Old Times
It was always cold at the church on the hill. The air stung as they walked out into the darkness, buttoning coats and securing scarves against a rising wind. Not that it had been much warmer inside but the soft glow of candlelight and the huddled crowd singing carols had warmed the heart if nothing else.
“The air stung as they walked out into the darkness, buttoning coats and securing scarves against a rising wind.”
Sarah walked down to the pub with the others, the chatter and hum of conversation guiding their way more accurately than the shadowed silhouettes that led the way. Into the pub, a wall of humid heat from the less devoted, coats shrugged off, pints and hot whiskies called for, money slammed on the counter. Voices rose loud over Mick the resident musician playing Christmas songs on a guitar in the corner.
Conor was the first to ask.
‘Where’s James tonight Sarah?’
‘That heathen? At home watching telly.’
They laughed and pints of creamy Guinness knocked together and spilt in his honour.
Sarah was thankful for the heat of the crowd. Her flushed cheeks went unnoticed. She tried to join in the retelling of the year gone. So many familiar faces home for Christmas with stories of new jobs, marriages, children. The laughter and tall tales swirled around her. It felt like a warm blanket of familiarity enveloping her. She used to love Christmas Eve down the local. But not now. Now the cosy reminiscing felt suffocating. She tugged at her turtleneck jumper, fighting for air.
“She remembered the first smoke they’d shared. Aged fourteen behind the school.”
‘Do you still smoke Sarah?’ It was Conor waving a pack of cigarettes under her nose.
‘Go on, just the one, a Christmas treat.’
They elbowed their way out the side door into the cool night. Conor passed her a cigarette and lit it with a practiced hand. She remembered the first smoke they’d shared. Aged fourteen behind the school.
Her, James and Conor. Inseparable.
Even then he had that effortless air of self-assurance while they drowned in teenage awkwardness.
‘So, how’s James?’
‘Grand. Same old James.’
Conor laughed. ‘I must catch up with him while I’m home.’
‘Do, he’d be delighted to see you.’
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, watching the smoke curl up into a clear sky scattered with stars.
‘Remember our first smoke?’
‘I was just thinking about it.’ Conor grinned. ‘We’re always on the same wavelength.’
‘Seems a long time ago now.’
‘Jesus yeah.’
‘What age are the kids now?’
‘Two and four.’
‘Hands full.’
‘Yeah.’
She slipped her hand into his jacket pocket, took another cigarette and lit it.
‘Not a word.’
‘Not a word.’
‘How’s New York?’
‘Great. Good to be home though.’
Sarah looked sideways at him. He leant back against the wall, head tilted to the sky. She steeled herself. Speak now or forever hold your peace. She took a deep drag and it caught in her throat. She coughed and spluttered, gasping for breath. Conor laughed. The most beautiful sound in the world.
“She steeled herself. Speak now or forever hold your peace.”
The moment had passed. She couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear to say out loud what they both knew would happen this Christmas. Like it did every Christmas. The yearly indiscretion.
Once back in the pub Sarah ordered a gin and tonic. She hadn’t planned to drink much. Parenthood didn’t lend itself to leisurely hangovers. But she needed to steady her nerves. All around her the crowd was getting gradually louder, hotter, overwhelming.
❦ ❦ ❦
A few hours later she stumbled in the door. James was asleep on the couch, a half-eaten tin of Roses beside him. She crept upstairs and checked in on the boys. Tom was fast asleep clutching his teddy. Rory stirred when she came in but snuggled back down into his duvet once he’d got a goodnight kiss.
She returned to the sitting room. James was still dead to the world. She stood over him for a moment, her shadow throwing his face in darkness, then reached across and picked up his phone. Three missed calls from Conor and a text.
‘Meet me later. Usual place x’.
She looked down at her sleeping husband and brushed a stray curl from his forehead. Maybe this year would be different.
Niamh Donnelan is a writer from Co. Meath. She was selected for the XBorders 2019 and 2020 projects with the Irish Writer’s Centre. She won the Anthology Short Story Competition 2020 and was longlisted for the Fish Short Fiction Prize 2019. She’s currently working on a collection of short stories.
To continue enjoying stories like this one and support our writers, please consider donating to Silver Apples Magazine.