An Irish Christmas Feast (24 page)

Finally Big Bob closed his mouth firmly and, taking Jenny Collins by the hand, led her into the commonage where they stood for a while before he intimated with signs that she was to negotiate the circle hewn by the horses' hoofs. Big Bob took up his position in the centre of the ring and clapped his hands. At the sound of the clap Jenny broke into a lively trot. She completed several circles of the ring until Big Bob called out: ‘Whoah, whoah, whoah girl!' at which she stopped. For a while she stood silently, her eyes fixed firmly on the travelling man.

The watching pair exchanged looks of wonderment and perplexity but no word passed between them. They were aware that something extraordinary was taking place and they sensed that what was now happening was beyond words and would be threatened by external or contrary movements.

Suddenly Big Bob clapped his hands a second time, at which Jenny proceeded to run backwards, her steps keeping time with the clapping. As the clapping slowed so did Jenny. She was now walking backwards to the slow but steady handclap, walking as though in a dream. Her husband and Canon Coodle would say afterwards when recalling the ceremony that there was a very short period when she seemed to actually float backwards although both were realistic enough to realise that it may have been some form of illusion. As the handclap slowed altogether so did the steps of the woman who had passed herself out and it became clear that instead of catching up with herself she was allowing herself to be caught up with.

‘Now, now, now is the time,' Big Bob cooed.

All were agreed afterwards that cooing was the best word to describe the sound of his voice.

‘Now, now, now,' he cooed again as Jenny stood stock-still.

‘Ooh ah ooh owowow ooh ooh,' she cried out in exultation as she assumed herself back into her being.

‘Extraordinary!' Canon Coodle could scarcely believe his eyes.

‘Most remarkable!' he exclaimed and then, ‘most peculiar entirely!'

As for Tom Collins, the poor fellow was speechless. The tears ran down his face as Jenny approached and flung herself into his waiting arms. She was his wife again, his reliable, lovable helpmate, his pride and joy, his one true love. She would never pass herself out again and she would buy her Christmas gifts like everybody else. Uncaring and oblivious to all, Jenny and Tom Collins walked through the moonlit commonage hand in hand. They would eventually arrive home but not before they had exhausted the moonlight which they would remember forever and which they found to be romantic and enchanting.

‘How can we ever repay you!' Canon Coodle asked of the elderly traveller. ‘May the blessings of God rain down on you like this heavenly moonlight.'

‘Not by moonlight alone doth man live,' Big Bob's apocalyptic tones rose with a great ring of truth over the commonage as Canon Coodle reached for his wallet. From afar, borne upon moonbeams, came the gentle laughter of Jenny Collins. It was the laughter of a woman who had been lost but had been found and she would remain found for every Christmas thereafter.

As Wally Pooley cycled through the countryside his faith in the goodness of his fellow humans began to waver. Wally had not eaten a bite in twenty-four hours. Hard to imagine, he thought, that the great festival of Christmas is not yet over and still there are men and women who turn the needy and the starving away from their doors.

Wally had expected the spirit of Christmas to burgeon rather than diminish as the prescribed Twelve Days slowly expired. The feast of the Epiphany, due to fall on the morrow, would see the sacred period draw to its official close and that would be that, Wally exclaimed bitterly to a fettered donkey which sought in vain for grass or vetch or any form of sustenance along the inhospitable margins of the roadway.

In many ways you and I are alike Mister Donkey, Wally concluded as he pedalled laboriously uphill; we search, often fruitlessly, for the fill of our bellies while the less worthy grow fat behind closed doors. It never occurred to him that it might be his calling that gave rise to the hostility he had experienced since setting out from his tiny house that morning. Then there was the indisputable fact that he was a townie, and townies, let them be saints in their hearts, were always suspect when they ventured into the countryside.

Wally Pooley was a process server with ultimate responsibility to the minister for justice although it is doubtful if the minister in question had ever exchanged the time of day with Wally or with any other process server, such was the gap that existed between the upper echelons of the ministry and the lower ranks.

Strictly speaking Wally was not obliged to serve summons until the Christmas period had passed but the pangs of hunger which had assailed him since he set out that morning might well not be assuaged until the processes were delivered and the affidavits of service signed. Then and only then would remuneration for his labours be forthcoming from the lawyers who employed him in the first place although in this instance there was only one lawyer, J. P. Holligan.

Before setting out that morning Wally had phoned his employer and acknowledged the several processes which he had received by post several days before Christmas, processes which should have been delivered immediately after their arrival but, as Wally pointed out to J. P. Holligan, he just did not have the heart to inflict so much misery on his fellow human beings with Christmas just around the corner. The truth of the matter was that Wally had been unable to rise from his lonely bed to admit the postman who would have been well acquainted with Wally's ways. When his knock failed to draw an immediate response the postman simply stood on his toes and dropped the mail through the partially opened window of Wally's bedroom. As the letters drifted downwards Wally cursed his companions of the night before, drunken wretches every one, who would not hear of his departure while he had the price of a round left in his pocket.

