A drunken Santa Claus is better than no Santa Claus. I heard the remark in the kitchen of a neighbour, a genuinely frustrated mother of seven whose spouse had not returned as promised from an alcoholic excursion downtown where, as he maintained afterwards, he had been waylaid as he was about to return home by some whiskey-sodden companions from his childhood. Sensing that he would not return in time Maggie Cluney, that was the unfortunate mother’s name, looked speculatively in my direction but after a brief inspection shook her head ruefully.
In those days I was a lathy, bony youngster about seven stones adrift, especially in the midriff, from an acceptable Santa Claus. The only other person in the kitchen over the age of ten was Maggie’s sister Julie Josie who had earlier intimated that she was drunk, which had given rise to the opening statement of our narrative.
After an hour’s coaxing and two steaming hot whiskeys we convinced her that nobody would fit the bill as she would. Drowsily, giddily she rose and inarticulately informed us that she was returning to her maidenly abode so that she could sleep off the excess spirits to which she was unaccustomed. Before she managed to stagger through the doorway we ushered the children out into the backyard and burdened her with the Santa Claus outfit from false beard to long boots, from tasselled headgear to vermilion greatcoat and finally the bag of gifts, one for every member of the household.
No great notice would be taken of her in the streets. She lived around the corner and besides there would be many other Santa Clauses abroad in various stages of inebriation but most would be sober and composed, conscious of the sacred missions with which they had been entrusted. Our particular one, Julie Josie, made her way homewards without mishap and also made it upstairs to her single bed where she fell instantly asleep.
Soon the room was filled with gentle snores, even and rhythmical, sonorous and richly feminine, snores that somehow suggested that deep in her subconscious was the need of a male companion who might take the sting out of the frost of life and fulfil her in a manner beyond the capacity of seasonal whiskey. In her sober everyday world she would never admit to any need whatsoever and often when questioned jocosely about her single state she would belittle all members of the opposite sex with a vehemence that made some believe she protested too much. For all that she was a good sister and a good aunt and an even better sister-in-law for she would always present herself in loco parentis whenever her sister gave birth and was a great favourite with her nephews, nieces and brother-in-law for the duration of her sister’s confinement.
The night wore on until the ninth hour and it was precisely at this time that Julie Josie rose from her unassailable bed. She betook herself to a downstairs room where she donned the Christmas paraphernalia. She slung the bag of gifts across her shoulder and made her way to her sister’s house where she was warmly received by her brother-in-law who insisted that she fortify herself with a drop of whiskey before the distribution of the gifts. Then and only then were the children called from the two small, happily overcrowded bedrooms adjoining the kitchen.
The younger ones held back in awe whilst the older ones rushed forward to greet their beloved aunt, pretending as they did that she was really Santa Claus. Some people become imbued with the true spirit of Christmas when they don the red coat and Julie Josie was one of these. After the gifts were distributed they all sat around the fire, the children drinking lemonade and eating Christmas cake, the oldsters sipping whiskey and telling tales of bygone days when geese were really geese and Christmases were always white, when ghosts of loving ancestors whispered in the chimney and a tiny infant was turned away because there was no room at the inn.
Between the whiskey and the sentimental recall many a tear was shed. There were some in the neighbourhood who would say that Julie Josie shed enough tears at Christmas to float the Titanic. She was, truly, a sentimental soul, well meaning and generous to a fault. Several whiskeys after her arrival she announced that it was time to go home. She refused all offers of assistance and even more adamantly refused to hand over her Christmas gear. She knew her way home didn’t she! Wasn’t she going back there now for the thousandth time and anyway what could possibly befall anybody at Christmas when men’s hearts were full of goodness even if their bellies were full of beer!
She was, alas, drunker than she thought for she by-passed the corner which led to her house and went downtown in the general direction of the parish church. Mindless of her error she hummed happily to herself staggering to left and right and executing one daring stagger of record proportions which took her first backwards and then forwards, then hither and then thither, until she had travelled the best part of a hundred yards. Had her ever-increasing momentum not been arrested by the parish priest, Canon Coodle, she might well have wound up in the suburbs or even on the bank of the river which circled the town.
