Jenny Collins had a philosophy about Christmas. She shared it with her friends and neighbours as she did with everything else she had.
‘Christmas,’ said Jenny, ‘is like an egg. If you don’t take it before its date of expiry it will turn rotten.’ The trouble with Jenny was that she took her own words too much to heart. For instance she would send out greeting cards from the middle of October onwards. This would be acceptable if the cards were destined for such far-off places as Tristan da Cunha or Faizabad but the opposite was nearly always the case. Mostly the cards were for neighbours or for friends who lived nearby. Occasionally there would be one addressed to Dublin or Cork, places to where delivery was assured after a day or two.
‘Jenny,’ her father had said to her once after she served him his Christmas dinner at eleven in the morning, ‘you are in mortal danger of passing yourself out.’
It was widely believed in that part of the world at that time that those who passed themselves out rarely caught up with themselves again. Jenny’s father, who was in his eighties, would explain to his friends that she brought the trait from her grandmother who set out all her life for twelve o’clock mass at ten minutes past eleven and this despite the fact that the church was less than a hundred yards from her home. When the old lady eventually expired after a visit from the family doctor the latter was seen to shake his head in amazement when he was asked to pronounce her dead within the hour. He had predicted that she would hold out for at least a fortnight but true to form she had quit the land of the living fourteen days before her time. Her granddaughter Jenny had never been late for school and neither had any one of Jenny’s three children, two girls and a boy who won every school attendance prize that was going and who were to be seen on all mass days with their parents in the front pew of the parish church at least a half hour before the priest and his retinue appeared at the altar. Others who were never in time for anything would shake their heads in disbelief at the folly of it all but Canon Coodle, the parish priest, was heard to say to his housekeeper that Jenny and her brood were to be commended.
‘It is a holy and wholesome thought to pray for the dead,’ the canon said solemnly, ‘so that they may be loosed from their sins.’
Jenny’s husband Tom was of the strong silent variety. As far as he was concerned his wife’s injunctions were law and, anyway, he was a most devout person. As well as that he seldom spoke and rarely contradicted. Jenny, therefore, was free to do as she pleased without previous consultations, not that she was ever likely to do anything untoward in the first place.
Older, wiser matrons along the street felt that Tom Collins should exercise a little more control over his wife’s comings and goings on the grounds that it was not altogether correct to give a woman all the rein, especially a young woman. Be that as it may, as the man said, Jenny and Tom Collins were never at loggerheads and the children were healthy and happy.
Jenny’s father who resided with them since his wife’s death was well looked after although from time to time he would issue cautions to his daughter about the dangers of presumption and presupposition not to mention the awful consequences of passing herself out. He would issue these dire warnings on a daily basis as Christmas approached but he was too old and too infirm to realise that Jenny would have long beforehand anticipated Christmas. She would have scoured the shops near and far during the post-Christmas and New Year’s sales seasons in the hope of finding inexpensive but suitable presents for not-so-near relations and not-so-close friends. Then when the sales fever had worn off she would relax for a brief period but once St Patrick’s Day had slipped by she would begin to feel the pressures of Christmas once more.
A suitable Sunday would be set aside so that she might engage two turkeys, one for Christmas and one for the feast of the Epiphany or the Women’s Christmas as it was called thereabouts.
Sometime between the last week of March and the first week of April the entire family would fare forth on foot into the countryside as soon as the midday meal was consumed and the ware washed and dried. This particular excursion would always fall on a Sunday and so it happened that on the fifth Sunday of the Lenten period the family set out to the same farmhouse with the same Christmas order for turkeys, all five firmly wrapped against the wind and the rain. Jenny had seen to her father’s wants before her departure and when she informed him of her plans he protested, insisting that there was plenty of time with Christmas more than eight months away.
‘And how do I know,’ his daughter informed him, ‘whether turkeys will be scarce or plentiful this coming Christmas and how do I know,’ she went on, warming to her task, ‘whether or not some disease might strike the turkey population between now and then and who’s to say but a plague of foxes will not descend on the countryside and devour half the birds or who is to say what may or may not happen so isn’t it better be sure than sorry?’
‘Away with you,’ he laughed, extending his face for a kiss, ‘you’re every bit as bad as your grandmother.’
Secure in the knowledge that there would be turkeys for the distant festivities, Jenny Collins placed an order with her local butcher for spiced beef, standing close by to ensure that the order was properly entered in the appropriate ledger and that her name was spelled correctly.
