Chapter Ninety Seven
Little Red Riding Hood
Behind them, Ciaran firmly closed the heavy front door, made festive with its garland of holly, and now with everyone at last safely inside, the older children laughingly set about helping to divest Ma, Tom, and Sybil of all their hats, scarves, gloves, and outer clothes, with the sole exception of Ma's own hat and which she insisted on still wearing. Thank goodness it had been so cold and frosty, said Aislin, adding that at this time of the year such weather was more than welcome because it betokened a mild spring and an absence of illness, for she said, according to the old Irish proverb, "A green Christmas makes a fat churchyard".
Then, with a dismissive wave of her hand, she laughingly brushed aside Sybil's kind offer to help her with what still remained to be done of the cooking; telling her instead that not only was Sybil an honoured guest, but that she should sit and rest.
Privy to both Sybil's offer and Aislin's equally kind refusal, Tom winked broadly at Sybil, before whispering in her ear that it was probably for the best and that maybe, just maybe, Ma had seen fit to warn Aislin about Sybil's decided lack of culinary skills. After all, said Tom, it was some distance to the nearest hospital and while he was an excellent driver, the Model T had a top speed of just over forty miles an hour and space only for four, whereupon Sybil had shot him a mutinous look, before allowing young Rosaleen to lead her over to the high backed settle by the fire.
Once seated, Sybil soon got used to the constant chatter and babble of voices, so unlike the decorous, staid Christmases which, both as a child and as a young woman she had been used to, and stoically endured, at Downton. And, while the atmosphere here in the farmhouse was both boisterous and lively, when it came to noise, thankfully, that paled in comparison to the raucous din of the céilí held in the large barn across the yard on the evening which followed hard upon their wedding.
So, with Ruari having gone outside to see briefly to the cattle in the byre, while Ciaran helped Aislin attend to the last of the cooking, with Ma seated beside her on the settle with little Riordan on her lap, Sybil sat and read the beginning of "The Wind In The Willows" to young Rosaleen, while Ronan and Mairead busied themselves setting the long kitchen table with all manner of plates, knives, forks, spoons, and glasses.
With Ruari once again back inside, and having whispered something quietly to his uncle, who merely smiled and nodded his agreement, with Mairead now seated on his lap, and with a glass of whisky in his hand, Tom, sitting in the Windsor chair on the opposite side of the fire from Sybil, then sat listening intently while Ruari and Ronan both explained how that morning, not long after dawn had broken, they had gone out into the woods with their father to inspect the several rabbit snares which they had set the previous evening.
And, said Ciaran, now joining in their conversation, with Ruari working full time on the farm ever since leaving school in the summer, and proving such a great asset and help - Ruari flushed at his father's open praise of him - the lad had been allowed a special treat. So, on St. Stephen's Day just past, Ruari had been allowed to go with Ronan, and a handful of other boys from the nearby hamlet, their faces blackened with soot and dressed in the most tatterdemalion of clothes, making an almighty din on a equally ragbag assortment of penny whistles, a fife, and a drum, all to drive the dark of winter away, as part of the proceedings known here in Ireland as "Hunting the Wren".
Sybil paused in her reading, looked up, and seeing her bemusement, Ciaran did his very best to explain to her the origins of the strange Irish custom, whereupon Aislin, bending over the range, had added over her shoulder, that although she had had plenty of soot and straw, this year, what with Ronan inheriting most of Ruari's hand-me-downs, she'd been hard pressed to find enough old clothes which she could tear into rags and sew together so as to make the two boys the rest of their costumes.
"I wish you'd said so earlier Aislin ..." began Sybil.
"Why's that?" asked Tom interrupting her, pausing with the glass of malt half way to his lips. "You don't even like sewing".
"True enough" said Sybil and grinned broadly.
The instant he saw her smile, Tom realised that somehow he'd blundered.
"Aislin said she was short on rags..."
"So?"
"Well then. I could have given her some of your old shirts".
"There's nothing the matter with my shirts!" he protested.
"Oh, Tom" giggled Sybil. "Why, some of them are positively threadbare! So next year, Aislin, or indeed if ever you're short of rags ..."
"Sybil!" growled Tom.
"Was he this much trouble at Downton?" asked Aislin with a laugh.
"Oh, much worse!" giggled Sybil. "But, to his credit, I have to say, he was always very smartly turned out. Even my grandmother said so".
"I have to say our Tommy did look fetchingly handsome" said Ma. "Of course, you've seen the photograph he had taken when he was in service?"
Aislin nodded. "Yes" she said pensively, "I've always thought there was something rather appealing about a man in uniform".
Tom and Sybil exchanged knowing glances, while Ciaran raised his eyes towards the ceiling, shook his head in mock disbelief.
