Past Praying For by Aline Templeton Page A

expensively-faked Christmas tree in the corner, purchased complete with red bows, silver chains, imitation parcels and gold lights, looked even more tawdry with the lights off.
    ‘ Why can’t we have a real Christmas tree?’ she grumbled. ‘The one at the McEvoys’ looked really brilliant, all covered with proper ornaments that they’ve had for years, and real little parcels and chocolates.’
    In her stormy life, Hayley Cutler had fought every inch of the way. She didn’t play by the rules – as someone once memorably said, there are no rules in a knife fight – and you didn’t take home too many popularity prizes, but you fought, or you went under. She swung round from the kitchen area to face her daughter’s truculence.
    ‘ Why now, honey, I’m sure there are some sugar canes around someplace, if you rake among those packages, and you could hang them on the tree. Switch it on anyway, for goodness’ sake, and it’ll look better. And tomorrow, if you’re heading for a traditional phase, you and Mikey can fix popcorn and thread it on strings just like I did when I was knee high to a grasshopper.’
    Her intonation parodied the notion as well as the expression, and her voice sharpened.
    ‘ And before you ask me about tomorrow, we’ve got a delicious lunch all worked out between kind St Michael and the microwave. And if you’re about to match me up against sweet St Elizabeth McEvoy, I’d just ask you to remember that some of us have to work for a living and haven’t the time to make a career out of being a domestic martyr. I’ve filled stockings and basted turkeys with the best of them, but you all are old enough now to see the whole Christmas farce for what it really is. If it’s just an excuse for a party, and we’re the only guests, well, hell, let’s enjoy it, OK? Let’s all of us enjoy it, instead of everyone checking out my performance and giving it points out of ten.’
    She waited, a verbal pugilist weaving and ducking on her toes, to see if Martha would reply, before she poured herself a mug of the strong black coffee that was never far from her elbow, as Michael came in with the basket of logs which he set down on the wide hearthstone.
    ‘ Do you want me to light it?’ he said politely. He was always polite to his mother; it set her at a distance far more effectively than Andy’s tempestuous rages or Martha’s confrontations.
    ‘ I guess not, unless you kids –’ She was cut short by the ringing of the telephone.
    ‘ Quarter of one? Now who could that be?’ She wondered aloud. ‘Oh, it’s most likely Grandad, phoning to say Merry Christmas. I’ll take it in my bedroom.’
    She disappeared and brother and sister looked at each other.
    ‘ Most likely Grandad!’ Martha mimicked her mother’s tone. ‘Most likely Nigel, I reckon.’
    ‘ Or Eddie. Or one of the others we don’t know about yet. He’s probably married, phoning after his wife’s gone to bed.’
    Michael ’s voice hadn’t broken yet; the world-weary sentiments sounded odd, so delivered. ‘I’m going to bed. Don’t let any fat red-faced men into your bedroom.’
    ‘ I’ll yell for help if I need it. I might wait up for Andy anyway.’
    The door shut behind her brother. Through the floor-boards Martha could hear the rise and fall of her mother’s voice.
    She looked at the cold white ashes of the fire and the unlit Christmas tree. It was all very well for Paula McEvoy to moan about her mother making a fuss about Christmas. Paula was only a baby who hadn’t the least idea what it was like out here in the big world where you had to look out for yourself because no one else would.
    Her eyes filled with tears, though she would have let them pull out her fingernails with red-hot pincers before she would admit to them. She wanted to be looking forward to Christmas Day, to the magic she remembered, if vaguely, when she was a very small child. But there wasn’t a chance in this family. Sometimes she thought her mother