Mr Callanan felt homely. There was a good fire burning in the grate and he knew that it was cold outside. He had been about town all day shopping with Mrs Callanan and he had met many friends. These friends had been very friendly, exchanging the compliments of the season, joking with Mrs Callanan about her number of parcels, and pinching Katsey’s cheek. Some said that Katsey was like her mother but others said she was like her father — only better-looking: she was a rather pretty child. The Callanans — that is, the father and mother and Katsey and an awkward brother named Charlie — had then gone into a cake-shop and taken four cups of coffee. After that the turkey had been bought and safely tucked under Mr Callanan’s arm. As they were making for their crowded tram Mr Callanan’s ‘boss’ passed and saluted. The salute was generously returned.
— That’s the ‘boss.’ He saluted — did you see? —
— That man? —
— Ah, he’s not a bad sort after all if you know how to take him. But you mustn’t rub him the wrong way. —
There was wood in the fire. Every Christmas Mr Callanan got a present of a small load of wooden blocks from a friend of his in a timber-yard near Ringsend. Christmas would not have been Christmas without a wood-fire. Two of these blocks were laid crosswise on the top of the fire and were beginning to glow. The brave light of the fire lit up a small, well-kept room with bees-waxed borders arranged cleanly round a bright square carpet. The table in the middle of the room had a shaded lamp upon it. The shade set obliquely sprayed the light of the lamp upon one of the walls, revealing a gilt-framed picture of a curly-headed child in a nightdress playing with a collie. The picture was called “Can’t You Talk?”
Mr Callanan felt homely but he had himself a more descriptive phrase for his condition: he felt mellow. He was a blunt figure as he sat in his arm-chair; short thick legs resting together like block pipes, short thick arms hardly crossing over his chest, and a heavy red face nestling upon all. His scanty hair was deciding for grey and he looked a man who had come near his comfortable winter as he blinked his blue eyes thoughtfully at the burning blocks. His mind was vacant. He had calculated all his expenses and discovered that all had been done well within the margin. This discovery had resulted in a mood of general charity and in particular desire for some fellow spirit to share his happiness, some of his old cronies, one of the right sort.
Someone might drop in: Hooper perhaps. Hooper and he were friends from long ago and both had been many years in the same profession. Hooper was a clerk in a solicitor’s office in Eustace St and Mr Callanan was a clerk in a solicitor’s office close by on Wellington Quay. They used often meet at Swan’s public-house where each went every day at lunch-time to get a fourpenny snack and a pint and when they met they compared notes astutely for they were legal rivals. But still they were friends and could forget the profession for one night. Mr Callanan felt he would like to hear Hooper’s gruff voice call in at the door “Hello Tom! How’s the body?”
The kettle was put squatting on the fire to boil for punch and soon began to puff. Mr Callanan stood up to fill his pipe and while filling it he gave a few glances at Katsey who was diligently stoning some raisins on a plate. Many people thought she would turn out a nun but there could be no harm in having her taught the typewriter; time enough after the holidays. Mr Callanan began to toss the water from tumbler to tumbler in a manner that suggested technical difficulties and just at that moment Mrs Callanan came in from the hall.
— Tom! here’s Mr Hooper! —
— Bring him in! Bring him in! I wouldn’t doubt you, Paddy, when there’s punch going —
— I’m sure I’m in the way… busy night with you, Mrs Callanan… —
— Not at all, Mr Hooper. You’re as welcome as the flowers in May. How is Mrs Hooper?
— Ah! We can’t complain. Just a touch of the old trouble, you know… indigestion —
— Nasty thing it is! She is quite strong otherwise? —
— O, yes, tip-top —
— Well, sit down, my hearty and make yourself at home —
— I’ll try to, Tom —
Leave a Reply