This Year It Will Be Different Page 2

  “Maybe I could help?” Alison said with eyes shining.

  It wouldn’t last forever, Jenny knew that. The road ahead was not lit with soft, flattering lighting like a movie. They wouldn’t fall into each other’s arms. But it would last a little bit. Maybe through the party and through Christmas Day.

  She heard the sound of her son running to find her.

  “Where were you, you didn’t come and see me?” he called.

  She picked him up in her arms. “I was just welcoming your sister home,” she said, almost afraid to look at Alison’s face.

  Alison leaned out and tickled Timmy with a frond of ivy.

  “Happy Christmas, little brother,” she said.

  THE TEN SNAPS

  OF CHRISTMAS

  Maura loved Christmas. Jimmy endured it. When Maura was a child they used to make a great fuss of it, an Advent calendar opening a window each day, the Christmas cards examined with all the verses read aloud, then each one threaded on colored string. They would start talking about the tree as early as October, and every present was lovingly wrapped and labeled and laid under the tree for at least a week’s squeezing and prodding in the hope and even fear of finding out what it was.

  When they got married, first Jimmy thought this was very endearing, he used to kiss her on the nose and say she was sweet. As the years went by, Maura noticed that it had become less sweet, like so many things. So she kept her sense of Christmas excitement a secret that she hugged to herself and the babies as they arrived one by one. This year there was only Rebecca for Santa Claus. Rebecca was four, John and James and Orla were far too old. But you couldn’t be too old for trees and lights and candles and a holly wreath for the door. Maura worked alone and happily, and didn’t burden Jimmy too much when he came home from work in the evenings. She only consulted him about what Big Present each child was to get.

  James was ten: he would get a bicycle. John was eight: he would get the electronic game that had been much hinted at. Rebecca would get a dozen small, noisy things—she wasn’t old enough for the Big Present yet, but Orla … what would they give the tall fourteen-year-old? Maura said she thought Orla might like a voucher for clothes in that trendy shop where her school friends spent hours just looking in the window. Jimmy thought that Orla might like a typewriter and a quickie typing course. They could come to no meeting of minds over this at all. Maura said to give anyone a typing course for Christmas was like giving a woman a diet book or a membership to Weight Watchers. Jimmy said to give a child a voucher for a shop like that was like a license to buy perverted transsexual clothing with a parental imprimatur. It had better be neither of these. They decided they would give her a Polaroid camera. The kind that would take pictures instantly there and then. Festive for the season and urgent for today’s generation. So that was what they bought, and wrapped it in many other boxes and corrugated paper so that Orla prodded it a hundred times and still had no idea what it contained until the day itself.

  Maura bought some heated hair rollers for her mother, who came to stay for Christmas. Her mother was glamorous and fashion-conscious in Maura’s mind; in Jimmy’s mind she was mutton dressed as lamb, a woman who refused to grow old gracefully. He never objected to her Christmas visit, but he didn’t look forward to it either. His own parents were kept at a safe distance, presents posted and a call on Christmas morning to wish them the compliments of the season. Jimmy’s family was a lot less demonstrative.

  Maura bought a nice Tara brooch for Marie France, the French au pair girl. Marie France had this disconcerting habit of wondering were things real silver or pure silk or was the wine vintage or if they had the best seats at the theater. At least with something so obviously ethnic and Irish she could hardly complain. Marie France was all right, Maura thought, a bit pouty and shruggy and eyes-up-to-heavenish, but maybe that was the way twenty-year-old French girls banished to learn English behaved. She did exactly what she was asked to do with Rebecca and about preparing the vegetables and vacuuming the downstairs, but not one single thing more. Maura had often wished she had set out a slightly more demanding timetable; after all, Marie France had a room of her own, three marvelous meals a day, and endless time to study as well as go to her course. But nothing, not even the minor sense of grudge toward Marie France, could spoil Maura’s Christmas, she felt the familiar excitement just as soon as they started to play “Mary’s Boy Child” and “The Little Drummer Boy” over the tannoy at the supermarkets … and that was fairly early on. By the time the streetlights were up, Maura was in a high state of happy fuss. Her mother arrived with a yet more outrageous outfit than usual, her friend Brigid who had left her husband again wondered was it possible if she could join the family, and Maura said, “Of course,” for Christmas was a time to be happy and Brigid had been a friend since school. Jimmy groaned a bit about Brigid. He said she was a nutcase and that the husband was well rid of her, but he agreed that since she could only eat a plate of turkey and ham, and since the day was ruined already by the presence of Maura’s mother, then honestly he saw no objection to Brigid coming, and sure sure if she brought her sleeping bag why not, why not let her sleep in the sitting room on the sofa. Since the crazy mother-in-law was taking up the guest room why not?

