An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  “Two or three maybe.” Barry knew he was being optimistic. “But it could be quicker.”

  She must have seen through his prevarication. “Or more like six or seven?”

  He couldn’t meet her eye. “It’s hard to say, Eileen, but it might be a while.”

  She lifted the caddy from the mantel. Her cheeks were tear-streaked when she turned back to him, but she held herself erectly, and he heard the touch of pride in her voice when she said, “If I have to dip into the kiddies’ Christmas fund to make ends meet, I will.”

  Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . a germ of an idea began to take shape . . . the kind of thing O’Reilly would have come up with, but Barry didn’t want to hold out false hopes. “I know it’s going to be tricky for you to get to your work, Eileen.”

  “Tricky?” Her voice was raw-edged. “Hard? It’s going to be bloody well impossible, Doctor.”

  “I do understand, Eileen.”

  “How could you, you a doctor and all? You’ll never be short a few bob.” Her eyes flashed for a split second, but then her shoulders slumped and she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.”

  Barry wanted to hug her and tell her he understood, but instead he said, “I may have a suggestion.” He saw her eyes widen.

  “Honest? Honest?” There was hope in her voice.

  “I . . . I’ll pop in tomorrow and let you know.”

  “Will you, Doctor? That would be wonderful, so it would.”

  “Now, Eileen, I’m not making any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

  “Me and the kiddies would be very grateful,” she said, “and I’m sorry I snapped at you, sir.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Eileen. Now I have to get home, but I will come round tomorrow. I promise.” He rummaged in his bag and fished out a pad of Ministry forms, filled one out, and handed it to Eileen. “That’ll do you for six weeks if you need it.”

  She flinched at the words “six weeks” but took a deep breath and said, “I’ll let you out.” She accompanied him to the door. “Cheerio, Doctor Laverty, and thanks.”

  He bade her good night and hunched his shoulder to the gale for the walk back to Brunhilde. He glanced at his watch. It was time he went back to Number 1 Main Street and discussed with O’Reilly his bright idea for helping Eileen.

  He was to phone Patricia at six. He had the irrational idea that often afflicts people waiting for something important to happen, that if they arrive early whatever they desire will happen sooner. He started to trot.

  If nothing else, the knowledge he’d be talking to Patricia very soon made the evening seem less bitter.

  A Mighty Maze! But Not Without a Plan

  When Arthur Guinness came bounding out of his doghouse, eyes fixed on Barry’s trouser legs, Barry was too tired from his day and too eager to talk to Patricia to suffer much nonsense. He stood his ground. “Sit, you!” he yelled, and to his amazement the big dog did. Then Barry said, “Go home.”

  Barry waited until the dog was back in his kennel before he crossed the backyard, wondering as he did why Arthur had been amenable to being ordered about. Was Barry gaining a bit more confidence, a bit more authority? He hoped so.

  “Evening, Kinky,” he said, as he opened the kitchen door.

  Mrs. Kincaid was standing at the counter with her back to him. She turned and handed him a small metal basin. “Would you look at that, sir?” Her voice was hushed, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

  He took the basin and turned it over. There was a jagged hole in the bottom, about one inch across. “It looks as if it’s been hit by a shell,” he said. “What happened?”

  She pointed to a round, dark brown, fruit-studded Christmas pudding, one of a pair, that sat on a plate. Its shape was exactly that of the basin.

  “I think something ate the bowl,” she said. Her eyes were wide. “Or else it was the little people.”

  “I beg your pardon, Kinky?” Barry smiled. “Ate the bowl? Little people?”

  “Do you see, Doctor Laverty, I always make this year’s Christmas puddings the year before, keep them in basins in my pantry, and bring them out once a month to season them with a taste of brandy. Then a week or two before the big day, I get two out of their bowls and wrap them in greaseproof paper so they’re ready to boil on Christmas Day.”

  “I see.” Of course, being absolutely ignorant of matters culinary, he didn’t understand a thing Kinky had said, but he thought it best to humour her in her distressed state.

