The old dear smiles and I end up having to look away. I’m there, “Can you at least put your teeth in?”
Honor goes, “Don’t listen to him, Fionnuala.”
And the old dear’s like, “Oh, I never have, Honor – even when he cried as a baby. They call it self-soothing now. I tell people: I invented it.”
I’m there, “I’m not sure any of the child-rearing manuals suggest you leave your baby alone while you go out for cocktails.”
Sorcha is standing at the island with a boning knife in one hand and an espresso in the other, grinning at us like a serial killer
The old dear goes, ‘I don’t want my vital work on the campaign Move Funderland to the Northside to die with me’
‘I remember Past Ross thinking, you need to stort being nicer to Future Ross. He’s a genuinely good bloke’
‘Sorcha, I’m wondering is climate justice maybe a bit above Santa’s pay grade?’
She goes, “Well, I was years ahead of my time.”
She’s having one of her more, I don’t know, lucid days?
She’s there, “Anyway, that was absolutely beautiful, Honor. It has made Christmas for me.”
Yeah, no, Honor brought the Mount Anville school choir to the nursing home in Ongar that the old dear now calls home. It’s given her a definite lift.
“Natum vidéte,” the woman goes. “Regem Angelorum. What language is that, Ross?”
I’m there, “I’ve no idea. I was on the S.”
She goes, “Is it Latin? I love when your father speaks Latin – especially when he has drink taken. He often spoke Latin while we made love.”
I’m like, “Seriously? Do you have to?”
She goes, “Oh, don’t pretend to be embarrassed. Now, I want to talk to you both. There are some things that I need to say – especially with this being my last Christmas.”
Honor turns and looks at me with shock written all over her face.
I’m there, “Don’t talk nonsense. There’s, like, years left in you. Especially with that pact you made with the devil.”
She goes, “I might be losing my mind, Ross, but I’m not unaware of what’s happening to me. This will be my last Christmas and there are some things I have to pass on to you while I’m still somewhat close to compos mentis. Firstly, my recipes–”
I’m there, “I’ll make sure to burn them – just so no one else has to suffer like I suffered.”
She was always an incredible cook, in fairness to her, although I’d never give her the pleasure of telling her.
She’s like, “You’re wasting time, Ross. And I don’t have a lot of it left. Honor, I want you to have them.”
Honor’s there, “Okay, Fionnuala.”
Here, wait a minute – you made eggnog for my children last Christmas
— Ross
“Many of them have been in the family for generations,” the old dear goes. “I got them from my mother, who got them from her mother, who got them from her mother. Although I’ve added my own twist to some of them. You’ll notice in my Christmas pudding recipe that there’s a reference to a secret ingredient. Well, I can let you know that the secret ingredient is a good, healthy dollop of brandy.”
I’m like, “No surprise there.”
She goes, “Also, my sausage-meat stuffing recipe also contains a secret ingredient. It’s a good, healthy dollop of brandy.”
I’m there, “I’m storting to see a pattern here.”
She goes, “My eggnog recipe–”
I’m like, “Let me guess – would the secret ingredient be brandy?”
“The secret ingredient is Cointreau,” the old dear goes.
I’m like, “Oh – I wasn’t expecting that.”
“Cointreau,” she goes, “and then obviously a good, healthy dollop of brandy.”
I’m there, “Here, wait a minute – you made eggnog for my children last Christmas.”
“Well, it didn’t do them any horm,” she goes.
I’m like, “Yes, it did. Brian got sick at the children’s Mass in Foxrock. And Leo tried to unhook the winch that was holding Johnny as the Angel Gabriel above the altar.”
Honor goes, “Oh my God, that’s hilarious!”
The old dear’s there, “Now, Honor, I want to ask you for a very special favour.”
Honor goes, “Of course, Fionnuala.”
She’s like, “For 30 years – as you know – my name has been synonymous with the campaign to Move Funderland to the Northside. I don’t want this vital work to die with me.”
Honor’s there, “You’re not dying, Fionnuala.”
She goes, “You must listen to me, Honor. The campaign has been crying out for new blood for years. It could be regalvanised under you. Promise me that you’ll keep up the pressure on those ghastly funfair people.”
“Fionnuala,” Honor goes, “you’re going to be back on the picket line next year. Oh my God, I know you will?”
But she doesn’t say it with any – I think it’s a word? – conviction?
Don’t forget – brandy has an improving effect on most things. Merry Christmas, both of you
— Fionnuala
“Ross,” the old dear goes, “the trophy I was awarded for winning the lady captain’s prize in Foxrock in 1993 – could you give it to Cynthia Lernihan once I’m gone and tell her that I did fake that hole-in-one on the third and I’ve been lying all these years? There’s something very satisfying about having the last word.”
She yawns. I think she’s worn herself out. She sort of, like, sings to herself then. She’s like, “Veníte adoremus, Veníte adoremus, Veníte adoremus Dóminum!” and then she goes, “Honor, I want you to have all of my jewellery.”
I look at Honor and I can see that she’s got, like, tears in her eyes.
She goes, “I don’t want your jewellery because nothing is going to happen to you. You’re going to be around for another, like, 10 Christmases. Twenty even.”
The old dear’s there, “I’m feeling a bit foggy now. You might need to let me sleep. Honor, thank you for bringing the choir with you today. It was a wonderful surprise. Don’t forget – brandy has an improving effect on most things. Merry Christmas, both of you.”
Honor goes, “Merry Christmas, Fionnuala,” and the poor girl is in bits.
I’m there, “I’ll tuck you in here,” and I lean down to tuck the top sheet and the duvet under the mattress. The old dear has her eyes closed and, as my head moves level with hers, she goes, “Ross, I had a baby before I met your father.”
And then suddenly she’s out of the game.
I’m like, “What was that?”
Honor goes, “Dad, don’t wake her!”
I’m there, “Did you hear what she said?”
Honor’s like, “No – what?”
I’m there, “I could have sworn she said–”
“What?” she goes.
I’m like, “Yeah, no, nothing. Like she said, she’s feeling a bit foggy.”
Honor goes, “Dad, do you think this will be her last Christmas?”
And I’m there, “Of course not. She’ll outlive all of us,” and deep down I hate myself for lying to the girl.
