The Kilkenny Observer Newspaper is delighted to present our
‘2024 Christmas short story series’. We have invited five Kilkenny based writers to submit a short story over the coming weeks, which we hope you will enjoy.
This is week two and we welcome Catherine Cronin.
Melted cheese for Christmas dinner, Martin thought grumpily. What were they playing at?
It was Martin’s first ever Christmas away from his own house, let alone Ireland. He had travelled to Switzerland to be with his daughter, Aoife. “We’ve come home every year, Da,” she had said back in November. “It’s not fair on Jan or the baby. He just wants to be with his family this Christmas.” Martin couldn’t argue with that. Besides, he never denied his only child her heart’s desire, even more so since her mother passed. And, to be fair, she had been so good to him since then, flying back home whenever she could to see him. Aoife wasn’t the only reason to come either, after all it was his grandson’s first Christmas. So, he felt he had to brave Switzerland.
But, ever since he had landed, it had been so different to Ireland. Nothing felt the same. The carols were a bit stiffer and the decorations included very real lit candles on the very real Christmas tree. Martin was glad that baby Max was currently sleeping upstairs away from that fire hazard.
Especially shocking to Martin, was the food. No turkey. No ham. No stuffing. Just piles of sliced cheese to be grilled and poured over undercooked baby spuds, pears and crispy bacon. Burnt rashers, more like. And they had their main dinner on Christmas Eve too. Madness altogether.
Martin hadn’t really eaten much at dinner. He found the smell of all that cheese a bit overwhelming. So, he offered to do the washing up to hide the noise of his grumbling belly from Aoife’s in-laws. But there wasn’t nearly enough washing up to do. Shur, how could there be with no roast or sides or gravy, Martin scoffed internally. Aoife had been so excited on the phone earlier in the month when she informed him that the Swiss do cheese raclette for Christmas. Initially, he thought she’d said regret, which was quite fitting for his mood right now. He really was starting to regret the decision to visit.
Don’t be a Scrooge. What would he have done at home anyway? Christmas Day would have been a ready meal-for-one, several episodes of Dad’s Army in the afternoon, and an evening rounded off with The Two Ronnies: Christmas Special for the thirty-seventh year in a row. Actually, at this moment, that sounded pretty good.
But, he had to be honest with himself. Christmas Day wasn’t the issue. It was the build up to Christmas, watching the neighbours and all the families around town busy themselves with buying presents and getting organised for having living rooms and kitchens full of chat and cheer. And then there would be that awful no-man’s land of days between Christmas and New Year where everyone would cosy up and shut themselves off, trying to bank joy and warmth in their bones, bracing themselves for the January misery ahead.
With his wife gone and Aoife emigrating, Martin’s house was a lonely place to be. A home where joy had been replaced with indifference.
Martin often wondered how he ended up in a position where he spent most of his time alone. He was a decent man who had had nice friends all his adult life. However, since retirement, most had moved on or lost contact. And with no siblings or in-laws around, his days had become quiet and solitary. He did make an effort though. He wasn’t a man for the pub but he played bridge here and there, and joined the local history club.
Still, he craved family and company, especially for Sunday roasts and birthday parties and late-night kitchen chats about nothing. He supposed he should be more grateful for the Christmas dinner of cheese a thousand miles from home. I should be less of an ingrate. This is far better than being on my own, as usual.
Martin’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of excited voices coming from the living room.
“Dad!” Aoife called. “C’mon. Time for presents.”
Presents? But it’s only Christmas Eve, for goodness sake! Martin rolled his eyes at yet another Swiss peculiarity. Nonetheless, he returned a cheery, “Coming, love.”
One of Jan’s brothers invited Martin to take his seat. The gift-giving started with the family exchanging seasonal toiletry sets, ski accessories, and warm woollen knits handmade by Jan’s mother.
Martin noticed that their gifts were more modest than he expected. It was more about being together. This and their efforts to include him, were helping him warm to their version of Christmas. The family were particularly thrilled with Martin’s gifts of Irish whiskey and Kerrygold. “A real treat for them,” Aoife had recommended.
The room quietened a bit as Aoife cleared her throat. “Da,” she started, “we have something small for you.”
Aoife pressed an envelope into his hand. The last time she did that, it had contained a printout of the ultrasound from Max’s first scan.
However, this time there was something hard inside.
Martin tore open the envelope. He took out a card which had something sellotaped to it. It was a key.
Oh no, he thought in a panic. She wants me to move here.
“Ah, Aoife, love. This is very thoughtful. But I don’t think, I could -“
“I thought you might keep an eye on it for a little while until we get sorted,” Aoife interrupted.
Martin was confused. “Keep an eye on it? I…I don’t understand.”
“Our new house, Martin,” Jan said, smiling.
Martin looked from Aoife to Jan and back again.
“We’re moving home, Da. Back to you.” Aoife’s eyes glistened with the happy reveal.
It was as if blinds had been lifted to let sunshine flood Martin’s future with possibility and life again. All he could do was hug his daughter.
“Happy Christmas, Da,” she whispered in his ear.
In the background, the family congratulated Jan and chatted excitedly about holidaying in Ireland.
A soft cry came from the crib upstairs. Max was waking up.
“He’s probably hungry. I’ll go,” Jan said.
“Let me,” Martin insisted, quickly wiping a tear from his cheek. “I need to get the practice in.” And with that, he pocketed his key and climbed the stairs, humming O Tannenbaum all the way to his grandson’s door.
Catherine Cronin is a Kilkenny native currently living in Zurich. She has written plays and theatrical pieces for Irish and Swiss stages. Her poetry has been published in Ireland, Switzerland, the UK and US in print and digital publications, including The Honest Ulsterman, The Ogham Stone, and The Storms journal.