  They sang carols on Christmas Eve. Maura closed her eyes in happiness and in gratitude for all she had. Her face was so happy that even Orla who thought it was yucky, and Grannie who thought it was over the top, and Brigid who thought it was barking mad, and Jimmy who thought it was pathetic, all joined in. James and John thought it was funny and sang one louder than the other. Rebecca thought it was a game and banged on her tambourine in what she thought was in time with the music.

  Next morning after Mass they sat around in a circle while the presents were given out. Maura’s mother loved the hair rollers and took a plug off one of the lamps immediately in order to try them out. Marie France shrugged and pouted over the Tara brooch, Jimmy was genuinely pleased with the anorak because he hated waste and he wanted one anyway, and Maura showed pleasure at the carpet sweeper, which Jimmy said might be useful on those occasions when she didn’t think it worthwhile taking out the vacuum cleaner.

  Orla was very quiet all morning as the gifts were being opened. Maura felt a pang of regret. Perhaps she should have fought harder for the voucher for the child. It was becoming harder and harder to talk to her, but all mothers said the same about teenage daughters, and really it was only now when she was well and truly married and had a grown family that she could relate properly to her own mother. Maybe that was one relationship that would never work. It would be the same when chubby, adorable Rebecca had a decade behind her. Orla wasn’t rude or surly like other people’s daughters. She never defied them or insisted on her own way. It was just that recently she seemed … well … a little bored with them. It was as if she didn’t rate them very highly as a family. Nothing you could put your finger on and certainly nothing you could say to Jimmy, who thought the sun and the moon and all of the stars shone out of his eldest daughter. It would look like some kind of criticism, which it was not. Maura had decided on this occasion, as on many others, to say nothing. But she chewed her lip as Orla’s long blond hair fell over the well-disguised present and finally revealed the camera that would take instant pictures.

  “It’s beautiful, thank you, Dad, thank you, Mum,” she said in roughly the same voice that Maura had thanked Jimmy for the carpet sweeper.

  “You can get people to take pictures of you so that you can chart your progress from ugly duckling to swan,” said Maura’s mother.

  “Thank you, Grannie,” said Orla.

  “Or you could take pictures of fellows and congratulate yourself later that you had nothing to do with them,” said Brigid, who was sitting smoking, angrily rejoicing in her abandoned husband.

  “Yes, terrific idea, Auntie Brigid,” said Orla.

  Maura could see the annoyance, but yet she too felt disappointed. If only Orla knew what she had been saved from … a typi
ng course to be taken during the school holidays at Easter and a reconstituted typewriter and a book to practice from. If Orla knew that, maybe she might smile more warmly at her mother. Again Maura wished she had stood out for the gift token. If Orla had that in her hand, maybe the day would have been filled with dreams of gear to be bought, to be discussed, tried on, rejected, taken out on approval. Still it was done now and a camera with a whole film of ten snaps in it was a marvelous gift for a fourteen-year-old girl.

  “Will you take one now?” James was anxious to see if it worked.

  “We’ll all make faces.” John wanted it to be a joke.

  “Let me take the rollers out first.” Maura’s mother was already testing the strength of her new gift and her head was a forest of spikes.

