A festive short story

Aisling and her Mammy head off to Prague for some Christmas market shopping. What could possibly go wrong?

The Aislings at Christmas!

“Ah Aisling, how many years have we said we’d go to the Christmas markets and we’ve never bothered our B-U-M-S? Mammy crosses herself quickly, as if Father Fenlon might be lurking outside her kitchen window, before sliding the glossy leaflet and a mug of tea across the table at me.

“It was in the letterbox this morning. I’ve never seen a deal like it.”

Of course she knows my Achilles heel – a night in a four-star hotel plus flights and transfers for only

€99pp. Early flight out so we’d get in a full day’s shopping and plenty of time to make beasts of ourselves at the breakfast buffet the following morning. It’d be criminal not to jump on it. My eyes scan the dates.

“But it has us coming back home at four on Christmas

Eve though, Mammy,” I say, not able to mask the worry in my voice.

No wonder it’s so cheap. “What if the flight gets delayed? Or even cancelled?

I don’t fancy spending Christmas in …”

I check the leaflet again, “Prague airport. You’d hardly get a selection box for your breakfast there.”

She stands up and heads for the Aga, where the Christmas pudding is steaming away. The smell is something else.

“Ara Aer Lingus wouldn’t let us down,” she tuts, while her back is turned. “Go on, it’d be nice to have something to look forward to.

Just me and you.”

The air in the kitchen suddenly feels heavy. Another Christmas without Daddy: she must be dreading it as much as me, not that either of us will admit it, of course. Can’t risk getting too sad and bursting into tears over the Brussels sprouts in Filan’s again. Poor Eamon Filan got such a fright he dropped a bale of briquettes on his good foot. They’re both banjaxed now. Daddy loved Christmas, and would be up at the crack of dawn humming Little Drummer Boy and shaking presents and out feeding the robins in the back garden, telling them “it’s Christmas for you too, lads.”

I sigh, and reach for the tea. She’s right. We should go.

“You’re right, Mammy. It’ll be lovely and Christmassy and we can get our last few bits. Let’s do it.”

Having availed of our airport transfer and dropped our bags off at the hotel (which had free sparkling water in the lobby. I put a picture of it on Instagram), we’re at Prague’s biggest Christmas market by lunchtime. Wenceslas Square is lined with dotey wooden stalls and festooned with fairy lights every which way. The sun is splitting the stones but the twinkling effect is still there. There’s a huge Christmas tree right in the middle and the air is thick with the smell of cloves, and cinnamon and candied nuts. The market is thronged with people and the Christmas Eve Eve feeling is undeniable: it’s pure magic. Beside me though, Mammy is up to ninety. She’s worrying about whether we should be haggling or not. “Tessie Daly told me I should only offer half of what they’re asking,” she whispers, picking up and putting down a little wooden reindeer decoration, “but that feels very mean. Especially at Christmas. Sure they’re only trying to make a living.”

I’m so busy converting all the prices into Euro in my head that I’m only half listening so when my phone buzzes violently in my bag I nearly jump out of my skin.

“What’s after happening?” Mammy asks, alarmed. “The Bloody Cat didn’t get at the turkey, did it?” After 2011 – known in our house as Ham Christmas – this is her worst nightmare. My brother Paul is at home holding the fort in Ballygobbard, and has been warned to keep the turkey and the Bloody Cat in separate rooms at all times.

“It’s just a text from Majella,” I say, taking Mammy’s arm and gently directing her towards a gluhwein stall. “Apparently they’re letting Mad Tom be Santa tomorrow. People are already ringing into Solas FM to preemptively complain.” “You’re joking me, Aisling,” she gasps, eyes like saucers. Every Christmas Eve a Santa who looks suspiciously like local farrier Tony Clohessey pays a visit to the boys and girls of Ballygobbard in the Scouts Den before everyone goes to midnight mass at half seven.

“What happened Tony?”

“Apparently he put his back out bringing the Big Shop in from the car. All the extra minerals.” Mammy nods sagely. She did her own Big Shop the day before yesterday and you couldn’t open a press in the house without a pipe of Pringles or a Terry’s Chocolate Orange hitting you in the face. I found a box of Chocolate Kimberleys in the coal scuttle.

“They must be fairly stuck if the best they can do is Mad feckin’ Tom,” she mutters, taking a sip of her gluwein.

Mad Tom’s most recent claim to fame is getting caught on Google Earth stealing roof tiles from Mick Crossan’s garage. Mick was zooming in to see if his gutters needed a clean, and there was Tom halfway down the drainpipe, bold as brass. I can’t really believe they’re going to give him the sacred Santa costume. Although the local kids do love him, to be fair.

“Will we do another lap?” Mammy asks, draining her glass and gathering up her bags. We’ve already been around the square three times but sure once more won’t hurt. A children’s choir is singing over by the huge tree. Come they told me parum pum pum pum. A newborn king to see parum pum pum pum.

“Lead the way, Mammy.”

‘Aisling, look. Ah would you look?” she suddenly stops, mid-stroll. I follow her eyes to a little stall with a simple tree branch outside peppered with the most beautiful glass decorations. I don’t know how we missed it earlier but the two of us are drawn to it like moths to a flame.

“Are they all….?” I start.

“They are,” she replies in a whisper. “They’re all robins.”

We stand in front of them silently, and my eyes prick with tears as Mammy slips her arm back into mine.

“You like to have one?” comes a gruff but kind voice from my right. The stallholder is already delicately removing one of dainty little birds