Carolyn for Christmas Page 2

  “All right,” she said. “If you say so. How is your mam anyway?”

  “She’s all right,” Carolyn said. “Pretty much the same as usual—no better, no worse. She’s happy in the new ward she’s on, though.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Mags patted Carolyn on the hand, then stood up to finish the breakfast.

  “Fried egg?” she asked, and Carolyn shook her head too vigorously. She’d woken the Morris dancers up again and they bopped around her brain.

  “No. Thanks, Mags.”

  All she could think of doing was climbing into the shower and sitting under a soothing stream of water for the next couple of hours, and then lying on the couch watching Netflix. She knew she couldn’t though.

  “I’ll drop you home before I go in to visit Mam. Maybe in an hour or so while my head settles?”

  Mags returned to the table with plates in hand and Carolyn took hers gratefully. Hopefully it would soak up some of the alcohol.

  “There is absolutely no way I am letting you drive me home. I mean, I love you, but look at the head on you. There’s no way you’re in the legal limit to drive.”

  Carolyn jabbed a sausage into the pool of ketchup on her plate and sighed. Of course she couldn’t drive. Even she could tell she smelled like a small brewery right now. She’d probably be still over the limit tomorrow morning.

  “Sorry.”

  Mags smiled kindly at her.

  “It’s grand, doll. I’ll get the next train—I think there’s one at a quarter to two. Sure, you can come with me if you want to see your mam.”

  Guilt gnawed at Carolyn. Her mother would never judge her for it but Carolyn shouldn’t be going to see her when she was like this. She visited her mother in the hospital most evenings, but Sundays were when she could visit for longest. Since Carolyn had no siblings or dad in the picture, and her mother only had a brother and a sister, there weren’t too many people around to visit her in the hospital.

  It was Carolyn’s responsibility to be there for her. The guilt balled in her throat.

  “What was I doing getting so drunk last night? I feel terrible.”

  She put down her fork. Her food tasted like grit in her dry mouth.

  “Jesus, Carolyn, will you give yourself a break? Your mam will just be happy to see you.”

  “I suppose,” Carolyn said. Then another thought hit her. At this rate, she was going to be late for practice tonight. At the worst possible time.

  She supped her tea. It was going to be a long day.

  * * * * *

  No matter how many times she came back, it always felt strange to Saoirse to be sitting in her old school hall. St. Bridget’s hadn’t changed a lot since she’d attended as a secondary school student; the same heavy, dusty curtains hung from the long windows, and painted artwork from students—all on motivational subjects like healthy eating and not bullying—dotted the walls.

  The decorations that hung on the rafters and the walls looked suspiciously like the decorations that had hung there almost a decade before when she’d graduated: the same gold tinsel, foil bells, and fake holly. The baubles on the giant fir tree at the back of the long hall were the same—only the recently cut tree was different.

  Saoirse sat with her legs hanging over the edge of the stage, nursing the nearly cold cappuccino she’d brought with her in a paper cup. Behind her, the tenors were practising their part in one of their carols; someone was slightly off key and the choir director was having them sing individually to find out who the culprit was.

  “Kevin, I think it’s you,” the choir director said behind her. “Do it again.”

  Saoirse shuddered involuntarily a little as Kevin sang the first phrase—definitely off key. She hoped he hadn’t seen her reaction. No need to make him self-conscious; she just couldn’t help her reaction to it. She was both blessed and cursed with a musical ear.

  She shifted on the hardwood floor. The discomfort of the wood on her bum was at least cutting through her intense boredom. The choir director and the tenors had been going over those same few phrases of music for at least a half hour now. Hopefully now that Kevin had been revealed as the off-key singer, they could get back to rehearsing as a group.

  The thick, oak doors at the end of the hall creaked loudly and obviously as someone pushed through them.

  Saoirse sipped on her coffee once more as she watched the entrant—Carolyn, she realised.

  God, she looks awful, Saoirse thought delightedly. Seriously hungover.

