There are few pains so great to a man as the casual friendship of a woman he secretly loves, and few obstacles as high as the mountain of pride and fear which he must climb if he hopes to reach the peak where the object of his desire dwells . It was in just such a miserable state that our hero (though he only was that in his own mind) found himself on that glorious Christmas Eve.
One might think, with his nearly limitless experience in the Mournes, so near to his town as to almost be part of it, that ascending to the summit where he’d placed his beloved would be akin to strolling through a park… But anyone who has found him or herself in such a way will know this was not the case. Mary, with her cascade of hair that poured like a waterfall of ruby flames from Heaven itself, swirling and jumping down like a living torrent around her swan-like neck, was too beautiful, too graceful, too wonderful (and, as such, was too fearsome) for his courage to stand. After fifteen years of acquaintance, he had nearly convinced himself that he was happy enough just to know her.
In the center of the room, at the largest table, he sat with his guitar in his hands, playing along with the group without thought or plan… notes flowing from heart to fingers to strings to air to ears and back to hearts the way wind flows from God-knows-where to fill sails and kites. Like the tables, the floor, the walls, and even the people around him, his guitar showed the warm and soft signs of prolonged and loving use. She had been in his family for years, and had been given over begrudgingly by his father, whose hands were no longer able to pull from her the beauty for which she was made. A life of hard work had taken that and more from him. The sweet and weary instrument, with its worn and beaten body, was warmer and more lively than she had a right to be, and even more so than she appeared; and he, it seems, was carved from the same block. Taller than most people in Kilkeel by a head at least, and having spent as much time as he could out of doors, he looked every bit the wild man. With his rough blonde uncombed hair and salt blue eyes hidden underneath it, and his slightly imposing size, you might rightly assume he had some Viking in him, and might likewise assume he was as tough to dig into as the rocky soil of his home… But you could not know, unless he let you, that there was a bright and wonderful world in his soul. Mary, though she didn’t quite know it, had made a home in this world, and it was this world that inspired his songs.
His fingers and voice worked effortlessly through an up-tempo version of “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day”, and the pipes, fiddle, bodhran, and banjo kept up, but most every eye was on him… especially those of the young ladies in town. Not a one, however, caught his. A hint of a chill at his back let him know that The Brandy Pad’s door had opened a crack. Just enough for a slight and elegant figure to slip in, unnoticed by most, and take residence in a corner booth to read in the warmth of the peat fire. He, unlike the others, noticed entirely. His unclaimed and coveted dancer glided past and tripped him up… his hand fumbled at the neck of his guitar, his voice broke, and his words floundered. What should have been an old familiar carol became something short of a train wreck in less time than it takes to snuff a candle. He stopped, regained himself, and recovered for a strong enough finish.
“Alright then, as you might have noticed, we need a bit of a break. Someone seems to have drunk all my beer, and I‘ll need to refill it… again.” He said to the crowd with a smirk, and gently placed his second love back in her case. He was just snapping the lid when his dear friend Davy sat down beside him and put three full pints on the table.
“Do you think she noticed you mucked it up as soon as she walked in?”
“And hello to you too, Davy. No, I don’t think she notices much of anything when she’s running lines in her head… least of all me.”
“You know,” Davy said, with the faintest hint of a devilish smile on his lips, “I think you may be the most pitiful man I’ve ever known.” Pushing two glasses toward him.
“Thank you?” Conner replied. “Why the three glasses? Not that I’m complaining, if two are for me, but I’ve no need to drink my sorrows so early in the night.”
“Three glasses, mi amigo, because I have just received a letter stating that I have been accepted into the police academy in New York City. I leave in a week, and I will not be in another country if and when you ever gather the courage to drop this friend act and tell her you love her. One glass for you, one glass for her, and one glass for me to enjoy while you make an utter fool of yourself.”
Conner couldn’t believe, after having been children together, then children with facial hair, and now children cleverly disguised as grown men, his best friend was going across the sea… and he was going to be alone in a sea of people. It took him a moment to process this, another moment to think of how to react, and still another to actually do it. “That’s fantastic! Congratulations. But I’m not taking this pint to her. I’ll do you one better.” “Guys” he said to his fellow musicians, “You can keep drinking. I’ve got one I’d like to play on my own.”