Some would remark that it was just as well that she was not nearly so fastidious about other festivals. She would surely pass herself out altogether, they maintained, if she was. For instance she would not bother with shamrock for her husband’s lapel or badges for her daughters’ coats until the very morning before St Patrick’s Day nor would she bother with sprigs of palm for Palm Sunday until that very morning whereas others would have it ready, cut and blessed for days before. The simple truth was that Jenny Collins looked upon all other festivals as mere diversions on the road to Christmas. Her father would agree.
‘Jenny,’ said he, ‘sees the ending of one Christmas as the beginning of another. Personally speaking I do not wish to hear of Christmas until a week or so beforehand. It becomes diluted if it drags out too long. What’s going to happen eventually is that they’ll drag out Christmas so much that it will snap.’
Nobody took any notice of the old man and who could blame them! Had he not prophesied the end of the world three times and had not nothing happened! He was, it must be said, genuinely worried about his daughter.
‘A lot of people do what I do,’ she explained. ‘It saves money and it saves time.’
He had shaken his head ominously at the time and would not be reassured. When Christmas finally came around Jenny became nervous and fidgety and began to natter to herself when she thought nobody was listening.
Most of the time when we talk to ourselves we merely indulge in harmless quotes or we hum and we haw and vice versa. We do not, as Jenny Collins did, remind ourselves about the future. Quite unexpectedly she began to purchase odds and ends for the next Christmas despite the fact that the Christmas being celebrated was not yet over. Her father became greatly alarmed and went so far as to suggest that what Jenny was doing was sacrilegious. Her children, for the very first time, became worried and her husband decided it was time to speak. Is anything more eagerly awaited than the utterance of a man who has steadfastly kept his mouth shut over the years whilst others all around are pontificating! Consequently, when Tom Collins cleared his throat with a view towards expressing what could well be described as his maiden speech there was widespread alarm in the house. Jenny, anticipating a statement of unprecedented importance, called for order by rapping noisily on the milk jug with a dessert spoon. All the members of the family were seated at the table quite accidentally on the occasion. Jenny’s father sat at the head completing his favourite crossword while his son-in-law Tom sat at the bottom with a face like a slipper trying to contain two blood-thirsty greyhounds who have just sighted a hare. He was waiting for precisely the right moment to unleash his two words. At one side sat Jenny and her son while at the other sat the two girls. The old man placed his crossword underneath the milk jug. The two girls put aside the text-books with which they were involved. Son and mother jointly closed the history book which lay before them and Tom cleared his throat for the second time.
‘Bad business,’ he said solemnly and although he was given all the time in the world he would not add further to the little he had already said. A silence ensued. It was a long silence during which everybody exchanged looks except the man whose statement had occasioned them.
Everybody present knew what Tom meant. He was saying that while it was all right to plan one Christmas in advance it was not all right to plan two. The silence was allowed its allotted span before books were readdressed and the crossword resumed. They were a wise family in that they knew there would be no point in saying any more.
Time passed and Jenny Collins wisely decided to celebrate one Christmas without reference to the second but only for a while. The snows had but barely departed from the surrounding hills when a restlessness took hold of her. She was able to resist it for a while but when the daffodils put in their appearance she began to have brief glimpses of future Christmases. She turned to prayer but her powers of concentration were no match for the urgings which seemed to redouble their efforts and as April bestrewed the shady places with delicate blooms she found it impossible to subdue the Christmas feelings to which she always had yielded in previous years and yet she did. She was to discover, however, that it is wrong to over-subdue for when the urge can no longer be held at bay it reemerges with twice the power.
Jenny went on a Christmas buying binge all through the last week of April. It appeared that she was making up for the time she had lost, for instead of buying for just the Christmas ahead she bought for following Christmases as well. Surprised but considerate shop assistants would remind her that she had already bought certain items but she would explain that she was buying for an invalid friend. Normally she was not given to untruths but she would excuse herself on the grounds that it was inventiveness rather than strict lying. Her husband was aware of what was going on and when she became aware that he was, she was quick to point out that she wasn’t squandering his money, that she would be spending it anyway sooner or later. He would say nothing. There would be no more pronouncements. The children took no notice. Adults could do what they liked and generally did.
As the summer sped by Jenny Collins bought more and more, inexpensive items mostly which she stored in the attic in an old chest.
‘Not for the coming Christmas,’ she explained to her father, ‘nor for the Christmas after but for future Christmases.’
