An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  Fitzpatrick frowned, then put a crooked index finger against his lower lip. “I really shouldn’t.”

  He just needs a little nudge, O’Reilly thought. “In my opinion, Hercules, your lot couldn’t beat the skin off a rice pudding . . . with the wind at their backs.”

  Fitzgerald gobbled, his wattles swung, and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “Very well, Doctor O’Reilly, I will accept a small wager. Say . . . say, a pound.”

  O’Reilly smiled broadly. “Och, come on. You might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.” His eyes narrowed and his voice hardened. “Make it ten pounds and I’m your man.”

  There was one massive excursion of Fitzgerald’s larynx as he swallowed; then he extended his hand. “It’s a bet.”

  O’Reilly shook the offered hand, noticing that the man lacked the courtesy to remove his glove. “You,” he said, “are on. I’ll see you at the clubhouse after the match. Now if you’ll excuse us, we don’t want to miss the kickoff.”

  He took the lead over the top of the berm toward the edge of the pitch, exchanging greetings with other supporters of the local team who had taken their stance on the near touchline. The visitors’ cheering section had occupied the far side of the pitch. Already good-natured abuse was being exchanged across the field.

  “See your Ballybucklebo scrum half?”

  “What about our Fergus Finnegan?”

  “His legs is so bandy you could drive a pony-and-trap between them.” Cheering and catcalls from the far touchline.

  Not to be outdone, Archie Auchinleck yelled back. “See your scrum half? Last time he was here, never mind passing to your out-half, he tried to throw the ball to the ground . . . and he missed.” Roars of support and laughter went up from this side.

  “See you? Your mother wears army boots.”

  “Now that’s what I’d call really quick on the repartee.” Gales of laughter followed. “You’re so bloody sharp, you’ll cut yourself, so you will.”

  O’Reilly joined in the laughter as he stopped at the centreline. “Lie down, sir,” he said to Arthur, then waited for the locals to make room for him and his party. He stood foursquare, surveying the scene.

  The pitch’s springy, close-cropped turf and lime-marked touchlines, centreline, twenty-five-yard lines, and goal lines were pretty much standard right up to the H-shaped goalposts at each end. The pitch had been carved out of raw farmland.

  He knew because he’d helped with the carving back in 1947.

  Originally it had been a piece of farmer’s wasteland: rough; covered in whins, brambles, and bracken; stony; and not well drained. It was of no use as arable land. O’Reilly and a group of similar-minded villagers had raised the money to buy the plot for a song, and by dint of their own efforts they had cleared and drained it. Admittedly, it lay halfway up one of the famous County Down drumlins, small rounded hills left over from the last Ice Age, and hence was canted at a ten-degree angle from one goal line to the other, but this was regarded merely as a local eccentricity.

  What made the place truly unique, a constant source of pride to O’Reilly, was that both the Rugby Union Club and the Gaelic Athletic Association had participated in the land reclamation and so had equal claim on the facilities. The predominantly Protestant rugby players used it on Saturdays. The totally Catholic GAA football team and hurling team used it on alternative Sundays after mass. Both the Protestant and Catholic groups would come together for important functions like the upcoming annual Christmas party.

  The opposing tribes were often at each other’s throats in other parts of the North or else were in a permanent state of what O’Reilly thought of as “armed neutrality.” So the sporting cooperation here spoke volumes for the peace that ruled the two communities in Ballybucklebo.

  But there was no olive branch to be exchanged between today’s two teams, rivals since the ground had been opened. Glengormley, from the Irish Gleann gorm liath, the blue-grey glenn, was a suburb of Belfast City. Ballybucklebo was definitely rural.

  In addition to preparing the field, the founding fathers had built a small one-storey clubhouse that stood at the far side set back some distance from the touchlines. He’d be going there after the game for the committee meeting. But that was after the game.

  The cheering started from the far touchline as the opposing fifteen, the Glengormley Gallowglasses, wearing their blue-and-yellow vertically striped shirts and black shorts, ran out from the clubhouse. Two of the bigger men, forwards, wore leather scrum caps.