  Orla shrugged. She was developing this very unattractive shrug, Maura thought. Far too like Marie France, far too distant.

  “It’s Orla’s camera, she can take what she likes,” Maura said, and hoped for a grateful smile, a thank-you look. But Orla just shrugged again.

  “It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ll take one if you want to.”

  They spent a long time posing. Marie France had to put on her lipstick, Maura noticed she didn’t bother to put on the Tara brooch. Soon they were assembled, four adults on the sofa, the three children in front. Orla pressed the button and like magic it came out a piece of gray-green that turned in front of their eyes into a picture of them all.

  They looked oddly dead, Maura thought, and some of them had devil-like red eyes.

  They all said it was very clever and wondered what would savages who had never heard of such things think if they saw one.

  They had little jobs for the Christmas lunch; the boys had to clear up all the paper and put it in a neat pile. Jimmy was to get the wine, Grannie was to arrange the crackers on the table and lay out the chocolates on little glass dishes to be served later. Brigid was given a new linen dishcloth to polish the glasses. Marie France had been given nothing, so nothing was what she would do. Maura went out to do the gravy and the bread sauce. Everything seemed to boil at once, the dishes were heavy, and Rebecca was under her feet at every turn. Sharply she ordered the child out of the kitchen and then felt guilty. It was Christmas Day, why was she being so irritable? She just felt that something was wrong. It was one of those silly fears, like recovering from a bad dream. In her annoyance and confusion she let the turkey slip right off the dish onto the floor. She grabbed it furiously by the legs and rammed it back in the baking tin. Thank God her mother and Jimmy hadn’t been in the kitchen, they were both great at wrinkling up the nose and sighing at what were called Maura’s slapdash methods. What they don’t know won’t harm them, she thought as she rescued the sausages from under the cooker and picked off the surface dust. She hadn’t noticed Orla in the kitchen, but the child was there still examining the camera thoughtfully.

  “Do you really like it, my love?” Maura asked kindly.

  “Oh yes, didn’t I say I did?” The girl was withdrawn. She would only resist any attempt at a heart-to-heart.

  “Did the flash go off just then? I was wondering was I seeing lights in front of my eyes, or was it lightning?”

  Orla shrugged. I’m going to get that bloody shrug out of her without having to go as far as physical violence, Maura thought purposefully. The boys came into the kitchen.

  “Will you take another? Take one of us outside,” they begged.

  “No.”

  “Oh go on, Orla, that’s what it’s for.”

  “No, they said I could take what I liked.”

  “What are you going to take?” They were impatient with her now.

  “Just casual pictures here and there; you know, to get a picture of Christmas the way it really is, not all people just posing and smiling.”

  They lost interest in her. Maura beamed, however. Perhaps Orla did like the gift and she might even take up an interest in photography. That would be marvelous. Maura didn’t praise the idea too much in case Orla might shrug it off.

  Orla went to the shed where the wine was kept. Daddy didn’t hear her come in and had no idea she was there until the flash and the soft whir announced her.

  “Orla,” he roared, moving toward her very fast. It was almost like a speeded-up film to see how quickly he had drawn away from Marie France and how his arms had fallen from her. Marie France looked at the door with a half smile. She was straightening her blouse.

  “What kind of a silly trick is that?” Her father wasn’t quick enough. Orla was back in the house and Maura had come out to see what the commotion was.

  “Nothing, I’m just taking my own pictures for myself like you said I could.”

  “Oh leave her, Jimmy. It’s her camera, let her take what she likes.” Maura went back to the kitchen.

  “It’s just a game, you know, a sort of Christmas game,” Jimmy said, desperate, but Maura had lost interest and Orla had gone off somewhere to examine the picture in peace.

  Brigid was in the dining room thoughtfully polishing the glasses for the festive lunch, but her thoughts were in no way pleasant. Why was she being forced to camp out in someone else’s house, share another family’s Christmas because of that bastard? She would show him. She would certainly punish him for this. If only she had some money. Life was so unfair. Look at all this cut glass and silver in Maura’s house, they hardly bothered with it. That little dish on the sideboard might be worth a few pounds, and there it was with pencils and sticky tape in it.

