An Irish Christmas Feast Read Free

days that followed were filled with silence and when she accepted silently his offer of a walk by the river on St Stephen’s Day he knew that if he played his cards right there was a chance, just a chance mind you, that things might work out in the course of time.

Twelve Days’ Grace
    Agnes Mallowan shot the iron bolts into place in the back and front doors of the presbytery. Then she did the rounds of the house upstairs and downstairs, securing the windows in the curate’s room but firmly resisting the temptation to inspect his belongings. She could have carried out the inspection with impunity if she so wished, she told herself, seeing that he was enjoying a short Christmas break at the other end of the diocese in his parents’ home.
    As was his wont the parish priest Father Canty would read in bed until she brought him his nightcap after which he would fall fast asleep until the seven o’clock bell sounded.
    There had been no exchange of Christmas presents. As always he had handed her an extra week’s pay but repeated his insistence that she was not to invest in a present on his behalf. From the beginning he had made it clear that there were to be no Christmas gifts.
    â€˜The best present you can give me,’ he had warned, ‘is to keep your money in your purse.’
    Neither would he let her spoil him. ‘Plain fare for me,’ he would raise his hand aloft, ‘and the plainer the better.’
    The few luxuries he permitted himself were the nocturnal glass of punch and a glass of wine on Sundays with his dinner. He had partaken of wine earlier that day but only, he had reminded her, because it was Christmas. Sometimes she worried about his health. What concerned her most was the wheezing when he paused on the landing, having forgotten to take his time when ascending the stairs. She used every conceivable subterfuge lest he over-exert himself. Sometimes his irritability showed when he found the cob tackled and waiting preparatory to a sick call.
    â€˜Who tackled the cob?’ he would ask pretending to be angrier than he really was. There would be no answer while she prepared him for the journey. There were times, he would reluctantly admit to himself, during epidemics as the calls came pouring in when he was grateful. Normally the chores of catching and tackling the cob would fall to the sacristan but such a post had been vacant for years.
    â€˜The parish just can’t afford it,’ he had explained only the year before to the bishop who had intimated in his usual roundabout way that the elderly parish priest ought to be taking things easier.
    â€˜I’m only seventy-three,’ Father Canty had retorted mischievously, ‘which makes me two years younger than my bishop.’
    â€˜True,’ came the unruffled response, ‘but I don’t have to go on sick calls at all hours of the night and you do and that is why I am giving you a curate. You have been playing on my conscience a lot lately.’
    â€˜We can’t afford a curate,’ Father Canty responded testily.
    â€˜We’ll manage,’ the bishop had concluded blithely.
    The curate, Father Scanlan, had proved himself to be a hardworking, likeable young man well able to generate income through football tournaments, card-drives, raffles and silver circles. The parishioners might protest about the cost but they quickly became involved in the new activities and were to wonder in the course of time how they had managed to retain their sanity for so long without such diversions. Unfortunately for him Agnes Mallowan saw the new addition as an interloper whose every act seemed calculated to usurp the authority of the ageing parish priest. She felt it her duty to protect her employer. The younger man sensed her hostility but was prepared for it and had been counselled by colleagues in the art of countering it.
    â€˜Play second fiddle to the parish priest,’ he was advised, ‘and she