  “Well . . .,” she sighed, “when I got those two out, the bowl you have in your hands, sir, had that hole.” She made the sign to ward off the evil eye. “My cooking never hurt nobody, sir. Not ever, but something must have done it. Maybe the leprechauns. Maybe Old Nick himself.” There was a tiny tremble in her voice.

  It would be useless to tell her not to worry. Only a rational explanation would calm her. Barry frowned and tried to remember some of his organic chemistry classes. Something about sugars in fruits and alcohol. “Kinky, you put fruit and brandy in your puddings, right?”

  “Bless you, sir, I do, so. Raisins, sultanas, currants, glacé cherries, mixed peel, and then that nip of brandy each month.”

  Fruit, brandy? Sugar plus alcohol? Then he remembered. The combination could produce a powerful acid. One powerful enough to eat through . . . he looked at the metal bowl. “What’s this made of, Kinky?”

  “Stainless steel, sir. Himself gave it to me out of the surgery last year when I’d the pudding mixture made but broke one of my regular ones. Like that one.” She pointed to a grey ceramic bowl on the counter.

  Barry smiled. “I don’t think you need worry about the little people or the devil, Kinky.”

  “And why not?”

  “I’m pretty sure the fruit and the brandy combined to make an acid that attacks stainless steel but not pottery.”

  She looked from one bowl to the other, then back again. “Now there’s a thing, so.” But she did not look entirely convinced. Still she said, “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, sir, seeing as you’re a learned man and understand all that science.”

  “You don’t have to take my word for it, Kinky; ask Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “Och, no, Doctor Laverty. I believe yourself. Sure aren’t you a gentleman and a scholar?”

  Barry laughed. “And the last line of that toast, as you very well know, Kinky Kincaid, is ‘And if the truth be known, sir, probably a fine judge of Irish whiskey’—which I am not.”

  They both laughed but then her face fell. “But if there’s acid, would that not make anybody who ate it sick?” She looked sadly at her puddings. “I’d hate to have to throw them out.”

  “You used lemon juice in Doctor O’Reilly’s hot Irish, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Lemon juice is full of citric acid and it doesn’t hurt anybody, does it?”

  “No.”

  “Then don’t worry about your puddings. They’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure, sir?”

  “Positive.”

  “That’s all right then. I’ll get on with wrapping them, and you get on with making your phone calls.”

  “Calls? I thought I’d only one to make.”

  “Your pal Doctor Mills rang. He wants you to try to get hold of him.”

  “I will. Thanks, Kinky.”

  Barry headed for the hall, shedding his coat as he went. He’d been chilled when he came in, but standing round chatting with Kinky in the hot kitchen had made him uncomfortably warm. He hung the coat in the hall, picked up the phone, dialed the Royal’s number from memory, and asked the operator to page Jack Mills.

  “Hello, Barry?” Barry recognized the strong Cullybackey accent. “How the hell are you?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Grand. We’d one of your customers in last night and whipped out his ruptured spleen. Good thing you got him here as quickly as you did.”

  “You can thank O’Reilly for that
.”

  Barry heard a chuckle. “Nah. You thank him. Your patient’s doing fine, but he’s sore from his incision and a couple of bust ribs.”

  “Will you get him home for Christmas?”

  “Don’t see why not.”

  “Good. I’ll let his wife know.”

  “No need. Sir Donald phoned the wife immediately post-op. She knows.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “All part of the service. How’re things at your end of the universe?”

  “Busy. O’Reilly has bronchitis so I’m running the shop on my own.”

  “And if I know you, Laverty, you’re loving it.”

  “Well, I—”

  “Might as well because the love of your life is miles away.”

  “Yes, but I’m going to phone her tonight.”

  “Daft. There’s a million gorgeous birds out there, and most of them are up for a bit of slap-and-tickle. I’d imagine it’s a bit tricky over the phone.”

  Barry shook his head. Typical Jack Mills. “Are you still seeing Helen Hewitt?” he asked.

  “The redhead with the green eyes?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, aye, when I’m not seeing your old friend Mandy, the brunette ward clerk with the great legs.”

  Barry laughed. “You’re incorrigible, Mills.”

