, Uncle Harry.  You said you’d help put my pressie together.’

‘I know I did, Di but you gotta let me take five.  I’ll get to it later.  You’ve got plenty other stuff that Santa bought.’

‘Leave him be,’ said June.

‘Muum!’

‘Leave him.  Go on; off with you.’

‘Thanks, June.’

 

‘The taxi’s here, Harry.’

‘What?  What time is it?’

‘Ten.  The children are in bed.  You owe Diana a date to assemble her present.’

‘Oh, God.  What must she think?  Next weekend?’

‘Next weekend’s New Year, Harry.  I think you’re celebrating with Melanie and April.’

‘What?  Oh yeah.  Well, the weekend after that.  I promise.’

 

Melanie and April weren’t around the following Christmas.  Celebrating Christmas Eve with Tim didn’t happen as one, it was a Saturday and two, June made him and the kids attend a carol singing session.  Poor sod.  I had acquired a semi-permanent companion who preferred sober celebrations.  Semi-permanent because she wanted us to be permanent and I didn’t.  She told her friends she was working on me and felt she’d achieved some success when I invited her to Tim and June’s place on Christmas Day. 

‘You actually don’t smell like a brewery,’ June said by way of greeting.  She turned to the semi-permanent one.  ‘You must be doing something right.  Merry Christmas!’

The kids laughed and clapped when I gave them presents that the semi-permanent one had helped select.  Tim said she had a nice arse.  June said she was delightful.  The woman was amassing points at an alarming rate.

After the meal and after the semi-permanent one and I washed and dried the dishes, Tim unpackaged some indoor fireworks.  ‘Where’s Diana?’ he said.  She won’t want to miss these.’

‘She went down to the cellar,’ Charles informed him.

‘I’ll go and tell her,’ I said.  I strode to the door, opened it and proceeded down the carpeted steps.  Diana was on her knees singing ‘Happy Birthday to you,  Happy Birthday to you’ in her sweet melodic voice and I thought she was singing to the baby Jesus until I saw she was looking at the yet unassembled gift I had given her last Christmas.

 

About the author  

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English.

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The Christmas Gift by Ken Whitson, a warm mug of mulled red wine

It’s been a year now since you went away, and my guitar still won’t let me sing your song, the one I wrote that Christmas Eve. Now, as then, I place a single package under the tree, my song to you within. The bow, your favorite shade of red, sits slightly askew now, like my life. But the paper, like my love, still sparkles and shines. A song is all I could afford that year. You’d have smiled and said it’s more than enough, more than you had for me. I’d have smiled back, seeing the lie. We’d have hugged then. And kissed. But our smiles never came.

About the author

 Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn't yet figured out what retirement means. When he's not consulting or otherwise unretiring, he enjoys crafting vivid, emotionally charged stories with unconventional themes—or hunting little green fish, AKA, bass. His work recently appeared in Dragon Soul Press's The Fear Doctor Anthology.

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Is Santa Claus Real? by Judith Skilleter, mulled wine, a pint please

Meg is in a bit of a pickle. It is coming up to Christmas and she is hearing the worst ever news. She has been told that there is no such person as Santa Claus and the presents are all bought by Mum and Dad.  The sources of this awful news are her two older brothers who took great delight in telling her that she had been told a lot of lies by Mum and Dad, and the grandmas and grandads and the various aunties and uncles. In fact Meg is in more than a bit of a pickle; she is upset and cross and very confused. She does not like the fact that people she loves having been telling her fibs all these years but the worst is what if it is true? What if there is no Santa Claus living in Lapland? What if he doesn’t fly through the night on his sleigh pulled by his favourite reindeer – with Rudolf leading the way of course? What if he doesn’t climb down chimneys to deliver presents to all the good little boys and girls? (Meg always tries to be very good from October onwards so that she is definitely on Santa’s present list.)What if the snacks she leaves out for Santa are not eaten after all by Santa and his reindeer? So who eats the carrots and mince pies and drinks the glass of sherry if not Santa and his crew? In fact Meg is very upset at the very thought that this delightful man in a red suit will not be squeezing down her chimney this year and worst of all never has.