Luckily for Julie Josie the canon was a man of considerable girth and without any great strain he steadied the drunken representation of Christmas which wound up in his arms. Although a moderate imbiber himself he always made allowance for those who took a drop in excess on special occasions. He might shake his great, leonine head reproachfully when confronted by extreme cases and he might deliver the occasional sermon condemning the evil of over-indulgence to the detriment of the drunkard’s wife and family but he never got carried away. If he had a fault, poor fellow, it was that he suffered from absent-mindedness. This was perhaps why he failed to identify the party who had collided with him. He presumed, and who would blame him, that the creature was male so he did what he always did with unidentified drunks. He directed this one to a warm room over the garage as he had all the others over the years, placed the now incoherent Julie Josie sideways on the bed and left her to her own devices convinced that she was a man and would sleep off the drink in a matter of hours before returning to wife and children.
As he tip-toed down the stairs the reassuring snores convinced him that all would be well in the course of time.
Earlier that night another intoxicated soul was chosen at random to fill the role of Santa Claus although he had never done so before, having neither chick nor child.
His name was Tom Winter and indeed it would have to be said that he looked wintry even in the height of summer for the poor fellow had a perpetually blue nose and was almost always a-shiver.
It was widely held by authoritative sources that he was generally emerging from a skite or booze or bender, call it what you will. Those who knew him best would explain that he only drank at weekends but that he drank so much during those particular days he spent the following five days recovering.
He was the proprietor of a small hardware business specialising in such commodities as sweeping brushes, mousetraps and chamber pots and, of course, nails, screws, hinges and what-have-you. He carried a considerable amount of his stock on his person. His waistcoat pockets, for instance, would be filled with shoelaces and his coat pockets with scissors, penknives and screwdrivers while his trousers’ pockets played host to less dangerous articles such as picture cord and pencil toppers. Whatever the customer needed, provided it wasn’t a plough or a mowing machine, he would generally find it in a matter of moments on one of his shelves or in one of his pockets.
At six o’clock in the evening he closed his premises and partook of a large cheese sandwich and a double gin before proceeding happily to his favourite tavern where it was his wont to indulge until closing time throughout the weekend and on festive occasions such as Christmas, Easter and St Patrick’s Day or, of course, any other special occasion which might provide him with a break from routine.
Tom Winter, for all his wintry features, was a warm-hearted chap, gregarious in his own fashion so long as he didn’t have to converse with more than two persons at the same time. He always bought his round and he frequently stood drinks to those who were less well off than himself or seemed that way.
Often it would occur to him that he drank too much and that he was wasting his life. His conscience would prick him from time to time and suggest that he might more profitably pursue some health-giving pursuits but, alas, when a weak-willed man wrestles with his conscience all the weight is on his side and the conscience is the victim of an unfair contest. So it was on Christmas Eve that Tom Winter found himself in the heel of the evening sitting on a high stool with a whiskey-sodden companion at either side of him.
Then a tall, thin, coatless man with his long, grey hair trailing behind his poll and ears dashed into the premises and allowed his gaze to wander from face to face. The obviously demented creature shook his head in despair and then his eyes alighted upon Tom of the wintry dial. He raised an imperial finger which greatly alarmed Tom for he thought at first that the new arrival was either a ghost or a madman. After taking further stock Tom recognised the intruder as a refugee from the northern part of the town, a sober hard-working chap with a large family and an even larger missus who kept him on his toes and who no doubt had dispatched him on some impossible mission on the very eve of Christmas.
