Writing -- Reunited

The following short story appeared in the annual Christmas Magazine The Holly Bough, a Cork institution that has been required reading in the City and County for decades. The Holly Bough is published by The Evening Echo, one of Ireland's leading regional, daily newspapers.

Thomas Matheson didn't believe in Christmas any more.

He sat in the doorway of a shop on the newly refurbished Patrick Street watching the bustling throngs of shoppers hurry by. Most of them ignored him, and those that did notice him gave him a wide birth. Why, he wondered idly, not really caring?

Could it be his threadbare clothes that were so repulsive to them? Could it be his matted hair; the lingering, slightly stale odour of sweat or the aftermath of last night's whiskey? Perhaps they thought that by failing to acknowledge his presence they could avoid confronting the part of themselves that really didn't care?

The season of good will to all men, he thought; what a joke! He watched them, these paragons of society, these wonderful people who were "making a contribution". What was he compared to them? Nothing? Less than nothing? Most of them were completely oblivious to him in their frenzied pursuit of the latest piece of over-priced, over-hyped plastic for the kiddies' Christmas stockings. It would have been laughable, except that Thomas didn't feel much like laughing.

His head hurt from a blow he'd received last night and he still felt dizzy, which was why he was sitting practically comatose in this doorway on Patrick Street.

It had been in the early hours. He'd had nothing to eat and the night was getting cold, so he had been hanging around a take-away on the Grand Parade in the hope of finding a few left-overs. It was amazing what people threw away. In the end he'd ended up with more than he bargained for: a beating that left him in an unconscious heap in a nearby alley.

There had been three of them, he was almost sure, but his memory of the incident was a bit hazy. Youths, he supposed, looking for a bit of post-booze sport. He remembered calling out for help, but the people around conveniently failed to hear his pleas, preferring to keep their heads down, to stay out of trouble. The streets of Cork just weren't safe after dark any more.

When he came around it was morning. There had been a sharp frost overnight and his body ached with more than the beating he'd been given the night before. He struggled to his feet and managed to make it to Patrick Street before collapsing outside the doorway he now occupied.

Yes, Thomas Matheson's belief in the Christmas spirit had hit an all-time-low. He'd never been so miserable. And yet not so long ago it had all been very different: before the drink, before the arguments, before the divorce. Christmas had been a wonderful time - one of his favourite times of the year.

Sheila had changed all that with the divorce. She'd taken his house, his children, his business... everything he'd amassed over the years. Everything that mattered to him had been stripped away practically overnight. He was left to descend into the depths of depression and despair, alone and with nothing. Granted, the drinking had been his fault, and maybe he had gone a bit too far, but surely he hadn't deserved all of that.

It had been two years now, and he'd been on a downward spiral of self loathing and regret ever since.

"Hey, you there!" Thomas looked up at the owner of the gruff voice. It was the store's security guard. "Move on there before I call the guards!" He had expected this, of course, but had hoped for a slightly longer respite. With a grunt in the security guard's general direction he struggled awkwardly to his feet and staggered across the newly re-surfaced pavement of Patrick Street. He fought desperately to keep his balance, but it was all too much for his battered head. The last thing he heard was the unsympathetic voice of the security guard shouting "And don't come back you waster!", then his head struck one of the fancy new litter bins that now adorned Patrick Street and everything went black.

When he opened his eyes Thomas was looking up at Santa Claus.

He shook his head. A searing pain blurred his vision and the blackness rose to engulf him again. With an effort he kept it at bay, and when everything settled back into focus Santa was still there, looking down at him, concern etched on the surprisingly young face behind the trademark white beard.

Santa was talking.

"Can you hear me? That's a nasty bang you've had, try not to move. If you can hear me squeeze my hand," that voice, there was something vaguely familiar about it. Thomas was suddenly aware of a hand clasping his own and gave it a squeeze. "Good, that's good," said Santa, relief evident in his voice. Thomas was about to speak, but was cut short. "No, don't try to talk... much better if you rest. There'll be time to talk later."