Meg went to see her dad.

“Daddy” she said “the boys say that there is no Santa Claus and that the presents come from you and Mummy. Is that true?”

“Did they indeed?” said Dad whilst thinking “I’ll have words with those two later.” “Well Meg all I can say is that I hope there is a Santa Claus. But you know I have never seen him and I do stay up late on Christmas Eve hoping to catch him.

“But you then fall asleep on the sofa-every time.”

“I tell you what Meg, go and ask Mummy. She knows about things like this.”

Not convinced Meg went to find her mum who was writing Xmas cards. 

“What with the price of stamps these days I am not sure it is wise sending all these cards every year. We should give the money to charity – next year we will do that” Meg’s mum muttered to no-one in particular. “Oh hello Meg, what are you up to?” she said as her youngest came through the door with a strange expression on her face.

“Daddy sent me. He said you will know if Santa Claus is real or not because the boys have told me he is fake and that you and Dad buy all the presents.”

“What do you believe” asked Mum.

“I believed but now I am not sure. What if the boys are right?" said Meg.

Mum was really thinking hard at this point, trying to find the right thing to say.

“Well” said mummy thinking fast “I hope there is a Santa but the most important thing is what you want to believe. And if you want to believe in Santa Claus, then that is OK.”

 

About the author 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren. 

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When Christmas Falls by Sherry Caayupan, latte

He sips a cup of cafe latte by the fireplace and dips a chocolate chip cookie into it, then, takes a bite...Frost's almost biting his pointed nose. He lives all by himself...old and yet...unknowing what lies beyond...even when Christmas is about to fall.

He hears children's carols in the air and then, it goes silent....He is grinning and yet, though Christmas is cold...and the winter nips his knees with his pants on...he remembers the time when he was young...

The wooden floor seems ricketty as he takes another sip from his cup of cafe latte and he glances by the window where his Christmas lights light up in diverse colorful lights...

The night is silent and yet colorful; he turns around, and sees red eyes underneath dark huge cloak standing by the fireplace beckoning him...

The cafe latte cup falls from his grasp onto the old wooden floor and he falls!

Then, he holds his thoughts, standing as bright white light before him flashes and invites him in!

 

About the author 

 Sherry Caayupan is an amateur poet and an aspiring amateur movie screenplay writer. She loves to write about love, humor, horror, and fantasy. She also loves singing and does gourmet cooking! 

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Dinner for Two + 1 by Robin Wrigley, gin and tonic

 

Dinner For Two + One

 

‘James?

            ‘Yes, is that you Angela?’

            ‘You mean you don’t recognise my voice, James. I realise it’s been four years.’

            ‘What, since you let me down at the last moment on Christmas bloody day?’

            ‘Oh, come on James that was four years ago. Is this going to be held against me forever?

            ‘Tell me, dear girl when was the last time you ever cooked a Christmas dinner? I imagine that this is the reason for this call after all this time.’

            ‘Look how many times have I got to apologise for heaven’s sake.’

            ‘In number – a lot.’

            In truth the last time she pulled out at the last minute worked out okay. I invited the old boy from next door instead. He’s been at my table every year since. In fact, I have invited him again this year. He’s a taxi driver in the city, never married and he has no family. I’ve always wondered if he was gay. You know - for no other reason than he lives on his own, (like me you might say). But he’s never given me any cause for concern.

I only invite him at Christmas. I refer to him as the old boy but I doubt if he is more that five years older than me. He’s a bit worn around the edges but he’s well-scrubbed up – well has to be working in the city I suppose. Since the second year he always brings me a bottle of Scotch. Doesn’t wrap it up. Do I care?