If you had asked him later, he would have told you he had no idea where it came from… and indeed if you were there in the pub you would have guessed that he was possessed by Apollo… but without a word he opened his case and transfixed the entire crowd. Even Mary looked up from her script, and was hooked. His fingers danced across the frets the way she would on a stage, working up and down the neck like they were alive and independent of his command. “My friend Davy will be leaving for America soon,” he said, without missing a note, “I wish him the best of fortune, and pray that he doesn’t get fat.” To which the room raised its collective glass. “His courage in this case has inspired me. I would like to dedicate this song to someone in particular, but I haven’t had enough yet to be quite that brave, so I will just have to hope she knows who she is.” Though there could be no doubt, if you were paying attention during his speech, for his eyes never left her throughout.
“I don’t want a lot for Christmas” he sang, with notable trepidation… his eyes, suddenly glancing around the room as he realized what he was in the midst of doing. Deep breath. “There is just one thing I need.” He was vaguely aware of a mass of faces, all of which seemed to be closing in on him. He could hear what sounded like the far away echo of his own voice singing something about presents and a Christmas tree, but even that was muffled by the pounding of his heart, which seemed to have taken up residence, for the moment, directly between his ears. He closed his eyes, praying that when they opened he’d find it was all in his imagination… everything, from the pounding in his heart to the crowd to the news of his friend’s departure. He opened them, and they were fixed on her face… and, more frighteningly, hers were fixed on him as he continued, “All I want for Christmas………. is you.”
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“Will you be joining us for Mass this evening?” Her mother asked. You couldn’t tell by her tone, or the look on her face, but she already knew the answer, and was full of judgment because of it. It was actually the lack of expression that tipped her daughter off. Mary glanced up from her tea, which had become a weekly ritual between them less out of closeness and desire to be near each other, and more out of a feeling of obligation.
“No, mother. I have lines to memorize this afternoon if I expect to get the part. I’ll be going to Mass at midnight.”
Mary’s mother was skilled in the art of conveying disapproval without showing it. Without a sigh, or an eye roll, or any further discussion on Mary’s dream of life on the stage, she could make her daughter feel indulgent and sinful. “Did you hear that Deirdre is joining a convent out in Connemara? She was a schoolmate of yours, wasn’t she? Spends most of her free time nursing the elderly and infirm you know. Now there is a fine young woman.”
“Yes, her parents must be very proud.”
“Hmm? Yes, I suppose they must. A very noble way to live.”
The conversation ended, as it always did, with a subtle indictment, a long silence, and, “Well, mother, this has been fun. I guess I’ll see you next week.”
“Yes dear. Please let me know if you need anything.” another indictment.
The sun was setting earlier each evening, and the nights were getting colder. Not that Mary would tell her parents, but she was barely making enough money to keep a roof over her head and food in her icebox, let alone to afford luxuries like supplying peat for the small pot bellied stove that should have been warming her apartment. She worked days running the till at a local food store, and nights (when she wasn’t acting or dancing), pouring drinks and running food at The Brandy Pad. Though she didn’t need conversation at present, she needed both to practice for the play she was auditioning for, and to be around people who questioned less pointedly than her mother, if they questioned at all. More than that, she needed something to eat, and somewhere to stay warm, so, like many nights before, her mind had made itself up to bring her to work on one of her days off.
Oh, but it was Christmas Eve, wasn’t it? Conner would probably be there playing… and… well a girl’s head can get so full of romantic dreams some times.
“I’d better stop off and at least try to tame this mess before I go.” Her hair, which she usually put up in a bun when dancing, was otherwise incorrigible. Any attempts to peacefully reason with it were met with contempt, and spiteful resistance. It was, with its mass and regrettable orangeness, her least favorite of her physical features… but only by a slight margin. Still, her knobby knees, thick ankles, wide hips, and any other flaw that might happen to stick out to her that day… all of those could be hidden or disguised. With her hair, that writhing jungle of wrestling serpents, the best she could do was brush it, smooth it, and hope it didn’t get any wild ideas.
By the time she left her apartment, script in hand, the sun was hanging at half mast, as though in sad solute of a day just wasted. The street lamps were flickering on, dusting the scattered patches of snow with a touch of brightness that made her feel like a princess on her way to a ball; though, she imagined, she must look more mad than regal, sashaying silently through the dusk. If there were observers judging from their windows, she neither knew nor cared. The feeling of magic was more important to her than anything. You wouldn’t be wrong to assume it was this very ability and desire to live in a more magical and wonderful world that drew her to the stage. It wasn’t a conscious choice, this teleportation between worlds, but a natural and spontaneous occurrence. One moment she was freezing her way across her little fishing town, the next she was Queen of the Icelings, skating and sweeping over her land of snow, blessing and brightening all she surveyed. The next moment, she was at the door of the pub, and saw Conner playing at the table inside.
