The Christmas Cake
Nora Hegarty, Waterford, Ireland
Giving the kitchen table one last unnecessary wipe, Mrs Mooney decided that today was the day to think about baking her Christmas cake. Every year, good or bad, brought November and every November brought this decision. She had lost track of how many times the ritual had been followed. God, it made her feel jaded and old. This year, she thought, looking out at four mad magpies strutting around the garden, it’s going to be different. This year, it’s going to be my way. Now that she had her mind made up, she was very definite. The birds’ boldness as they squawked and screeched, taking charge of the place though they were complete imposters only served to bolster her further. She would buy a cake and shock them all.
What would they make of that, she wondered, making her way upstairs, rooting out her good shoes, pulling on her raincoat and running a comb through her hair. She smiled at her reflection in the landing mirror. Her hair, due an overhaul before Christmas had grown out of its usual rigid bob, and was starting to curl in little wisps around her face. In a certain light, she thought it made her look positively girlish. Her well cut raincoat hid an abundance of middle age spread and its jade green colour complimented her eyes. Mrs Mooney was on a high.
Starting up the car, she began to feel quite bold. It was a long time since she’d questioned anything. As she sped down the hill towards the town, the lights changed from green to red. She put her foot on the brake and was just about quick enough to just about miss hitting the car in front of her. Driving on to the sound of beeping horns, she glanced in the rear-view mirror, half guilty, half exhilarated. She couldn’t help it, she knew she shouldn’t, but she let out a small squeal of delight. She had a feeling she couldn’t really describe, a kind of freedom she hadn’t experienced in years.
It was only then she realised what a clear day it was. The non-stop rain they’d had since the start of the month had finally let up and there was a real promise of brightness in the sky today. Mrs Mooney made a snap decision to avoid the town with its frantic Christmas shoppers, scrabbling for spaces in the car-park and trying to outwit one another in the supermarket aisles. She decided instead to drive the twelve miles out to Trábeg. She wasn’t really dressed for it. She knew it was something her husband wouldn’t really approve of, what with her bronchitis and all, but Mrs Mooney had always loved the winter sea.
She thought of her husband then, frowning out from behind The Irish Times at her reckless behaviour, his forehead all in a knit, his glasses starting to slip down his nose, the shake he gave the paper really meant for her. She knew he couldn’t help it. He always liked things to be just so. Thinking of his reaction, she felt a little bit wild and a little bit silly, but she didn’t mind. It felt really good actually, so much so that she began to sing – nothing definite, just any old ditty that came into her head. The road out to Trábeg was quiet and although the landscape was chilly and barren, the atmosphere in the car was cheerful, with Mrs Mooney, driving a little bit faster than usual, and feeling independent and brave.
Parking was easy at the sea. Apart from a few surfers off down the beach, some dog walkers here and there and the odd parent with a buggy, she had the place to herself. The tide was high but the wind was low and there was such a lovely energy off the crashing waves that despite her light coat and unsuitable shoes, Mrs Mooney couldn’t help but leave the car to go for a walk. Just a short walk, she told herself, just enough to catch some of the good sea air and to feel the freedom of the wide open expanse of the beach.
She set off in good spirits and as she walked along, enjoying the fresh air, she began to consider how there was something very invigorating about the sea. She couldn’t quite put her finger on it. It made her feel young again, she supposed, young and alive and full of hope. The memories started to engulf her then. Days out at Trábeg. Shy handholding at first and later en-famille, with the carrycot, the picnic basket and an assortment of swimsuits, buckets and spades. She smiled at the notion of it now, looking out over the horizon, a serene middle aged woman apparently content with her lot.
Hard to credit I know, but before she had time to breathe out the fresh air she had just breathed in, the atmosphere had completely changed. The tide turned suddenly, the wind rose and out of nowhere, Mrs Mooney was almost bent in two by an ambush of raw grief. It took her a moment to realise exactly what had happened. It was the little boy’s fault of course. He had ran off ahead of his mother when she wasn’t looking and so she started to shout his name.
‘Brendan, stop, come back here to me Brendan’.
Of all the names that little boys can have and he had the same name as her son, the same dark curly hair too. He was getting closer now. She couldn’t help but look directly at him. He grinned up at her as he toddled past.
‘Hiya’, he saluted.
Her face softened – a little angel.
His mother was hot on his heels. She bent down to him, holding him close.
‘Brendan, don’t ever do that to me again. You put the heart crossways on me. I’ve a good mind to give you to this woman here, only she’d have more sense than to take you’.
The young woman was looking expectantly at Mrs Mooney now, awaiting a response, but the old woman was so overcome with grief that she could barely bring herself to whisper ‘I’m sorry. I’ve just remembered something. I really have to go’.
As she struggled back up the beach clutching her too thin coat into her and feeling the pinch of her Sunday shoes, Mrs Mooney slowly but surely gathered herself together. However, despite an outwardly calm appearance, she felt old and grey and sad inside. She thought she’d never reach the car and was shivering with the cold by the time she eventually got there. What a fool I’ve been, she thought, as she fumbled with the car keys and settled herself into the driver’s seat, to think that this year would be any different, that November would be any easier, that I’d feel any freer. I need to go home now, have a strong cup of tea, and start into the Christmas cake. Life must go on for the rest of the family. My husband’s right – there’s nothing like a routine.