An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  The marquis looked from face to face, then said, “Please go ahead, Fingal.”

  “I’m going to ask you to take this on trust for a week or two because I have to keep it a secret. I want to run a raffle for a very good cause. I can’t tell you what at this moment, but I know all of you”—he let his gaze linger on the faces of each man of the cloth in turn—“will approve.” He made a rapid mental calculation. “And I want the club to agree to take only twenty-five percent of the proceeds.”

  “ ’Scuse me, Doctor.” Bertie Bishop spoke from where he was sitting. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with the club. Why don’t you just run the raffle yourself?”

  “I’m asking, Bertie, because the club has the legal right to sponsor a raffle. I don’t—”

  “Right enough. I never thought of that.”

  “And,” O’Reilly ploughed on, “the party would be a great place to have the draw.” Because, he thought, when Eileen gets the money, and I know how to arrange that, she can go shopping for presents the next day and Santa would come to her house on Christmas Eve after all. “I would like to ask for the executive’s approval.” He looked around the table and hoped mightily. Ordinarily he would have first done his political homework, a bit of quiet lobbying of the members, often lubricated with a jar or two.

  “Do you want to make that a formal motion, Fingal?” the marquis asked.

  “Not if everybody agrees.” He waited.

  “Does anybody object?”

  “I don’t like the percentage split,” Bishop said. “How about fifty-fifty?”

  “Councillor,” Father O’Toole said, “I believe Doctor O’Reilly said it was for a good cause.”

  “A very good cause,” O’Reilly added. “And it’s Christmas, Bertie.”

  Bishop had the grace to blush. “In that case I withdraw my objection.”

  “Good man, Bertie.” The marquis looked around the table and waited before finally saying, “I hear no other dissent.” He smiled at O’Reilly. “Looks like you have the go-ahead, Fingal, and the split you’ve asked for. I presume you will look after the details?”

  “I will. Thank you, everybody,” O’Reilly said. All right, problem one was almost solved and off O’Reilly’s agenda. Fitzpatrick might have to wait, but although he was out of sight, he was not out of O’Reilly’s mind but merely tabled.

  “Very well,” the marquis said, “if there is no further business, I’ll entertain a motion for adjournment.”

  With the motion duly proposed and seconded, the meeting broke up. O’Reilly had to wait for the other members to collect their hats and coats before he could get his own. He stayed at the table, wishing they would get a move on. He took out his gift. It was a truly handsome set. He would treasure it.

  The little crowd thinned out quickly, each member bidding O’Reilly a good evening as they departed. Only the Presbyterian minister remained when O’Reilly came forward to get his coat, scarf, and cap. “Doctor O’Reilly,” he said, “I’m willing to take your idea at face value, that it’s for a good cause. Can I help you with it?”

  “That’s very civil of you, Reverend; if you’ll forgive me, very Christian . . .”

  The minister chuckled.

  “But I’m on my way home now to discuss it with Doctor Laverty, and I already have a man in mind to run the raffle for me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly, “Donal Donnelly will be back from his honeymoon on Monday, and I’ve no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, that he’s the man for the job.”

  Thou Art a Hard Man

  Barry drove carefully home to Number 1 Main Street. He and Kitty greeted Kinky and then started to head upstairs, but the smell of brandy from the kitchen was overpowering. Kinky was about to start icing the Christmas cake she had baked in August and which she had liberally seasoned with spirits on a regular basis ever since.

  “Can I watch, Kinky?” Kitty asked. “I never seem to be able to get the icing quite right on mine.”

  “Bless you, Miss O’Hallorhan, of course you can.”

  Barry kept his counsel and watched too.

  The cake stood on a pastry board on the countertop, and as she worked, Kinky explained her methods step-by-step to Kitty.

  “The marzipan needs to be half an inch thick, so, and you stick it on with apricot jam,” Kinky said. “You put it on four days before you do the icing; otherwise the almond paste leaks through the icing.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing wrong. Thank you, Kinky,” Kitty said.

  “Most folks do make the same mistake,” Kinky said. “You have to leave it for four days before you put on the royal icing.” She lifted a ceramic bowl covered with a piece of damp gauze. Pulling the gauze away, she revealed a pure white paste that Barry could see was soft enough to be spread with a knife over the marzipan. As she worked, Kinky hummed to herself. She used the knife to transform the initially smooth surface into a series of irregular ridges like the sastrugi found on Antarctic ice sheets. “There. Now that looks more like a snow scene, so.” She rummaged in a tin caddy and produced a miniature snowman, two circus clowns, and a ballerina wearing a short gauze tutu and carrying a star-tipped wand. All of the figurines were two inches tall and stood on circular flat bases. Kinky set them in a group at one corner of the cake’s top by pressing their bases into the already setting icing.

  “I’ll put a sprig of holly at the other corner on the big day,” she said. “The decorations please the kiddies, so”—she looked knowingly at Kitty—“and the big fellah likes them too.”

  Kitty chuckled.

  Barry smiled with the two women, yet watching Kinky at work had made him a little sad. Her cake had unexpectedly reminded him of times from his own childhood Christmases, with his own mother—now in Australia and to whom he really must write—decorating their cake. He’d not be surprised if even O’Reilly felt nostalgic when some sights at this season brought back memories. “It’s beautiful, Kinky,” he said.

  She gave a little start. “Lord Jesus, Doctor Laverty. I’d forgotten you were there,” she said. “Don’t creep up on a body. You could give a poor Cork woman the rickets, so.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said.