  She gave Carolyn another once over. Actually, it wasn’t true that she looked awful, she admitted to herself. Even though she had blue-purple bags under her eyes and her skin was a little pale, she still looked pretty good. Her thick, black hair was tied messily into a bun, strands here and there falling onto her face, and her big, deep-brown eyes still shone out from under Bambi-lashes. And her lips were so…

  Saoirse snapped herself out of it. She must be some sort of masochist looking at Carolyn like that. The two of them could barely say a civil sentence to each other; she had no business checking her out, no matter how subtly she did it.

  Carolyn climbed the steps to the stage and, as she passed behind Saoirse, Saoirse could smell whisky mingling with the dose of perfume Carolyn must have lashed on to cover the whisky.

  Saoirse quietly sipped her coffee, without turning, waiting hungrily for the argument. Damien, the choir director, a churchgoing “confirmed bachelor” in his late forties or early fifties, had no patience for tardiness—especially not with their Christmas concert coming up.

  Carolyn obviously remembered that fact, too—the creak of her steps across the unvarnished wooden floorboards was slow, painstakingly light.

  It did her no good. Damien snapped just as Saoirse had expected him to.

  “Practice, Ms. Roche, starts at half past seven. Not thirty-one minutes past seven, not a quarter to eight, and certainly not”—he paused—“ten past eight.”

  Saoirse sneaked a glance behind her at the scene. Damien was tapping his watch with purpose and Carolyn was barely holding back a scowl.

  “I know, I—”

  “Three weeks. That’s how long we have until the concert. And if you want to be in with a shot at that solo spot, you’re going to have to take this much more seriously.”

  Saoirse kicked her legs against the stage in delight. Karma. That’s what you get for being such a cow last night. It looked like Carolyn had blown her shot at the solo, too. That meant the part was Saoirse’s, for sure.

  She swallowed a mouthful more of her cappuccino—it was stone cold now, but it helped to mask the derisory laugh that was bubbling up in her. She mentally started to practise the song; there were a few high notes in it that could prove tricky, so she’d have to work on her breathing exercises, make sure to warm up properly. She should probably switch from coffee to green tea and lemon for the next few weeks…

  Carolyn sighed behind her and dropped her voice so that Saoirse almost couldn’t make out what she was saying. Saoirse stopped mentally practising her solo and strained to hear.

  “I am taking it seriously, I promise. I’m really sorry. I just…” Saoirse leaned back slightly to hear better. “I just got delayed visiting my mam. I missed the first train back from Dublin.”

  Oh. The information knocked the joy from Saoirse’s reverie. She’d heard Carolyn’s mother, June, was pretty ill. It was a crying shame. Saoirse liked June a lot.

  “Okay,” Damien said quietly. “Just go and get yourself tidied up if you need to, and come join us as soon as you’re ready.”

  Saoirse was surprised at how grateful she was for Damien’s decency in that moment.

  * * * * *

  It’s too cold for hopscotch but they trace the chalk outline of the boxes anyway, taking their time to make the numbers as clear and neat as they can.

  “I put a line under my number one and a pointy hat on it. Look, like this.”

  One of the two little girls takes the broken piece of chalk—it
’s been worn down so that it’s no bigger than her tiny thumb—and shows off her skill with a flourish.

  “See—that’s the way my brother showed me how to do it. They show them how to write numbers differently in the boys’ school.”

  Her friend steps back and puts one hand on her hip, studying the odd number one.

  “That’s so weird. Why do you think boys do it like that and girls do it just like a line?”

  She’s wearing her bright yellow wellies over her woolly tights; she wore them even in the summer when it was warm. Her toes touch the very end tip of the boot. She’s getting too big for them.

  “I don’t know. Maybe because all boys are strange. My brother says they’re smarter than girls. That he’s smarter than me.”

  The girl in the wellies snorts at that information.

  “That’s stupid. ’Cause you’re the smartest person I know. And your brother is stupid and always picking his nose.”

  The girl with the chalk giggles.

  “My dad says he’s going to get his finger stuck up there,” she whispers. “Wouldn’t that be funny?”

  A blob of rain hits the road in front of them and the two girls grimace in unison.

  “Oh no,” the one in the wellies says. “It’s going to get wet and wash away before we can play.” She starts scanning the ground around them. “We need to find a stone. Hurry!”

