It was Christmas Eve.

Old Brigid sat dozing fitfully before the dying fire.

The wind had got stronger now and she murmured her time worn prayer for those at sea.

She glanced again at the Christmas card from her son in warm Australia and her mind went back to other Christmas Eves when she stole to his room and left whatever poverty would allow at the foot of his bed.

Santa Claus was never overburdened in the Bogside in those days.

The television filled the room with a carol from the Austrian Church.

The hymns brought their own peculiar nostalgia and her eyes filled at the memory of better days.

Or was it Patricia who brought the tears?

Patricia was her only girl, the joy of her life, a reason for living when her husband died after years of delicate health.

Now Patricia was married and had gone to Canada and she wondered, on this Christmas Eve, if her mind too was retracing other nights like this which were filled with preparation and anticipation of what tomorrow would bring.

Maybe the card was in the post and would arrive on Tuesday.

The cathedral bells rang out and every stroke fought for life against a bitter wind from across the Foyle.

There was a well-known knock at the door. It was Josie from the corner shop.

“Brigid throw on your coat and come down to see this! Your Patricia has one of those fancy things called a video link. It’s hooked up to my son’s computer on something called the ‘internet.’ It’s meant to be a surprise!”

She talked, cried but couldn’t find the real words to tell Patricia how much she loved her that night.

The children sang a verse of Silent Night for her from Canada and her eyes were brimming with tears.

She had a nip of brandy with Josie, went home, put on a real fire, joined in with the Austrian choir for a last carol and then sat down with the family album.

Some snaps caught moments of joy which never faded, some brought a tear with their hint of parting and pain and others made her proud to be Brigid Doherty with a son doing well in Australia and a daughter who could afford that computer contraption that let her see and talk across the Atlantic Ocean on a Christmas Eve.

She took out pictures of both of them and put them over the fire beside the Christmas card.

She switched off the television and sat down with the Rosary.
It was the family album of another mother and when she came to think of it, they had a lot in common.

There was no computer in the corner shop at Nazareth, was her last thought before sleep slipped the beads from her fingers and the holy stillness of Christmas Eve descended upon the warm room.

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