An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  Now that the steam cloud had vanished, he used a wide-bladed fish server to put the golden-hued, oak shaving–smoked herrings on his plate. He took the plate to his place and returned to pour himself a cup of coffee. Patricia should be phoning at any minute. Maybe by now she’d be able to tell him she’d be coming home. Maybe she’d caved in and would accept his offer to pay for the ferry ticket. He bloody well hoped so.

  “Pour me one while you’re on your feet.” O’Reilly handed Barry his cup and pushed his plate, laden with kipper skeletons, away.

  As he poured two cups of coffee, Barry counted four backbones. O’Reilly had not stinted himself. Kinky reckoned the return of O’Reilly’s irascibility was a sign of his recovery. So was the return of his appetite. Barry handed O’Reilly his coffee. “Here.”

  O’Reilly accepted the cup and saucer. “Thanks, Barry. How was your night?”

  Barry returned to his place and took a big swallow. “Busy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. I’d to go out at two. Judge Egan was having chest pains.”

  “He’s got angina,” O’Reilly said. “Was he having a coronary?”

  “I don’t know, but his nitroglycerine tablets weren’t stopping the pain, so I gave him a quarter grain of morphine and sent for the ambulance. I’d to wait until they got there.”

  “Good lad,” said O’Reilly, buttering his third slice of toast. “Eoin’s a decent man. He’ll be seventy-three next Thursday.”

  Barry shook his head. He could swear O’Reilly carried around every scrap of useful information about every one of his patients in his big, craggy-faced, shaggy-haired head. Barry set to work to separate the filet from the bones but stopped when O’Reilly said, “He suits his name.”

  “Eoin? Why? It’s just archaic Irish for John. Most folks today use Sean.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “I’m not talking about Eoin. I’m talking about his surname, Egan. It’s derived from MacAodhagáin. The family were the brehons, the hereditary lawyers and judges, to the chieftains of Roscommon.”

  “I’ll be damned.” Barry chuckled and returned to filleting his fish. “That would make him Judge Judge . . . just like that bloke Major Major Major in Catch-22.”

  “Joseph Heller. Bloody funny book.” O’Reilly, who had finished his toast, eyed the toast rack.

  Barry slid the slice of fish, now bone-free, to the side of his plate. “We had a research registrar who was working with urinary incontinence. Poor chap’s name was Leakey. It suited him. He was a real drip.”

  O’Reilly guffawed long and hard, and that was why Barry didn’t realize that the phone was ringing in the hall until Kinky came in and said, “Your Miss Spence is on the line.”

  Barry came out of his chair like a greyhound from the starting gate, jostled past Kinky, grabbed the receiver, and said, “Hello, Patricia?”

  “Barry, how are you?”

  “Fine. How are you . . .”—he lowered his voice—“darling?” The dining room doorway was open.

  “You’ll have to speak up,” she said.

  He turned his back to the open door, cupped his hand around the mouthpiece, and said a little more loudly, “I love you.”

  He heard her chuckle. “I love you too, Barry. I really do.”

  That was a relief. He wanted to ask her if she was coming back to Ulster, but instead he said, “Where are you? The Residency?”

  “No. I’m in Bourn. I’m spending the weekend with Jenny.”

  “Jenny who?” He wished to hell she were spending the weekend with him.

  “Jenny. Jenny Compton. I told you about her.”

  “Right.” The girl Patricia would go to for Christmas if she didn’t come back to Northern Ireland.

  “Her folks have pots of money. Her dad’s a stockbroker and says I can chat as long as I like on his phone, and hang the cost. He can write phone calls off as part of his business expenses.”

  “Must be nice,” Barry said. “Still, being able to have a decent blether makes a change from a quick two minutes on the phone or the odd letter.”

  “I’m sorry, Barry,” she said, “but my study load is very heavy. I just don’t have time to write epistles every night.”

  “I understand that,” he said, thinking that he still owed his folks a letter. “I’m as guilty as you are. But I do miss you, Patricia.”

  “And I miss you . . . particularly in my little room at night. It’s quite chilly at this time of the year.” There was a husky edge in her voice.