Tom’s alarm grew even greater when he noticed that the hen-pecked unfortunate was beckoning him. It was as though he had been summoned by an ancient and pietistic patriarch of superhuman power for he found himself dismounting from his stool. For the first time in his life he began to feel how the twelve apostles felt when they were called from their various vocations to follow the man whose birthday was at hand. The grey-haired elder caught Tom Winter by the sleeve of his coat and led him out of doors. His companions were to say afterwards that Tom’s normally wintry features had assumed a radiance that lighted up his head like an electric bulb. They would concede that it had been already moderately lighted by the intake of seven large gins and corresponding tonics but as he left the premises in the wake of the coatless messiah it seemed as though a halo was about to encircle his head and shoulders.
Outside in the night air the coatless one explained his predicament. His brother-in-law, at the best of times an unreliable sort, had promised to fill the role of Santa Claus and was now nowhere to be found. Would Tom, out of the goodness of his heart, do the needful and don the red coat so that the poor man’s seven children would continue to keep faith with Christmas!
Tom was about to decline when the coatless wretch fell to his knees and set up such a pitiful wailing that only a man with a heart of stone could continue to hold out. A stream of semi-coherent supplications that would bring tears from a cement block assailed Tom’s ears.
‘If,’ the kneeling figure was wailing, ‘I don’t come back home with some sort of Santa Claus she’ll have my sacred life!’
Tom could only deduce that the grovelling wretch was referring to his outsize wife whose shrill voice could be heard above the wind and the rain during the long nights when fits of dissatisfaction soured her and she became discontented with her lot. She had been known to assault her terrified husband with rolling pins, cups, mugs and saucers and once with an iron kettle which necessitated the insertion of twenty-three stitches.
‘Get up and behave like a man.’ Tom Winter now adopted a wintry tone which had the effect of putting an end to the wailing. It was obvious that the poor creature was without backbone and if the right tone was adopted would obey any command. He struggled to his feet clutching wildly at Tom lest that worthy attempt to flee. Hope replaced the look of despair in his eyes as he babbled out his gratitude like a puling infant who has been lifted from the cradle.
On their weary way to the anguished fellow’s abode Tom had the foresight to enquire if there was any gin on the premises.
‘Gin!’ came the echo.
‘Yes!’ Tom raised his voice and made several gin-swallowing motions.
‘There may not be gin there now,’ came the immediate and generous response, ‘but there will be gin,’ and so saying the greatly addled victim of wifely abuse dashed back into the pub and returned at once with a bottle of gin. Not only did he bring gin but under his other oxter was a bag containing several bottles of tonic water. Since he could not shake his hand for fear of damage to the bottles Tom Winter slapped him on the back in appreciation of his thoughtfulness.
When they arrived at the abode in question it was decided that they should use the back entrance so that the game might not be given away to the children. There, sure enough, hanging from a cobwebbed rafter was the Santa Claus coat, the Santa Claus hat and the Santa Claus beard. There were no long boots and for this Tom was grateful.
His companion acted as dresser and in jig time Tom was indistinguishable, boots apart, from any other of the numerous Santa Clauses who roamed the country that night. It was agreed that the man of the house should first enter and announce that he had seen Santa Claus in the vicinity and that they should prepare some gin and tonic for his arrival.
A liberal glass of gin was poured and some tonic water added. The lady of the house whose name was Gladiola announced that she had developed a pain in the back as a result of the stress she had endured because of the absence of Santa Claus. She was presented with an equally liberal dollop of gin.
‘Hush!’ Gladiola raised a silencing hand and then entering fully into the spirit of the business called, ‘methinks I hear a step!’
Suddenly everybody from the youngest to the oldest was silent and indeed there was, sure enough, the sound of footsteps in the backyard. Then the back door of the kitchen opened and there entered with his tail in the air the family tomcat who had just returned from an amorous expedition to another part of town. He was followed by Santa Claus. The younger children hid behind their mother while the others crowded round their most welcome visitor and shook his hand and sang and danced and jumped atop the table while their father saw to it that their visitor was presented with his glass of gin into which, without delay, he made substantial inroads.
After the presents were distributed Tom sat by the fire and was prevailed upon to accept another glass of gin.