"Although, I'm sure you'll forgive me for saying so Sybil, not one wearing the khaki of a British soldier" added Aislin.
"Agreed. Nor the uniform of Dublin polees" said Tom with a chuckle.
Sybil nodded, while their thoughts, both individually, and collectively, drifted back subconsciously to what had happened here on the night of the céilí, and for a brief moment, all conversation languished; then with a pot on the range needing Aislin's immediate attention, the awkwardness of the moment passed, Sybil resumed her reading, and Tom answering Ruari and Ronan's questions about the motor parked across the yard from the house.
A short while later, with Ma now having taken over the task of reading to both Mairead and Rosaleen, still seated in the high backed settle on the opposite side of the hearth from Tom, and with Riordan in her lap Sybil glanced about her.
The farmhouse, she surmised, and correctly so, had evidently been cleaned from top to bottom. Beneath the smoke blackened beams, here in Aislin's homely kitchen, absolutely everything shone; the flickering reddish glow of the flames of the fire reflected back from off a myriad of gleaming surfaces, of burnished brass, shining glass, even in the glaze of the plain earthenware plates lining the dresser. Each and every pot and pan had been scoured clean until they were spotless, the curtains washed, and the glass panes of the windows sparkled. Even the red quarries of the floor had been scrubbed, and the furniture too, for all that much of it still bore signs of the wanton damage caused by Stathum's men on the night of the army raid.
Although there was no Christmas tree, three chains of brightly coloured paper had been strung from the rafters, while above the massive stone hearth, the high mantle shelf was festooned with greenery, with red berried holly, trailing tendrils of ivy, and boughs of sweet smelling laurel; which, explained Ronan to both Tom and Sybil, he, his elder brother Ruari, and two sisters had been tasked with collecting, this, as every year at Christmas, from the nearby wood.
Not that Mairead and Rosaleen had been much use, at least not according to Ruari, for having been thoroughly frightened by a dark shape which they insisted they had seen prowling through the lengthening shadows in the wood, they had stayed sheltering in the hollow trunk of an old oak tree which had been struck by lightning, while the boys went in search of what they had all come for. Not that it had helped matters, when Ronan had told his two sisters that what they had seen was, in all likelihood, a wolf, and a hungry one at that.
Wolf or no wolf, they were only girls, said Ruari, and collecting greenery in a dark wood wasn't really a job for girls, at which Sybil had raised her eyebrows loftily and said that she was a girl and would, if given half the chance, have happily played her part.
"What about the wolf?" asked Tom with a chuckle.
"Don't you think I'm more than a match for any old wolf?" asked Sybil with a grin.
"Aye that you are! A proper Miss Little Red Riding Hood! In fact, the one I feel sorry for is the poor old wolf. Just think of him, there he is padding through the wood on a dark winter's evening, minding his own business, thinking of nothing else except his supper, and he happens to meet you!" said Tom.
He chuckled, along with Sybil, Ruari, and Ronan both joining in the carefree laughter which followed their uncle's rueful observation. Watching the boys hanging on Tom's every word, it was obvious to Sybil how much they loved their young uncle and, once again she found herself thinking what a wonderful father Tom would make. As Tom grinned at her, his blue eyes sparkling in the firelight, God willing, I do hope our child, indeed all our children, inherit his eyes, thought Sybil.
"Well then, if you think I'm a match for any old wolf..." she began mischievously.
"Ah, not so fast!" said Tom interrupting her. "Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Hood, and you too boys, but you know it couldn't have been any wolf your sisters saw".
"Why ever not Uncle Tom?" This, from Ronan, who looked rather crestfallen, and, it must be said, sounded rather disappointed.
"Because, Ronan, the last wolf left alive here in Ireland was killed as long ago as 1786".
"And how ever do you know that?" asked Sybil, intrigued once again by Tom's unexpected store of knowledge.
"My fath..." he began. "Someone told me" he finished lamely, fell silent, and gazed mournfully into the fire.
Sybil's gaze also returned to the fire, where the flames continued to flicker while smoke spiralled lazily upwards from a large log and a bank of peat turves burning merrily on the hearth, while a delicious array of savoury smells arose from the clutch of puts boiling and bubbling away on the range.
Shortly thereafter, Aislin came to call them all to the table, for faces and hands to be washed. The goose, she said, was now ready and the meal would be served directly, adding with a laugh and an expressive raise of her eyebrows which reminded Sybil immediately of Mary, that it was probably not the kind of Christmas she was used to. Perhaps not, but for all that it was undoubtedly one of the happiest and most memorable that, in later years, Sybil could recall to mind.
When all were seated at the long table, Ciaran stood to say grace:
Bless O Lord, this food to celebrate the New Year,
Bless us all and keep us from harm.