Wally did not rise at all that day. On the following day before departing for the public house he placed the letters carefully in the breast pocket of his shortcoat where they would remain until his last penny was spent and he would be forced to the road once more with the latest vile assortment of processes.

When he rang J. P. Holligan of Holligan, Molligan and Colligan and explained that he would need an advance so that he might purchase some simple necessities such as the fundamental bread and butter and a variety of non-luxury items such as rashers, eggs, sausages and black puddings, the lawyer had not been in the least sympathetic, not even when it was pointed out to him that the rigours of the itinerary awaiting his humble servant would tax the energies of a professional cyclist not to mind an underfed, famished creature about to brave the elements in the pursuit of justice.

‘Spare me the gruesome details,' J. P. Holligan had cut in with some vehemence. The reference to food so early in the day had added to his queasiness which had built up over the Christmas period. Undeterred, Wally Pooley laid further claim to an advance by reminding the lawyer of tricky but successful assignments in the past involving considerable physical risk and debilitating fatigue but his pleas fell on barren ground. In the end, after he had exhausted all the coins in his possession on the public phone, he had set out without bite or sup, fairly confident that a cup of tea or a plate of soup might be forthcoming from some kind soul upon his route. There were still in that part of the world some tolerant householders who made allowances for process servers even when they arrived with scripts of woe.

‘Ah sure someone must do it!' the more forgiving recipients would say whilst others, not many, would make allowance by saying that it took all kinds to make a world.

The vast majority of people, rightly or wrongly, looked upon these lowly minions of the law as renegades and outcasts and would often threaten them with physical violence. The more perverted wrongdoers who would be expecting a visit from Wally would threaten him beforehand with shooting or with hanging and drowning. In his time he had been threatened with leg-breaking, head-splitting, dismemberment and castration, to mention but a few of the punishments to which he would be subjected should he deliver one of his processes where it wasn't wanted.

Already that morning Wally had succeeded in delivering processes for such heinous offences as property trespass by animals and humans, for debt and for assault, for breach of contract, for attempted rape and for indecent exposure. Now, as he neared the end of his hazardous itinerary, only one process remained to be served. He knew the house well. He had called there in the past but not to fulfil his legal obligations. For years before his elevation to process server he had been interested in politics and whenever canvassing parties went into the countryside in search of votes Wally went along, chiefly because he had nothing else to do but also for the good reason that the party which claimed his support was out of power and he was needed to swell the ranks of canvassers to respectable numbers.

Then, unexpectedly, after a snap election the party was returned to power and a new government was formed. Mindful of Wally's past contributions a party hack put Wally's name forward for the position of process server. Despite strong opposition because of his drinking habits and general unreliability he was duly appointed. Most of his business came from Holligan, Molligan and Colligan. The first-mentioned of these was also a government supporter and a known skinflint-cum-begrudger. The fact that he opposed the appointment of Wally Pooley worked in the latter's favour and brought him support he could not have otherwise counted upon.

The side road which led to the house where the last of the process recipients resided was seriously disfigured by potholes made doubly worse by recent rains. Wally had unhappy memories from previous visits. For one thing both the brother and sister who occupied the house were rabid supporters of the opposition and had set the farmyard dogs on Wally and his fellow-canvassers during their last visit.

As the house drew near the potholes grew larger so that Wally had the utmost difficulty negotiating them. Inevitably he was thrown from his bicycle and found himself seated in a hole full of muddy water. To add to his misfortune the three farmyard dogs appeared on the scene and proceeded to snap at him as well as bark hysterically. Quickly he rose to his feet shielding one side of his body with the bicycle and arming his free hand with a quantity of sizeable stones which he had started to gather the moment the dogs appeared. He aimed at the most savage of the three and sent him yelping to safety. The cowardly canine would continue with his intimidatory tactics while he was safely out of range. Before Wally had time to gather more ammunition the other dogs had joined the ringleader and proceeded with their criticism of the visitor from a distance.

During all this time neither of the proprietors of the great house put in an appearance. I could have been savaged to death, Wally told himself, for all they care. Shivering as he advanced along the narrow boreen, he began to feel the icy cold of the water on his rear quarters. With chattering teeth he told himself aloud that he would surely fall foul of pneumonia or worse if he didn't dry himself quickly. He shook the wet trousers gingerly but all he succeeded in doing was to send the freezing drops down the backs of his thighs.

‘Oh God!' he appealed in loud tones to his maker, ‘what did I ever do to you that you should treat me this way?'

