Free The Light of Evening by Edna O’Brien Page B

candles, there were yellow fleece birds that chirruped a song every so often, nearly lifelike. There was holly twined and wreathed on several banisters of the stairs and the door outside framed with myrtle and the heads of hydrangeas that had been bronzed, so that it was like entering a castle.
    The dining room was a “little Ireland” with fat red candles in scooped-out turnips and glass harps, as a gift, at each place setting. They had come from a foundry in Italy.
    Chrissie was the first to arrive, craned to take a bite out of the satin apples and satin pears that hung from the tree, said they reminded her of the days when she played snap-apple at home, on Halloween. She had a limp, one of her boots with a heel higher than the other, effusive, kissing Mr., kissing the missus, and then having to be hoisted up to kiss the big sprig of mistletoe that was above the drawing room door. She asked if there was any nice fellow come that would walk her home and Mr. told her that there was Kevin, as per usual. She scoffed, said, “Ah, sugar, he tells the same ghost story every year, about the girl with the consumption.”
    There were eleven guests in all and twelve if the congressman
    came. Everything hinged on the congressman’s coming except that it must be kept secret, in case at the last minute, as Mr. said, he had a more pressing engagement.
    “Answer it, answer it,” the missus barking for me to get to the hall door posthaste, taking their coats and the presents, the presents in gorgeous paper with yards of different colored ribbon, left on the hall table for etiquette, the fur coats up to the bedroom for minding.
    There was Mr. and Mrs. Keating, Mr. Keating with a black ebony cane and Mrs. Keating keeping her ermine wrap on although the room was boiling. Next came Felim and Mrs. Felim, then two bachelors, Eamonn and Kevin, to correspond to Chrissie and Jenny, who were both unmarried, and Father Bob, the missus’s private confessor, who came once a fortnight from Long Island to hear her confession in the morning room and afterward sat by the fire for a high tea that had to include apple fritters because he had a fad for them.
    A punch cup to start, Mr. ladling it into silver mugs that had a gold lining, like little chalices. The visitors were in raptures, the missus showered with compliments, her hair, her crushed velvet, the ruby necklace that lay on her chest, so dazzling, so scintillating, so unusual and priceless.
    “She has me broke,” Pascal said and held up the ornamental alms plate to get a laugh.
    “Is that Rococo, Pascal?” Chrissie said as she stood by the missus’s desk, peering into the nests of pigeonholes and cubbies.
    “Oh, don’t touch there or you’ll be shot,” Pascal said, because it was where the missus kept her souvenirs, love letters from men before him, locks of hair, dried shamrock, and the words of songs that she rehearsed for her parties. Her family was musical, always boasting about it, her father could make a tune out of a blade of grass.
    Chrissie tried all the chairs, the armchairs, the high chairs, the spindle-back chairs, “Is that apple wood, is that tulip wood, is
    that rosewood, Pascal?” People pitying her with her limp, in a yellow summery dress with a wide green sash as if she was entering a dance competition. Remarking on the holly to be so rich with berries, she said a good crop of berries always meant an addition to the family, a babbie, and the missus gave her a glare.
    But as the others arrived she went all soft and unctuous, shrieks of delight at each newcomer, marveling that they had ventured out on such a rotten day, freezing cold and slippery to boot, could break their necks on the steps even though she’d got Pascal to sprinkle the coarse salt. She was in her element, offering her hand to be kissed by the men and her powdered cheek to be brushed by the ladies, every so often scolding her husband on account of a glass being empty, or a sod fallen onto the tiled