An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  “Oh.”

  “I had to pedal like mad to get here.”

  For a moment Barry had an incongruous mental image of Patricia as the Wicked Witch in The Wizard of Oz frantically charging along a Kansas dirt road with Dorothy’s dog, Toto, in the basket of her bike. “I’m glad you made it.” His voice softened. “I’ve missed you.” It had been a week since he had spoken to her last.

  “And I’ve missed you, Barry.”

  He glanced around to make sure no one could overhear him, chided himself because the only one who might was Kinky, and she certainly knew what he was going to say next, yet his Ulster reticence was difficult to override. “I love you, Patricia,” he said softly, and hoped she could hear the yearning in his voice.

  “Me too,” she said, “but it’s very public in here . . . listen.” She held the receiver away from her ear, and Barry heard a babble of female voices. “I wish it wasn’t,” she said, “so I could tell you properly.”

  “So do I,” but for the time being he knew he must make do with that crumb. “Anyway, you’ll be able to tell me soon, won’t you?”

  “Mmmm.”

  God, was she already being infected with English habits? What did “mmmm” mean? “You will, won’t you?”

  “Well, I . . . I . . .”

  “But you promised you’d be home for Christmas.” He felt his grip tighten on the plastic. “You will, won’t you?”

  “Barry, please try to understand. It costs a lot to fly back to Ulster from here, and my folks aren’t made of money.”

  She wasn’t coming? But back when she told him she had won the scholarship to Cambridge, she said she’d be home for the holidays. Barry took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to plead, but damn it, she’d promised. “I see. So where will you spend Christmas? In your rooms?” He knew the earlier warmth in his voice had fled.

  It was some time before Patricia said, “I’m not sure yet. I’d like to come back to Ulster, Barry. I really would.”

  Barry bit back his immediate response, which would have been a sarcastic “Decent of you,” and instead said, “It’s up to you, but you know how much I want to see you. I just told you I love you.”

  “I know you do.” She lowered her voice, and he had to strain to hear her next few words. “And I love you, Barry. I really do, but this term was more expensive than we’d budgeted. The bursary didn’t cover everything, and I had to ask my folks for money.”

  “But where would you go if you don’t come home?”

  “I’ve made some friends since I came here in September.”

  “That’s nice,” he said. He hoped to God they weren’t men friends. He had thrown himself into his work and avoided the company of women since she left in October for what Cambridge University referred to as the Michaelmas term.

  “Yes, it is nice. You didn’t expect me to sit all alone for three months, did you?”

  “No,” he said, although in truth his answer really was yes.

  “Jenny Compton’s another engineering student. She’s an amateur ornithologist like me. Her parents live in the village of Bourn. It’s only eight miles from Cambridge, and she’s invited me to spend the holidays there. Actually I’m going home with her tomorrow now that term’s over. We can go bird-watching on the Norfolk Broads.”

  He sighed. “Like the day I took you to Strangford Lough, to Gransha Point?” He could see her when a sudden summer squall had broken, standing, reveling in the gale, the driving rain plastering her wet blouse to her braless breasts.

  “Yes.” He heard the enthusiasm in her voice. “And I really want to see the Slimbridge Wildfowl Trust place on the River Severn. It’s not far to drive, and Jenny has a little car.”

  “Slimbridge? Is that the place Peter Scott opened in . . .”—he had to think, but he’d seen the naturalist, son of Robert Falcon Scott of the Antarctic, on television—“nineteen forty-six?”

  “That’s right. He’s made it a mecca for people interested in waterfowl, and I certainly am.”

  So is O’Reilly, Barry thought, but Fingal would want to shoot them, and as Barry was now becoming convinced he would be playing second fiddle to birdlife, he thought it served them right. And, dear Christ, she’d just said term was over. She could be here in Ulster already if she’d kept her promise. He knew now he wasn’t going to talk Patricia into coming home unless she really wanted to. Better, he thought, to seem to accept defeat graciously. “I suppose,” he said, “if you must, you must.”

  “Barry, you are wonderful,” she said. “I really do love you . . .” He noticed that this time she had not lowered her voice. “And I didn’t say I wasn’t coming home. I just said I wasn’t sure yet.”

