Mrs. Hennessey and the Women’s Christmas

It was the abrupt clacking of the letterbox that stirred her. From where she was lying, she could see it being held open by a pair of hands so that two eyes could look through it. A voice came from a mouth she couldn’t see.

“Rosie, I’m not cross. Open the door and let me in. I won’t hit you, I promise.”

She stared at the letterbox, dead-eyed. She was trying to remember what she had done. It must have been something bad, because there was no part of her that didn’t believe she was about to be killed.

The voice again, consciously trying to make itself sweeter, and only achieving the opposite effect in the process.

“Rosemary. Pet. Will you come out now and open this door, there’s a love. Come on now, you know you’re the best girl altogether.”

Jesus, her crime must have been truly atrocious.

Silence.

The flaps of the letterbox closed. Moments passed. A period of digestion. Then an almighty bang on the door and the letterbox thrust open.

“Rosemary Maguire! Open this door at once and let me in! I swear to God above if you don’t, I am going to tear strips off you. I’ll wear out every wooden spoon in the house on your backside!”

That settled that, then.

She rested her head back down and contemplated the kitchen utensils while her mother railed and ranted herself hoarse at the door. She imagined the welt that would be left by the big soup ladle if her mother used that instead of a spoon. Maybe an admission of guilt wouldn’t be the worst thing.

“Mammy, I’m sorry for whatever I did, but I won’t be letting you in. I don’t want to be killed.”

Down again she went. This time she stared at the ceiling and followed the cracks that resembled stubborn brown rivers working their way to the sea.

The letterbox opened again. Someone spoke again. But a different voice. Younger.

“I’m not your Mammy, Mrs. Hennessey.”

She frowned at the ceiling. Something dislodged in her brain and presented itself for examination. An old woman.

“Of course you’re not! My mammy died a long time ago, thank you very much.”

The letterbox closed for a moment and then reopened.

“I’m sorry for your less.”

“What?”

“I said I’m sorry for your less.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She lifted her head to look at the letterbox again and saw a face looking back at her. Big dark eyes.

“Who are you anyway, seeing as you’re not my mammy?”

“I’m Brian.”

“Brian?”

“Yes, Brian. I’m your neighbour, I live next door.”

She processed this and replied quickly.

“What, with the lesbians?”

“Yes. They’re my mammies.”

“But they have a little girl.”

“Yes, that’s me.”

“But you said your name is Brian.”

“It is!”

“Do they not know that’s a boy’s name?”

“They said it’s a girl’s name too.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. I’m a girl. And it’s my name. So it is. So there.”

“Don’t ‘so there’ me!”

“Sorry Mrs. Hennessey, it just came out. But you’ve got binary thinking. It’s okay, it’s not your fault. It’s just your age. No offence. You’ve probably got unconscious bias too.”

“Well, that all sounds terribly progressive, I’m sure. Your mammies must be very clever indeed.”

“Oh, they are! They’re lecturers.”

“They’re lecherous?”

“Yes, lecturers. In university.”

“I’m not sure I approve of that anywhere, not even at university. What age are you?”

“Eleven.”

“Why are you looking in my letterbox?”

“Deirdre and Jean said I should see if you’d like to come round for mulled wine and a mince pie.”

“Deirdre and Jean. Your mammies, is it?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hennessey. Mrs. Hennessey?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Why are you lying on the floor?”

“I’m taking the sun. It’s a great spot for it. Actually, can you tell me the time – I don’t want to get overdone.”

“Hold on, I’ll check my phone. It’s three minutes to three.”

The letterbox closed. And then it opened again.

“You’re not really taking the sun, are you.”

She sighed. There was no avoiding it.

“No dear, I’ve fallen. And I seem to have wet myself too.”

“Oh no! That’s awful! Were you laughing at something? Like, really hard?”

“No! I wasn’t laughing. What sort of a ridiculous question is that?”

“It’s just that I sometimes wet myself when I can’t stop laughing.”

“I can assure you there is nothing funny going on in my life. We can’t all be girls called Brian being raised by a pair of – “

She caught herself just in time.

“A pair of what, Mrs. Hennessey?”

“It rhymes with – “

She caught herself again. But Brian was getting excited.

“Ooh, rhymes with what?”

“Swimmin.’”

“Swimmin’, Mrs. Hennessey?”