‘But where’s the point?’ her father had asked.
‘Better be sure than sorry,’ she had answered and when he expressed dissatisfaction with such a reply she had merely shrugged her shoulders and asked what harm if any she was doing.
‘Things have come to a pretty pass,’ her father scolded.
Later that night he invited his son-in-law to join him in a drink. They chose a quiet pub at the farthest end of the street. Half-way through the first drink the old man rounded on his son-in-law and asked somewhat petulantly: ‘Why do you condone it?’
‘I don’t condone it,’ came the considered response. ‘I put up with it because she has no other fault and I figure that a woman needs one fault at least if she is to remain normal.’
‘That’s all very fine,’ the old man said, ‘but where will it all end! If she’s not stopped soon she’ll be buying ten or even twenty years ahead of normal.’
There was no immediate answer from Tom. It was obvious that he had not contemplated this new aspect of the problem. He had no fault to find with Jenny but if what the old man had prophesied came to pass Jenny would have to be taken aside.
‘I’ll take her aside,’ he promised.
‘When?’ the old man asked.
‘One of these days now I’ll get down to it.’
‘Too late.’ The old man shook his head ruefully and finished his drink. ‘It is my considered opinion,’ he looked his son-in-law in the eye, ‘that she is in the process of passing herself out and, once they start, the trend becomes irreversible. I am not laying all the blame on you. I am also partly responsible.’
‘What do we do?’ Tom asked anxiously.
‘We will have to take drastic steps, that’s what we’ll have to do,’ the old man answered.
‘What do you mean!’ Tom asked anxiously.
‘I mean,’ the old man became deadly serious, ‘we shall have to enlist outside help.’
‘But who?’ his son-in-law asked.
‘The parish priest.’ The old man was unequivocal.
While the barman replenished their glasses they sat glumly in the snug to where they had retired after some regular customers, renowned for their acute powers of hearing and insatiable curiosity, had established themselves. Upon receipt of the drink they took up where they had left off. This time the exchanges were conducted in whispers.
‘But what can the parish priest do that a psychotherapist can’t do?’ Tom Collins asked.
‘If word gets out that she’s seeing a psychotherapist,’ the old man countered irritably, ‘she’ll be the talk of the town and we’ll never live it down. Anyway psychotherapists cost money whereas Canon Coodle will cost nothing.’
‘But what does Canon Coodle know about such matters?’ Tom asked.
‘He’s a priest,’ came back the incontrovertible reply. From time to time there would be silence in the public bar. The customers had reverted to their normal roles of listeners. The pair in the snug responded with a corresponding silence. When the conversation resumed on the outside a deficiency became apparent to the pair on the inside. The latter would be well aware that one of those on the outside would have been delegated by common consent to eavesdrop on those on the inside. The volume of the conversation would be raised while the eavesdropper availed himself of the best possible listening position. Often juicy titbits would be picked up especially if the occupants of the snug were less than sober, titbits that could be profitably relayed to wives and sweethearts after the pub had closed for the night.
On this occasion the eavesdropper was to be cheated. The occupiers of the snug had clammed up. After a short while they finished their drinks and left the premises. Outside they dawdled on the sidewalk before moving on to the centre of the roadway where they strolled leisurely until they had assured themselves that their voices could not carry.
‘Canon Coodle it will be then,’ Tom agreed. ‘When do you propose to see him?’
‘I don’t propose to see him at all,’ the old man answered with a cynical laugh. ‘She is your responsibility and I suggest that you see him now, right this very minute before you go to bed.’
Before Tom had time to reply he found himself being directed towards the presbytery. The old man had a firm grip on his arm and, although reluctant, Tom did not resist the pressure.
Canon Coodle listened most attentively to what his parishioner had to say. He posed no questions, preferring to stimulate his caller with encouraging nods and winks. It was his experience that, by listening and by hearing the person out, all would be revealed in the end. When Tom Collins reached the end of his revelations the canon expressed neither surprise nor dismay. He sat perfectly still for some time in case his caller might wish to add an overlooked item. When none was forthcoming he did what he always did after listening to unfortunates with puckers to resolve. He poured two large glasses of port and handed one to Tom Collins. They sipped for a while in silence while the cleric mulled over what he had been told. He knew Tom and his wife well; a model couple surely and a credit to the parish.
