‘Who’s Shay, Mummy?’
She shot Moira a look. ‘He’s an old friend of Mummy’s.’
Noah was nonplussed but Moira took the hint for the time being and dropped the subject.
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, tensions outside Santa’s grotto were running high and even Patrick was beginning to make noises of dissent. ‘Could we not just gather outside on the street and ask someone to take a photograph, Mammy?’ he asked.
Maureen was aghast. ‘With no Father Christmas?’
‘We could get one of those random Santas that stand on the street corners.’
The withering look Patrick received saw him back down. He winced and rubbed his temples as a toddler somewhere in the midden began to screech, ‘No, Santa. No like! NOOOOO!’ A baby, fed up with the waiting and startled by the sudden outburst, began to shriek and the mammies, all determined to get a photograph of their precious offspring with Father Christmas, were beginning to look in need of gin.
The line they’d found themselves in shuffled forward every now and then and Roisin watched enviously as a victorious mammy herded her four immaculately dressed children past. Each was sucking a lollypop and clutching a balloon. She didn’t have to turn around to know the victorious expression would have been wiped clean from her face when a loud pop made them all jump. It was followed by a howl that suggested the ended of the world was nigh. ‘My balloon! I want another one. Mammy, I want another one. It’s not fair! Eva, Connor and Mary have all got theirs.’
Oh yes, she thought, Christmas was a precious time for families.
Mammy swung around and jabbed at Moira, ‘I remember you putting on a holy show like that when your balloon popped the year I took you to meet Father Christmas at Brown Thomas. Mortifying it was.’
Moira was unrepentant. ‘Well, I’d say you’re getting payback now, Mammy, wouldn’t you?’
‘Mummy,’ Noah tugged on Roisin’s sleeve. ‘I can smell poo.’
Ah Jaysus, Roisin thought, her son was to the number two what David Attenborough was to the animal kingdom. He was getting obsessed and it was all down to Colin trying to get one up on her with the gerbil. She sniffed the air cautiously and at first all she could smell was too many women wearing too many clashing perfumes which mingled cloyingly together. Hang on, she thought, sniffing again and this time hit with the unmistakable smell of filled nappy. Oh, dear God, could this afternoon get any worse!
‘Can you smell that,’ Moira nudged her. ‘Sure, it’s worse than Mammy when she’s been at the Brussels.’ She deliberately said this loud enough to turn heads.
‘I heard that,’ Maureen said. ‘Don’t believe a word of it, Cindy. She’s a one for making things up.’
This was a living nightmare, Roisin thought, shaking her head and wondering when she’d wake up.
At last, after forty-five or so minutes of unspeakable noise and smells, Santa’s helper, who was keeping guard at the entrance to the grotto, came into their line of sight. She was a fierce looking girl with a frizz of red hair who looked as happy with her short red dress with white fur trim and matching hat as Aisling did with her blouse. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and stout, black-booted legs assumed the stance of a nightclub bouncer as she stood squarely in the entrance to the glittering cave where the end to their torment lay. Mechanical reindeer were positioned on either side of the grotto, heads bobbing slowly to the incessant Christmas carols being piped through the building.
‘Would you look at the face on her,’ Mammy hissed over her shoulder. ‘Sure, she’d put the fear of God into you so she would.’
‘Shush, Mammy, she’ll hear you and send us to the back of the queue,’ Aisling hissed back.
Roisin looked at her brother and Cindy, who were almost catatonic with the jet leg and the ordeal they were suffering through. Poor, poor Cindy, she’d put money on Patrick not having warned her what she was in for by coming to visit his family.
And then at last, like the parting of the red sea, the fierce one stepped aside and gestured for them to enter Father Christmas’s inner sanctum.
Chapter 13
‘Ho-ho-ho and who’ve we got here,’ boomed Father Christmas from his gilt throne. A feeling of calm descended over the O’Mara group as they ducked through the glittery entrance and emerged into a peaceful Christmas bubble. The air felt fresh, thanks to the little fan blowing gently in the corner of the grotto. Faux presents were stacked up on either side of the big man’s chair and a Christmas tree laden with red baubles dominated the small space. Roisin peered closely at him wanting to see if he was a nice, plump, jolly Santa or one of those skinny ones who looked nothing like your man. This one obviously liked his food, she thought, spying the crumbs stuck in his beard. It bode well; they were off to a good start after the nightmare of the shop floor outside. A young woman stepped out from behind a camera tripod. She was dressed identically to the fearsome helper on the door but looked much nicer insomuch that she at least mustered a weary smile even if it didn’t quite reach her eyes.
Mammy was the family’s self-appointed spokesperson. ‘Ho-ho-ho yourself, Father Christmas, we’re the O’Mara family.’
‘The Waltons,’ whispered Aisling, and Roisin choked out, ‘G’night John-boy.’ They erupted in giggles and Maureen shot them both a death stare.
‘My son, Patrick here, has just returned home from Los Angeles with his girlfriend, Cindy.’
‘Just for the week, Mammy,’ Patrick was quick to interject lest she get any ideas and Cindy waved at the snowy-bearded man enthusiastically announcing in a breathy voice, ‘I love Christmas.’
Father Christmas’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as her bosom bounced along with her hand.
‘It’s the best present a mammy could have, so it is, having all her children around her