They had been little more than casual acquaintances for a good many years, seeing each other around town and having friendly conversation over drinks, politely carrying on with small talk while their friends adamantly and bull-headedly searched for their next true love, a quick “Hello, how are you?” in line at the supermarket. It was nothing, really… but it was enough for her to know she wanted more, although not enough for her to know what he wanted. She didn’t need him, obviously. She wasn‘t some sappy stupid girl, like so many who showed up wherever he and his guitar could be found. She was self-sufficient, and had been for most of her life. But still. Still she wanted that soaring feeling she’d so often portrayed on stage, that heart-bending devotion, and rapturous overflow that comes when it’s returned. And if any man in town could be that man, she thought it could be him, if only he would take the initiative, or even just give her some sign.
But it was no use getting snowed on when food and warmth were within sight. So she opened the door just enough to slip through and, using her skills as a dancer, did her best to slide through the room and find a seat by the fire. Once warmed, she would get up and ask Eogan for a sandwich and a Bulmer’s before working on lines, but the peat fire cut though her thin frame, and the question of how to solve a problem like Maria stopped her where she sat, and she was back inside her mind and her script, traipsing through the Alps, and miles away from her aching stomach.
She hadn’t made a whole lot of progress, though the sound of music and the enveloping murmur helped her focus, when her hunger came back to her. Looking up, she saw a plate at her side, with a turkey sandwich, and a pint of Bulmers, with a note attached. “Figured you’d be hungry. It’s not much, but it’s free. Enjoy. Eogan.” She took a bite, washed it down, and waved a thank you at her friend behind the bar. He was sweet, and protective… like an older brother should be, she assumed, but was not above harmlessly flirting with her… or any other girl, come to that. As her eyes traversed the room, on the way back to her script, her ears caught a soft and sudden tremble of fingers on strings. Above the buzz and clatter of patrons and cooks, and intermingling with the noise of the room as if in an attempt to elevate it all, Conner’s fingers culled notes the way a shepherd might find the best of the flock for show or auction, He could translate sound into emotion like no one she’d ever known, and could do it without ever seeming to work at it. It was as though his mind was completely detached from his body, and each finger had a mind of its own.
“My friend Davy has just informed me that he will be leaving for America soon.” He said. “I wish him luck, and hope his new home doesn’t make him fat.” Sometimes, she thought, Conner believed himself to be funnier than he actually was, but she raised her glass along with most of the others, in salute of Davy and his decision. “His bravery has inspired me. I’d like to dedicate a song to someone in particular, but I haven’t had enough to drink yet to be quite that brave… so I’ll just have to hope she knows who she is.”
“So he’s finally settled on one of those half-wits who follow him wherever he goes then.” She mumbled into her half empty glass. But as she prepared to get back to work on the script, his cold and beautiful eyes met hers and stopped them. He was looking right at her… or so she thought. It was a bit hard to tell from that distance, and with his hair partly obscuring his eyes. It was obvious, now that she was looking at him, that he was looking all over, making a point to avoid eye contact again, looking at everyone else but her. The crowd quickly quieted, and watched intently. It seemed that more than a few people were watching her instead of him. She tried to look away, to her sandwich, the fire, her script, anything, but she felt bound to him. She felt like she wanted to run, whether toward or away from him she wasn’t sure, but could move neither legs nor lungs. Most of all she could not move her eyes. He glanced around, closed his eyes, sang with force and clarity. His eyes, when he opened them again, met hers directly.
What the hell was he thinking?! “He barely speaks to me unless forced by awkward social situations, responds almost entirely in one word answers when I try to make conversation, and now he puts on this big show in front of all these people and expects, what, that I’ll jump up and into his arms? That I’ll be overwhelmed with gratitude for his having deigned to look my way? Right. He’ll have to do better than that. Like I’d be so easily won?” half of her thought, while the other half busily imagined what a future with him might look like. She couldn’t decide whether to stew in anger or simmer in joy, so she chose both.
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“Aaaand she’s back to her script. I’d say your hands-off attempt at wooing her has worked fantastically well. You know, you should write a book on how to win favor with women.” Davy mocked. “Honestly, if you were any worse at this, they’d erect a statue of you in front of the hall of hapless romantics.”
“Hey now,” Conner countered, “I’ve wooed women.”