  “I probably would be if I could spell it. Any chance the pair of us could get together for a jar?”

  “Not until O’Reilly’s back on his feet, unless you want to take a run-race down here.”

  “I maybe could at the weekend, but this time of the year there’s a brave wheen of Christmas parties. The nurses’ Christmas dance is on at the Nurses Home. Why don’t you try to get up here to Belfast? It would do you a power of good to get out.”

  Barry shook his head. That wouldn’t be fair to Patricia. “You try to get down here, mate. You’ve already had a go at Kinky’s cooking.”

  “I have that, by God, and it beats hospital grub by a country mile. Tell you what. I’m off on Saturday. I’ll give you a bell on Friday night.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “And Barry?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll let you know if there’s any change in the splenectomy.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Right,” said Jack Mills. “If I fall through the mattress, I’ll see you in the spring.”

  Barry chuckled, hung up, and headed up the stairs.

  “You’re home,” said O’Reilly from his armchair when he saw Barry at the sitting room door.

  “From the wilds of the Ballybucklebo housing estate.”

  “Well,” said O’Reilly, nodding toward the sideboard, “that surely calls for a drink.”

  “Whiskey?”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly, “and purely for medicinal purposes.” He coughed and winked at Barry.

  Barry shook his head. “You’re getting better, aren’t you, Fingal?” He poured a small measure. “Aren’t you?”

  “Jesus,” said O’Reilly, “I’m on the mend. The chest’s not as tight, and I’m not coughing as much.” Barry could see O’Reilly frowning at the glass. “But the dose you’ve poured there is the kind of thing a homeopath would prescribe, or a vet treating a flea.”

  “It’s all you’re getting.” Barry poured himself a small one and carried O’Reilly’s drink over to him.

  “Jesus,” O’Reilly repeated, accepting the glass and draining half of it in one swallow. “It’s only enough to give a gnat an eyewash.”

  “Hogwash,” said Barry. “We all want you back on your feet.”

  “Have you not heard . . . ,” said O’Reilly, emptying the glass and holding it out to Barry, “have you not heard that alcohol is an antiseptic? It kills bacteria.”

  Barry thought O’Reilly looked like a penitent supplicant. “Oh, very well.” He set his glass on the coffee table and topped up O’Reilly’s with a more generous measure. “Here,” he said, handing it back.

  “Sláinte,” said O’Reilly.

  “Sláinte mHath.” Barry sipped his whiskey.

  “So,” said O’Reilly, “how was your afternoon?”

  Barry shoved Lady Macbeth out of the other armchair and sat. “Pretty light. Two patients on the estate. Kieran O’Hagan had a subungual haematoma. I drained it.” Barry was pleased to see O’Reilly quietly nodding. “Then I’d to see wee Sammy Lindsay.”

  “Chest bad again?” O’Reilly sipped his Irish.

  “No. I’m pretty sure he has purpura.”

  “Henoch-Schönlein?”

  “Yes. I’ll be keeping an eye to him.”

  “Good lad. He could get kidney damage.”

  “Jesus, Fingal, he could die.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “That’s what the textbook says. I’ve never seen it happen, and Lord knows I’ve seen enough cases over the years.”

  “I know, but I’ll be watching him.”

  “We will, son. Once I’m up and doing. We’ll watch him. He’ll be sick for a while.”

  “I know.” Barry took a big swallow of his whiskey. “That’s what worries me.”

  “It shouldn’t. He’ll be right as rain in no time.”

  “Not him, Fingal. His mum. Eileen’s the only support of the family, and she’ll have to stay at home. The other two children, Mary and Willy, can go to school, but Sammy’s too young to leave on his own.”

  O’Reilly scratched his stubbly jaw. “I hadn’t thought of that. And at Christmas too. Bad time to be a bit short of the ready.”

  Barry thought of the tea caddy and its little hoard of ten-shilling notes.

  O’Reilly frowned. “Have you any ideas?”

  Barry set his now empty glass on the table. “I did have one half-baked notion, but I wanted your opinion.”

  “And?”

  “You remember when Sonny had to go into hospital in August and Maggie looked after his dogs?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think Maggie would say if we asked her to be a sort of honorary granny for Eileen’s brood?”