“Yes dear, ’swimmin’. What rhymes with swimmin’?”

The girl squealed in delight.

“I know, Mrs. Hennessey, I know!”

“Well?”

“It’s ‘women’! A pair of women.”

“Well done, you got it.”

“Are you able to get up, Mrs. Hennessey?”

“No, I don’t think I am, dear. I’m just not strong enough.”

“Are you hurt?”

“I’m hurt that your mothers think Brian is a girl’s name.”

“Ha-ha. Are you hurt though, really?”

“I feel cold and damp and numb.”

“Mrs. Hennessey, I’m going to get you help.”

No point getting hysterical, she thought. There she was lying on the floor like a baby in a wet nappy, about to be rescued by a couple of handsy lesbians who named their poor daughter Brian. It was far from ideal, but who else was coming? If Jack could see her, he’d either be laughing or standing there with his hand over his face, pretending he didn’t know her. She could hear his sceptical voice.

“Come on out of that Rosie, you’re making a holy show of us. I don’t believe for one second you can’t get up. You’re only codding me. ‘Hup now!”

“Jack Hennessey, I’m not one of your cows with bursting udders, so I’ll be thanking you not to ‘Hup now’ me!”

Oh Jack, she thought, look at the state of me.

A voice rang through the letterbox. Loud and over-articulated.

“Mrs. Hennessey, this is Deirdre, your neighbour. I’m going to take your letterbox off the door so Brian can reach her hand in to open the latch. This will just take a few minutes.”

She didn’t bother protest. She knew by the tone of that voice there was no point in arguing. They had decided she was a helpless gombeen and that was that. A power tool began whining on the other side of the door. She looked up at the rivers in the ceiling again. Oh, to be on a boat sailing down one of those. Somewhere exotic. Sun. A drink in her hand. A lavish reception upon arrival. That would be grand, simply grand.

“Mrs. Hennessey, we’re in!”

The girl was kneeling by her side, a tall and very robust-looking woman stood behind her.

“Jesus wept, you’re built like a blacksmith!” she exclaimed. “I’d only seen you from distance before now.”

The woman spoke with a volume that made no concession to their improved proximity.

“Mrs. Hennessey, I’m Deirdre. We’re going to get you out of here unless there’s somebody we can call?”

She scrambled frantically through the phonebook in her brain, but no entry offered her an exit strategy.

“No,” she said meekly.

“I used to be a nurse. I’m just going to check to see if anything is broken.”

Strong hands moved along her body, lifting here, squeezing there. She eyeballed her medic.

“I’m a married woman, so don’t get too familiar.”

“As am I. Don’t worry, you’re not my type.”

“I won’t ask what is. Listen, before we have any more poking and prodding, if your daughter could grab my phone, I’ll ring my doctor and see if he can find a place for me in the respite centre.”

The girl was sent to retrieve her phone from the kitchen bench.

She squinted at it when it was handed to her.

“What’s this?”

“It’s your phone,” replied the girl.

“My what?”

“Your phone, Mrs. Hennessey.”

“My phone? That’s not a phone. A phone is bigger than that. It has a cord and a dial. It’s heavy. Take that away, dear.”

She gently pushed the phone away.

“Dear, you have a phone. Just ring Dr. Bennett at the Abbey and tell him it’s for me.”

The blacksmith intervened.

“Dr. Hilary Bennett? At the Abbey on Soldier’s Walk?”

“Of course, who else?”

“I’m afraid he’s long gone, Mrs. Hennessey. And there haven’t been doctors’ rooms on Soldier’s Walk for at least fifteen years. Perhaps you’re thinking of somewhere else?”

“Hilary Bennett has been my doctor since I was a little girl! And he never did any of the things they said he did. A perfect gentleman. And a great catch for the lucky woman who got him. No use to you, of course.”

The woman spoke to the girl quietly and left.

“I’m to look after you until Deirdre comes back. I think you might be coming to our house. But Deirdre has to warn Jean first that you’re a homophobic relic. What’s a relic?”

“I am, apparently.”

“It’s okay, I’ll look it up on my phone.”

“You do that, dear.”

“Oh, it says a relic is ‘an object surviving from an earlier time, especially one of historical interest.’”

“There you go. I’m of historical interest. What do you make of that?”