  Christ, he longed to hold her. He was about to tell her how much he’d like to be there to keep her warm, but she ploughed ahead.

  “My bedroom’s lovely and cosy here. Jenny and her folks live in a cottage. Thatched roof, old oak beams. It was built in sixteen forty-three.”

  “Sounds very rustic.” How could she do that to him? Make a sexy remark, then change the subject. He wished she would stop prattling and tell him what he wanted to know.

  “It is. It’s just a wee ways from the local manor house, Bourn Hall, and that’s a fascinating place.”

  “I’m sure it is.” So was her mouth and her breasts, and he ached for her.

  “It was owned by the De La Warr family . . . the one the American state Delaware is named for.”

  “Patricia . . .” He smiled at Kinky as she headed back to the kitchen. Barry’s smile faded. Patricia wasn’t usually the garrulous type. She was rabbitting on because she had something unpleasant to tell him. He could sense it.

  “The same family own property with a big wood, and that was the very spot A. A. Milne called the Hundred Acre Wood in the Pooh stories.”

  “Really?” He started to let his tone show his disinterest. He was certain she was using all this trivial chitchat as a smoke screen to avoid having to tell him she wasn’t coming home. “That’s interesting.”

  He heard her chuckle. “Speaking of Pooh, darling, you sound a bit like Eeyore.”

  Barry took a deep breath. “Look, Patricia, it’s great to chat, but I need to know so I can work out on-call schedules with Fingal . . . are you coming home?”

  He heard the edge of irritation creep into her voice. “I still don’t know.”

  Barry tried not to let his own disappointment show. “If you still don’t know, why did you call?”

  “Because, Barry, I like to hear your voice”—her tones were measured—“and I knew Jenny’s dad wouldn’t mind. I miss you, and I was happy we would be able to talk.”

  “Christ. I like to talk to you too, but I’d rather be doing it face to face.”

  “So would I.”

  “Did you find out about the ferry?” He waited to see how she would respond. Nothing. “Patricia, are you still there? Did you find out about the ferry?”

  “Not yet. I’ve been busy.”

  “Too busy to make a phone call? Damn it, Patricia, I’ll pay for the ticket; it can’t be that much.”

  There was a long pause before she said flatly, “I’m not sure I’d like that, Barry.”

  “Why the hell not? I’m working. Making money. You’re a student. I love you. I want to see you. I presume you want to see me?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  He pursed his lips. “Why is offering to pay for your ticket silly?”

  “I meant of course I want to see you, and if you think I don’t, you’re being silly.”

  “Then let me pay for your ticket.” He waited.

  “Barry . . .” Her voice was level. “I do love you . . . but . . .”

  “But? But? But what?”

  “But it seems like an awful lot of money for an underpaid medical assistant . . .”

  He sensed she was trying to let him down gently. “It’s my money.”

  “And you work very hard for it.”

  He recognized he was fighting a losing battle. “I don’t think it’s that at all. It’s your damn pride. Somehow you think it would threaten your independence to accept money from me.”

  He heard her clear her t
hroat, then say levelly, “I do believe women shouldn’t be financially dependent on men.”

  “Oh, come on, Patricia. I’m not asking you to. I’m not asking you to compromise your principles. All I want to do is see you. I’m missing you like crazy.”

  “And I’m missing you, Barry. But I won’t accept your money.”

  “That’s not principles. That’s being stubborn. You told me not to be silly. Don’t you be stupid.” His hand was squeezing the receiver.

  “Barry, I love you, but this conversation’s going nowhere.”

  The words slipped out. “Neither are we, not with you over there refusing to come home.”

  Her words were clipped. “I am not refusing to come, but I am refusing to take your money.”

  “And that’s final?” He waited. Could he hear a catch in her voice when she said yes?

  He held the receiver in front of his face and stared at it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? The hell it does. He put it back to his ear and mouth.

  “Are you still there, Barry? . . . Barry?”

  “Yes.”

  The silence hung and stretched. He’d be damned if he’d be the first to speak.

  “Barry? I love you.”

  “Then let me buy your ticket.”

  “No.”

