Seán McNicholl

The Holly in Clancy’s Hedge

Da was an oak of a man; strong, tall, leafy green with a deciduous temper. His tree trunk limbs were wrought with unbridled strength beneath swathes of coarse hair that would dance when a breeze was near. He had shovel hands that looked as though they could cut through mud and man if the fancy took him, but would scoop me up and hold me when I scraped my knee.

I hardly recognise him now, sitting withered in the chair, the tartan wool blanket scratching at his legs, briared fingers pulling at loose threads. 

What’s that there? he asks, lifting his shaking head to look at the hearth.

Holly, I answer and I lift down the garland to him, the waxy plastic smooth under my finger tips, the red berries glinting in the twinkle of the Christmas tree.

His trembling hands clutch at it, the soft jagged leaves springing back to shape as he releases them.

Shite, he says, still holding it tight.

I remind him of the day we picked the holly from Clancy’s hedge – he had spied the berries from the road. His eyes linger on the Christmas tree, glassy and unfocused.

You came running into the house, shouting that you’d found wild holly. Do you remember Ma’s face?

He grunts and smiles, still lost in his own memories.

I tell him how he dragged me by the arm, out through the door, my heels sticking out over the crushed stiffening of my shoes.

You threw me over the gate into the field, right into the muck.

I can feel the icy nip of the frosted mud and water seeping over my feet as he rustles the garland, chuckling to himself.

We splodged through the wet field, Da with his heavy green coat, me in my Batman jumper, up the rising slope to where the hedge bled red drops. Rags of mist parted before us like show curtains, closing behind and ushering us towards the threadbare thicket.

‘It’s too cold for snow,’ Da said as he pulled a tatty plastic bag from one pocket and the penknife marked with his initials from the other. The words stained the air before being lost in the mist. He hacked the sprigs free, labouring over those pregnant with berries. I held the bag open, taking the scrapes and jags to my purple-blue knuckles as the morning’s rain fell from the shaking branches and trickled between my goosebumped skin and my Batman collar.

He worked the blade, and I stood awestruck, silenced by admiration and good sense, for he wasn’t a man for idle words.

Mind the ram? he says as he shuffles himself in the seat. The garland falls to the floor as he scrabbles with the slippery leather. I lean over him and let him cling to me as I scoop him up and straighten him. He nods in thanks.

I remember the ram.

I felt the tug on the bag, almost pulling me to the ground. The white head, with its curt tight curls and two stubs where horns should have been, nudged its way inside the plastic, jaws chomping on our waxy bushels.

‘Not do him a button of harm,’ Da said, waving away my worries with one swipe of his giant hand.

The ram raised his head and looked at me sideways with one dark and watering eye, as wet as the puddles all around us. I lowered my hand to him, the suspicion growing in his dark, muddy gaze. I held firm whilst Da hacked another branch and droplets showered down on us. The ram moved his head to me, nuzzling its nose into my fingers. Gently, I pushed against him.

I lift the garland from the floor and lay it across the hearth again, twisting the false leaves so they glimmer like smashed bottle glass in the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree again.

I prefer the real stuff, Da says.

Me too.

He holds out his gnarled hand, grasping with brambled fingers. I take it and squeeze, gently pushing against him. He pulls my hand to his lips and nuzzles my hand like the ram.


Seán McNicholl is an Irish GP who enjoys writing short stories in a variety of genres. He has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and for the Best of the Net (BOTN) award 2024. He has been published in Beyond Words, Raw Lit, 34th Parallel, Belfast Review and Intrepidus Ink, among others. For more: www.seanmcnicholl.com