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“A bit to the left. Left, Father. Left!” Father Ted, about to enter the front room hesitated and listened.
Mrs. Doyle’s voice raised another decibel or two, “No, no. Now right. And a little further back – yes, Father,” she gasped. “Just like that! Keep it right there!”
Ted turned the doorknob and peeped round the door with a sense of creeping dread. Oh God. It was worse than he’d imagined. Dougal was stood on a straight-backed chair. That wasn’t so bad. But the chair was stood on the coffee table. And Dougal wasn’t just standing on the seat of the chair.
There were four or five thick missals stacked on the chair and Dougal was balanced precariously atop them in a kind of arabesque. One arm was cast matador-like over his head while the other clutched the mangy, moth-eaten angel, attempting to balance it on the Christmas tree.
Mrs. Doyle was flat on the carpet, legs under the tree, one eye closed and her arm straight up as she guided Dougal to set the angel at the perfect angle.
Then the first missal slipped.
And everything went into a kind of slow motion. Ted leaped for Dougal. Mrs. Doyle leaped to get out of the way. Dougal seemed to hang in the air as the missals flew one way and the chair flew the other.
Father Jack, asleep in his corner shouted, “FECK!”
And Ted dove through the window.
It was a moment before he could gather himself to stand up and survey the damage.
The chair lay broken on the floor. One leg of the coffee table had collapsed. The missals were scattered about, one having landed on Father Jack’s head. He snored and mumbled, “GIRLS!”
But Dougal stood on the carpet, still balancing on one foot. Mrs. Doyle, hands clasped to her breast was gazing sow-eyed at the tree. And the shagging angel was right there on top, only slightly askew.
Later, as Ted picked glass out of his hair while Mrs. Doyle phoned to get someone in to fix the window – again – he wondered if Dougal was not actually human and was, in fact, some magically-endowed kind of half-eegit member of the fair folk.
Dougal sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the Christmas tree, quietly humming a Christmas tune.
He looked up as the door to the front room opened. “Hey there, Ted,” he said, scrambling to his feet. “Do you think he’ll like it?”
Ted folded his newspaper under his arm. “Do I think who will like what, Dougal?”
“Well, Himself, Ted.” Dougal wriggled like an overeager puppy and whispered. “Santy Claus!”
Ted closed his eyes for a long moment. “Santy Claus?”
“Yes!” Dougal bounced up and down a few times then smoothed his woolly vest – red and virulent green with creatures that might be reindeer or might be horned dinosaurs gamboling across the chest – and tweaked one of the shiny red balls on the tree. “Do you think he’ll like the tree?”
“Ah, now Dougal.” Ted rubbed his forehead and motioned Dougal to sit on the couch while he stood before the mantel. “Now you know we’ve talked about this. What did we say about the Easter Bunny?”
“Em.” Dougal scratched his head and looked up at the ceiling. “Oh, right! The Easter Bunny isn’t real, Ted. It’s just one of them stories, like the Holy Ghost.”
“Dougal, the Holy Ghost is real.”
“Ah no, Ted.” Dougal shook his head with determination. “The Holy Ghost is one of them spirits that came to frighten Scrooge in the Christmas Eve movie on television.” He smiled tolerantly at Ted. “It’s easy to mix them up. But the Holy Ghost is just from the telly.”
Ted paced a little, then turned toward the mantel and removed a soiled white football sock with green stripes that was held there with a rusty metal tack. “What’s this, Dougal?”
“Well, it’s me Christmas stocking, Ted.” Dougal took the sock from between Ted’s fingers and carefully replaced it on the mantel. “For Santy Claus to fill.”
Ted massaged his temples. “Now, Dougal, you know –”
“Hot toddies!” Mrs. Doyle sang, coming in from the kitchen, pushing her tea cart. “And choccy biscuits!”
She carried a steaming mug to Ted, who waved it away, impatiently. “No, none for me, thank you, Mrs. Doyle.”
“Ah, go on,” she said, thrusting the mug at Ted.
“No, thank you Mrs. Doyle. I don’t want any.”
“Ah, go on.”
“No.”
“Ah, go on. G’wan.”
“No, I really don’t – “
“Ah g’wan, g’wan, g’wan.”
Ted winced as the hot liquid sloshed over his hand. “All right, Mrs. Doyle. Thanks very much.” He sniffed at the mixture and took a sip. More of the hot toddy spilled over his hand as he coughed violently, and Mrs. Doyle thumped him on the back. Dougal hovered about fluttering his hands helplessly as Ted choked.