  He screwed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and said, “I’m going to ring off now, Patricia. You know where to find me if you change your mind.” There was a prickling behind his eyelids.

  “Good-bye, Barry.” He heard the click and the line went dead. Bugger it. Why couldn’t the bloody woman see reason? He replaced the receiver. “Enjoy your stupid ducks,” he said to no one in particular. Barry cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, smoothed down the tuft that he knew would be sticking up from the crown of his head, and went back into the dining room.

  O’Reilly was chewing, and the plate of two kippers that should have been waiting in Barry’s place had miraculously moved in front of O’Reilly, who was finishing the last scrap. He smiled guiltily, Barry thought. “They were getting cold,” O’Reilly said. “It would have been a shame to waste them. Kinky’s gone to boil you a couple of eggs.”

  “Jesus, Fingal . . .” But Barry found he couldn’t be bothered to start another fight. Not immediately after the last one. “Never mind. Eggs will be fine.” He picked up his half-full coffee cup and went to the sideboard to fill it with fresh brew from the coffeepot.

  O’Reilly burped. “Excuse me,” he said, and went to look out the bow window. “It’s a lovely day out there, Barry. What are you going to get up to now you’re free?”

  Barry shrugged. “I’m not sure. Put my feet up for a while.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “You yust vant to be ahloan?”

  Barry couldn’t help smiling. “Fingal, that’s the worst imitation of Marlene Dietrich I’ve ever heard.”

  “But it’s true, isn’t it? I wasn’t eavesdropping, but I couldn’t help hearing the tone of your voice.”

  Barry shrugged. “She’s being stubborn, that’s all.”

  O’Reilly moved closer to Barry, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said gently, “She’ll come round, son. You’ll see.”

  Barry would have laughed at anyone else who said that, but O’Reilly was an astute judge of people. Barry found his advice comforting, if not altogether believable. “Thanks, Fingal.”

  “And in the meantime,” O’Reilly continued, “you can relax this morning and do your cryptic crosswords, but this afternoon you’re coming with me and Kitty.”

  “And Kitty? Where to?”

  “I phoned her last night. She’s coming down, and we—Kitty, me, and Arthur . . . and that includes you now—are going to watch a battle of the Titans. A rugby match between the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts and the Glengormley Gallowglasses.”

  Barry laughed. The Bonnaughts were named for fourteenth-century Irish mercenary soldiers, and the Gallowglasses for professional Scottish fighting men who had first come over to Ireland in 1258. And the way the two teams carried on every time they met, it was very apt that each was named for a group of warriors. Some of their encounters were legend in Ulster rugby football circles. “Should be quite the tussle,” Barry said. “You’re on, Fingal, but—”

  “But what?”

  “Would you not prefer to be by yourself with Kitty?”

  O’Reilly guffawed mightily. “At a rugby match? Alone? Don’t be daft. I’m taking her to the Crawfordsburn for dinner, and I could use your help there.”

  “You need my help eating?”

  “No. Eejit. I have to go to some mysterious committee meeting after the game. I’d like you to amuse her until it’s over.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “But, Barry, I’d not take it amiss if you disappeared when the meeting’s over.”

  Given O’Reilly’s naturally high colour, it was impossible to tell if the big man was blushing. “I can do that, Fingal,” Barry said. He remembered he was meant to contact Jack Mills and either have him down for a bite of Kinky’s cooking or—now that was a thought—join Jack at the dance at the Nurses Home. “I’ll just need to go and make a phone call.”

  The Muddied Oafs at the Goals

  O’Reilly parked the Rover in a graveled parking lot beside a row of ancient beeches that grew in front of a grassy berm. He reckoned they were all at least a hundred feet tall. He leant over, pecked Kitty’s cheek, and said, “We’re here.”

  He got out and opened the back door for Arthur. The dog immediately ran to the nearest tree and cocked a leg. O’Reilly glanced back to the road. No sign of Barry’s car. He was bringing Brunhilde so he could drive Kitty back to Number 1 Main Street after the match, when O’Reilly would be at his committee meeting.