‘Well, dear girl, is this call to precipitate an invitation for Christmas dinner?’

‘No not entirely.’ She couldn’t help herself from an embarrassed giggle which I could have done without. ‘Please, pretty please James if you can find it in your heart after the last time, that is.’

‘The answer is yes. But you had not better let me down again. I don’t care if Rod Stewart or the Prince of Wales makes a counter offer. If you are not ringing my doorbell at one-thirty on Christmas Day I will hunt you down. Understood?’

Her giggle broke out into a full throated laugh.

‘Oh James, you are such drama queen, aren’t you?’

‘I’m deadly serious Angela. Oh, and by the way I’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘What? You haven’t bought a dog, have you? I could just see you with a dog I really could.’

‘No.’

‘A cat then. I like cats.’

‘Honestly, I’m still petless and will die that way. Now get off the line and go and get your hair done. It looked a mess if memory serves me.’

‘You really can be so horrid at times. But I still look forward to spending Christmas day with you. You really are so kind. Bye James.’

With that she was gone. If she is good to her word she is in for a surprise. Her fellow diner will be a rather large taxi-driver from Jamaica. 

 

About the author 

Robin short stories have appeared in CafeLit both on line and in print on a regular basis. He has also entered various writing competitions but has yet to get past being short listed. 

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Christmas in Ticino by Michael Barrington, a French martini

‘Oh, my goodness, how beautiful you are. Come here and let me take a closer look at you.’ Estere Coglione placed both hands on Anya’s shoulders, holding her at a distance, then pulled her into her ample bosom and smothered her with kisses on both cheeks. ‘Welcome home. I’ve been waiting all day to meet you. You must be hungry and tired. There are some specially baked fresh cakes inside for you. Come upstairs out of the cold. There’s a good fire in the hearth.’ Anya did not understand a word of the rapid-fire Italian, but knew from the gestures and smiles she was welcome.

‘Mamina, this is Anya,’ Luca said after giving his mother a warm hug and a kiss. ‘I hope you will like her.’

‘Then you take good care of her. Don’t leave her in the cold, she will get sick.’

Luca laughed and smiled at Anya. ‘It’s good you don’t understand Italian,’ he said jokingly. ‘You need to quickly reconcile yourself to one thing while we are living with Mamina, we’re going to be suffocated with care and attention. It’s Italian, and it’s my mother. She still treats and talks to me as if I never left home.’

‘Leave the baggage, Luca,’ Estere continued. ‘Carlo and Neri can take care of everything. Help Anya up the stairs. Hold her hand carefully. Mind she doesn’t trip on her coat. It’s starting to snow again. Sit her in front of the fire. Make sure she’s comfortable.’

As the road from Zurich airport descended into the Ticino valley with snow falling heavily, the views were breathtaking. Anya reached over and took Luca’s hand. Her head swam with a thousand nervous thoughts about meeting his family, especially his mother about whom she had heard so much, but also about this beautiful place that she would soon call home. She had seen nothing like this in Ireland or Nigeria. She was also anxious, wondering how she would manage not speaking Italian.

Estere Coglione was a strikingly lovely woman who looked a lot younger than her sixty-one years. With long plaited gray hair pulled back and wound on top of her head in a bun, there was an elegance and simplicity about her. Her tanned face spoke of the outdoors. Although living alone, she provided enough fresh vegetables to feed most of her large extended family. She also managed a small section of a vineyard, together with her one helper, Neri, who did a little of everything.

The middle girl of five sisters, who all lived locally with their families, Estere had spent the whole of her life in Bellinonza. Surrounded by her late husband's family, he had two brothers and two sisters, she never felt alone. Hardly a day passed, without one or two relatives passing by for a glass of wine and one of her famous baked pastries. Fervent Catholics, the two families were pillars of the local church, and eager and curious to see what a former nun looked like.