“Sure, but not the one that matters. That’s the problem with you “artists”: You expect everything to work out if you make a show of it, but have no idea how to actually interact with human beings. You envision your life like a movie, or some epic love song, but you’re too scared to just be direct and go after what you want. But, I suppose it’s all well enough because, if she doesn’t leap into your arms after your serenade, you can just be mopey and write a song about heartbreak. I’ll even spring for some mascara if you decide to go that way.”
“You’re a dick, you know.” Said Conner, glancing up at Davy momentarily as he contemplated downing both of the thick black pints set before him. “I suppose you know of a better way then?”
“Yes, you idiot! It’s really very simple. You stop hiding behind your guitar, take these two glasses (which, by the way, you have yet to properly thank me for) and walk up to her and say, “Hello Mary, I have beer for us. I was wondering if you would be interested in drinking them and then eventually making babies with me.” “……… Do you really think that would work?” “You really are this stupid, aren’t you? No, that would not work. Take the beer, go over and talk to her, and at some point manage to mention the fact that you’ve been moderately to hopelessly in love with her for years and you hope she’d like to explore that. I’ve no idea how you can be so incredibly talented and skilled with words but have no idea how to actually use them. Go. Talk to her. And, for Christ’s sake, be a man about it. I won’t be here much longer to do this for you.”
So it was settled, unlike his nerves. He would just go over and talk to her. He would make a real effort, pursue her, make her feel wanted, desirable… He would…. flirt? No, that never worked. He could be personable on occasion, sometimes even lively. He could submit to the give and take of conversation, come off as friendly and likeable. Flirting, however, was something he did with the elegance of a child in his father’s clothes tap dancing on a tile floor covered with grease. So, with notable unease, and a quick prayer to saint Raphael, he placed his guitar gently back in her case, grabbed the two beers and… quickly averted his eyes when Mary came strolling past the table and toward the bar.
“Well hello there, gorgeous. So nice of you to stop by and see us on your day off. Do you really miss this place that much? Or, I know what it is… you just couldn’t stand to be away from me for a whole day. Honestly, Mary, I’m flattered. Perhaps, if I can muster the courage, I’ll make everyone listen while I sing you a song, but won’t actually say I’m singing for you. Would that be alright?”
“Why, Eogan, you’ve caught me. I pine for you day and night. I just don’t know what I would do without you, and cold turkey sandwiches served with warm flat cider, surrounded by dozens of degenerates and inebriates. And no, thank you, I think I’ll pass on the song. One is quite enough for a night.”
“Well, perhaps another time then. A shame, really, because I’m almost to the point where I can sing without breaking windows.” Eogan poured her another drink. “I can’t promise this will be any colder or bubblier than the last one, but I can promise it will be equally as light on your purse.” She thanked him again. “And, well don’t look now, but it seems our man has found a bit more courage… or, perhaps he’s low on stout.”
Mary did her best to pretend she didn’t notice as Conner came up to the bar and stood just a few feet from her. Between them sat an old fisherman nearly neck deep in his pint, and seemingly knee deep in regrets. “Rowan, I’s like-a buy this boy a drenk.” He sloshed as Conner stopped beside him. “Thanks, Finn, but I know your wife keeps tabs your wallet, and I don’t want the both of us getting an earful from her… especially with the way fishing’s been lately.” Conner replied. “Iss true… but you an yer Da’ sure managed a haul, di’nt ya?” “Ay, so, if you don’t mind, I’ll buy my own, and your next drink, and one for the nice young lady on your right.” Already he was exhausted just trying to keep from shaking to pieces, and having gulped down both of Davy’s drinks on the way to the bar did nothing to calm him. “Thank ye kindly, lad.” the old man chuckled, then leaned in and whispered, “and good luck with that one. Women will always give you trouble… but it’s usually in a good way.” “Thank you, sir.” he said, “I hope I don’t need luck, but I’ll take all I can get. And the bar keep’s name is Eogan. Rowan’s a tree.” “So it is.” He said to the remains of his ale. Mary made no reply, other than to point at her already full glass of cider; then, feeling a little sorry, said, “Thank you anyway.” “Oh…. alright then. Uh, Eogan, can I get two pints?” “Coming right up, Con. Good show tonight.” “Thank you, and thank you. I, uh, well it didn’t go quite as I imagined, I guess you could say.” He couldn’t keep getting distracted from his purpose or he would lose his nerve entirely. Mary made the slightest move in the direction of her seat by the fire and his heart panicked, like he would lose her forever, so, while trying to take a sip, he blurted, “Mary, did you hear Davy’s leaving?”