The cleric knew Tom’s father-in-law, a domestic alarmist if ever there was one but a devout and decent man, nevertheless. The canon wondered if he might not be at the back of his son-in-law’s visit. He would not ask. He would provide instead the counsel which was expected of him. Slowly the canon began to make up his mind and making it up he resolved that if the pucker could not be resolved by the parish with all its resources it would be a reflection on both the parish and himself.
‘Before you think about seeking out expert medical advice further afield,’ the canon opened, ‘you might consider exhausting the capabilities of the parish first. I mean,’ the canon continued in his homely fashion as he silently resorbed the last of his port, ‘the solution to our problem could be in our own hands.’
‘My father-in-law said something about sending for an exorcist,’ Tom suddenly put in lest he forget the matter before the conversation ended.
Canon Coodle considered the question and as he did he remembered his last meeting with Father Sylvie Mallew, the diocesan exorcist, a saintly and upright cleric who, in Canon Coodle’s private estimation, would be likely to do more harm than good in this case. He had first met Father Sylvie after an unsuccessful adjuration addressed to an evil spirit which had placed an elderly lady under its power.
‘Could it be,’ Canon Coodle’s companion of the time asked, ‘that he failed to exorcise the evil spirit because there was no evil spirit to begin with?’ Canon Coodle was forced to concur that this indeed might have been the case. When both clerics encountered Father Sylvie in the local hotel he was in a state of total exhaustion after the fruitless but demanding rite. The local doctor ordered him straight away to the nearest general hospital where the ailing exorcist spent a month recuperating from his ordeal. It transpired that the real evil spirit of the piece was the daughter-in-law of the old lady who had failed to come up trumps with a spirit. It was the daughter-in-law who demanded the exorcist in the first place. Later she would admit that she had been driven to it by the exorbitant demands of the old woman, by her continuous nagging and whining and by the fact that they heartily detested each other. For this and for many other valid reasons Canon Coodle was totally against calling in an exorcist especially an exorcist with the track record of Father Sylvie Mallew. He was at pains to establish his position to Tom Collins.
‘You may or may not know,’ he explained patiently, ‘that exorcism as such is governed by the Canon Law of the Roman Catholic Church. Before consenting to an exorcism I would be bound to seek authorisation from my bishop and even then before we could get down to brass tacks it would have to be proved that we are dealing with a case of real possession. Now, you and I both know that your wife is no more possessed than you or me so let us here and now dispense with exorcism. If we don’t and if we are foolish enough to resort to it your wife may very well begin to believe that she is possessed and that is almost as bad as being truly possessed.’
‘What should we do then?’ Tom asked.
‘First things first,’ the canon replied, ‘so let us deal with what we know and proceed from there. You told me earlier that your wife was of the belief that she had passed herself out, which is a common enough expression hereabouts. In my time I have met several people who passed themselves out to a certain degree but never to such a degree that they were not able to return to their normal selves after a certain period. I must confess,’ the canon continued, warming to his task, ‘that I very nearly passed myself out on a few occasions when my curates were indisposed. The fact that I did not pass myself out means that I do not take the matter seriously. Passing oneself out is really no more than an expression or at worst a flight of the imagination. From your wife’s particular case we may safely draw the conclusion that she has simply looked too far ahead.’
‘Years and years ahead,’ her husband interrupted in an exasperated tone, ‘and if she isn’t stopped she’ll soon be decades ahead and maybe even centuries and if that happens it is possible that she’ll never return to her former self and it really means that I’ll be married to a woman who isn’t there at all.’
‘Come, come!’ the canon resorted to one of his favourite expressions. He used it frequently when somebody forced him into a corner.
‘Don’t you come, come with me!’ Tom would never normally react in such a fashion to his parish priest but he had the feeling that the canon was a trifle too dismissive or at the very least was not prepared to take him seriously.
‘Now, now!’ said the canon.
‘Don’t you now, now me either!’ Tom turned on him. The canon was taken completely by surprise. In every case the expressions he had used helped to mollify people, to calm them down and reassure them. The canon was about to say ‘well, well’ but changed his mind in view of the agitated state of his visitor.
The canon was now fully alerted to the fact that the time for meaningless expressions was past. He would have to approach the situation from a different angle. He would need to apply some homemade, countrified common sense.
‘My wife is getting worse by the hour,’ Tom was on the verge of tears, ‘while we sit here talking nonsense.’
