A brother's tale shows why Christmas is a time for forgiving

Every Christmas for the last few years, I have tried to decide if this was the year I could tell the embargoed story. I had to make a call. Had enough time passed from the occurrence of a story I was asked to tell by a man who made a mistake?

I get to call in to the pub on Christmas Day to meet the old souls who never leave and wish them a happy Christmas. I sing 'Silent Night' before I go home on Christmas Eve in my old room in my old home.

I've been doing this since I was a small boy. There's a luminous Holy Mary hanging on a nail on the wall and even though it has lost its sparkle, the faint blue light is still there. I know the old souls are listening. Sometimes I get to thinking of all that went on in the old house over the last 150 years or so. Old houses have a personality and their psyche is formed and shaped by all those who lived there.

The story I was asked to tell has to do with old houses and old land.

I think of the history of my old home and of all homes. We had lovely Christmases when we were kids. My parents made a special effort because we had the day to ourselves. The story I will tell you is a short Christmas story.

You don't see them as much now, but every year I notice men wandering around the town searching for an open pub. Some of the wanderers are just contrary people who only want to go drinking because they're told they can't drink in the pub that day. You'd swear we were closed for weeks.

But then there are the lonely ones who are just looking for a bit of company to pass the longest day of the year. There are so many lost souls. So many who have blown their shot at love, so many times. They are not wired for coping and those who love them are let down time and again. I know from talking to publicans all over Ireland that every place has a lost soul who fell out with his or her family.

We all keep a catalogue of the lost and the lonely. We all know at least one who has taken the wrong road. And if a puppy is not just for Christmas, well then neither is the effort needed to maintain the connection and support for the lonely and the lost.

Families fall out, usually over money. But there are many reasons.

Words are spoken. It's as if they are not only spoken but are carved deep. We make decisions and swear never to talk to the person who hurt us even though that same person could have been a brother or sister or a best friend. They hurt us and we shut them out.

It was a Christmas Eve, four years ago to be exact. The pub was busy. It's my favourite day of the year. I think of the lines of the song: "I see friends shaking hands, they really say I love you." The part I love most is when those who live away come home, especially the emigrants.

This man came home from England for the first time in years. He fell out with his family.

It was over land left by an uncle to his brother. I barely recognised him. It was that long since he had been home. Played football against him. He lived a good few miles away from our town and I hadn't even so much as thought of him over the years.

He read the columns on the net and we used to get on well.

"Can I talk to you privately?" he asked. We found a quiet spot out back.

"Will you write something for me?"

"If I can."

The man had obviously planned what he was going to say. There was a condition. "If you are to write this, you will have to wait a few years, so no one will recognise the family from your writing."

I agreed.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes and spoke very quickly. I think it was because he found this so hard to do that by rushing out the words he wouldn't stop half way through.

"I fell out with my brother. He was left my uncle's house and farm. I was working there more than he was while he was off at the university in the city and I think I deserved it. I didn't say a word to him for years." His words ran in to each other like shopping trolleys.

"These things happen," I said, "but they can be fixed."

Now that he had the words out his talk slowed.

"Will you do me a favour Billy? Will you tell people not to go falling out? Tell them that, will you? My brother was dying and he sent for me. He said he was sorry. He was dying and he didn't want to go without making friends."

"Ah well," said I, "at least ye made it up in the end."

The man rubbed his eyes hard with his finger tips.

"That's the thing. We didn't. I just nodded. I walked off when he said he was sorry. I never accepted his apology even though he was only skin and bone."

"Go back," I said. "Go back and make it up."

"I was going to. I was thinking of a Christmas morning when he swapped presents with me. I preferred his one. It was called Meccano."

All these years had passed. The brothers loved each other then.

"Billy, my brother died a couple of days ago. I went to the funeral. His wife let me say I was sorry to him before they closed the coffin."

So that was his story and it is the story of so many.

The song of forgiveness has no last verse.