“I did… just before you sang about how all you wanted for Christmas was him.… and about five minutes before you spilled beer down the front of your shirt.”
Davy, watching from the table, with a hint of sadistic delight, saw his best friend choke and thought, “Lord, I can’t save him. This must be how the Saints in Heaven feel watching us down here.” But as he moved to stand, he saw the look in Mary’s eye change, and soften. She reached behind the bar for a towel, and handed it to Conner to dry himself with.
“Eogan, dear. Can I trouble you for a glass of soda water?” “Sure thing.”
“Here, come with me.” She said to Conner. Suddenly, as if borne on the breeze, Mary had downed her cider, grabbed the soda water in one hand and Stephen’s hand in her other, and pulled him through the door to the back of house. He barely had enough time or presence of mind to put a coaster on top of his beer before being pulled away like a Merrow’s lover beneath the waves, enchanted and confused. It smelled of fish, grease, and hot metal on this side of the door, but he didn’t really notice. He didn’t notice the cooks staring at him as he rushed past them to the wash room. He didn’t even notice that Mary had grabbed a Brandy Pad t-shirt off the stack by the office and thrown it over his shoulder. All power for his senses had been diverted to the hand which her delicate little fingers were clasping as she pulled him along.
“Now, you go in and change into this, and I’ll be in as soon as you’re done.”
“But, this is… what?” his contact addled brain managed to piece together. “Put on a new shirt, so I can try to get the beer out before it stains. Be quick about it.”
While Conner changed, and Mary waited in the hall, Davy wondered why he had never thought to use Conner’s bumbling idiot routine to get a date, but remembered that it had not worked but this once in the whole time he’d known Conner, giving it about a 1 in 5,475 success rate.
The Brandy Pad shirt was a little wide on him, and only just long enough, but he put it on, and handed his dirty shirt to Mary, who got right to work soaking it with soda water to lift the stain.
“So how much would you need to drink?” she asked over her shoulder. “How much would I need to drink for what? To be more of a clumsy oaf? I’m not sure I need to find that out.”
“How much would you need to drink to have the courage to say who you were singing to out there?… You know, most girls aren’t much impressed by shows of cowardice disguised as romance.”
“I… ouch. Well, I’m not sure. I’ve never really been any good at the whole romance thing… being open, and direct in situations like that, well… it’s not my strong suit.” Even saying that much took almost all of the emotional bravery he thought he had. He could hike dangerous mountains in terrible conditions, he could ride precipitous waves as they tossed his little boat about the sea with perfect calm in his heart, but this was a different kind of danger.
“Well, practice makes perfect, as they say.” She countered.
He looked at his shoes, as if he expected to find written on them the words most suitable for the situation, but all they bore were scuff marks.
He stood silent for a minute longer.
“There, the stain’s gone. You should hang that by the fire to dry it out. I’ll see you around.” and she was out the door.
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It was her. Why couldn’t he just say it was her? What possible damage could it do him to just say, “It was for you”?… More pressingly, what damage had he done by not saying it? He stood there for a moment trying to press himself to action, but his feet were as slow to move as his tongue was slow to speak. By the time he reached the kitchen door, she was already gathering her things up from the seat by the fire. Was it courage or desperation that flung him toward her? She hurried toward the door, and he hurried faster, stopping her at the foot of the long table in the middle of the room. “Mary” he called, trying to break through the nearly constant clamor of the room. The band was just finishing their last song for the night, and the crowd called out for more; and Mary, having barely heard him, stopped a moment, and turned.
Terrified of whatever outcome, but unwilling to remain uncertain, he forced himself to say what he should have said before… what he should have been saying for the past few years at least. “Mary… You know it was you.” As the band closed up their cases and headed to the door, the Juke Box kicked on; and as Frank Sinatra broke into the Christmas Waltz, Conner asked, “If you would do me the honor… may I have this dance?”
“Why sir,” she said, picturing herself as the lead in some classic romance, “I would be delighted.”
He reached out a hand, struggling to keep it from trembling with the electricity surging within him. She reached out her hand and met his, after having slyly wiped it on her skirt to make sure it wasn’t too sweaty. His other hand moved to her waist, at what seemed like lightning speed to him but in slow motion to her. It reminded her of a squirrel inching closer to some bread crumbs, not knowing if it was safe to be so near the person who had spread them there. She lightly placed her free hand on his shoulder, and his finally held her. And, for once, he led her. He guided her (he would admit, much more clumsily than she deserved) around the room which, for all it mattered to either of them, may as well have been empty. To their eyes it had been transformed. No longer were they in a smoke darkened hall, surrounded by drunks and onlookers warbling along to old blue eyes, scuttling across a well worn and beer soaked floor, they were alone but for the stars, swirling and gliding across a snow covered field in the Mournes, surrounded by nothing but the frosted night air and perhaps that invisible host which had sung “Glory to God in the highest, and on Earth, peace; good will t’ward men.”… but he needed no angel save the one in his arms.