“I don’t know. Wouldn’t you describe buildings or statues that way? Like, what about that laneway where your doctor used to be? Why is it called Soldier’s Walk? It’s a dead end, you can’t go through. Where were they walking?”

“Well, they were walking to their deaths. It’s called Soldier’s Walk because the British used to execute the young men from the town who were fighting against them in the war.”

“That’s not a very Christmassy story.”

“Why should it be?”

“It’s Christmas! We should have a nice story about presents and Santa or something nice happening to somebody who needs help.”

“The world can’t be wrapped in a pretty bow just to make it more palatable for you, dear. And that wasn’t a story, it was history.”

“Jean says history is just men bragging about the terrible things they did to other men, or the toys they took from other men, or the forts that they built that were better than those of other men. Jean says they never talk about the women who suckled those men, who wiped their tears and their bottoms, and raised them so they could marry wives who were just their mothers in younger form.”

“Oh dear. You’re right, we should just have a Christmas story.”

The girl clapped her hands enthusiastically.

“I have a good one for us.”

The girl proceeded to recount the plot of a film that she had never heard of, featuring characters she’d never heard of, doing absurd and nonsensical things in the book industry in New York. There was a passage with an arrogant and aggressive dwarf that almost made her smile, but for the most part, it was inane and uninteresting.

“Well, that was quite diverting dear, well done. Is your mother not back yet? I suppose I’ll have to come up with a story now.”

“Ooh, yes please!” enthused the girl, “Is it a good one? What’s it about? Who’s in it? Is Santa Claus in it? It’s not about Jesus, is it? Are there any LGBTQIA+ characters in it?”

She thought it a very particular torment to not only be actually old and feeble and lying in a heap on the floor, but also to have a precocious and progressive 11-year-old as her hand-holder, making her feel even more outdated and useless with every other word that came out of her mouth.

“I don’t know what the last thing you said was but-”

The girl interjected.

“Oh. It’s Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, Tra-”

“Stop! I don’t need to know. This story isn’t about characters, or about people who feel the need to constantly tell you who and what they are. It’s a story about people. Three people in particular. And one item of clothing, which I’ll be calling ‘The Piece.’”

The girl was intrigued.

“Okay Mrs. Hennessey, if you don’t mind, could you tell me who the characters – sorry – the people are? It helps me to follow the story.”

“I heard a man on the radio call you the ‘instant gratification’ generation. You’re used to getting everything the second it occurs to you to want it. Let me tell you, that affects your ability to do the most natural thing in the world, which is to sit and listen to a story.”

“You don’t have to shame me, Mrs. Hennessey, it just helps me to know who the characters are, that’s all. If you don’t want to tell me, don’t. But I might drift off. I’m just warning you in case you think I’m being rude. I won’t be trying to be rude, I’ll just have lost the thread.”

She and the girl looked at each other for a long minute, sizing each other up. The girl’s eyebrows lifted a little bit higher with each silent back and forth that passed between them. She spoke first, breaking their little deadlock.

“I’ll say this for your mammies, they’re not raising a pushover.”

The girl beamed and the ripple of satisfaction that ran through her allowed her to settle into a more relaxed position, ready to listen.

“Incidentally, I think your big strong mammy is punishing me. Her and your other mammy must be having a very important debate about the best way to help the aged.”

“I can ring her to come back right now.”

“Leave it, you’re grand. I’ve been here this long, what’s another hour or two, especially in such delightful company.”

“I think you’re being just a little sarcastic, Mrs. Hennessey.”

“Maybe I am.”

“Jean says that sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”

“Well, if Jean says it, it must be true.”

“You’re doing it again, Mrs. Hennessey!”

“For God’s sake, will you just let me tell my story!”

“You started it,” said the girl, shaking her head in disapproval.

“How has it come to this,” she retorted, “being told to mind our Ps and Qs by children!”

“Ps and Qs? What’s that?”

“It’s just an expression. I’m surprised Jean hasn’t covered it. It means mind your manners. Your ‘pleases’ and ‘thank yous’.”

The girl chose not to say anything, preferring to let her eyebrows do the talking.

“Right, we’ll begin. And just to satisfy your obsession with knowing who’s involved, I will tell you the dramatis personae. Don’t ask. It simply means the cast of characters, who in this case, as I already said, are, or were, real people.”