  Barry sighed. He’d have to lie content with a half promise. “When will you know?”

  “Not for another week. That still gives me nine days until Christmas Eve. Lots of time to get a flight. It all depends on how big Dad’s Christmas bonus is.”

  “Patricia, you’ll only need a lot of money if you fly.” He had a sudden thought about an alternative solution. “What about taking the ferry?”

  “Ferry?”

  “Yes, the one from Holyhead in Wales to Dun Laoghaire in the Irish Republic.” The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. “If you could get to Holyhead and catch the boat, I could drive down—It’s only about ninety miles from Belfast—pick you up, and we could have a night in Dublin before we drove back up north.”

  “Welll . . .” She didn’t sound very enthusiastic.

  “Come on, Patricia, you know it’s an option.”

  “All right, Barry,” she said. “I will go to Jenny’s now for a few days, but I will look into it . . . promise.”

  “Great—”

  In the background he heard another female voice saying, “Come on, Patricia. You’ve been on for bloody ever. It’s my turn.” Then Patricia said, “Barry, I’m sorry. I have to go. I love you, and I’ll call again as soon as I’ve found out about the ferry. I promise.” The line went dead.

  “Bugger. Bugger.” He replaced the receiver. He’d been banking on her coming home. Damn it, she’d promised him she’d come home, never mind phoning again as soon as she could. He wanted all of her, not just a bloody phone call. He shook his head. Well, at least she was willing to try to find a solution. That had to prove something, didn’t it? Didn’t it?

  The only comfort he could take was that there didn’t seem to be another man in the picture. One thing about Patricia, she would never prevaricate, never beat about the bush. She’d have come right out and told him. Mind you, he thought, as he heard the front doorbell ringing, it was small consolation.

  If he’d been in her shoes, he’d have been finding out about the next ferry. Forget about going to any friends like this Jenny. He’d be getting himself home as quickly as possible. Patricia may not have recognized what she’d done to the man she was supposed to love. She had, although not in so many words, told him that for a few days anyway he was going to be runner-up to a bunch of flaming ducks.

  He crossed the hall and opened the front door.

  “Hello, Barry.” Kitty O’Hallorhan came into the hall, and he closed the front door behind her. “Nippy out,” she said, “but at least the wind’s dropped, and the skies are clear again. The stars were lovely tonight driving down from Belfast.” She shrugged out of a cream raincoat, took off a pair of kidskin gloves and a head scarf, shook her head, and used her hand to rearrange her hair.

  He’d thought her a handsome woman when he’d first met her on duty as a ward sister in the Royal, and he saw no reason to change his opinion tonight with the hall lamp highlighting her silver hair. Her title might be “Sister,” denoting her seniority over staff and student nurses, but it was a throwback to the days when most nurses were nuns. Kitty O’Hallorhan would have been wasted in a convent. “Come on upstairs, Kitty. Fingal’s expecting you, and the fire’s lit in the lounge.”

  “Lovely,” she said. “How is the old rapscallion anyway?” Her
Dublin tones were obvious to Barry’s ear. She smiled broadly. “I’ll bet he’s as cantankerous as all get out. I’d not want to have him for a patient.”

  Barry chuckled. “Come and see for yourself.” With that he stepped aside to let her precede him upstairs. As she climbed, he admired the rounded contours of her buttocks under her tightly fitting knee-length black skirt and the flex and relax of her calves beneath its hem, their shapeliness accentuated by a pair of suede stiletto-heeled pumps. She paused on the landing and stood staring at a framed photo of a battleship. “That’s HMS Warspite, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right.” Barry was surprised that a woman would know the name of the old vessel. “Fingal and my dad served in her.”

  “I didn’t know about your dad, but Fingal was on the Warspite when his wife was killed in 1941.” Barry heard a catch in her voice. Had she perhaps harboured some hope back then? “The last time I heard from him was in 1939 when he joined up. He sent me a picture taken on his ship.” She turned and grinned at Barry. “He looked quite the salty sailor man in his uniform.”