And make us ever mindful of the needs of others in the year ahead,
For Jesus' sake. Amen.
This was followed by a succession of sincere amens from all those present, with Ciaran saying that while he knew it was not quite yet 1920, who knew when they would all next be together again.
"And although I know it's a little late for it, Nollaig Shona Duit!" said Ciaran once again only this time more forcefully; the collective response to which was equally sincere, and if it were possible, even more fervent, after which, as head of the family, he took his place in the ladder back chair at the end of the long table by the door, with Ma seated opposite him as the other end nearest the glowing fire.
The rest of the family had ranged themselves around the two sides of the long table as best they could, with Riordan in his high chair placed between Aislin and Ma. Tom and Sybil sat opposite each other, with Mairead and Rosaleen next to their uncle, and Ruari and Ronan, with Ruari, much to his chagrin and embarrassment, next to Sybil.
The meal which followed was an extremely convivial affair and the food such that even Mrs. Patmore would have sung its praises; it was truly excellent and a real tribute to Aislin's cooking. The roast goose was done to perfection, as was the boiled ham which accompanied it, generous portions of both of which were served up to all those seated at the table, little Riordan excepted - not that he seemed to mind - along with dishes containing three types of potatoes: roast, boiled, and mashed, along with other dishes laden with roasted parsnips, boiled swede, Brussels sprouts, and cabbage, all washed down with lashings of piping hot tea for the grown-ups and cooling lemonade for the children.
Later, while Aislin busied herself again at the range, and Ma cleaned mashed swede and potato out of Riordan's hair, there was no shortage of willing hands to help clear the dirty plates and other detritus from off the table and carry them over to the sink. Then, with fresh plates and cutlery having been laid, Aislin brought to the table a steaming plum pudding, along with a jug of thick, rich sauce which, once she and all the others had eaten their fill, Sybil had to admit, even surpassed Mrs. Patmore's most excellent Christmas pudding.
With the meal at last over, and with, despite her protestations, Aislin herself having been told to sit and rest, the washing and drying up being undertaken by Ma ably assisted by both Sybil and Tom, Ciaran mended the fire with fresh turves of peat, while outside the chill of winter drew down over the farm and daylight began its inexorable descent into dusk.
Here in the large kitchen of the farmhouse, bathed in the soft glow of lamplight, it was both snug and warm, and, with all of them now seated round the hearth enjoying the heat from the blazing fire, it was time for the children to be given their presents, Tom taking on the part of Father Christmas, a role into which he entered with characteristic gusto.
In addition to the presents which they themselves had bought for the children, Tom and Sybil had also brought over from Clontarf several bars of Bournville chocolate, and for each of them an orange, both from out of the hamper sent over from Downton. Mairead and Rosaleen were delighted with the bolt of cloth for new dresses and with the ribbons for their; at her young daughters' earnest entreaties, Aislin promised to make a start on their pinafores later that same week. Ronan was over the moon with his football, while little Riordan showed precisely what he thought of his new wooden rattle by promptly throwing it on the floor, while blowing a stream of bubbles, and waving his chubby little arms and kicking his equally chubby little legs in unabashed delight at his infant prowess.
"Are you really sure you both want one of these? Tom? Sybil?" asked Aislin laughingly, picking up the discarded rattle, and seating her still merrily dribbling youngest in her lap.
Sitting close next to Tom on the settle, their hands lightly clasped together resting on Tom's knee, for a moment Sybil looked questioningly across at him, and then seeing his love for her so clearly manifest itself in his deep blue eyes, there really was only one possible answer to Aislin's amused question.
"Of course!" chorused Tom and Sybil together.
As for young Ruari, that day wearing his very first pair of long trousers, the expression on his still boyish face when he un-wrapped his penknife was beyond price.
"For me? Really?" he asked softly. Tom nodded.
"And when you find yourself a sweetheart, you can carve your initials and hers into the bark of that old elm tree out beyond your Da's barn!"
At that, blushing furiously, Ruari cast a sideways look at Sybil from under his thatch of dark hair, a covert glance that did not go unnoticed by Tom, who grinned, while Sybil sensing the boy's eyes upon her, half turned, and bestowed on him the warmest of smiles.
Author's note:
"Hunting The Wren" is a very old Irish tradition. Still observed to this day, it takes place on St. Stephen's Day – 26th December. There are various explanations as to its meaning, as well as for its origins.
As Tom tells Ruari and Ronan, the last wild wolf in Ireland was killed in 1786, and in County Carlow, after a farmer had lost a number of sheep to it on Mount Leinster.
The Gaelic greeting for "Merry Christmas" is indeed "Nollaig Shona Duit" and is, I am reliably informed, pronounced 'null-ig hun-a dit'.
Cadbury's famous Bournville chocolate first went on sale in 1908.