Page 15 of Every Christmas Eve
‘Having all four of us together at Christmas has never been an easy thing to organise,’ I say as my mind and body go into protective ‘just in case’ mode. ‘What I mean is, I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Mum. I’ve an awful fear Gracie isn’t going to make it. I’ve offered to book her flight, but she always hurries off the call when I mention it.’
‘Nonsense,’ Mum replies, pushing back her latest masterpiece and tilting her head in admiration. ‘She’ll be here. There’s no way we can do Christmas without her. Tell her I said that. Now, are you sure we’ve made the right call with the red and gold combination on these pots? Maybe the ladies would have preferred silver pots instead? Or just plain black may have been nice too?’
‘Gold is prettier,’ I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes, glad of the distraction from chat about Gracie. ‘Yes, I’m sure we made the right call with the gold pots, Mum. I asked Bridie from the WI committee and she said gold is good.’
‘Good as gold,’ Mum whispers, then hums her way through the next pot while I go to fetch a parcel from our delivery man. ‘Good as gold.’
By the time I get across the store, passing our growing collection of festive delights such as velvety red roses and soft silver willow, the regular delivery guy, Declan, whistlesand drums his fingers by the coffee dock as if he’s been waiting forever.
‘I could have left this outside in the snow, but I’m a gentleman so wouldn’t do such a thing, Lou,’ he says, holding out a small screen for my signature.
‘Ah, my order of cellophane,’ I declare. ‘Yes! Christmas has come early for me.’
Declan looks like the cat that got the cream, but I’m not exaggerating. A speedy delivery like this for the florist’s makes life so much easier, especially as a Christmas rush is just beginning.
‘Oh, could I get a quick cappuccino to take away, please, Lou?’ Declan asks me, pushing his black glasses back on his nose. ‘Extra cinnamon?’
He jiggles in his pocket for change as I fix up his drink.
‘No problem, Declan. Have it on me,’ I tell him. ‘It’s a cold one out there, so I hope this warms you up. Thanks, Declan.’
His face lights up like a Christmas tree, making me warm and fuzzy inside, but it’s the least I can do. One of the things I adore the most about village life is how everyone pulls together like one big team, and I couldn’t operate my business without someone like Declan.
‘How about a turtle?’ Mum asks me, deadly serious, when Declan leaves. ‘You always wanted one of those as a child.’
I throw my head back, let out a deep sigh and hand her a new bunch of poinsettias.
‘How about accepting that I’m perfectly fine the way I am?’ I tell her, setting down a pair of scissors a little morefirmly than I intended, but my mini strop is halted by Declan’s return.
‘Sorry to interrupt. I forgot to ask earlier,’ he says all a fluster and slightly out of breath as if he’s run a marathon. ‘Would you mind displaying one of these in the window, please?’
‘Of course,’ I reply, taking a rolled-up poster from him.
‘Tilda Heaney asked if I’d pass a few of these posters around, when I was dropping off a parcel to her earlier,’ he tells us. ‘Hot off the press, I believe. I wouldn’t usually agree, but I said yes as it’s for charity, plus, let’s face it, the Heaneys are hard to say no to, aren’t they? Such lovely people. I only hope my boss doesn’t find out. I could get the sack for this, so say nothing!’
He laughs, which tells me he’s enjoying his moment of rebellion, but when I unroll the poster and read what it says, I’m certainly not laughing, that’s for sure. And his comment about how it’s hard to say no to the Heaneys is stuck in my gut. Yes, they are lovely people. I know that more than most around here, and there lies the problem.
‘Oh my … so it’s happening, then.’ I feel the colour drain from my face, but I quickly change my expression into a forced smile when I see the look of confusion on Declan’s face. ‘I mean, wow. That’s all. That was quick.’
‘Well, yes, thatwasquick!’ Mum repeats after me as she leans over my shoulder and reads aloud from the poster. ‘Christmas Eve Charity Afternoon Tea Party at Ballyheaney House, Wednesday 24 December 2025 at 12 noon. Admission £25. All proceeds to Daffodil Cancer. Everyone welcome.’
‘It’s for an excellent cause,’ Declan sings, as if he’s chieforganiser and not just someone delivering posters on the quiet to keep sweet with the Heaneys. ‘Close to my heart like so many others, as my own mother is recovering from cancer.’
‘Ah, Declan, I’m so sorry to hear that. Does it say where we can buy tickets?’ Mum asks as she squints to read the poster again. ‘I imagine this will sell out quickly.’
Declan swiftly points to a QR code on the bottom left-hand side.
‘Very modern for the Heaneys, so they must have someone young helping,’ he says. ‘Thankfully, those of us who are more technically challenged, like me I admit, can get a ticket from the post office in person.’
I scan the QR code, then bury my face in my phone.
‘Christmas Eve is a busy day, so I’m not going to be able to go, unfortunately,’ I mumble as the info on the event pops up on my screen. ‘But I’ll buy tickets. As you said, Declan, we’ve all been affected by cancer in some shape or form. I hope your mum is feeling better these days?’
There, I’ve redeemed myself and my earlier negativity by opening up a conversation about the well-being of his mother, who I’ve never met. But Declan isn’t hanging around this time. In fact, he’s already hotfooting it towards the door.
‘She has good days and bad days, but mostly good, thanks,’ he calls back in our direction. ‘I can’t stop to chat any longer, sorry. I’m on the clock with the boss, but see you again soon.’
‘Bye, Declan!’ I shout with far too much enthusiasm. ‘Yes, see you soon. Love to your mum!’