  O’Reilly looked up through the skeletal fingers of the trees’ bare branches to where cirrus clouds seemed to be white crayon smudges on a toweringly high, pale blue, cartridge-paper sky. The clouds barely moved, there was little wind, and it wasn’t bitterly cold. Kitty wouldn’t freeze standing on the touchline to watch the game. Good.

  He walked toward her side of the car. The beech mast crunched underfoot. He looked at her where she stood. None of this “waiting for the gentleman to open the door for a lady” about Kitty. She was a very self-possessed woman. He’d suspected that all along. But since she’d taken the initiative Tuesday night, kissed him, and hinted that she was still in love with him, he had been in no doubt that Kitty O’Hallorhan was her own woman. And he admired that in her.

  She was wearing a three-quarter-length bottle-green coat over black stirrup pants, and small flat-heeled shoes. The coat’s fur collar was turned up against her lower face, and her remarkable grey-flecked-with-amber eyes sparkled from under a silk headscarf with a racehorse motif. Begod, he thought with a smile, she’s a thoroughbred is Kitty. Face it, Fingal, he told himself as he saw the soft look for him in those eyes—a look he well remembered from many years ago—she does care for you very much.

  And he recognized that since Tuesday she’d given him a great deal to think over, but here on the way to a rugby match wasn’t the right time to talk to her about it. Perhaps tonight at dinner. If he could just sort out exactly how he was feeling.

  He stood beside her. “Here comes Barry,” he said, as he watched the Volkswagen come along the drive and pull up beside the Rover. Barry got out and came over.

  “What kept you?”

  “Jesus, Fingal,” Barry said, “I’d need afterburners on my car to keep up with you. Do you know you put another cyclist in the ditch?”

  “Did I hit him?” O’Reilly grinned. “It doesn’t count if I don’t give them a nudge.”

  “You very nearly did, Fingal,” Kitty said. “You had me terrified.”

  O’Reilly’s grin vanished. “I’m sorry,” he said contritely.

  “Honestly,” she said, shaking her head. She linked her arm with his. “I’ll forgive you this time, but I will expect you to drive more carefully in future.” She started
striding to the pitch. “Come on. Let’s go and see the game.”

  “Hang on a minute.” O’Reilly reached into the back of the Rover and brought out a canvas gamebag. “Sustenance,” he said, slinging the strap over his shoulder. “Kinky’s given us a couple of thermoses of her tomato soup and”—he produced a silver flask from an inside pocket—“I’ve brought the snake antivenin . . . just in case.”

  Kitty’s laugh was deep and melodious. “I thought Saint Patrick chased all the snakes out of Ireland.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, popping the flask back into his overcoat pocket, “you never can be too careful. One or two might have slipped back.” He was about to head off when a black Sunbeam-Talbot arrived, and none other than Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick emerged. O’Reilly waited until the man had approached, greeted him civilly, and then introduced Kitty.

  The man obviously recognized her. “Charmed to meet you again, Miss O’Hallorhan. It’s been a very long time since Dublin and our student days,” he said, rubbing his gloved hands with the kind of delight an undertaker might show over a recently dead corpse. “So, Fingal,” he continued, “do you think your lot have a chance?”

  O’Reilly grunted. Silly question.

  “I’m here to offer my support to the opposition. I’ve supported the Glengormley Gallowglasses for years.” Fitzpatrick sniffed.

  “Have you now?” said O’Reilly. “Well, I’d not give much for their chances today. The Bonnaughts have two Ulster players on their side.”

  “My good man . . .”

  He’s bloody quick off the mark with the “my goods,” the condescending bugger, O’Reilly thought.

  “We have a chap—he plays fullback—who shall be nameless, on loan from North. He’s played for Ireland three times, you know. We’re simply going to eat you alive. Devour you.”

  “Are you now?” O’Reilly folded his arms across his chest. Having a player from the North of Ireland Football Club, one of the clubs in the Senior League, a player who was not a regular member of the Gallowglasses, was almost like cheating, but O’Reilly wasn’t going to object. Instead he said, “Ronald, I know you take your church seriously, but would you like to back up that remark with a few quid?”