As Luca helped her take off her topcoat, Anya was surprised at the size of the family room and dining room combined. It was huge. At one end near a kitchen was a large oblong wooden table with ten matching chairs. The rest of the space was set up with comfortable furniture arranged around an open fireplace where a log fire was crackling. It felt warm and cosy. Off to the side was a dresser, with trays of food and next to it, a six-feet-tall beautifully dressed Christmas tree.

‘What do we do with the luggage?’ asked Carlo as Neri struggled into the room with three suitcases and a large leather bag.

‘Both bedrooms are ready,’ replied Estere, ‘and you know where Luca sleeps.’

‘Please,’ she called to Luca, ‘have something to eat. Look after Anya. She must be hungry. We’ll not have dinner until about 8 o’clock and the family is coming over. They all want to meet her.’

He translated for Anya and said, ‘Just nibble something if you're not very hungry or she will not leave us alone. And I'm warning you now, when the families arrive, each will come with enough food to feed the town and you'll not be able to escape,’ he said with a laugh. ‘She is on the phone now, calling them, letting them know we’ve arrived. It’s all good, but you will soon see just how crazy my family is. Are you ready to be the center of attention, Italian style?’

‘I really don’t know,’ she replied hesitantly, ‘but if they're as welcoming as your mother, I’ll manage. How will it be for them having a former nun as a relative?’

Drawing her close, he whispered, ‘Anya, my love, it will be fine.’

The bedrooms were on the top floor, reached by an interior staircase from the family room. Luca entered his old room, immediately walking over to where he could take in the view through the French windows. Even through the heavily falling snow, it was breathtaking.

Anya stood for a moment, arm in arm with him, then looked around for her suitcase and bag.

‘Luca,’ she said, ‘I only see your suitcase. Where is mine and my bag?’

Knowing what had happened, he said, ‘Just wait a moment,’ and left the room. Seconds later, he returned with them. ‘I’m so sorry, darling, but I should have told you, in the Ticino culture, it’s not normal for an unmarried man and woman to share the same room, let alone the same bed. Putting your things in the other room was my mother’s way of not wishing to be seen as condoning our sleeping together, even though she knows we will. She understands, but will never mention it in conversation. That way she can still go to church and feel good.’ He could see that Anya was frowning so continued, ‘Think of it as a sort of Catholic sex game,’ and burst out laughing. ‘I’m sure your Irish culture is not much different. And isn’t there an old saying, ‘What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve for?’

Lying together relaxing before changing for dinner, Luca talked about his family, their names and relationships, trying to help Anya remember them. Finally, it was just too complicated, and he gave up.

‘Is there something wrong, darling? You’re very quiet’ he asked. ‘Are you anxious about the evening? It’s just a family get-together.’

‘Maybe just a little. But I’m wondering about you. How will you feel having me share this bed tonight? The last woman to do so was your wife.’

Drawing her close, he gave her a long, passionate kiss. ‘She died many years ago, my love. You're the only one I want. You are the light of my life.’

The evening was a chaotic mix of meeting people, sampling many new kinds of food, noisy children running around, and people almost standing in line to get an opportunity to meet and talk with Anya. She could feel their eyes on her as they entered the room, sensing that they didn’t know what to expect or how to address her.

Once he felt most people had arrived, Luca decided to speak, and after greeting everybody, introduced Anya, and told them how to pronounce her name. ‘Think of it as ‘AWNYA,’ he said, ‘in Gaelic, it means splendor or brilliance.’