  As she slipped it into her handbag Brigid heard a hiss and saw the flash. Orla stood impassive at the door.

  “I was just dusting it Orla, you know, rubbing it against something in my bag.”

  “I know, Auntie Brigid.” Orla was gone before she could be asked to show the picture.

  In the sitting room where Grannie was meant to be sorting sweets and crackers, Grannie was actually drinking the festive brandy from a bottle that she was holding by the neck. She nearly choked when Orla came into the room and her look was wide-eyed when she heard the camera make its whishing sound.

  “Don’t be a silly child, that’s a very babyish thing to do wasting your ten snaps, throwing them away.”

  “I know, Grannie, but I am very babyish,” said Orla.

  It was almost time for lunch, soon there would be excited calls from Maura and everyone would gather. The boys were suspiciously quiet. Orla went to their room and entered without knocking. John was coughing over his cigarette but James was flourishing his in fine style.

  “Captured for the future generations,” Orla said as the camera flashed.

  “We’ll be killed,” James said simply. “It’ll ruin Christmas.”

  “Only if they see it,” Orla said.

  In her own bedroom as she waited for her mother to call, she laid out her collection. The group on the couch and the floor, scarlet-eyed and sure of themselves. Then her mother and the turkey on the floor, her father and Marie France, her grannie drinking the brandy from the bottle, her mother’s friend stealing the silver, her two brothers smoking in their bedroom. She still had four more to take. Maybe one when the plum pudding came in and one when they were all asleep with their mouths open.

  “It’s ready.” She could hear her mother’s excited voice from below.

  She tore the picture of the turkey into tiny pieces. Her mother was kind. Pathetic but kind. Orla’s eyes went back to her gallery. And look at the great Christmas that her mother had as a result of being kind. No, there was no need to keep the turkey disaster, but she would keep the rest.

  She went down to her Christmas lunch with her head held high. She knew somehow she would be a person of importance this year. A person not to be taken lightly anymore.

  MISS MARTIN’S

  WISH

  Elsa Martin had never been to New York. She had a passport, even a visa to go to the United States, dating from when she had thought that she was going on her honeymoon in Florida.

  That was when she had
thought she was going to have a honeymoon.

  The passport lay there in a box. It was in the same drawer as her grandmother’s little silver bag, and all the good-luck cards in an album that the children had made for Miss Martin. She could have thrown them out, but the children had gone to so much trouble, put so many horseshoes and wedding bells on them, such glitter and decoration. It would have been like breaking up blossoms or standing on sea-shells.

  For a while she had kept Tim’s letters there; the letter where he told her he had never really loved her and couldn’t go through with it, where he begged her forgiveness. But then after a year Elsa had taken the letter and burned it because often she found herself going to read it over and over again. As if she might find some insight, some reason why he had left; some thread of hope that he might be coming back.

  People said that Elsa had been magnificent, they said that Tim must have been a rat or mentally unstable. They said she was well rid of him, and they marveled that she had taken it so calmly, ten days before her wedding day. She had returned gifts with a courteous and noncommittal note: “Since by mutual consent our marriage will now not take place we would like to return your generous present with our gratitude for your kind wishes.” And she had continued teaching the following term as if nothing had happened, as if her heart had not broken into two separate pieces.

  The children were more honest.

  “Are you very sad you didn’t get married, Miss Martin?” a child might ask.

  “A little sad, not very sad,” she would admit with a smile.

  In the staff room they didn’t ask about the canceled wedding, and Elsa didn’t want to fill them in, so it remained one of life’s mysteries. Probably a mismatch, better they found out before the ceremony, really, than afterward.

  Elsa’s sisters had never liked Tim because he had small eyes. They told each other, but did not tell Elsa, that their little sister had had a lucky escape.