  “I’ll bet.” Barry opened the door to the upstairs lounge. “He’s in there. Go on in.” He followed her into the big comfortable room, knowing that it was crisply icy outside, yet in here the lighting was softly warm and the heat from the coal fire made the room welcoming.

  “Kitty.” O’Reilly stood. Barry was surprised to see he was freshly shaven and dressed in a sweater, shirt, and tweed pants, looking just a bit outdoorsy for the large, tartan carpet slippers on his feet. “Kitty.” O’Reilly stood and hugged her. “Glad you could come. Have a pew.” He waited until she took one armchair, then sat again in his own. Barry took the plain wooden chair the marquis had occupied that morning.

  “So,” she remarked, peering at O’Reilly, “how are you, Fingal?”

  He grinned. “On the mend, and all the better for seeing you, Caitlin O’Hallorhan. You’re looking lovely tonight.”

  “Go on with you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, you great eejit! You always were full of the blarney,” she said, shaking her head. Yet Barry heard the smile in her voice, saw the tiny heightening of colour in her cheeks.

  “And,” said O’Reilly, “you’d look even better with a glass in your hand. What’ll it be? The usual?”

  “Please.”

  “Barry, will you do the honours? And help yourself.”

  Barry rose. “Certainly.” He knew exactly what O’Reilly wanted, but he had no idea what the “usual” was. Lots of women drank gin and tonic, vodka and orange, or a pear champagne, Babycham. He looked at Kitty.

  “Jameson please, Barry,” she said.

  “Right.” He stood at the sideboard and poured three Irish whiskeys. He handed one to Kitty and one to O’Reilly before returning to the sideboard and picking up his own glass.

  “Sláinte,” O’Reilly said, but he coughed before he could take a drink.

  “Indeed,” said Kitty, “I’ll be happy to drink to your health, Fingal, as long as you promise me you’ll look after it.”

  Barry hid his smile. Poor old O’Reilly. Beset not only by Kinky but by Kitty O’Hallorhan as well. If concern was a medicine, he thought, O’Reilly would arise like Lazarus in no time flat.

  “Sláinte mHath,” Barry said. He sipped the peaty spirits, the uisce beatha, the water of life, and relished its warmth. He now preferred it to the sherry he had favoured when he first came to Ballybucklebo.

  Barry sensed movement behind him, and turned to see Kinky in the doorway. Her chignon was freshly coiffed, and she wore a hint of lipstick and rouge. Her calico apron was obviously fresh from the laundry, and she wore her best low-heeled brogues. “Miss O’Hallorhan,” she said, “nice to see you.”

  “Hello, Kinky. How are you?”

  “Grand, so.” Kinky smiled. “Now I want you all to enjoy your drinks but . . .” Barry heard the edge in her voice. “Doctor O’Reilly asked you to be ready to sit down and eat at six-thirty, Miss O’Hallorhan. If you need a little time to finish your drinks”—she looked straight at O’Reilly—“there’s honeydew melon balls ready in the dining room. They’ll not spoil for waiting a few more minutes, but the main course will be ready at six forty-five. I’d not want for it to be overcooked.”

  “Fair enough, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll be on time.”

  “I’ll have the pork fillet ready in fifteen minutes, so,” Kinky said. Then, glancing at the clock on the mantel, she said, “No, I tell a lie. Fourteen.”

  The Stars in Their Courses

  Dinner was over. O’Reilly pushed his chair back, dumped his linen napkin on the dining room table, and stifled a satisfied belch. Kinky, as usual when a guest was coming, had done him proud. Mind you, he thought, it wasn’t as if she’d skimped in all the years he’d dined alone.

  He knew he’d been content with his solitary life. The customers gave him more than enough contact with the human race, but he had to admit it had been pleasantly companionable since July to have Barry here, even if the pair of them were a bit like the two bachelors, Ratty and Mole, in Kenneth Grahame’s classic The Wind in the Willows.

  O’Reilly looked at Kitty and he smiled to himself. Tonight he’d thoroughly enjoyed having a woman at his table. Kitty added a sparkle to the evening.

  And he’d enjoyed the meal. Melon balls sprinkled with ginger to start, stuffed roast pork fillet, roast potatoes, cauliflower in a cheese sauce, baby carrots, and for dessert Kinky’s lemon meringue pie.