‘I will. I will,’ he replied good-humouredly, ‘but only if the lady of the house is having one too.’
The lady in question was more than agreeable and soon there was a half-empty bottle where there had been a full one. Songs were sung and for all his wan, woebegone, winterish appearance Tom sang as warmly as any and since he was the proprietor of a soft mellow voice was much in demand as the night wore on.
For once the lady of the house did not resort to abusive language nor did she raise a hand in anger to her husband. Instead she addressed herself to the second gin bottle for which the man of the house had dispatched his oldest daughter. Did I say that he indulged in a glass or two himself? If I didn’t let me say at once that he did and if I didn’t say that he laughed and sang you may now take my word for it that he did and that he danced as well especially with the smaller members of the household.
The time passed happily and Tom Winter was obliged to admit to himself that he had never spent a better night. No sooner had the second gin bottle been emptied than the clock struck twelve. Declining all offers of tea and edibles Tom took his leave of the happy family in the fond hope that the pub he had vacated earlier in the night would be still manned by some of its staff for much as he enjoyed the household gin he, like all gin lovers, would, if asked, agree that there was no gin like the gin that comes across a bar counter. It is more natural for one thing and there is the unique atmosphere and there is the incomparable presence of drunken companions.
At the doorway, after he had made his goodbyes to the children, Tom Winter gave his word to Gladiola and her husband that he would do the needful without fail the following Christmas and during every Christmas thereafter while there was a gasp of life left in his body. Forgetting to disrobe, he turned his head towards his favourite watering hole. Although full to the gills with gin already he felt an insatiable desire to be reunited with the distinct camaraderie of that spot which had cheered him so often in the past. It is an astonishing aspect entirely of the toper’s life that he most requires drink when he least needs it. No other thought now occupied Tom Winter’s mind but the prospect of downing a glass of gin and tonic. Let the sot or the drunkard be mightily overburdened after his intake he will, nevertheless, always manage to find room for one more.
After many a skip and many a stagger he eventually arrived at his destination but there was, alas, no room at the inn, at least there was no room for Tom so early on the morning of Christmas Day.
In the eye of the drinker there is no sight so sad as an empty public house or worse a public house which has retained its maximum number of clients and is not prepared, for the sake of comfort and safety, to admit any more. He thought he heard the tinkling of glasses and chinking of coins in tills behind the closed doors, behind the shuttered windows. He had never in his life felt so lonely. It seemed as if the whole world had gone off and left him behind all alone.
Disconsolately he directed his steps towards his shop. Some time later, after it seemed that he had been walking all night, he realised that he had been going around in circles and it dawned on him that the reason for his aimless wandering might be because he really didn’t want to go home. To begin with there was nobody there, no cat or no dog, not even a mouse for he had trapped them all in his many mousetraps. Again, more firmly this time, he directed his steps towards the shop but walk as he would he found himself no nearer his base.
Was there a superhuman force restraining him, keeping him away from calamity or was he so drunk that it was not within his power to focus himself properly? There came a time in his journeying when it seemed that he was destined to go on forever and then he fell into the benign arms of Canon Cornelius Coodle. At this stage he had been in the process of passing out.
‘My poor fellow,’ the canon spoke gently as he dragged his stupefied find towards the garage and thence to the warm room upstairs where he deposited him upon the bed already occupied by the first Santa Claus. Canon Coodle had been surprised to see the first Santa Claus. He had totally forgotten but was relieved that no harm had come to the creature. He was quite taken by the fetching snores, not at all like those to which he was accustomed. He satisfied himself that the second Santa was in no danger of suffocating and was pleased to acknowledge his first resounding snore. He stood for a while at the head of the stairs, listening intently, a rapturous smile on his ancient and serene countenance. He reminded himself that he must tell his curates about this remarkable phenomenon in the morning but wait! What phenomenon! He racked his brains for several moments and then it came back to him. It was the harmonised snoring. Never in all his days had he heard anything so agreeable. It was as though the pair on the bed had been training together all their lives such was the perfect complimentary pitch of their joint renditions. He was reminded of a lyric by Thomas Moore:
Then we’ll sing the wild song it once was such pleasure to hear
When our voices commingling breathed like one on the ear.