‘Now, now!’ The expression died on the canon’s lips as he endeavoured with all his mental might to come to the aid of his parishioner. At the back of his mind’s eye a picture began to form. It was a picture from the past and it was dominated by the figure of Big Bob the uncrowned king of the travelling people. It was well known to the canon that Big Bob was not accorded regal status because of his fighting ability although he had never been beaten in a fair fight. Rather was it because of his sagacity and diplomacy although some would prefer words like roguery and guile or scheming and deception. Whatever about anybody’s opinion of Big Bob he was a man of his word and once given it was never broken. Women trusted him and children followed him when he walked through the town in his swallowtail coat and Homburg hat. He was part of the community and then again he wasn’t. He was a travelling man but he honoured the outskirts of the town with his presence during the winter and early spring. Then he departed, as he was fond of saying himself, for the broad road.
The picture in Canon Coodle’s memory had become better developed as he tried to placate his visitor with words of concern and understanding. The picture was still hazy and it would remain hazy for it had happened many years before and it had happened under moonlight so that an absolutely clear picture was out of the question. He remembered a woman, somewhere in her mid thirties, running in circles in the commonage where the travelling folk were camped. It was in that part of the commonage where the travelling folk trained their horses so that a dirt track of almost perfect circular proportions would already be etched. A man stood at the centre of the ring. From time to time he clapped his hands and called out to the woman. The calls were of an encouraging nature and the man who made the calls was none other than Big Bob. Later when they met accidentally near the big bridge which spanned the river the canon’s curiosity got the better of him. He told Big Bob of what he had seen in the moonlight and the traveller responded that the canon had indeed seen a woman running in a circle under the light of the moon.
‘She was my sister,’ Big Bob explained, ‘and after her tenth babby she lost the run of herself so I took her out to the ring and told her to run until she caught up with herself.’
‘And did she?’ Canon Coodle had asked eagerly at the time.
‘Yes,’ Big Bob had replied, ‘she caught up with herself soon enough and she had no more children after that.’
The canon had been somewhat mystified but he felt as he looked across at Tom Collins that his sudden recall of the events in the commonage had a rare significance. By no means a superstitious man, the canon would testify under oath that Big Bob had no supernatural gifts but he would also testify that Big Bob was an extraordinary man with uncommon powers over his fellow travellers. It was also said of him that he had great power over horses. It was said of him too, by his detractors, that he had stolen more eggs and chickens in his heyday than any man alive but the canon did not believe this. His fellow-travellers, especially the womenfolk, would always vindicate him on the grounds that what he stole from the well-off was stolen for hungry children and if not for hungry children then for the aged and the infirm among his clan. Then there were things he would never steal. He would never steal money and he would never steal horses. He would never steal dogs but if a dog got the notion to follow the travellers’ caravans that was another story. Judges liked him. In particular district justices would listen when he made a case for a young traveller who might have been engaged in fisticuffs or window-breaking or abusive language while under the influence. Whatever the charge Big Bob would guarantee that the wrong-doer’s behaviour would undergo a change for the better if he was given a chance. The travellers said of him that he kept more men out of jail than Daniel O’Connell.
The canon was well aware that the settled community might not take too kindly to the proposal which he was about to make to Tom Collins.
‘When all fruit fails we must try haws,’ Canon Coodle opened. He went on to tell his visitor of what he had seen in the moonlight so many years before and of the exchanges between himself and Big Bob.
‘You’re not suggesting ...’ Tom was cut off before he could finish.
‘That is exactly what I am suggesting,’ the canon said, ‘unless, of course, you can come up with something better.’
All Tom could do was shake his head. He shook it for a long while before he spoke.
‘Nothing ventured, nothing gained,’ he agreed resignedly.
‘That’s the spirit,’ said Canon Coodle. ‘All we have to do now is wait for a moonlit night.’
‘Tonight is a moonlit night,’ Tom Collins pointed out to his parish priest.
‘So it is. So it is!’ the canon exclaimed joyously as he drew the curtains apart and gazed onto the gleaming lawn outside the window of his study. ‘See how balmy and blessed is God’s moonlight,’ the canon was quite carried away by what he saw. ‘Note how it silvers the land and softens the harsher features. How blessed is the balm it brings! How sublime its serenity!’ He placed a fatherly arm around the shoulders of Tom who had joined him at the window. ‘See where it struggles with the shadows for supremacy. How gracious is moonlight and how tranquil! See Tom where it transforms the grey of the slates on the outhouses to shining silver.’
‘It’s mid-winter canon,’ Tom reminded the moonstruck canon.
‘So it is. So it is,’ the canon answered absently.