It was only when the song ended that they came back to themselves. The revelry had continued in their mental absence, and only a few paid them any mind. Davy was chief among them.
“I see my beer investment has paid off.” Davy said, calling them back to them table. “It’s a shame, dear friend, that those dance lessons your mum forced on you never did.” “Ay,” Conner replied, “and I never could keep my arms down straight like they want you to. Not like Mary here anyway.” Davy asked, “How is that going, by the way?” Conner knew the answer, having seen her perform whenever he could, but Davy was always studying or working. “Oh, well enough. Always room for improvement, of course, but I’m actually up for the lead in the Sound of Music production in Belfast…. my second audition is tomorrow. So, thank you, Conner, for choosing tonight to distract me and spill beer on yourself.” “Quite welcome.”
“So you’re off for New York in a week then? That’s wonderful. I’ve always wanted to go.” Mary wanted to go anywhere she could find culture, and fashion, and romance. “Well, you will both have to come visit then. Or, better yet… I’m likely to be there for quite a long time, but I won’t really know anyone at first… why don’t you both move as well?” Conner saw Mary’s eyes twinkle just slightly at the prospect, and that alone was almost enough to get him there. But, “I don’t really know much about the place. I know there’s your police academy, and I know Broadway is waiting for Mary if she goes there, but… You know me Davy. I barely go to Belfast if I can avoid it. I need mountains. I need the wild. I’m lost in cities.” Mary hadn’t realized he thought so highly of her talent. Broadway, waiting for her? She wanted to be more practical, but she was instantly on board with the idea nonetheless. “Well you’ve been to London, right? she asked. He said, “Sure”. “Well, it’s London… only this London is so much…. more. It’s bigger and brighter, and, it never stops moving. Oh, and there’s Central Park, which is less like a park than a well kept forest in the middle of the city. And there’s got to be more when you get outside the city too.” “Besides,” Davy added, “you want to write and play music. There’s only so many opportunities here for you, but in New York it will be limitless. And what do you have keeping you here if we’re both gone except this stuffy little pub and your da’s fishing boat?”
“The Mournes”, he wanted to say. “My mountains.” “my home“, “familiarity”… “safety” he wanted to say. “Nothing, I suppose.” He said. Neither of them could really understand, as far as he knew, his love of the land, of the wild areas. They could appreciate them, sure, maybe love and enjoy them to a large degree… but to him it was as though he had been carved out of the rocks of those mountains, like he was a part of them and they were a part of him… and no matter how many stones are pulled from the hillsides and brought to the cities to build banks and houses, no matter how well carved and mortared together, the granite belongs in the mountain. “We’ll see.” Conner sighed. “You go over there, and start your training, and let me know what it’s really like. I’m not just going to fly off across the sea without any money saved, and without knowing anything about my destination. I’ll need some time. And Mary… well, you’ve got that audition tomorrow. You’re going to get that part, and it would be a shame to cut out on it.” “Ay, and it’s a four month run. If I get it, I’ll be here til the end of April.” “Alright, alright. No one’s chaining you in the belly of a boat here… just, I would love to see you both over there. I’m sure I’ll get homesick.” Davy said. He yawned, and glanced at his watch. “Good Lord, we’d best be off or Saint Nick won’t drop our presents.” “What time is it then?” Mary asked. “Half til midnight. I’m off to bed. I will see you both again before I leave, I hope.” Davy said, as he slid his arms into his jacket and walked to the door. They both nodded assurances.