  The girl with the chalk checks all along the kerb until she spies a big, flat stone—perfect for throwing onto the numbered boxes.

  “Found one,” she exclaims before handing it to her friend. “You go first.”

  They only get time for one go before they hear a shout. It’s Carolyn’s mammy standing at her front door.

  “Come in, the two of you, before it starts to lash. You’ll get soaked to the skin.”

  They pick up the chalk and the stone, pocketing them before they go in. Just in case they get out to play later.

  Carolyn slips her hand into Saoirse’s as they turn to walk inside. It makes Saoirse feel happy in her heart.

  The rain is starting to come down in big, fat drops, plop, plop, plopping on the path to Carolyn’s front door.

  June is still waiting for them and she beams at them as they reach her. Her smile makes Saoirse feel safe; she’s a very nice mammy. Saoirse likes how she smells—always like flower perfume and baking things. It’s nice when she hugs you, too. She’s soft and warm and not like Saoirse’s mammy, who only gives short, bony hugs.

  She doesn’t cry like Saoirse’s mammy does either. “You’re always fussing and wailing about something, Catherine. God help me, I couldn’t just have a normal wife.” That’s what Saoirse’s daddy says to her mammy sometimes. Maybe that’s why she cries—because he shouts at her.

  “I’m putting up the Christmas tree,” June says to Saoirse and Carolyn. “Couldn’t do that without my two best girls. Come on in, Saoirse. Your mammy said you can stay a little longer than usual to help. She’ll come get you later.”

  Saoirse smiles, the happiness going from her head to her toes. She loves when she’s allowed to stay in Carolyn’s house all day.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Roche,” she says, remembering to be polite. “That would be very nice.”

  She gets a wink in response and a smile that crinkles Carolyn’s mammy’s face.

  “You know you’re welcome any time, pet. But remember, you can call me June. I’m not ‘missus’ anything.”

  Oh yes. Saoirse had forgotten. Carolyn’s mammy had told her before to call her June, even though Saoirse’s parents told her calling grownups by their first names was bad manners. Saoirse didn’t understand why she shouldn’t call her “Mrs. Roche” though. All the mammies and daddies of the people in school were “Mrs.” and “Mr.” something. It was probably rude to ask June why she wasn’t a “Mrs.”, Saoirse figured. She stayed quiet. That’s what she did when things were scary at home.

  Maybe June is not a “missus” because Carolyn doesn’t have a daddy, Saoirse thinks. Saoirse asked her once why she didn’t have a daddy and Carolyn just got sad and said she didn’t know. Saoirse doesn’t ask her anymore. She doesn’t want to make Carolyn sad.

  When they get to the kitchen, Saoirse can see a big purple tub on the counter top and a big silver pot with blue flames underneath it on the hob. Carolyn’s mammy is making hot chocolate! Saoirse loves when she does that; she does it whenever they’re having a sleepover or a fun day.

  It takes a little longer to make than in Saoirse’s house because, for some reason, they don’t have a microwave like everyone else does, but Saoirse thinks hot chocolate tastes even better when it’s made from a pot.

  “Come on, Saoirse. Mammy’s got the big box of decorations out!” Carolyn grabs Saoirse by the hand and runs into the living room beside the kitchen. “We’re going to make this the best tree ever!”

  Saoirse nods vigorously. “The very best tree ever.”

  She laughs as Carolyn dives into the box and a big string of gold tinsel gets caught on her black ponytail. Carolyn starts to take it off but Saoirse stops her.

  “Oh no, you have to wear it. Because you’re a princess and that’s your crown.”

  She helps Carolyn to wrap it around her forehead and Carolyn blushes a little.

  “Do you think I could be a princess?”

  Saoirse nods again. She thinks so. Even though she doesn’t think princesses wear yellow wellies.

  “Then you should be one, too,” Carolyn says and she reaches into the big box to find some silver tinsel. “Here, this can be your crown. We can be princesses together.”

  The tinsel is too long, and though Carolyn wraps it three times around Saoirse’s head, a little, silver tail of it keeps falling into Saoirse’s eyes. Saoirse doesn’t care though. Especially because June says they both look beautiful.