  O’Reilly guffawed. He leant across the gap between the two chairs and patted Barry’s shoulder. “That, my boy, is a stroke of genius. Pure bloody genius. Sonny and Maggie have been married for four months now, and he’d probably not be sorry to have an excuse to get her out from under his feet for a while each day. She’s very good with chisellers. It’s a pity she never had kids of her own. I’m sure she’d love to look after Eileen’s. And Eileen could get back to work.” He finished his glass. “Brilliant.”

  Barry grinned. He’d thought it wasn’t a bad idea, but he had not expected such a powerful endorsement from the senior man. “I’ll run out now and see Maggie.” Barry started to rise.

  “Take, as they say locally, your hurry in your hand.” O’Reilly held out a restraining hand. “If you don’t mind braving the bleak midwinter, you could go after supper.”

  “Why not now and get it over with?”

  “Because,” said O’Reilly, “I seem to remember Kinky saying you were to telephone a Miss Spence at eighteen hundred hours—that’s six to you—and it’s ten to six now.” Barry looked at his watch; O’Reilly managed a small cough. “Now by the time you’ve done that, and blethered to her, it will almost be suppertime, and you’re a better man than me if you’re willing to be late for one of Kinky’s specials.”

  “Why special tonight, Fingal?”

  “Because we’re having a dinner guest. Kitty O’Hallorhan. She’ll be here at six.”

  Barry looked at O’Reilly. The big man was striving quite heroically to keep a bland expression on his face, but the lines at the corners of his eyes were a tiny bit deeper, and the twinkle in his eyes had some cause other than Jameson’s Irish whiskey.

  “You are getting better, Fingal. A dinner guest indeed.” And inwardly Barry was delighted both that his senior colleague was recovering his health and that he was seeing Kitty again. He wondered if that relationship might just develop into something more than s
imply a regular reunion of old friends. He hoped so.

  “Fine, Fingal,” Barry said. “I’ll phone in a few minutes, then join you and Kitty for supper, but I will go out immediately after and have a word with Maggie.”

  “Now there,” said O’Reilly, as Lady Macbeth leapt up on his blanket-covered lap, “is a young man with a sense of occasion, to say nothing of tact.” He stroked the cat’s head as she settled herself. Then he said to the paws-tucked-under loaf of cat, “Shall we keep him on in the practice, puss?”

  Lady Macbeth yawned so widely, and stuck her pink tongue out so far, that Barry thought she had dislocated her jaw.

  La Donna è Mobile, or

  Women Change Their Minds

  “Who? Patricia Spence? Never heard of her.” The unknown woman’s voice had a plummy accent.

  Barry growled in his throat, then said. “This is the Girton College common room phone?”

  “Mmmm.” That vague, guttural noise, beloved by the English upper classes and meant to sound affirmative without making a complete commitment.

  “My girlfriend was supposed to be there to take a phone call from Ireland.”

  “Really? Do they have telephones in Ireland? My word.”

  “No,” said Barry, if only to keep the wretched girl talking until Patricia got there, “we usually send messages in cleft sticks carried by teams of trained runners. That’s why some of the English call us bog trotters.”

  “Bog trotters?” He heard an in-drawing of breath and a giggle. “I say. Cleft sticks. That’s awfully good.” More tittering then. “Hang on. Would this Patricia of yours be a dark-haired girl with a limp?”

  Barry’s heart gave a little hiccup. “Yes.” Dark eyes and ebony hair, like the words of the song, “My Lagan Love.” The twilight’s gleam is in her eye, the night is on her hair.

  “Barry?” Patricia sounded rather short of breath, but he’d recognize her County Down contralto anywhere.

  “Patricia? I thought I’d missed you.”

  “Sorry about that,” she said. “The traffic was really heavy.”

  “Traffic? In Cambridge? I thought Cambridge was pretty rural.”

  He heard her laugh. “It is, silly, but everyone here gets around on bicycles, and when all the classes get out at once it’s bedlam. Trumpington Street looks like something in Shanghai or Dublin.”