As he proceeded on foot the pushing of the bicycle became an almost unbearable task. Cursing and crying he longed for the sight of the house where he might heat himself for a while by a fire. He recalled that there had been a warm range in the kitchen the last time he and his companions had managed to gain access to it. A pleasant anticipatory shudder brought him momentary relief when he remembered the glow of the fire which would shed its benign heat on him before he was much older. Even Wally's closest companions would concede that he was a poor subject for any form of hardship. Now in his forties it was certain that he had spent more of his two score years whining than celebrating. For a moment he paused and a look of alarm appeared for the first time on his face. The process! Was it still in his pocket or had he inadvertently handed it in with one of the others to the wrong recipient? His hand went instantly to his breast pocket where he kept all the letters. He did not withdraw the safety pin. His fingers found and felt the reassuring length of the legal epistle he would shortly deliver. With a sigh of relief he proceeded.

At either side of the ancient tree-lined road, once a stately avenue, the verdant acres stretched as far as he could see, an indication of the vast wealth enjoyed by the owners, reputed to be the best-off farmers in the parish. Well off they might well be but according to locals they were so mean that even the travelling folk did not consider it worth their while to call. They left their secret signs at either side of the gate which led to the house. These signs spoke more eloquently than any conventional language of the meanness and misery of the middle-aged man and woman to whom the house and lands belonged. Another sign told of cross dogs and yet another spelt dangerous bull for it was the practice of the ungenerous pair to release one of the more dangerous bulls on to the narrow roadway in order to discourage visitors, especially travellers.

At long last the house came into view but as far as Wally Pooley could see there was no sign of a human presence. Despite the reputation of its inhabitants Wally was glad to see the thin spiral of smoke which ascended from the kitchen chimney. He looked at his watch. The noon of the day had just passed and it was at this time that country people, farmers in particular, sat down to dinner. They partook of supper in the evening after the cows had been milked or alternative stock catered for.

There were no afternoons in the countryside, only morning, evening and night. Anything after midday was looked upon as early evening. Afternoon was a word used only by landlords in former more repressive times and it had no place in the local agricultural vocabulary. It had been discarded with other words which had never fitted properly in the first place into the native ambience.

The house which stood overlooking a spacious lawn was of prepossessing proportions. It had once belonged to an English landlord whose agent disposed of it for a fraction of its value when the British pulled out after the War of Independence. The present owners were the son and daughter of the original purchaser, a man so mean that he never ate more than enough to keep him alive and who, if he had his way, would have imposed the same abstinence on those who worked for him. His offspring were somewhat different. They made certain that they always dined well themselves but, if others were to starve, surely it was not their concern.

Wally knocked tentatively at the kitchen door. It would be unthinkable, even for the owners, to use the ornate front door with its ancient elaborate knocker so stiff that it could hardly be raised, much less used. When there was no response to his knocking Wally pushed gently upon the door and was relieved when it opened easily into the warm interior. The range stood gleaming as always, a bright fire glowing in its bosom, a promising assortment of dinner utensils chortling and steaming and fragrant on its surface. He made straightaway for the range to which he immediately turned his ice-cold posterior. The warmth ran through his buttocks and then through his limbs and all his other parts while he stood entranced, utterly captivated by the exquisite heat. Such was the pleasing glow which suffused him that he could have stood thus, without moving, for hours. The steam rose behind him from the soggy seat of his trousers until the life returned to him. He would have taken off the trousers and laid them across the bars of the rack over the range but it would have been an unbecoming pose for a process server even if he had an ancient football togs underneath.

As he relaxed he drifted into a standing slumber during which he dreamed of scantily clad damsels frolicking on foreign strands. He recognised several for, after all, he had encountered them in the same place on numerous occasions in the past. They recognised him too for they contorted themselves to the most extraordinary limits in order to provoke him. One in particular took him by the hand and led him to a cave underneath towering cliffs. Inside she raised a cautionary finger to her moist lips intimating that absolute silence was required for that which was about to follow.

‘Wake up you dirty devil!' The voice which exploded in his ear did not belong to any of the exotic creatures on the foreign strand. They would never address him in such a fashion. The voice belonged to Miss Clottie, the lady of the manor. Wally had some difficulty in returning to reality. When he did he found himself being glared at by Miss Clottie and her brother Master Bob.

‘What are you doing here!' The decidedly unfriendly query came from Miss Clottie. Master Bob took refuge in silence knowing if there was dirty work to be done the task could not be in more capable hands than those of his beloved sister. Blurting out the words, Wally explained his predicament and begged to be allowed stay a few short minutes until his trousers dried. He told them of the assault by the dogs which was a most serious matter in view of his position as a government-appointed process server. Indeed, if news of the assault reached the ears of the proper authorities there would be hell to pay. He was relieved to notice the look which passed between brother and sister. It was a look of mild alarm mingled with total derision but he knew nevertheless that his words would take heeding.