An ambulance arrived, sirens blaring; the crew hopped out, and under Santa's direction quickly positioned him on a stretcher and lifted him into the ambulance. Santa got in behind him and closed the doors, much to the disappointment of the crowd of onlookers who had gathered to watch the spectacle.

Curious, Thomas thought, that the very same shoppers who had failed to acknowledge his existence just moments earlier were now so eager to get a look at him.

He was vaguely aware of the ambulance moving off. The siren sounded muffled and far away. Santa was checking him over with medical precision and a seriousness that belied the jovial red suit. Thomas drifted back into unconsciousness.

When he woke again he was lying on the pristine sheets of a hospital bed. His clothes were gone and he was wearing a clean pair of cotton pyjamas. He'd also been bathed at some point, and somebody had shaved him. He must have been unconscious for quite some time.

Oblique winter sunlight lanced through the window of the ward, so bright that it hurt his eyes and he turned away. There, in one of the uncomfortable-looking hospital chairs next to the bed, sat a familiar figure.

"Kevin?"

"Hello Dad," said his son. He hadn't seen Kevin since the divorce. His son had been bitter about the breakup at first, and had blamed Thomas and his drinking for everything. Before Thomas had time to patch things up Sheila had moved the family up-the-country and he'd lost touch with them.

"What... how...?"

"The doctor, he called me," Kevin said.

"The doctor, but how did he know?" Thomas was puzzled... then he remembered Santa, the familiar voice, the youthful face behind the beard.

"The doctor who brought you in, the guy in the Santy suit - that was Jimmy Connor. You remember Jimmy, he lived two doors down from us in Broadale," Thomas nodded slowly as Kevin continued. "When I was looking for you last year I called to the Connor house and left my number on the off chance they might see you around. Jimmy called me as soon as you were brought in."

"You were looking for me?"

"Yes, Dad. You disappeared, nobody knew where to find you. Once all the dust had settled after the divorce me and Eileen both tried to contact you. Look, I still don't like what happened between you and Mum, and I can't forgive you for your part in that, but whatever about all that you're still our Dad. We miss you - we want you back!" Kevin's eyes were moist, and Thomas could see he was holding back the tears. Suddenly he felt tears rolling down his own cheeks as he reached out to his son. Kevin leaned over and hugged his father.

"I thought nobody cared. When your mother took you away I lost all hope. Everything was gone. I had nothing left. That's how I ended up on the streets. I lost the will to do anything else. My life was over," Thomas said, holding Kevin tightly.

"Look Dad," Kevin said, sitting up in his chair again, "we go to college here in Cork now - I'm at UCC doing computer science and Eileen's in catering college."

Thomas smiled. "I always said she'd make a great chef!"

"That's right, you did. Anyway, here's the thing: we share a house over in Togher, just the two of us, and when they let you out of here we want you to come and spend Christmas and New Year with us. You know, sort of a family reunion. It will help you get back on your feet as well."

"Ah, I can't do that Kevin, I don't want to be a bother to the two of ye... I'll be 'right on my own son, really."

"Dad, it's no bother, we want to see you. Anyway, I'm not asking I'm telling. Eileen has already bought the turkey and all the trimmings, so you better get used to the notion," Kevin was adamant. "Now, I have to go, but Eileen will be in to see you later."

"Thanks son," was all he could think of to say as Kevin stood and left the ward.

Thomas was stunned. It was funny how things happened out of the blue... just when you least expected. If he hadn't had that beating last night he would never have fallen on Patrick Street. If Jimmy Connor hadn't been play-acting as Santa, or hadn't recognised him, then Kevin would never have found him. Now, instead of a dismal Christmas on the lonely city streets he would be spending a real Christmas with his family. His heart leaped; it was a miracle, an absolute miracle!

Thomas smiled. Perhaps there was still a bit of the Christmas spirit around after all!