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Authors: Patricia Scanlan
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snug and cosy, hoping that she’d be asleep before Greg and the Freeloaders got home.
Noel made himself a cup of cocoa, took a goldgrain biscuit from the packet and sat down at his kitchen table. He allowed himself one biscuit every night. It was his little
treat. His knee ached and he rubbed it as he sipped his hot drink. He was starting to show his age, he thought, a little depressed. Sixty-five sounded so much older than sixty. He didn’t like
being old. He hated becoming dependent on people. He was finding his parish work taxing but didn’t want to say it to poor Father Doyle, who, although a few years younger than himself, was
crippled with arthritis.
It was bad enough that Theresa Clarke had taken over as chair of the parish committee. Noel hadn’t liked giving up the prestigious position, but he couldn’t be seen to be ungracious.
He’d had a couple of stints as chairman over the years. He wasn’t even treasurer, either, which carried some power and responsibility. No, he was reduced to being the secretary, taking
orders from Madam Theresa, and she was relishing her power. It was all very upsetting. He wasn’t looking forward to Christmas either. Since Anna had died, life hadn’t been the same. He
was terribly lonely without his wife. The house was empty, a shell since she’d gone. Bobby had taken off to London to live a degenerate life, and Noel could only hand him up to the good Lord
and hope that he would come to his senses and change his ways. His son was coming home for a few days at Christmas and he didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry. He didn’t like to
think of Theresa and her ilk whispering and gossiping about his family’s business. If only Bobby would make the effort to tone it down. He was so flamboyant in his clothes and manner, almost
inviting people to look at him and see how different he was.
And then there was Shauna, always ready to argue the toss. They were going to her house for Christmas this year. He would have preferred to go to Carrie’s. He felt more comfortable there
and Davey was a grand little fellow. A real little man, just like his father. He smiled, thinking of his grandson. He wanted to teach him the Stations of the Cross this year. Carrie was a little
lax in that regard, but he’d say nothing. He’d just bring him round the church himself and explain each station.
Twiskers, his little black and white cat, rubbed her head lovingly against his leg. Noel bent down and lifted her onto his lap. She’d originally been called Whiskers as a kitten but Olivia
hadn’t been able to pronounce it and her best effort had been ‘Twiskers’. It had stuck.
He supposed he should make out a list for his Christmas shopping. He wanted to get some presents for a few of his committee members. Not Theresa, or Vera Donoghue; he didn’t like them. But
Mrs O’Neill, his next-door neighbour, and Harriet Kelly were nice women and kind with it. He’d need gifts for Shauna and Bobby as well as Carrie, and presents for the grandchildren.
He’d do out a list for Carrie and she could look after it. He’d start it now, and write some Christmas cards. That would keep him occupied for an hour or so and then he’d say his
rosary and go to bed.
Christmas was a busy time in the parish. He’d been organizing the setting up of the crib and the delivery of the Christmas Mass notices. He stood up to get a pen and paper from the
mantelpiece and winced as a dart of pain shot through his knee. He hoped it was only arthritis and nothing more sinister. He must check his medical encyclopedia when he had finished his chores, he
decided. At his age anything was to be expected and Shauna might not be so dismissive of his health problems if it was discovered that he had something serious! In fact, she might even stay in the
country and not take his grandchild away to foreign parts that were dangerous to live in, exposing her to cultures and beliefs that were far from what her mother
Noel made himself a cup of cocoa, took a goldgrain biscuit from the packet and sat down at his kitchen table. He allowed himself one biscuit every night. It was his little
treat. His knee ached and he rubbed it as he sipped his hot drink. He was starting to show his age, he thought, a little depressed. Sixty-five sounded so much older than sixty. He didn’t like
being old. He hated becoming dependent on people. He was finding his parish work taxing but didn’t want to say it to poor Father Doyle, who, although a few years younger than himself, was
crippled with arthritis.
It was bad enough that Theresa Clarke had taken over as chair of the parish committee. Noel hadn’t liked giving up the prestigious position, but he couldn’t be seen to be ungracious.
He’d had a couple of stints as chairman over the years. He wasn’t even treasurer, either, which carried some power and responsibility. No, he was reduced to being the secretary, taking
orders from Madam Theresa, and she was relishing her power. It was all very upsetting. He wasn’t looking forward to Christmas either. Since Anna had died, life hadn’t been the same. He
was terribly lonely without his wife. The house was empty, a shell since she’d gone. Bobby had taken off to London to live a degenerate life, and Noel could only hand him up to the good Lord
and hope that he would come to his senses and change his ways. His son was coming home for a few days at Christmas and he didn’t know whether he was glad or sorry. He didn’t like to
think of Theresa and her ilk whispering and gossiping about his family’s business. If only Bobby would make the effort to tone it down. He was so flamboyant in his clothes and manner, almost
inviting people to look at him and see how different he was.
And then there was Shauna, always ready to argue the toss. They were going to her house for Christmas this year. He would have preferred to go to Carrie’s. He felt more comfortable there
and Davey was a grand little fellow. A real little man, just like his father. He smiled, thinking of his grandson. He wanted to teach him the Stations of the Cross this year. Carrie was a little
lax in that regard, but he’d say nothing. He’d just bring him round the church himself and explain each station.
Twiskers, his little black and white cat, rubbed her head lovingly against his leg. Noel bent down and lifted her onto his lap. She’d originally been called Whiskers as a kitten but Olivia
hadn’t been able to pronounce it and her best effort had been ‘Twiskers’. It had stuck.
He supposed he should make out a list for his Christmas shopping. He wanted to get some presents for a few of his committee members. Not Theresa, or Vera Donoghue; he didn’t like them. But
Mrs O’Neill, his next-door neighbour, and Harriet Kelly were nice women and kind with it. He’d need gifts for Shauna and Bobby as well as Carrie, and presents for the grandchildren.
He’d do out a list for Carrie and she could look after it. He’d start it now, and write some Christmas cards. That would keep him occupied for an hour or so and then he’d say his
rosary and go to bed.
Christmas was a busy time in the parish. He’d been organizing the setting up of the crib and the delivery of the Christmas Mass notices. He stood up to get a pen and paper from the
mantelpiece and winced as a dart of pain shot through his knee. He hoped it was only arthritis and nothing more sinister. He must check his medical encyclopedia when he had finished his chores, he
decided. At his age anything was to be expected and Shauna might not be so dismissive of his health problems if it was discovered that he had something serious! In fact, she might even stay in the
country and not take his grandchild away to foreign parts that were dangerous to live in, exposing her to cultures and beliefs that were far from what her mother
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