“Are you doing anything…” “I’m off to Mass.” She interrupted. “… tomorrow?” he finished. “Oh. Tomorrow. Uh. Yes. I’m sorry, I thought you were asking if I‘d…” “Tonight? Oh. No. Of course I’d never be that forward, and besides… no, I… I plan to do some writing tonight. But I was hoping… could I see you tomorrow?” He was sweating, and she was blushing, but she was always so beautiful it was more like glowing. “I’m sorry.” She said. “I do have plans for dinner, with my family.” “But, could I see you tomorrow?” She thought, just long enough to give him a couple quick heart attacks. “You can see me any day you like.” They walked out, both smiling silently to themselves, into the chill. He walked alongside her to the corner. “Would you like me to walk you to the church?” “It’s too far. I‘ll be driving. My car’s just there, and I think I can make it safely on my own. But thank you. Good luck with your writing.” “Thank you. You have a good night, and happy Christmas.” “Happy Christmas.” He nodded, and turned to walk down the street toward his house, got a few steps in, stopped, and set his guitar down. He whirled around quickly and stepped back toward her. She was still up on the curb, while he was standing in the gutter. He looked level into her eyes and, putting a hand lightly on each side of her waist, pulled her close and kissed her softly on the lips. Before she could lean in for more, he had turned back around, and strode down the street. It was not a good kiss… perhaps the worst first kiss any two people their age had ever shared, but it was enough to warm them both for the rest of the night, and enough for them to know they wanted to try it again.
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He didn’t really live close enough to the pub to make a convenient walk, especially with his guitar in hand, but he loved the cold, and the night air, and walking alone helped him keep his thoughts in order. Driving gives you distractions like the radio or mp3 player, and worrying about a run in with the police (or a stone wall) after a few pints, so he chose to go it on foot most nights. Whether he was walking or floating home, he couldn’t say, his head was full to bursting with lyrics to write down, attempts at distilling and clarifying the complex and multitudinous thoughts crowding within him. Once inside, he immediately sat at his desk and pulled out a note pad and pen… and his head, teeming with ideas a moment prior, he found now empty except for one small verse.
I stole a kiss, you stole my heart,
when I was worn and weathered,
One touch could tear my world apart
and put it back together.
Will I be coward or be brave,
or be a lonely ranger?
Or will I be a selfish knave,
and put us both in danger?
And you, my lovely, sprightly maid,
will you remain a lady?
If lengthy we are interplayed,
what will the price we’ve paid be?
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Mary stood, snow falling daintily around her in the dead silence of her sleeping town, for a minute or two… trying to blink into clarity a recollection of what had just happened. It was so fast, and her head was so muddled with emotion, that she could not quite understand it. “Have I just been kissed?” she asked the silence. But silence makes a habit of not answering questions. “I’ve just been kissed.” She said, now to herself. “He… I didn’t kiss him back, fool that I am! But, he kissed me!” her belated excitement was building as she stepped from the curb, heading now in the wrong direction. “Mind yourself, ya eejit.” she reprimanded, correcting her course toward her car. But, as she spun on her heel, her spirit took her. What could have been an about-face became a sort of pirouette, and she was dancing. She couldn’t help it… not that she tried. It happened so naturally she didn’t even have time to catch it. She transferred her weight from the heel to the ball of her foot, spun, spun again, and danced through the night like a faery in the wind. She danced as though one with the snow flakes that trembled and swirled away into the darkness. They led her and she was bound to follow, as if pulled on by magic, and pushed by the joy that welled up and flowed from within her. She would get in her car, and she would go to the midnight Mass (if she could make it in time) because that’s where her faith was, and because of tradition, but this was her real worship. Through song and dance, through the quiet, poetic, reverent beauty of controlled, rhythmic, fluid motion, this was how she gave praise to her maker and thanks to His son.
She made it to St. Colman’s, though not on time. She took a seat in the back during the Prayer of the Faithful, and participated in all of the rites, but could not keep her mind from wandering over the hills with Conner.
The next morning came accompanied by a sense of peace and joy at the prospect of the future which may now be coming to her, and mild dread of the future more imminent. The things which may some day be were more than pleasant in her mind, but the thought of what lay immediately before her nearly stamped the gladness right out of her. After dressing, and breakfast, and perhaps a quick read-through of her script, she was required at her family home for Christmas.
It was not that she disliked her family - she really did love them all, in her way - but often disliked being with them for too long. Almost invariably things would start cordially, there would be peace, there would be jokes, but almost slowly enough that you wouldn’t see it creeping up on you unless your senses were tuned precisely for this sort of thing, the whole affair would devolve into a mess of insults and accusations, peppered with judgment and unwarranted advice. Fresh salt, old wounds. She had four brothers and two sisters, and it often seemed she was the only one of a different mind than the rest.
During last night’s Rite of Peace, she asked for that as heartily as ever, but that was never any guarantee of anything. She prayed again, just in case, gently rubbing the smooth wood of her rosary, then prepared herself, mind, body, and heart, for the day before her. “Most of all,” she said to the mirror, with a toothbrush in her mouth, “you should be preparing your imagination, in case you need to escape, but physically can’t without being thought rude.”