  They were pursued by the Ballybuckebo Bonnaughts in their black-and-white-chequed shirts and white pants. O’Reilly joined in the roars of approval from the Ballybucklebo supporters. He had a fierce loyalty to his club and wanted a win for them today, never mind his bet with Fitzpatrick. That simply added piquancy.

  A tall, iron-grey–haired, solitary figure trotted onto the pitch. He sported the green jersey of Ireland with its white cloth shield surmounted by a sprig of three shamrocks fixed to the left breast. O’Reilly felt a stab of nostalgia when he remembered his own opportunity to represent his country before the war. The marquis had won his caps a few years before O’Reilly.

  Capping was a custom that dated back to the school caps boys had worn in the mid-nineteenth century. A tradition had sprung up of presenting athletes at various levels, including international, with ornamental caps. It was akin, O’Reilly had been informed, to the custom of awarding letters to American college athletes.

  O’Reilly reckoned that Ballybucklebo was the only rugby club anywhere with a peer of the realm acting as referee. When the marquis reached the centre of the pitch, he blew his whistle, and the two team captains joined him. A coin was tossed. The Bonnaughts won and elected to play the first half uphill, which would give them the advantage in the second half. Then, flagging from their earlier exertions, they would have gravity on their side. Their choice gave the opposition the right to kick off.

  As the Bonnaughts lined up across the field ten yards from the halfway line, the opposition kicker, their imported fullback, set the oval ball on one of its pointed ends in the middle of the centreline. He then took exactly eight paces back and turned quickly to both flanks to make sure his team was standing behind him and thus onside. When the marquis blew his whistle, the kicker charged forward and fetched the ball an almighty boot. His team, as if suddenly galvanized, tore after it in hot pursuit.

  O’Reilly watched the ball climb into the sky, hesitate, and then plummet to earth to be caught by the home team’s fullback. Almost simultaneously the fullback collected a bellyful of the shoulders of an opposing forward.

  O’Reilly heard the thump and the sudden explosive expulsion of the fullback’s breath. He’d have given his chance for immortality to still have been playing but, he shrugged, anno domini had taken their toll and he had to accept it. He reached out and took Kitty’s hand, and smiled at her and Barry. At least, he could settle down now and watch eighty minutes of orchestrated mayhem.

  The Nearest Run Thing You Ever Saw

  It had been a hard-fought campaign. Two Bonnaughts and three Gallowglasses had gone off hurt. None required more than first aid, but black eyes, bloody noses, and staved ribs did take their toll. Only one from each team had returned. The game bag was lighter on O’Reilly’s shoulder now the three of them had finished Kinky’s comfortably warming soup. Arthur was snoring gently, having presumably decided that the thirty figures charging about weren’t worth chasing. O’Reilly was starting to feel a bit chilly. He looked at Kitty. “You warm enough?”

  “I’m fine, Fingal.”

  She moved closer to him and he noticed her faint perfume. Her cheeks were rosy red, and a tiny drip hung from the end of her nose. She was cold, but she was tholing it so as not to spoil his fun. He put his arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “Good lass.” He produced the hip flask. “Fancy a nip?”

  She shook her head.

  “Barry?”

  Barry stamped his feet. He looked chilled. “Why not? It’s
been a while since I’ve been to a rugby match. I’d forgotten how much fun they can be. I went to the Schools Cup with Jack Mills last Saint Patrick’s Day.”

  “Who won?” O’Reilly handed the flask and cup to Barry.

  “Belfast Royal Academy shared it with my old school, Campbell College.” Barry accepted the flask and poured a measure into its small silver cup. “It was a cold day that day too. A wee warmer wouldn’t have hurt then.”

  “So you do enjoy watching? You are enjoying yourself?” O’Reilly said. “Good. You’ve been working very hard, and as this is your first day off since I took ill I’d hate you to waste it.”

  “I’d much rather be here than hanging about Number One waiting for Jack to phone.” Barry sipped his whiskey, and Fingal, much as he wanted to have his turn, was perfectly happy to wait until Barry had finished. He was glad he’d brought Barry along. The boy really was disappointed that his girl wouldn’t promise to come for Christmas. Better to keep him occupied.