“Thank you!” said the girl, and she meant it.

“The three people are myself, my mother, and a very famous person I expect you to have heard of.”

Before she could say who it was, the girl rattled off a host of unfamiliar names, once again making her feel like she like she grew up in the middle ages.

“No dear, not a single one of those people you mentioned, although I’m sure they’re all terribly talented.”

“They actually are, Mrs. Hennessey. Even though Jean says a cultural footprint’s true impact can only be assessed much later in life.”

“On that, Jean and I might agree. Well, there’s no doubting the cultural footprint of the person I’m talking about. She was a great fashion designer, and a perfume maker, and a style icon to boot. Her name was Coco Chanel.”

The girl nodded intently.

“Got it,” she said. “You, your mother, and a fashionista called Coco. I’m in, let’s go.”

“I don’t think you appreciate how significant Coco Chanel was. She wasn’t just somebody who was into fashion. She redefined it, dear. Her designs still mean something today and she died half a century ago.”

“I’ll look her up.”

“Don’t! Take my word for it, she was extraordinary at a time when that wasn’t an easy thing for a woman to be. Fashion was dominated by men, and she was better than all of them. I’m sure your mammies would approve.

Anyway, my mother trained as a seamstress and as a young woman she was working in London in the fashion industry, or the Rag Trade, as they called it over there. She worked for a company called Dodd’s and they were close to Saville Row, where all the London gentlemen with money would have their suits made. Dodd’s were in textiles and fabrics, and they had a number of women who would make pieces to present to designers and to some of the fancy London shops that catered to the rich and famous.

My mother was one of them. My mother was very talented at what she did. She had a great eye for detail and was fastidious with her work, and fast too. And she also happened to be quite beautiful.

One day, she and a couple of the other girls were called to attend a private showing of work in one of the big houses in Sloane Square or Chelsea or somewhere – posh parts of London dear, where there was wealth you couldn’t even dream of. Oh, to think of it!

My mother and the others were there to do last minute alterations or even to quickly assemble an impromptu design by whichever designer or fashion house person was there overseeing things.

Anyway, who should walk in that day, only Coco Chanel herself! My mother said you couldn’t take your eyes off her, even though you were meant to keep your eyes down, because even though my mother was talented at what she did, she was just a cog in the machine, she and the other girls would have been regarded as little more than servants – anonymous, there to do a job, most definitely replaceable, and definitely not people with whom you would get friendly or familiar.

But the most amazing thing happened, and my mother always said it was because of her beauty – Coco Chanel stopped to talk to her. What do you do here? What is your normal place of work? Where did you train?

That last question was the one. My mother said she trained in Ireland and Coco Chanel was fascinated by this. Where? With whom? And are all Irish girls beautiful like you?

My mother had a bit of spark in her and she wasn’t intimidated by the great designer, she may have even sensed an opportunity, but whatever it was, Chanel offered her a job right there on the spot.

She told my mother she could come and work for her in Paris. She said a beautiful girl like her shouldn’t be stuck in rainy London. Now, I’ll say it again – my mother was good at her job. Excellent, even. She wasn’t being invited to go to France by the great Coco Chanel herself just because she had a pretty face, but it didn’t hurt. And while we’re talking about it, it was known that Madame Chanel wasn’t opposed to being on close terms with other women.”

The girl gasped.

“You mean she was a lesbian?”

“Well, she was married to a man, so I suppose that made her bisexual. Yes, I know. It’s shocking, your mammies aren’t the first women in the history of the planet to prefer each other to men.”

“I really like this story,” said the girl.

“We’ll see if you like how it ends.

So, my mother went off to Paris to work for Chanel. The only problem was, she left a nice Irish boy behind in London, and he was none-too-pleased she was putting her career ahead of him. He thought they’d be moving back home to Ireland to get married and start a family, but she couldn’t resist a chance to work for one of the greatest fashion designers in the world.

But she really liked the boy, so she said she’d only give it a year and then they could move back to his home village. Imagine that! Leaving Paris to come back to some tiny little spot here. That’s love for you, all the good it does.”

“So, did she come back after a year, Mrs. Hennessey?”

“She did not. She loved being in Paris. Nobody cared she was Irish. And people were impressed she was working at Chanel. She got respect. And she was smart, so she picked up basic French very quickly. And again, she was beautiful, and she carried herself well, with a certain amount of worldliness and sophistication, and the French liked that. And French men liked that too.”