Two of Luca's cousins, Issepa and Marsilia,who were schoolteachers, spoke reasonable English as did another cousin, Renata, and so helped translate. It was fun telling Anya what people were saying. People were amazed at her attractively cut, flaming, curly red hair which showed off her face and green eyes. They admired her engagement ring, asking where Luca had bought it and where he had proposed. Marsilia had a great sense of humor, burst out laughing so loud that most folks turned around to see what was happening. She was explaining to Anya that the family was very familiar with nuns and actually supported a local convent. ‘When they heard that Luca was to marry a former nun, they tried to imagine what you would be like, what you would be wearing. Some really funny things were said without meaning to be so. But you are so beautiful. Luca told us how you worked with him in Nigeria and how talented a nurse you are. And for a family that normally has a lot to say, it is stuck for words. They’re not ready for you, for such an elegant, sophisticated person. But they will quickly get over the shock, and in no time, you’ll simply be one of the family. I'm so happy you are engaged to Luca; he needs somebody like you.’

The next day, Carlo drove Anya and Luca to the airport. The other car was driven by Issepa accompanied by five female cousins, all of whom spoke some English and refused to be left at home. From the moment they left the house, Luca could sense Anya’s tension and anxiety.

‘Can you share it with me, my love?’ 

 ‘You know, the last time I saw my mother was six years ago,’ she said softly. ‘It was in Ireland. Since I entered the convent, she’s only ever seen me dressed as a nun. I just wonder how she really feels about me. I’m sure it’s a lot for her to handle emotionally. We had become very close, and she shared a lot with me about her relationship with my father. She’s an unfortunate woman, locked in a destructive relationship by her religion. I so want her to be happy and to be back in my life. I’m thrilled and grateful you invited my sister Moira with her husband Tom for Christmas, and also my mother. I never dreamed she would come.’

As the passengers began to emerge, having been given descriptions, the girls eagerly began calling ‘Moira, Tom,’ as each couple exited. Suddenly, they appeared and waved. The girls rushed to welcome them. Walking alongside them was an elegantly dressed older lady. She gazed at the waiting crowd as if looking for someone in particular, then her face lit up. Dropping her purse on the ground, Nuala opened her arms wide as Anya ran towards her mother and held her tightly against her breast. Neither spoke, as their tears of love and affection mingled and slowly washed away their pain.  

The rest of that morning passed like a dream for Anya. Wrapped in heavy coats, she sat next to her mother on the deck overlooking the valley and the vineyards. The snow had stopped, and the winter sun reflecting off the white landscape almost blinded them. They held hands as they talked, catching up on the years of separation and longing. Nuala let her heart speak, her tears flow, in sharing the pain and struggle of staying with her husband. Especially how helpless she had felt in protecting her daughters. But also, how much more tolerable it was now, since his stroke. He hadn’t fully recovered his speech, spent most of his time in a wheelchair, and couldn’t drink alcohol or abuse her. Anya spoke about her time in Nigeria, how much she enjoyed the work, and how she fell in love.

Finally, Anya felt it safe to ask how she felt about her, not just leaving the Order, but intending to get married.

Turning her head to face her, Nula said, ‘I was surprised but not shocked.’

‘Please tell me more,’ Anya begged. ‘I need to know.’

‘When I saw you take your vows and enter the convent, I was proud of you, of course, But I had very mixed emotions about it. I worried for you, and I was sad that you’d decided to enter an Order where your every movement would be controlled or have to be accounted for during the remainder of your life. You are a free spirit, Anya, my darling. You’ve been like that since you were a little girl and suffered for it at home and in school. If only I could take time back,’ Nuala said. ‘If only I could undo the past. When you entered the convent, I saw you like a beautiful bird wanting to fly, but having its wings clipped. That day I went home and spent the night weeping. I felt I was losing you.’ As her tears steadily flowed, Anya asked again, ‘and how do you really feel about my getting married?’

There was a pause and a slight hesitancy before she replied, as if struggling to find the right words.

‘I just want you to be happy, to be fulfilled, to be the free spirit you are. You have so much to offer the world. I want you to be with a man who will respect, love, and cherish you. Who will be to me a son and to you a husband, who will treasure you more than anything in life?’

“Mama,” she replied, “you have no idea what your coming here means to me. I just love you so very much,” and getting out of her chair, reached over and held her.