  O’Reilly looked at his watch. With only three minutes of the regulation eighty minutes left, Ballybucklebo were ahead by two points. His ten pounds seemed secure. “So Kitty,” he asked, “do you think our local gladiators can do it?”

  She hesitated, then stared across the field to where the Bonnaughts were attacking close to the Gallowglasses goal line. “Glengormley will either have to kick a penalty goal or score a touchdown.” She frowned. “And if they can get in range, their fullback is a bloody fine kicker. But they’ve a long way to go . . . and it’s uphill.”

  “I agree, Kitty.” Turning to Barry, he said, “She always knew her stuff about this game.”

  She chuckled. “I had to. I spent enough Saturday afternoons on bloody freezing pitches watching you and your young friends romping in the mud.”

  O’Reilly squeezed her shoulder more tightly and said, “And if memory serves, you enjoyed the hooleys in the clubhouse after the games.” He felt her respond by moving more closely, holding his arm, and smiling up at him. “You were a pretty dab hand at the dancing, Fingal.”

  O’Reilly looked into her eyes and laughed.

  The marquis whistled loudly for an infringement of some kind.

  O’Reilly had not seen the foul. “What happened?” he asked.

  “A Bonnaught was offside,” Barry said. “The ref’ll have to give a set scrum. Advantage to the Gallowglasses.”

  O’Reilly agreed. If Ballybucklebo could win the ball, they would have a very good chance of scoring and putting the game—and his bet—to bed. He grinned.

  The forwards, the “packs” of each side, prepared. Three men of one team put their arms around each other’s shoulders. This was the front row. The one in the middle, the hooker, would be the one to try to capture the ball. Two more big men, also with their arms around shoulders, thrust their heads between the hips of the hooker and the men to either side, his props. The two rested their shoulders on the props’ and hooker’s backsides. This was the second row, and O’Reilly felt a twinge of envy. That had been his position. He could close his eyes and smell the fresh sweat, feel the tight muscles of the other second-row man.

  A single chap, the lock forward, put his head between their hips. On each side of both halves of the scrum, a man waited. These four men were the opposing wing forwards.

  Ballybucklebo had been the offending party, so Glengormley had the advantage of initially controlling the ball. Their scrum-half, a small man, stood to the side of the opposing ranks, the ball held in his hands. Fergus Finnegan stood close by on his side of the action.

  The marquis blew his whistle. The opposing front rows, propelled by the thrust of the second rows and lock forwards, bent at the hips and charged each other, interlocking head to head. The wing forwards shoved with all their might at the sides of their respective packs. The sixteen men, looking O’Reilly thought like some huge cetaceous turtle, heaved and groaned and strove against each other.

  There was a tunnel between the opposing two front rows, and into it the scrum-half fired the ball. More great heaving and shoving, a communal groan from the Ballybucklebo supporters, and a cheer from the far touchline followed.

  Glengormley had won possession of the ball, and the second it appeared behind the legs of their lock forward, their scrum-half grabbed it.

  “Give it to the fullback!” a Glengormley supporter yelled.

  That was the classic defensive tactic, O’Reilly thought. The fullback could send a towering kick as far down the field as possible, thus moving the play away from his side’s vulnerable goal line.

  But with only a couple of minutes left, the Gallowglasses had decided to gamble. The enemy’s whole three-quarter line was in motion, tearing uphill in echelon covering most of the width of the pitch. Wild cheering from their supporters egged them on.

  “Watch out for their fullback!” O’Reilly roared. He’d spotted their fullback, the ringer from North, joining the end of the line as an extra attacker. This could be dangerous.

  He could feel Kitty at his side making excited minijumps, and he heard her muttering, “Tackle that man.”

  The moment before a Glengormley player was tackled, he passed the ball sideways to the next man. Then the moves unfolded like some sweaty chess game, as the ball moved down the line. Player after player was tackled until finally the ball reached the hands of their fullback. Only one Ballybucklebo player stood between him and an inevitable score.

  O’Reilly found he was holding his breath as the man, ball clutched under his arm, thundered past so close that he wakened the sleeping Arthur Guinness.

