Last Christmas … was it last year?
It was after Mammy died.
Was it Mammy who died?
She spots something in the distance,
shakes herself back.
Daddy made the dinner.
But didn’t he forget to cook the ham?
He sent us all out to mass
and afterwards we went down to Granny’s
to give her the scarf Niamh had knitted.
Niamh’s great at knitting.
A bit addicted. A bit boasty.
Good at everything.
Butter wouldn’t melt.
She’s got grandchildren now.
Granny loved the scarf.
The priest looked hungover.
Too many baby Jesus beers the night before,
if you know what I mean.
We got home half starved.
I set the table.
I couldn’t smell meat.
Niamh helped Daddy dish it all out.
‘Daddy,’ she says.
‘Where’s the ham?’ she says.
And holy Santy balls, that was it.
She might as well have called him
a heathen.
Back of the hand, she got.
Upstairs she was sent.
So it was just me and Daddy at the table
in these gold paper hats,
eating fecking carrots and rock-hard spuds
for Christmas.
He was a gobshite after Mammy went.
She left him.
No, she died.
She left us all.
He hit her too. He shouted. Still does.
Shall we go to the pictures?
We could ask Roger for an advance on the money.
Do you have any money?
We could ask Mary maybe.
I kiss her cheek.
I’ll get our coats, I say.
Let’s go out.