Christmas Magic. Cathy Kelly

or for nights when the power was weak. But a computer … Truly, Mother would not have approved of any machine with the capability to think for itself.

      Genevieve put down the phone to Mrs Devine, her mind troubled.

      Upstairs, Tours of the Holy Land lay on the small cabinet beside Genevieve’s bed, along with her rosary beads. She dipped into the book most nights, running her fingers over pages of pictures of the Wailing Wall and the dark, mystical cavern that was the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. She’d always wanted to travel but had never gone further than Dublin for the odd special-occasion lunch in the Hibernian Hotel. She’d been to Galway once, nearly fifty years ago, to the wedding of her best friend, Mariah.

      ‘It’ll be you next,’ Mariah had said joyfully the evening of her wedding when she was ready to leave the hotel, her trousseau packed and the bouquet ready to be thrown. Genevieve had caught the bouquet, but there had been no wedding for her.

      No trips abroad either. When she was young enough to travel, her mother hadn’t wanted her to. No local man had ever measured up to her mother’s standards, either.

      Genevieve Malone wasn’t the sort of person who got angry, but a flicker of naked fury rippled through her now. She and Dolores would have liked a computer, but Mother wouldn’t have approved, so they didn’t have one.

      They’d have liked to travel, but Mother didn’t approve of that either. So they had gone nowhere, married no one.

      Now that she and Dolores were their own mistresses, their mother’s likes and dislikes still guided them.

      Genevieve grabbed the stool and hauled the magic book out of its hiding place.

      ‘I don’t care what you think, Mother,’ she shouted, surprising both herself and Sidney, the cat. ‘I want to look at it.’ She placed the book on the table and opened it at the first page.

      The book was not the heathen volume she’d expected. There were no exhortations to say black masses or other ceremonies designed to undermine Christianity. Instead, the introduction was a gentle ramble through history and the place that magic had in the world. Genevieve read of professional Egyptian magicians: of the burning of the library at Alexandria; and of Celtic, Italian, Romany and Jewish spells.

      Although the shadow of her mother’s disapproval hovered, Genevieve kept reading.

      She knew, as she read of the power of dancing skyclad, that she would never, ever, attempt any of the spells in the book. Yet there was something deliciously freeing in poring over them. She, Genevieve Malone, would not take to wearing snake bracelets to ward off harm or ask a birch tree to yield up a piece of bark upon which to write a plea for a man to love her. Yet she felt a sneaking envy towards the sort of woman who would.

      How would her life have been different if she’d rubbed beetroot all over her body to attract romance?

      She thought wistfully about the one man she’d loved from afar, a gentle kind boy named Dermot, who’d left Ardagh without ever knowing that Genevieve Malone watched him walk up the church aisle on a Sunday, her grey eyes following his every move. What if she’d had the courage to disobey her mother then and speak to him?

      She wrapped the book up in its scarf, put it up high again, and told Dolores she was off to the shops because they were low on milk. She passed their next-door neighbours’ house where dear Janet Byrne had lived until her heart had finally given out. She’d left the house to her niece, a lovely tall, dark-haired girl named Lori who’d introduced herself one day, and had rarely been seen since. Genevieve supposed she had one of those marvellous new careers where she was always racing off to meetings and such like. Her husband, Ben, was to be seen coming and going, and he was there now, hauling groceries out of the car. He always offered her and Dolores a lift to the shops down the hill when he spotted them. There was something a bit sad about him, Genevieve thought. It must be hard for him to be on his own so often. It was only ten days to Christmas: she might suggest to Dolores that they invite Ben and Lori in for tea as a kindness to dear departed Janet. No, Genevieve thought excitedly, drinks! They’d invite them in for drinks. Mother had been an abstinence pioneer and had never touched a drop. Today, apart from a little Guinness for the Christmas pudding, there was nothing alcoholic in the Malone household, but people had drinks these days, didn’t they? She and Dolores would have a little party!

      ‘Hello, Ben,’ she said. ‘Lovely bright day, isn’t it?’

      Ben Cohen looked up at the sky as if it was the first time he’d seen the day.

      ‘Lovely,’ he said distantly.

      Genevieve instantly understood that he wasn’t in the mood for talk. Understanding other people’s moods was one of her skills: a necessary one with Mother, who used to turn furious in an instant and had to be watched. She’d ask him and his wife in for Christmas drinks another time.

      She loved the walk down the lane to the town and admired other people’s Christmas decorations as she went.

      Padraig from The Gables had Christmas roses clustering over his front door. Padraig was confined to bed now and Genevieve dropped in most days, but today she could see his niece’s car in the driveway and knew there was no need.

      The Cardens, a big family recently moved back to Ireland from Toronto, had the Maple Leaf and the Irish flag amidst all their fairy lights, along with a big sign exhorting the reindeer to stop and nibble the reindeer food.

      Dolores and Genevieve had an Advent wreath in their kitchen and a small, discreet Christmas tree that sat in the parlour window. There were no electric lights on it, although Dolores longed for such fripperies. But after a lifetime without sparkling Christmas lights, Genevieve was scared to buy them now. What if they caught fire?

      Finally, she was in the town itself and she spotted Sybil Reynolds climbing slowly out of her car, fluffy white hair semi-captured by a knitted red hat. Sybil was eighty if she was a day and she was a keen traveller. Mother had never really liked Sybil or her mother.

      ‘Far too flighty, those women are never off the road,’ Mrs Malone had pronounced and that had been that.

      Secretly, Genevieve and Dolores had envied Sybil her easygoing ways. She’d married the handsomest man in the parish, had five children, and although Harry’s mind was long since gone and he sat quietly in the nursing home, staring out into the world with blank blue eyes, Sybil had not lost her joie de vivre.

      Suddenly, Genevieve had a fierce longing to talk to Sybil, a woman who’d never let anybody put a stop to her dreams. She’d bet Sybil’s Christmas tree was a positive fire hazard with twinkling lights.

      ‘Sybil!’ roared Genevieve across the street, shocked at her own daring.

      Ladies never yell, was another of Mother’s dictums.

      ‘Will you come to the café for a pot of tea with me?’

      ‘I’d kill for a latte with a double blast of coffee in it,’ said Sybil, beaming as she slammed the door of her Mini.

      ‘Have you been to the Holy Land?’ asked Genevieve when they were installed in a window seat of the café, Sybil’s coffee and a spirulina shot in front of her.

      Genevieve wished she’d ordered something more thrilling than tea.

      ‘Harry and I went twice,’ Sybil said, a hint of a tear in her eye. ‘I wish I could bring him to Italy with me in March, but he can’t leave the nursing home.’

      ‘You’re going away?’

      Sybil shot Genevieve a shrewd glance that said she was used to people expecting her to put her life on hold because her husband was in a nursing home.

      ‘Harry and I talked about everything, Genevieve,’ she said. ‘Including what would happen when one of us died or if one of us got dementia. Harry said there was no point in us both being dead. The other one was not to sit shiva forever.’

      ‘I’m sorry,’ Genevieve said. ‘Where are you going in Italy?’

      Sybil