‘Christmas is only four days away,’ Tom pointed out.
‘You mean,’ the canon removed his arm the better to survey the anxious face before him, ‘you are contemplating doing it tonight?’
‘Pray why not?’ Tom asked.
‘Why not indeed!’ Canon Coodle agreed.
‘I will go and fetch Jenny.’ Tom hastened towards the door.
‘And I will locate Big Bob,’ the canon announced, ‘as soon as I can find my hat and coat.’ After a lengthy search, during which Tom fretted and fumed, the hat and coat were located. They left the presbytery together.
The canon turned towards the travellers’ encampment on the outskirts and the younger man turned towards the town.
‘I’ll see you at the entrance to the commonage,’ Tom called over his shoulder.
‘Please God. Please God!’ Canon Coodle called back.
An hour would pass before the principals in the bizarre ceremony were gathered together at the entrance to the commonage. Big Bob, replete in swallowtails, Homburg hat and flowing white silk scarf, stood with Jenny at one side of the entrance while her husband and Canon Coodle stood at the other watching with undivided interest. Big Bob was speaking to the housewife. As he spoke her eyes became fixed on his. From time to time she seemed to nod her head as though she agreed with what he was saying. Not a word was borne to the watching pair although the depth and richness of the traveller’s tone was clearly audible. Now and then Big Bob would raise a hand and in flowing movements would indicate the moon overhead and the myriad of stars that winked and danced in the December sky. All the time he spoke softly but all that was heard by the listeners was a purring monotone not unlike the crónáning of a contented cat. The listeners strained but still not a word came their way. They would never know because later Jenny Collins would say that she could not recall a single word no matter how hard she tried. She would explain that she knew at the time and that things were clear to her but all had been washed away.
Finally Big Bob closed his mouth firmly and, taking Jenny Collins by the hand, led her into the commonage where they stood for a while before he intimated with signs that she was to negotiate the circle hewn by the horses’ hoofs. Big Bob took up his position in the centre of the ring and clapped his hands. At the sound of the clap Jenny broke into a lively trot. She completed several circles of the ring until Big Bob called out: ‘Whoah, whoah, whoah girl!’ at which she stopped. For a while she stood silently, her eyes fixed firmly on the travelling man.
The watching pair exchanged looks of wonderment and perplexity but no word passed between them. They were aware that something extraordinary was taking place and they sensed that what was now happening was beyond words and would be threatened by external or contrary movements.
Suddenly Big Bob clapped his hands a second time, at which Jenny proceeded to run backwards, her steps keeping time with the clapping. As the clapping slowed so did Jenny. She was now walking backwards to the slow but steady handclap, walking as though in a dream. Her husband and Canon Coodle would say afterwards when recalling the ceremony that there was a very short period when she seemed to actually float backwards although both were realistic enough to realise that it may have been some form of illusion. As the handclap slowed altogether so did the steps of the woman who had passed herself out and it became clear that instead of catching up with herself she was allowing herself to be caught up with.
‘Now, now, now is the time,’ Big Bob cooed.
All were agreed afterwards that cooing was the best word to describe the sound of his voice.
‘Now, now, now,’ he cooed again as Jenny stood stock-still.
‘Ooh ah ooh owowow ooh ooh,’ she cried out in exultation as she assumed herself back into her being.
‘Extraordinary!’ Canon Coodle could scarcely believe his eyes.
‘Most remarkable!’ he exclaimed and then, ‘most peculiar entirely!’
As for Tom Collins, the poor fellow was speechless. The tears ran down his face as Jenny approached and flung herself into his waiting arms. She was his wife again, his reliable, lovable helpmate, his pride and joy, his one true love. She would never pass herself out again and she would buy her Christmas gifts like everybody else. Uncaring and oblivious to all, Jenny and Tom Collins walked through the moonlit commonage hand in hand. They would eventually arrive home but not before they had exhausted the moonlight which they would remember forever and which they found to be romantic and enchanting.
‘How can we ever repay you!’ Canon Coodle asked of the elderly traveller. ‘May the blessings of God rain down on you like this heavenly moonlight.’
‘Not by moonlight alone doth man live,’ Big Bob’s apocalyptic tones rose with a great ring of truth over the commonage as Canon Coodle reached for his wallet. From afar, borne upon moonbeams, came the gentle laughter of Jenny Collins. It was the laughter of a woman who had been lost but had been found and she would remain found for every Christmas thereafter.