It was the night before Christmas …
John and Breda Quinn had gotten through the day without much talk – each preoccupied with their own private thoughts of Christmases past. A lot of things had changed over the years and as John had often remarked; ‘every day seems the same, but when you look back, they were all different.’
The Quinns lived over their now vacant shop in the centre of the village. Once a thriving grocery & hardware business, the couple had closed the shop four years back. The new supermarket had long since taken the bulk of their business and apart from old friends calling for a chat, there was no sense in keeping the door open. The elderly couple were OK for money; with a tidy nest-egg hatched over the years and now benefiting from their pensions.
This wasn’t how it was meant to turn out; Timmy Quinn, the only son of the respected grocers had been expected to carry on the family business; but when the turnover started to plummet he became depressed over the situation … thinking that in a way, it had to be his fault. Tim had never worked at anything else since leaving secondary school … and now he had a fiancée to consider. ‘He is a good lad … neither drinks nor smokes’, Breda would tell the ladies outside the chapel after morning mass.
At the age of 27 frustration and anxiety got the better of Tim. One Christmas, a friend of the family was home from England and on impulse, young Quinn and his girlfriend went back with his old school pal. Timmy and Yvonne would come back home once or twice, before she was to return for good … alone. Yvonne had a dark tale to confide to her friends.
John and Breda lived for Tim’s letters that came frequently at first, then seldom, then not at all. ‘I’ll be home for Christmas’ the last one promised. Over time, the neighbours stopped asking the parents anything about their son; but they whispered to each other about the terrible tragedy it was the way that young Quinn took to the drink. Nor could the heartbroken parents talk to each other; all John would say was; ‘first my father and now my son.’
Timmy Quinn never took a drink until that first night at the Irish Centre in Liverpool. His father never drank and both parents preached the dangers of alcohol. Tim could never remember making that conscious decision to break his confirmation pledge, but after the new friends had laughed when he asked if they had club orange here; he accepted the brandy and ginger trust into his hand. Immediately the world became a rosier place, he could talk to anyone, dance like Michael flatley and sing like Joe Dolan.
Tim looked forward to the weekends, then the odd session during the week, then every night, followed by missing shifts from his job as an assistant manager in Sainsburys. Quinn lost his job within a short time. Now he felt he belonged more to the hardened drinking crew on the building sites and drawing ‘the sub’ every evening.
Yvonne tried everything; coaxing, pleading, threatening … but all to no avail. The man she loved was powerless over alcohol and she was helpless to help him. The last thing she said to him before leaving was; ‘now you know why your father never drank, because your grandfather drank out the big farm and died a young man. Timmy headed for the pub …
Over the next decade the young Irishman’s life spiralled out of control. He couldn’t explain why to anyone who asked, but being a down and out around Lord Street and Saint Johns was the furthest away from any dream he ever had growing up in that beautiful village in Westmeath. From the moment he took that first drink he couldn’t stop and the only way to kill the remorse was to get drunk again.
Timmy couldn’t bear to be near people now. He found a spot of his own in a concrete alcove near the church. Those going in and out of the chapel got to know him and some were very kind. A compassionate grey haired gentleman tried talking to him about his drinking a couple of times. He was from Tipperary, managed William Hill’s bookie and sought to tell Tim about losing his job in the bank at home over drinking. His name was Fred and Tim told Fred if he only wanted to preach to him about drink, he could keep the fiver he had just given him.
The old parish priest started to drop by for a chat. He was from Offaly and knew where Tim came from. They opened up through talk of hurling and football and one morning Fr Scully persuaded Tim to come over for a cup of something hot. ‘Have you any Bovril?’, enquired Timmy weakly.
Maybe it was the smell of the Bovril, reminding him of those early days back home, or the humanity of the priest; but Timmy started to cry and he couldn’t stop. ‘I don’t want to be like this, Father.’ ‘You don’t have to be like this, Timmy; will you talk to somebody from Alcoholics Anonymous?’ ‘I’ll talk to the devil himself if that’s what it takes …’ Father Scully made a phone call … to the bookies and shortly thereafter who should walk in but Fred!
Breda had nobody left to talk to only God, and she did that all the time; popping in and out of the chapel and explaining to God that all she wanted was a little miracle!
The old couple were getting ready for midnight mass, when a knock came to the door. John opened the door, and Breda heard the words; ‘Happy Christmas, Daddy’! Breda went to the door, arms outstretched and her first words were the strangest ever; ‘I knew you’d come Timmy’ a Mhic.’ Just then the bell started ringing for midnight mass and Tim Quinn heard the same response he had heard all his young life. ‘C’mon … we can’t be late for mass!’
Don’t Forget
Kindness is the world’s greatest unused capital.