Father Jack cried, “DRINK!” snatched the mug from Ted and downed it.
“I don’t know, Ted.” Dougal bit his lip worriedly. “Do you really think I should go with you?”
Ted paused as he buttoned his coat. “Well, it is traditional for priests to celebrate midnight mass.”
“But it’s Christmas Eve!” Dougal shifted uneasily. “I have to be in bed asleep for Santy Claus to come.”
“About, Santy Claus, Dougal—” Ted patted his pockets and took out a pair of gloves.
Dougal looked up at Ted, wide eyed. “What about him, Ted?”
Ted looked up. He looked down. He couldn’t meet Dougal’s eyes. “It’s just that—”
“What? Will he come while we’re at mass?”
“Well, you know how we were talking about the Easter Bunny?”
Dougal’s brow furrowed, then cleared, “Of course I remember. It’s on my list of things that don’t exist, like Magnum P.I.”
Ted wound a scarf around his neck and turned down the ear flaps on Dougal’s hat. “There’s a good few things that need to be added to that list, you know.”
“Of course there are.” Dougal nodded. “But I already know about the Holy Ghost and Skeletor.”
Ted sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets. “Never mind, Dougal. Let’s go or we’ll be late.”
“Has he been? Has he been?” Dougal shed his coat and hat and headed for the front room. Pulling his vestments over his head to reveal his Christmas pajamas (red flannel and patterned with holly), he bumped into the door several times before managing to get his head and arms free.
Next came Mrs. Doyle in her bright olive coat and matching hat (complete with a veil), pushing Father Jack’s wheelchair.
Father Jack slept with a chalice clutched to his chest and a rare smile on his face as he muttered, “Drink.”
Ted followed but stopped short when he saw Dougal standing forlorn in front of the Christmas tree.
There was nothing underneath it.
Dougal brightened for a moment and turned to look at his footy sock on the mantel.
It was empty.
“He—he didn’t come, Ted.”
“Ah, Dougal. I’ve been trying to tell you—”
Mrs. Doyle, shoving Jack into his chair glanced at Ted, and then at Dougal. “I’ll make us a nice pot of tea, will I? There’s still a few choccy biscuits?”
Dougal swallowed hard and blinked a few times. “No thank you, Mrs. Doyle.” He pulled the stocking from the mantle and gathered up his vestments.
“I think.” His lip trembled slightly. “I think I’ll just go to bed.”
As the door closed behind him, Father Ted shook his head slowly and Mrs. Doyle ran to the kitchen.
Father Jack settled into his armchair and threw the chalice at Ted’s head. “ARSE!”
An icy fog settled in over Craggy Island that Christmas morning. Dougal crawled out of bed in his everyday pajamas and looked glumly out the window. He turned when he heard Ted stirring in the next bed.
“Happy Christmas, Dougal.” Ted yawned and stretched.
“Happy Christmas, Ted.” Dougal sighed.
Ted got up and started looking for his slippers. “I think I smell black pudding, Dougal. Will we go see what Mrs. Doyle has for our Christmas breakfast?”
“Sure Ted.” Dougal sighed and headed for the door. Ted grinned and followed him.
The front room was dark when Dougal opened the door. One minute the room was black as pitch and the next, lights blazed. The Christmas tree glowed, the electric log in the fireplace flickered, mass from St. Peter’s Basilica was on the television and Christmas songs crackled from the radio. The space under the Christmas tree was packed with presents. Dougal’s sock on the mantel bulged. And there by the window near the tree was the man himself:
Santy Claus!
It was really him! In a red suit and hat, snowy (if slightly damp) beard, and tall black boots. His chair was covered in a red brocade drapery that looked more than a little like the old curtains from the back parlour.
“Happy Christmas, Dougal!” Ted and Mrs. Doyle shouted.
“Santy Claus!” Dougal shouted.
“DRINK! FECK! ARSE! GIRLS!” shouted Santy Claus, then he caught sight of the bottle Ted was waving.
“Ah, right.” Santy Claus bared his teeth and shouted. “HAPPY CHRISTMAS!”
Dougal collapsed into a heap at Santy's knee, gazing at him adoringly for a moment before scrambling for the presents under the tree.
While Dougal was thus occupied, Santy Claus snatched the bottle from Ted, twisted it open and took a long drink. He sighed and looked around the room and muttered, “Gobshites.”
The End