  “Thank you, Mrs.—um, June,” Saoirse says with a little curtsey.

  June smiles again. Her eyes crinkle every time she smiles.

  “You’re welcome, Princess Saoirse,” she says. “You two keep going on that tree and I’ll be back in a minute with some hot chocolates and biscuits.”

  The two girls plonk themselves on the floor and Carolyn pushes over the big cardboard box. Baubles roll out onto the floor all over the place.

  They start making little piles of decorations—one pile for baubles, one pile for tinsel, and one pile for the big string of Christmas lights.

  “I can’t wait until Santa comes,” Saoirse says. “I’m going to get so much this year. I’m getting a dollhouse and a pram and a blackboard for drawing pictures and a new purple bike, like the one I saw in the window of the toy shop. And some other things—I can’t remember all the other things.” She looks at Carolyn. “What’s Santa bringing you?”

  Carolyn is busy trying to tie a knot on a bauble where the string has come loose. She has her tongue stuck out the side of her mouth while she concentrates.

  “Um,” she says, still focused on tying the knot, “I’m getting a Barbie and a My Little Pony.”

  She holds the bauble up triumphantly to show Saoirse the knot she made.

  “That’s very neat, Carolyn. You’re good at making knots.” Saoirse smiles at Carolyn. “So what else is Santa bringing you?”

  Carolyn shakes her head and looks confused.

  “That’s all, silly. My mammy says that Santa has to make toys for a lot of boys and girls so I could only ask for two things I really, really wanted.” She drops her voice to a whisper. “But she said as well that he might even bring me some books, too. I love books.”

  She stops talking as June walks in, just in case June might hear her telling Saoirse that secret. June puts the hot chocolates on a little coffee table.

  “Well, you two are doing some great organising work. Well done!”

  Saoirse doesn’t understand why she’s allowed to ask Santa for so many toys but Carolyn can’t. That’s not fair. Maybe she should give Carolyn some of her toys, because she has lots of them.

&nb
sp; Maybe if she asks Carolyn why she can’t have more toys, though, Carolyn might feel bad. Saoirse doesn’t want that to happen. So, she keeps quiet again.

  * * * * *

  Though he’d been very kind to her—or at least as kind as he got—Damien was still pissed off that she was late, Carolyn was sure of it. An hour after practice should have ended, he sent the other singers home—but not before telling them brusquely that they’d have to do much better in future. He wasn’t done with her or Saoirse. Oh no. From the familiar, determined look on his face, he was going to make them practise until they were ready to drop.

  Carolyn sat in one of the uncomfortable, plastic bucket chairs at the back of the stage, watching Damien and Saoirse. The edge of the chair dug into her legs and she crossed and uncrossed her legs to try to get comfortable. She just wished Damien would hurry up so she could go home and crawl into her nice, warm bed.

  Her head had mercifully stopped thumping a few hours ago, but she was longing to sleep now.

  She restrained herself from rolling her eyes as Saoirse sang through some scales to warm up her voice. They’d been singing for three hours. Her vocal cords weren’t getting any warmer. Saoirse just had to show off.

  Damien clapped his hands once.

  “All right, girls. This isn’t an easy decision to make.” He paced the front of the stage as he spoke. “I know you both want this solo, but I can only pick one of you. Right now, you’re both as good as each other, so you’re going to have to pull out all the stops to impress me.” He nodded to Saoirse. “Start.”

  Saoirse rolled her shoulders and shook her head from side to side. It’s a song, not a sprint you’re about to do, Carolyn wanted to say to her. Still, she settled back into the uncomfortable chair to listen. Though almost everything Saoirse did annoyed the bejesus out of Carolyn, when Saoirse sang, Carolyn could almost forget that she was a pain in the arse.

  Saoirse started slowly into the song—O Holy Night—her breathing measured and controlled. Carolyn closed her eyes and let the performance wash over her. The voice that met her ears was rich, clean, and gorgeous. With each higher note that Saoirse hit, the beauty of her voice soared greater, and tears of appreciation pricked at Carolyn’s eyes.