“Oh! Did she cheat on her boyfriend back in London?”

“She did not, she was steadfast even though there were plenty of opportunities to start something with the French fellas. But the funny thing was, it was Coco Chanel who put my mother under most pressure.

She’d call by to see her in the big workshops at the Chanel factory, she always had time to talk to the little ‘Irlandaise’, as she called her. She’d bring little gifts, parcels of food, other tokens, and the other girls noticed it and they didn’t like it.

My mother had got on very well with the girls in London, most of them English, but the French girls at Chanel shut her out. And the more the great mistress of fashion showed her special favour, the more she was made feel like dirt by her co-workers.

But like you, Ms. Brian, she was no pushover, so she stuck it out. She was learning, she was being exposed to a much bigger operation than that of Dodd’s, and she was on close speaking terms with Coco Chanel!”

“Close. How close, Mrs. Hennessey?” asked the girl.

“Well, that is the question. Not as close as Chanel wanted, and probably closer than my mother was comfortable with. But on and on it went, until my mother had been there well beyond the year she said she’d be there, and her Irish boy was writing her letters saying it was time to come back to London so they could go from there home.”

“What did she do?”

“I’ll tell you. It was Christmas. She decided enough was enough. She knew she wasn’t going to stay and it felt like it was the time to cut her losses and go. She finished her shift and went to find Madame Chanel in her office. I say office, but it was more like a very plush sitting room with every comfort you could think of.

My mother knocked on the door and was admitted. Chanel dismissed the other people who had been in there with her, including her husband! She was glad to have my mother to herself. But she was in for a land.

My mother didn’t beat around the bush. She said she was leaving. She was going back to Ireland to get married and start a family.”

“Oh no!” said the girl, “What a shame!”

“There was nothing unusual about that choice. Ireland at that time wanted women at home and men in the workplace. But still, while not unusual, a very tough choice. My mother was just getting on with it, no whinging, no big explanation. And here’s the funny thing. It was my mother who was walking away from a great opportunity, but it was Coco Chanel who was standing there with tears in her eyes!”

The girl’s eyes widened with an audible intake of breath.

“Chanel begged my mother to stay. Said she’d pay her more. Said she’d promote her. Said she’d do anything to get her to stay. And then, she kissed my mother full on the mouth. But my mother didn’t kiss her back.”

“What? How does that work?”

“You’ll understand when you start getting kissed by boys you don’t like,”

“Or girls, Mrs. Hennessey!”

“Indeed. Anyway, Chanel stood back from my mother and was resigned to saying goodbye, but she said she’d have to give my mother something to remember her by.”

“The Piece!” exclaimed the girl.

“Exactly, Ms. Brian, ‘The Piece’!”

“What was it, tell me!”

“It was something that Chanel made specifically for my mother. It was a jacket. Wool. Four pockets. Yellow and green interwoven. The double-C design on each of the three buttons. Short collar, no lapels. It was a quintessential Chanel design. The epitome of chic. Absolutely inimitable.

And do you know what? My mother never wore it. Chanel kissed her on each cheek, wiped tears from her eyes, and wished my mother a merry Christmas. My mother said the same to her and left, met up with her man in London, and came home and stuck to her plan. Got married, had two children – myself and my brother, and that was it. No more Paris, no more Chanel, no more fashion industry.”

“What did she do, Mrs. Hennessey?”

“She raised us is what she did. And then later, she did bits of dressmaking and tailoring for people in the village, but nothing compared to London and Paris. That was over, and she accepted it.”

“And ‘the piece’, you said she never wore it? Why?”

“She’d take it out to look at it. She’d tell my brother and me about her time in Paris. And I remember that was when she’d look most beautiful. It’s like she took on a glow, or an aura, just by revisiting those memories. She didn’t love Chanel, not in the way that Chanel perhaps loved her, but she was elevated by Chanel. She had been seen by a person of true greatness, and not only recognised, but desired. How do does anything feel special after that?

‘The Piece’ was too much of a reminder of that. She never felt like she was in the right place, or with the right people, to justify wearing it. I think it was too painful for her.”

“Oh my God, Mrs. Hennessey, that’s actually so sad! My heart is literally breaking for her. But hold on, you said you were in the story too. Where do you come in?”

