Free An Irish Christmas Feast by John B. Keane Page A

with Martin bringing his palms together and sitting erect on his súgán chair the better to fire the opening salvos.
    â€˜Do you remember last year,’ said he, ‘when we had that woeful argument?’
    Patiently he awaited his wife’s reply and when there was none he spat noisily into the fire before framing his second question.
    â€˜Do you remember,’ he asked in a louder and more aggressive tone, ‘the battle we had this very Sunday in this very spot at this very time?’
    Still no answer from Mary. He regarded her silence as the most provocative ever imposed by a female on a long-suffering spouse and he stamped his feet noisily, one after the other, the better to register his protest.
    â€˜Dammit!’ he exclaimed bitterly, ‘are you deaf or what! Will you have me talking to myself for the rest of the night?’
    He looked at her, his face screwed up now with hatred. It seemed for a moment that he must seize her by the throat and put an end to her gross incitement. He rose from his chair, speechless with rage.
    â€˜I’ll ask you this once,’ he screeched, ‘and I’ll ask you no more. Do you or do you not remember our fracas last year when we argued whether it was a duck or a drake that scuttered on top of the bed when we left open the window?’
    â€˜I remember nothing of the kind,’ she spat back with all the vehemence she could muster. ‘I’ll tell you what I remember though and it is this. It was no duck and it was no drake. What we were arguing about was whether it was a cock or a hen and ducks and drakes have nothing to do with it.’
    â€˜Damn you for a pernickety oul’ woman,’ Martin cried out. ‘It was ducks and drakes.’ He pounded the rickety kitchen table with both fists. ‘I will go into any court in the land where I will swear on the Holy Book that it was ducks and drakes.’
    â€˜It costs nothing to swear,’ Mary replied calmly, ‘if you’re a born perjurer to begin with and I’ll tell you this you black-toothed oul’ devil! You can swear till the book lights in your grimy paw but it won’t change the fact that we were arguing about a cock and a hen.’
    â€˜Blasht you for a liar,’ he shouted. ‘If tables and chairs could talk and windows could give evidence you’d be transported for perjury and you’d never see hide nor light of this country again.’
    Outside in the cold night air the young people hugged themselves and each other with glee. The exchanges had not lost any of their bitterness or rancour since the year before and it seemed that in spite of their great ages the Scubbles were more venomous than ever.
    Inside, a short silence held sway while they recharged themselves for a renewal of the conflict. They would not mention that they had the very same argument as far back as they could remember. What mattered now was to reach the climax without obstruction and to maximise their hostility towards each other. On the resumption their voices reached fever pitch. Outside the young people began to worry lest the extreme vocal exertions affect the larynxes of the contestants and bring a premature end to the performances. It happened on one occasion several years previously. The recriminations had been at their height when Mary’s voice suddenly turned hoarse leaving the field of battle solely to her husband and frustrating both the Scubbles and their listeners to such a degree that all would claim later it had been the most disappointing build-up to Christmas that any of those involved could remember.
    It was as though the Scubbles had suddenly realised that such a calamity was once again in the offing for, by tacit agreement, both unexpectedly paused in their detractions and defamations and drew rein as it were so that their over-worked vocal chords might recuperate. The listeners sensed that the best was about to come and they readied themselves