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 week we welcome Dr Joseph Kearney.
By Dr. Joseph Kearney
The man from Mullinahone had a cough. I know this because I’d been listening to him hacking away throughout the night. The dividing wall between our adjoining North London bedsits was thin; plywood and wallpaper was all that separated us. And now on this Christmas morning I was awakened again, this time to the sound of carols. The man from Mullinahone had his radio on…very, very loud.
My room was small, I could reach the two-ring gas cooker without getting out of bed. I made tea, and because of the day that was in it, I poured a mug for the man from Wexford. With little worth stealing, we rarely locked our rooms. I knocked, walked in and saw he was still in bed. “I made you a mug of tea.” He nodded towards the dressing table. “How many sugars did you put in?”
I was turning to leave when he pointed again to the dressing table. “There’s a card there for you.” I noticed a small stack of stamped and addressed envelopes. Shuffling through them I came to one addressed to me. “Happy Christmas,” he said. “Many happy returns,” I replied.
Back in my room I opened the card. It depicted a robin and snow. A new ten-pound-note bearing the image of the Queen of England dropped to the floor. It was crisp and unblemished. Usually Mullinahone made a great show of folding his notes in such a way that the image of the monarch faced inwards when he placed them in his back trouser pocket. “Revenge for Cromwell,” he’d say.
Mid-morning he returned the mug. His arrival was heralded by a cloud of Brut aftershave that would make your eyes water. He was wearing his Galtymore suit. A mohair, electric blue ensemble – Irish show band cut, ideal for impressing neighbours during visits home. “Will we venture out?” he asked. I knew he wasn’t referring to Mass. We were both well out of reach of priests and mothers, so it had to be the pub.
We sauntered in the direction of Kilburn. On this holiest of holy days we were following a distant star. And if we were not Magi or shepherds then surely we were black sheep when we arrived at a sign glowing above the door of the Rifle Volunteer. In fairness to us, we were not the first to arrive. The saloon bar was packed. The Wolfe Tones blasted from the juke-box, poker and the pinball machines competed with shouting voices.
“Let’s try the public bar,” he said, “it might be quieter.” We got settled into a corner and I asked about the unsent Christmas cards. “You might have missed the last posting day,” I offered. “I decided not to bother this year. It’s not as if I ever get any sent back.” Before I could ask if they had his current address he caught my arm and urged me to hush. I could see him holding his breath and listening. It was like someone who thinks they might have heard the first cuckoo of spring and pause awaiting the next call. A man was singing. We knew him from around Cricklewood. A tall, thin fellow who looked as if he might be formed from a few pencil strokes. The fist that held his drink dwarfed a pint glass, knuckles scarred from work. As he sang his eyes closed tightly like some creature newly emerged from darkness and bothered by light. I listened to the song and knew it well, the beautiful ‘Slievenamon’, and somehow on this Christmas Day in London it was a real killer. The words emotionally ambushed my drinking companion. I knew he was transported to a place he loved but had somehow lost.
Alone, all alone by the wave-washed strand
And alone in a crowded hall
The hall it is gay and
The waves they are grand
But my heart is not here at all
It flies far away by night and by day
To the times and the joys that are gone
But I never will forget the
Sweet maiden I met
In the valley near Slievenamon.
When he’d finished, the singer refused to sing again or accept a drink. At two o’ clock the pub shut and we were hunted home. Outside the light was changing and a grey drizzle falling. The shoulders of Mullinahone’s mohair suit had darkened and his cheeks were wet. We said little until we came to a red post box. He paused to read the next collection date. “I might send those few cards,” he said. “It’d be a shame to waste the postage.”
By the time we arrived at the bedsit, the drizzle had long stopped, however I noticed Mullinahone’s cheeks were still wet. Outside our doors we shook hands and wished one another a Happy Christmas for the second time on that very peculiar day.
I had beans to heat and sausages to fry and the man from Mullinahone’s had cards to post. Through the wall I could hear his cough had not improved and worse still, the radio was back on…country music…loud as ever.
We might both be in for a long and broken Christmas night.
Joseph Kearney is originally a Callan native and a regular voice on RTÉ’s Sunday Miscellany where he features in their latest anthology. He is a multi-award winning documentary maker and holds a PhD in creative writing from UCD.
