An Irish Christmas Feast Read Free Page B

once had she questioned one of his commands in all of her twenty years as his housekeeper. He was a good man. Others had not been so good, other employers after her husband had expired prematurely and left her with four young children, all now safely emigrated to America and corresponding regularly. Her husband had not been a good man nor had her father. Her two brothers had been good men. She remembered them fondly. No need to pray for them. She knew for sure they went straight to heaven when they died. She prayed every night for her husband and her father. God knows they needed prayers if ever a pair needed them.
    In the doorway she addressed herself to the two men who stood together sheepishly, one waiting for the other to open the negotiations.
    â€˜Where did ye get the rain?’ she asked coldly, ‘there’s nothing but a bare mist outside.’
    â€˜That’s the thick mist up the mountain missus,’ the taller of the pair informed her.
    She looked from one to the other without inviting them in. They wore tattered overcoats but no head-gear. The rain had plastered their scant grey hair to their heads.
    â€˜How did ye come?’ Agnes Mallowan asked.
    â€˜We walked missus,’ from the smaller man.
    Agnes recognised him from the way he shuffled his feet. He indulged in the same motions when he stood outside the church on Sundays. From the age of fourteen onwards neither had entered the parish church. They came to church all right but only to stand with their backs to the outside walls while the mass was in progress. She would attest under oath that they never paid Christmas dues nor oats’ money nor any church offerings so that their priest could keep body and soul together and feed and pay his housekeeper and curate. Now, more than likely, they would have somebody sick, so sick, or so they believed, that a priest was required. Her worst fears were realised when the taller asked if the curate was available.
    â€˜You know as well as I do that he’s gone home for Christmas and won’t be back until the day after tomorrow. In fact the whole parish knows it.’
    â€˜Well then,’ from the smaller brother, ‘himself will have to do. Our dada is dying and he needs a priest.’
    â€˜And who decided your dada was dying?’
    â€˜Doctor,’ the taller responded smugly.
    â€˜And when did he have the doctor?’ Agnes, a veteran of rustic interrogation, wasn’t going to allow the parish priest out on such a night till she had confirmed that death was imminent.
    â€˜Two hours ago,’ came the reply.
    â€˜And why didn’t the doctor get in touch with us?’ she asked.
    â€˜â€™Cos,’ said the other brother, ‘him be gone to the other side of the mountain to deliver a baby and there’s rumours of a man killed when his horse and cart capsized farther on. There’s other calls too.’
    â€˜Ye can bide yeer time out in one of the sheds for a while then,’ the housekeeper informed them, ‘till ’tis a bit closer to morning. Father Canty needs a few hours’ sleep.’
    â€˜Our dada won’t last that long,’ the taller brother placed a leg in the hallway. ‘Him was gasping and us leaving,’ the smaller added, pushing the taller man forward.
    â€˜Mind ye don’t wet my hallway that I polished specially for Christmas,’ Agnes Mallowan countered as she pushed the persistent pair to the outside.
    â€˜Call the priest before we call him!’ The tone of the taller brother’s voice was unmistakably threatening.
    â€˜Who is it Agnes?’ Father Canty called from the upstairs landing.
    â€˜The Maldooney brothers looking for a priest Father.’
    â€˜The Maldooneys of Farrangarry is it?’ Father Canty asked.
    â€˜None other.’ Agnes threw a withering look at the unwelcome visitors.
    â€˜Ask them in for God’s sake. I’ll go tackle the cob.’
    â€˜Let one of