Ann said she’d consult again with the younger ones: there had to be a way. All families must have the same problems at this time of year, she said sagely, it was just that the youngsters kept bleating about Top of the Pops and other things that were out of the question. It wasn’t as if Christmas was meant to be for children.
Avril and Noel’s hearts were filled with sadness. Their daughter was not being even remotely ironic. All her life she had thought that Christmas Day had to do with the grannies and keeping them as contented as either would allow herself to be.
Avril bit her lip at the memory at what seemed like a thousand Christmas days when Granny Dunne had looked her up and down and asked her when she was going to change, and then with a lip curl apologized and said of course, of course, she had changed, and how sensible she was not to get dressed up in anything smart.
She remembered another thousand festive seasons when Granny Byrne had examined the label on the supermarket wine bottle and asked Noel who his wine merchant was and had they chosen something special this year. A thousand times Noel had patted her hand under the table. It didn’t matter, he had told her. We have all our lives.
True, but their children were not having the Christmas Days they should have been having.
If there were no grannies, think what it would be like. Think.
Avril indulged herself. They could get up later, they could have breakfast in their dressing gowns. Cup after cup of tea watching the video of Fawlty Towers. The episode of Manuel’s rat. They all loved that. There would be no sneaking glances at the two good armchairs to see how it was being received.
They could all have a short walk and wear old clothes and maybe go somewhere with a bit of mud and point things out to each other and laugh. Like they did on ordinary days. Not walking at Granny speed and fielding a battery of Granny interrogation and point-scoring.
They need watch neither Pope nor Queen. Their Christmas messages would be in their own family.
The turkey would taste better when it didn’t have to be analyzed and explained and apologized for. They could have Greek yogurt with the Christmas pudding, which they all loved instead of making a brandy butter for show. The children could laugh out loud at the jokes in the crackers instead of nodding sagely with the grannies that it was a sin crying out to heaven for vengeance buying crackers that were such poor value.
Noel too felt a surge of resentment toward his two brothers and his sister who never thought of having Mother for Christmas. Not even once. It’s tradition that she goes to Noel and Avril, they all said with huge guilty relief, and gave her bottles of sherry and fleece-lined hot-water bottles plus tiny boxes of liqueur chocolates, which she was instructed to keep for herself and which she did.
And couldn’t Avril’s sister in Limerick take Mrs. Byrne? Just once, just one year? Why did it have to be a tradition? The old bats would even like a change, a bit of variety, Noel thought despairingly.
But it was too late this year to think about it. The plans would have to be made long in advance, and it must never be allowed to look like … well, to look like what it was.
Avril and Noel looked at each other and for once they didn’t reach out to pat, to reassure, to remind each other of a lifetime shared and to underline that one day wasn’t much to give up. For the first time, it did seem too much. The day that everyone was meant to enjoy; and their family seriously believed that it wasn’t meant to be a day for children.
The feeling lasted through the days that led up to Christmas. The children knew there was something wrong. Their mother and father, normally so full of requests and pleas and urgings, seemed to have lost the Christmas spirit somehow.
They didn’t even have those embarrassing middle-aged hugs and hand-pattings that used to go on. When Ann or Mary or John asked about plans for the grannies, they got scant answers.
“Will we bring down the screen in case Granny Byrne gets a draft?” Ann asked.
“Let her get a draft,” her mother said unexpectedly.
“Where’s the magnifying glass for the RTE Guide?” John asked on Christmas Eve. “Granny Dunne likes to have it handy to see the small print.”
“Then let her put on her bloody glasses like the rest of us,” said his father.
They were very worried about them.
Ann thought her father might be having the male menopause: Mary wondered whether their mother might be having a midlife crisis. She didn’t know what it was, but there had been a program about it on television with lots of white-faced women of their mother’s age saying they were going through it. John thought they were just in bad tempers like teachers at school got into bad tempers that seemed to last half a term. He hoped his parents would get over it. It was very glum with them like this, biting the head off everyone.
The night before Christmas the family sat beside the fire. They all wanted to see the same film; in a few minutes they would turn on James Stewart. There would be no sense of peevishness about who sat where, about the position of honor nearer the fire or nearer the set. Nobody was hunting for a magnifying glass or a draft excluder.
Noel and Avril sighed.
“I’m sorry about the grannies!” Avril said suddenly.
“It would be nice if you could have normal Christmas Days like other children do,” said Noel.
Their three children looked at them in disbelief. This was the first time that an apology had ever been made. Usually they had been told how lucky they were to have two grannies and even luckier that these grannies came for Christmas Day.
They had never believed it, of course, but it was like crusts being good for you and fast food bad for you—they heard it and accepted it as something people said. It had been said for so long now, it was part of the scenery. Much easier to listen to and ignore than this new unease between their parents and this sudden revelation that grannies were not a Good Thing after all.
Ann and Mary and John didn’t like it. It changed the natural order of things. They didn’t want things changed. And certainly not at Christmas.
“It’s your day too, you know,” Avril said.
“More yours than theirs, in fact.” Noel’s face was eager to explain.
In the firelight his three children looked up at him. They were going to hear no explanation. No accusations about aunts and uncles who didn’t do their fair share. No words like “burden” and “nuisance.” Not at Christmastime.
They had to speak quickly to prevent things that shouldn’t be said being spoken.
“We thought that we could record Star Trek Three, and sort of give them an update on who they all are, you know—Kirk and Spock and Scotty,” said John.
“And Granny Byrne might be one of her remembering-Dracula-and-Frankenstein moods,” Mary said hopefully.
Ann, who had grown up this Christmas and understood almost everything, suddenly said in a gentle voice:
“And there really couldn’t be much room for them in any other inn or they would have gone there, so they’re lucky this is the best inn in town.”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Maeve Binchy was born and educated in Dublin. She is the bestselling author of The Return Journey, Evening Class, This Year It Will Be Different, The Glass Lake, The Copper Beech, The Lilac Bus, Circle of Friends, Silver Wedding, Firefly Summer, Echoes, Light a Penny Candle, London Transports, Scarlet Feather, Quentins, Nights of Rain and Stars, and Whitethorn Woods. She has written two plays and a teleplay that won three awards at the Prague Film Festival. She has been writing for The Irish Times since 1969 and lives with her husband, writer and broadcaster Gordon Snell, in Dublin.
Maeve Binchy, This Year It Will Be Different
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