Surely this was a phenomenon or was it more! Was it a minor miracle, an act of homage to the creator on Christmas morning! He hurried downstairs for his tape recorder. Alas when he returned the snoring had ceased altogether and the pair now lay side by side breathing deeply and evenly, their white beards rising and falling as the air expelled itself from their lungs. Again he thought of Thomas Moore but resorted to parody in order to suit the occasion:
Where the storms that we feel in this wide world might cease
And our hearts like thy snoring be mingled in peace.
Raising his hand he breathed a blessing upon the contented pair before finally repairing to his bed and to the sleep he so richly deserved. As the night wore on the couple on the bed resorted occasionally to bouts of the melodious snoring heard earlier. Then came the dawn and Julie Josie stirred in her bed but did not open her eyes. Her head, surprisingly, did not throb nor did her heart thump. She lay contented for a while in the belief that she was in her own bed. When the snore erupted from somewhere beside her, some place too close for comfort, she too erupted and would have taken instant flight had she not become aware of her apparel.
She stood astonished looking down at the figure on the bed. She crept close to the recumbent form and gently removed the beard. She could scarcely believe her eyes. She knew Tom Winter well, had shopped with him, had always purchased her hardware wants from Tom and Tom alone and she recalled how at that very moment four different pictures hung from walls in her home, hung by Tom’s picture cord from Tom’s nails, which he had himself driven, and found to be good nails. She also recalled how her late father had purchased the hammer which had driven the nails.
She knew Tom to be a gentle soul, a good-hearted chap who should not be judged on the strength of his wintry face alone. She decided to wake him. He raised himself slowly to his elbows and was surprised, to say the least, when he beheld Santa Claus standing by the bed.
‘I’m sorry I didn’t bring you anything,’ the voice said and what a voice! It is surely the voice of an angel, Tom told himself. He had never heard an angel’s voice but he had imagined such a voice ringing in his ear one day and calling him to heaven if he was lucky, if he was very, very lucky. The voice he had just heard was the kind of voice which had called him in his more hopeful dreams.
‘Did we sleep together?’ he asked falteringly.
‘Looks like it,’ she answered with a laugh.
‘In that case,’ said Tom solemnly, ‘you must marry me. In fact,’ he continued hardly believing himself to be possessed of such courage, ‘I would marry you if we had never slept together. I have admired you many a time on the streets and in my humble shop which you have enhanced by your all too rare visits. Say you’ll marry me and make my life into something glorious and good. Marry me and change my ways.’
She took his hand gently and was surprised to see that he was not in the least winterish at close quarters.
‘We will talk about it some other time,’ she whispered gently.
‘I will give up the gin,’ he promised, ‘and never touch the accursed stuff again.’
‘No need to give up all drink though,’ came the pragmatic response. ‘I firmly believe that a few beers now and then would stand you in better stead.’ She looked at her watch and saw that it was twenty-five minutes to eleven.
‘I’ll have to hurry,’ she said, ‘if I’m not to miss mass.’
‘So must I,’ he told her.
‘Have you any idea how we arrived here?’ she asked. He shook his head. As they divested themselves of their Santa Claus coats she spoke again. ‘There is something very strange about all this,’ she ventured.
‘I know. I know,’ Tom agreed. ‘It’s as though we were destined to be together. I mean why else would God join us together in this most unlikely place without either one of us knowing the first thing about it. Neither of us have any idea how we came to be here.’
They never would because the incident would have slipped Canon Coodle’s mind after his breakfast and it would never surface again not even when he would marry them in the summer of the following year. He would baptise their children too in the years that followed and they would both live to see their children grow up and their grandchildren and even their great-grandchildren so that it could be truly said of them that they both lived happily ever after.