  “Arf,” Arthur said.

  O’Reilly ignored the dog.

  “Arrf, arf,” said Arthur, ignoring O’Reilly.

  “Watch out for a kick!” O’Reilly yelled. If their man could get the ball past the only Ballybucklebo player now in his path, he might be able to run around the defender, recover the ball, and carry it over for a touchdown.

  The Glengormley player dropped the ball onto his boot and made a delicate chip shot of a kick over the Bonnaught player and into the open ground behind him. O’Reilly flinched and muttered, “Oh, shite.”

  Across the pitch, the supporters were waving their coloured team scarves and cheering mightily.

  “There,” said O’Reilly with resignation. “There goes my ten quid.” It should have been an easy score. It should have been.

  Arthur gave a ferocious yodel and started to charge up the field.

  “Call him in, Fingal!” Barry yelled.

  Kitty burst into peals of helpless laughter.

  The Ballybucklebo crowd started to chant as with one voice, “Go, Arthur!”

  Two Gallowglasses hurled themselves at the dog as he raced past, but he easily avoided them.

  “Go, Arthur! Go, Arthur!” The roaring of the crowd rose to a crescendo, and encouraged by the cheers, Arthur grabbed the ball, slithered to a racing turn, and headed back to his master as if he were proudly retrieving a fallen bird.

  The marquis didn’t so much whistle as play a long solo on his instrument. O’Reilly thought it sounded like a train announcing that it was going into a siding.

  A chorus of boos rose from the opposite touchline only to be drowned by the deafening cheers from O’Reilly’s side.

  O’Reilly, desperately trying to hide an enormous grin, took the slaver-damp ball from Arthur’s mouth. “We’ll get you a Bonnaught jersey next week,” he said. “Here, Barry. Hang onto his collar.”

  Holding Arthur by the collar, Barry said, “Sit, sir.”

  Arthur grinned and panted, pink tongue lolling, tail wagging. He paid not a blind bit of attention to Barry’s command.

  O’Reilly stepped onto the pitch and carried the ball to the marquis. “Here you are, John.” He gave him the ball. “Sorry about that.”

  “Can’t be helped, Fingal. I’ll have to give them a penalty kick.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, sir,” O’Reilly said; then he walked off the pitch to the cheers of his side’s support
ers. Only a minute left now.

  The teams arranged themselves, with the Bonnaughts lined up behind their goal line.

  “Do you think he can kick it, Kitty?” O’Reilly asked, as soon as he was by her side again.

  “They’ll win if they do.” She stared at the Gallowglasses’ kicker, who was setting the oval ball on one narrow end in a shallow pit he’d hacked in the turf with the heel of his boot. Then she narrowed her eyes and looked across to the H-shaped goalposts. “He’s almost on the touchline, so it’s a very narrow angle and it’s a fair distance.”

  “And,” said Barry, “the breeze is against him.”

  “He’ll miss. Bound to,” O’Reilly said, with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. If the ball was booted through the uprights, it was worth three points. He could afford the ten pounds but did not relish the satisfaction its loss would give to Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick.

  The kicker walked seven paces back from the upright ball, turned, and stood rigidly, arms by his sides, feet together.

  The supporters of both sides fell silent. It was considered extremely unsporting to make a noise and possibly spoil the kicker’s concentration.

  The man ran at the ball, head down, swung his right leg, and kicked the ball with an almighty wallop. The thump of leather on leather echoed over the field.

  O’Reilly watched the ball soar into the sky. It was at a good height and would have the range. It was heading to one side of the space between the uprights but should get through. Bugger, he thought, there goes my ten quid, but he felt the breeze against his cheek. A sudden stronger gust. He saw it catch the ball and give it a nudge that was just enough to alter its trajectory and push it wide of the left-hand goalpost.

  He clenched his fists and thrust both arms into the air, yelling, “Bloody marvelous!” Then, oblivious to the frenzied cheering and the referee’s whistle signalling the end of the game, he grabbed Kitty in an enormous bear hug, lifted her off the ground, swung her around in a great circle, and kissed her firmly.

  “Put me down, Fingal,” she said through her laughter. “Put me down.”