  The whole had been finished off with coffee, and for O’Reilly another Jameson, and for Kitty a small Cockburn’s port. Barry, who would shortly be popping out to see Sonny and Maggie, had elected to make this drink his last. Good lad, O’Reilly thought.

  Barry and Kitty were deep in conversation. O’Reilly was happy simply to listen to what Barry was saying and keep his thoughts on the subject to himself.

  “Actually, the three stars in the Summer Triangle are Vega, Altair, and Deneb.” O’Reilly knew Barry had learned a fair bit of astronomy from his dad, who had been the navigating officer on the old Warspite.

  O’Reilly hadn’t known that Kitty would be keen to know the names of the stars and constellations, but then she always had been interested in the world beyond the confines of her chosen profession. He watched her face, animated one minute, serious the next, frowning when Barry was unclear.

  “So Altair’s the brightest star in Orion’s belt?”

  “No. It’s the brightest star in a line of three stars in the constellation of the Eagle, which are often mistaken for Orion’s belt. Do you remember the names of the belt stars?”

  “Alnilam, Alnitak . . . I can’t remember the third.”

  “Sure you can. Give yourself a minute.”

  She smiled.

  It was a handsome smile on a handsome face framed by her well-cut silver hair. Her eyebrows were firm and arched above her deep-set, amber-flecked grey eyes. O’Reilly had seen many women’s eyes in his years of practice but could not recall a pair as striking as Kitty’s. They sometimes seemed more feline than human as, as he well remembered Kitty herself could be. He sighed. They’d both been so young then. The thirties were not a time when unmarried men and women fell into bed together, but he could remember summer nights when he was a student, still an overgrown boy, taking her to his digs, kissing her, holding her, caressing her, and how intensely she had responded. Perhaps, he thought wistfully, if they had made love even once, his life might have taken an entirely different path.

  O’Reilly grunted to himself. Water under the bridge.

  She interrupted his reverie by saying excitedly, “I’ve got it. Mintaka. Mintaka.” Her laughter brought him back to the conversation.

  “Well done, Kitty,” he said.

  “Such lovely, musical names.”

  “They’re Arabic. Mintaka means ‘belt,’ and Alnilam means ‘string of pearls,’ ” Barry said.

  “Really?” Her smile broadened. “Glen Miller could have called his dance tune ‘Alnil
am.’ ” She chuckled deep in her throat before asking Barry the names of the stars in Orion’s body.

  “Rigel, Betelgeuse, Meissa . . .,” he began.

  O’Reilly let his mind wander. She has young Barry eating out of the palm of her hand, he thought, and he was surprised to find a stirring within him, he who had refused to become involved with any woman since Deidre had been killed. Not that he’d been entirely celibate—he left that up to the Catholic priests. He’d just had neither the time nor the desire to fall in love again. And, he smiled, not much opportunity either. As every woman in the village was one of his patients, the chances of his meeting anyone during his working days were pretty remote.

  His occasional overnight trips to Belfast, or to Dublin to watch Ireland play rugby football, were times when in naval gunnery parlance he might be able to find a “target of opportunity” in the hotel lounge or in the bar after the game for a mutually satisfying night. But he rarely saw the same woman more than two or three times. He’d never had any interest in anything permanent.

  So why, he wondered, had he been seeing Kitty on a more or less weekly basis since he’d taken her to Sonny and Maggie’s wedding back in August? Well, she was an old friend and she seemed to enjoy his company and reminiscing about the old days as much as he did. That was it. Nothing more.

  He looked at her more closely. She was more than a handsome woman. In his opinion she was strikingly beautiful. It didn’t matter that her nose was too large, her lips perhaps overly full. She had taken off her jacket when they sat down to dine, and he could see the top of her cleavage in the open neck of her cerise blouse, the silky material of which accentuated the curve of her full breasts.

  He smiled to himself. In the country she’d be referred to as a “powerful woman.” “Powerful altogether,” he said, realizing too late that he had spoken aloud.

  “I beg your pardon, Fingal,” Kitty said with a chuckle. “They taught us in nursing school that talking to yourself can be a sign of insanity.”