“This is the less interesting part of the story. However, I’ll continue seeing as your mother still hasn’t returned.”

“I’m texting her right now!” replied the girl. “I’m done. Keep going with the story.”

“This part won’t take long. Well, you can imagine, growing up hearing these tales of adventures in the Rag Trade in London and the biggest fashion house in Paris, I was absolutely beguiled by the glamour of it all. I felt my mother was like Grace Kelly or someone else equally beautiful and famous. I couldn’t reconcile this mother of mine with the young woman with whom Coco Chanel had fallen in love. It was simply too bizarre!

The only thing that made it all make sense was ‘the Piece’. I became obsessed with it. I thought of it as a time travelling device. I thought if only I could wear it then I would experience just a little of what my mother had known. But there was no way on earth my mother would let me wear it. It was forever wrapped in fine paper in a box that sat on top of her wardrobe.

I’d pester my mother constantly to let me see it, to let me try it on, but it was forbidden, and that was that.

But, the day came when I was bigger and bolder and I knew that I was going to risk eternal damnation, but to hell with it, I was going to drag a chair into my parents’ bedroom, get the box down from the top of the wardrobe, and I was going to put the damn thing on, consequences be damned!”

“And did you, Mrs. Hennessey?”

She blew air through her lips wistfully and looked the girl in the eye.

“I did, Brian. I did.”

“Oh my God! What happened?”

“It was everything I hoped it would be. I felt so beautiful when I put it on. I felt I had all of my mother’s elegance and sophistication. I felt I could do anything with my life. I curtsied as if I was being presented in front of royalty. I batted my eyes as if I was being romanced by a famous actor. I swanned around the room. I looked at myself in the mirror for what felt like hours. And then I heard my mother at the front door.

I leapt down the stairs four at a time and reached the lock on the door just as my mother was about to open it. Why I didn’t simply remove the piece and place it back in its box, I’ll never know. I think I just didn’t want it to end.”

“What did you do?”

“I lay down under my bed with the door open so I could look straight down the hallway at the front door. My mother was banging on it. Then she’d be all sweet, nice as pie, cajoling me through the letterbox, which was the scariest. And then she’d be banging again.

After about two or three hours, my fear eventually got the better of me and I walked slowly to the door and unlocked it. And my mother came in.”

“What did she do, Mrs. Hennessey?”

“I don’t really remember, to tell you the truth.”

“You don’t remember!”

“I remember two things. My mother’s face – horror. Sickness. Disbelief. Pain. And then anger. And then I remember white light. Which was the impact of my mother’s slap across the side of my face. She knocked me sideways into the wall in the hallway.

I didn’t realise it at the time, and even still I have to consciously remind myself, but it wasn’t just the fact that I had put ‘the piece’ on, it was that in my eagerness to do the deed, I had absentmindedly put an ink cartridge that I had from school into the lower left pocket, and it had leaked right through the material, front and back. A huge dark blue stain that was so wet it glistened. I’d ruined it. This immaculate, never-worn piece that was effectively a token of love from Coco Chanel to my mother, and I had reduced it to blotting paper.

I still feel ashamed to this day when I think about it.”

The girl had tears in her eyes.

“That’s such a sad story. I feel so sad for you and your mother. And for Coco! Oh, my goodness! Nobody got what they wanted!”

“But Brian, that’s a very real part of life – you don’t always get what you want. But I did. I’ll never forget those moments when I had ‘the piece’ on. It felt magical. And I loved it.”

“I want to hug you Mrs. Hennessey, but you smell like pee, no offence.”

“I am offended, but I appreciate your honesty.”

The girl’s mother reappeared in the hallway.

“Right, Mrs. Hennessey, you’re spending Christmas with us, it would appear. I hope you’ll behave yourself.”

“Deirdre,” said the girl, “You’ve no idea what Mrs. Hennessey has been through. She just told me the most amazing story. You’ll have to let me tell you and Jean over dinner, it’s absolutely brilliant. But also really sad. Can I tell it, can I?”

“Yes Brian, but first we have to get Mrs. Hennessey freshened up.”

The blacksmith turned her gaze floorwards.

“Mrs. Hennessey, where can we get you some clean knickers?”

Oh Jack, she thought, I hope your Christmas is going better than mine.