Christmas celebrations were different from anything she had known. After just a light meal on Christmas Eve, with no meat since it was considered a fasting day by the Church, they went to midnight Mass. When they arrived, everybody was gathered outside the church. As the bells in the steeple started to toll, Luca with his arm around her shoulders, told her to look up at the snow-covered mountain, glistening in the moonlight. She watched mesmerized as a long line of skiers started to descend in sweeping curves, holding lighted torches in their hands. ‘This is our tradition,’ he explained. ‘They are bringing fire for warmth and light to the church so that the Mass can take place.’

After returning home, they all enjoyed a hot chocolate before retiring. Luca explained to Anya, ‘In our culture, couples give each other one gift after midnight. So here is yours,’ and handed her a narrow box.

‘Oh, my goodness,’ she exclaimed. ‘This is so beautiful Luca, thank you darling,’ and held out a gold chain and pendant. ‘But now, I don’t have one for you.’

‘Then you can surprise me once we are married,’ and gave out a little laugh.

Christmas day started early as Anya could hear Estere working in the kitchen. By the time they came down for breakfast, the house was full of women. Eight of them were involved in preparing food for what they called the ‘lunch,’ an afternoon meal that would begin about four o’clock. She would later discover no family member would ever dream of missing it, and would bring with them their musical instruments, flutes, accordions, and mandolins.

 Once the party started, it seemed to Anya that everybody could sing and had beautiful voices. Late into the night, they drank, sang, danced, and played games. After explaining that where she came from in the west of Ireland, every girl learned traditional dancing, Issepa begged her to show them. Anya refused. ‘It’s ten years since I danced,’ she said. ‘I can’t do it. And these are the wrong shoes.’ Marsilia felt she now had a close enough relationship to tease her and insisted. Anya sat back in her chair, afraid of making a fool of herself. 

Finally, they pulled her into the middle of the floor while the families encouraged her. Embarrassed at being the center of attention, she asked Luca to interpret for her as she spoke to Uncle Leonardo with the accordion. At first, she clapped her hands in rhythm, then gave a short beat with her feet while looking towards him. As she danced several steps, he picked up the tempo and beat, playing an Italian tune. The other musicians tentatively joined in, extemporizing. In seconds Anya was back in school in Roscommon, as she closed her eyes and performed an Irish step dance. Then, speaking in Gaelic, she invited Moira, Tom, and her mother to join her. Everybody looked surprised but waited expectantly. As Tom gave a beat with his foot, all four suddenly danced together, showing the quick intricate movements and foot patterns of an Irish jig. The family was entranced. When it was over, they wanted more. Nuala, wiping the perspiration from her forehead, signaled with a smile she was too tired, her heart was ready to burst with love and happiness. The others continued dancing, with reels and hornpipes, finally having fun trying to teach the cousins a few steps. Everyone was overjoyed and agreed, Christmas was always a wonderful family experience. This one was special and never to be forgotten.

‘How was Christmas Day for you?’ asked Luca, as they were preparing for bed. ‘Was it too much, a little overwhelming perhaps, with so many people?’

‘No, not at all,’ Anya replied. ‘In fact, I'm starting to put some names to faces.’

‘Well, you were wonderful,’ he said, drawing her close. Looking down, he kissed her tenderly on the forehead. ‘Today, you showed me something I didn’t know about you, and it was lovely. My family was thrilled. But you’re in for another surprise later on today. We can expect almost everybody to come back in the afternoon, to finish off what food is left over,’ and let out a deep belly laugh. ‘But they’ll also bring even more food, eat, drink, sing, dance and probably stay until past midnight! It’s just what we do. It’s how we celebrate Christmas in Ticino.’

About the author  

Michael Barrington has written eight historical novels. Passage to Murder is a thriller set in San Francisco. Magic at Stonehenge is a short story collection. Take a Priest Like You is a memoir. He has published more than 60 short stories and also blogs on his website: www.mbwriter.net. 

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