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When he was young, he remembered, his favorite thing about Christmas was waking up extra early to see the presents piled up around the tree. His parents, being proper Catholics, would have had a whole brood of children, but they’d had enough difficulty just conceiving him. There were a lot of things he thought he would have liked about having siblings, but if being the only one meant he got more presents, he didn’t mind that much as a child. Now, an adult and living on his own, his favorite thing about Christmas was not having to wake up early to get down to the dock and head out to sea. The sun rose, and today he didn’t see it. He didn’t see that faint glimmer along the bottoms of the clouds before the sun crested the horizon. He didn’t see the silhouettes of sea birds, or that clear golden road glinting off the tops of the waves. Not today. His father’s Christmas present to him, these past few years, was taking the day off. Today, all he saw of the morning sun was a thin dim frame around the blind on his bedroom window, and he wouldn’t trade it. Being it was just the three of them, until evening at least, when extended family would stop by, or neighbors would call to say hello, he was not in any sort of rush to sit and be bored with his parents.
Since the advent of the cell phone, his Christmas morning tradition had become a call to Davy. They never talked directly about what was on Davy’s mind during these calls, but they knew each other well enough not to have to.
“Hello Conner, Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas, Davy. How’re ya feeling?”
“Oh, you know how it goes. I’m well… I just. You know.”
“I know… just, well, give your mum my best.”
“I will, and say hello to your parents for me.”
“I will. Happy Christmas.”
“Happy Christmas.”
Even though it had happened before they met, back when Davy and his family lived in Belfast, it hurt. And even though it was the reason the family had moved to Kilkeel, and they never would have met otherwise, Conner was very sorry it had to happen that way. Davy’s father had, Conner was told, loved Christmas more than any other time of year, and his love was infectious. You could not talk to him at Christmas without that fabled joy of the season seeping into your bones. That is, until he and a few other members of the Royal Ulster Constabulary were killed by an IRA Barrack Buster. Christmas had, since then, become an especially sad day for the McLaren’s, but it was getting better. Davy, the youngest of five, was following in his father’s footsteps, in more ways than simply joining the police force. He had many of the qualities for which his father was so fondly remembered, and managed to bring some form of that old happiness back to his family’s melancholy holiday.
Conner waited for Davy to hang up, as usual, just in case there was anything else Davy wanted to say, but there never was, except, “I’ll see you tomorrow. Thanks.” and then static. But today it was, “Oh! How’d you leave things last night? Please give me happy news.”
“Oh right, yeah… happy and somewhat terrifying news, actually.”
“Yeah?” Davy prodded. “Did you profess your love, and she profess to actually be among the legion of the undead, here to drain your blood and feed on your soul?”
“What? No.”
“Alright, then how terrifying could the news be?”
“Well, we kissed.”
“The horror!!”
“Come on.” Conner said, wanting to joke around with Davy, but finding himself in all too serious a mood. “Ok so it wasn’t so much that we kissed, but I kissed her…”
“And, what? Did she vomit? Run away screaming?”
“No, she didn’t vomit… and, she didn’t run away. I did. I kissed her, and before she could even kiss me back I was halfway down the street.” Conner said, starting to laugh at himself.
Davy was silent for a moment. Conner knew this silence… this silence could only mean one of two things with Davy. One: he was arranging his words carefully so as to give the best advice he could… or, Two: he was about to hit you with a friendly insult.
Finally, “Ok… here’s what you need to do: You need to go see her today. Not call, not text. Go see her. Bring her some small present, maybe chocolates or something innocuous… and then apologize to her for being such a silly, daffy little girl.” Ok, sometimes the silence meant both things.
“Alright,” Conner said. “I’ll see if I can get away, but that might be tough today… my mum’s not easy to get away from, as you know. Maybe later this evening, when other people start coming over.”
“That sounds like a plan… just, don’t let your nerves get you, and you’ll be fine. Hey look, I’ve got to be going. I’ll see you tomorrow though.”
“Alright, tomorrow.”
“oh and, uh… thank you. You’re a good friend.” Davy said in closing. “I mean it.”
“Don’t mention it. You’re a good friend too.”
As soon as Davy hung up, and Conner was getting ready to put his phone back in his pocket, it went off again. Looking at the screen, he let out an audible sigh, and brought it to his ear. “Yes, hello mum. I’m on my way.”