  “No real harm done. I’ll forgive you—but thousands wouldn’t.” She was smiling as she lifted the cake to put it into a cake tin. “Will you take Miss O’Hallorhan upstairs now, sir? I’ve a bit more to do here.”

  “Certainly,” Barry said. “Doctor O’Reilly should be home soon, Kinky. We left him at the Rugby Club.” Then he spoke to Kitty. “Come on. We’ll go up and wait for Fingal.”

  “Thank you for the lesson, Kinky. I’ll remember the trick with the marzipan,” Kitty said.

  “Och, sure, it’s what my own mother taught me,” Kinky said, her grin wide. “Go on with you now.”

  “Right.” Kitty walked to the hall door. “I know my way. I’ll leave my coat in the hall.”

  Barry had started to follow when Kinky said, “It’s himself that’s on call today, is it not?”

  “It is,” Barry said, hesitating. “Have there been any calls for him?”

  “Nary the one, but your friend Doctor Mills rang and said he was sorry he’d not called last night and then missed your call today. But he said he’d ring back later.”

  Barry had expected to hear from Jack, but he had guessed, as was often the case in the lives of junior doctors in training, that things medical had come up. “Thanks, Kinky.”

  He headed for the staircase and on the way past the hall telephone thought about some of the conversations he’d had on it recently.

  A few days earlier he’d suggested Jack come here for one of Kinky’s dinners. Now, given Patricia’s stubbornness about allowing Barry to pay for her ticket home, Barry wasn’t so sure. Perhaps, he would go with Jack to one of the nurses’ parties or to the dance he’d mentioned. The dance might be a bit of fun. He’d almost certainly see some of his old classmates and be able to catch up with their doings. Why no
t? he asked himself, as he resumed his climb. Why not indeed?

  Kitty was standing in front of the fireplace in the lounge, her back to the fire, her black stirrup pants complemented by a cream, heavy knit, rollneck wool sweater that Barry couldn’t help noticing she filled rather well.

  “Would you like something, Kitty?” Barry nodded at the cut-glass decanters on the sideboard.

  “No, thanks, Barry. I’ll wait for Fingal.” She held her hands behind her to the fire for a moment before rubbing them together and blowing on them. “It got nippy enough out there. I’m not sorry to be here in the warm,” she said, moving to sit in one of the armchairs.

  Suddenly Barry saw Lady Macbeth spring lightly into Kitty’s lap, to be greeted with a stroke as the little cat made herself comfortable. Kitty smiled at Barry. “It’s a law, you know.”

  “What is?”

  “Whatever the colour of the cat, they’ll be attracted to clothes of the opposite shade. My black pants will be covered in white hairs.” She chuckled. “I don’t mind and she’s a pretty wee crayture. Aren’t you?” She tickled Lady Macbeth under the chin and was rewarded with a low purring. “I’d never have thought Fingal was a cat man,” she said. “He’s more like that bull-in-a-china-shop dog of his.”

  Barry nodded. “I don’t think he ever had any notion of getting a cat, but someone abandoned her here and he just took her in. It seemed a natural thing for him to do.”

  Kitty looked up into Barry’s eyes. “He’s always been like that, you know, ever since I’ve known him. Always on the side of the waifs and strays. I think,” she said, “he’s a big softie inside, and all the bluster and bravado is a cover for that.” Barry thought he heard a touch of wistfulness in her voice.

  “You could be right, Kitty.”

  “It can make him a hard man to get to know well. Very hard.”

  He was in no doubt now. And it was less the tone of her voice than the way she was looking at him that made Barry decide she was somehow seeking reassurance. “It’s difficult for me to know. I’ve only been here for a few months, but I think I am getting to understand him a bit.” Lord, he thought, she could be my own mother. I’m hardly in a position to advise her. “Maybe it just takes time.”

  She sighed. “You could be right.”

  Barry had an unexpected desire to go give the woman a hug and mutter, “There, there. It’ll be fine.” He’d not expected Kitty O’Hallorhan to be so open with him, a relative stranger. When next she spoke, his eyes widened, and he wondered if she had been able to read his mind.

  “It’s not for myself I’m asking you this,” she said. “I’m very fond of the big eejit, Barry, but he’s only had Mrs. Kincaid to keep an eye to him and now there’s yourself. Will you do me a favour?”

  He saw something deep in those amazing grey-flecked-with-amber eyes that would have had him saying yes, even if she’d asked him to pluck out a couple of his own fingernails. “Of course,” he said.

  “Take the time to get to know him, and in time, and don’t ask me how long that will take, try to be his friend. Please?”

  Barry wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so he simply said, “I’ll do my best, Kitty.”

  “Thank you, Barry.” She looked away and stared to somewhere in the middle distance. Her eyes were very shiny as she said, “I’d appreciate that very much.”

  Barry was trying to frame a suitable answer when the subject of the conversation arrived.

  “It’s as cold out there as a stepmother’s breath,” said O’Reilly, barging in past Barry and heading for the sideboard. “I think,” he remarked, pouring himself a stiff Jameson, “a little internal antifreeze is indicated. Anyone else?”

  Kitty, with her back still turned to him, said cheerfully, “Could I have a gin and tonic, please, Fingal?”

  O’Reilly smiled at her. “We don’t normally stock the stuff, but I remembered you used to like it as well as Jameson so I did get a bottle.” He bent, opened a door in the sideboard, and produced a bottle of Gilbey’s gin and a bottle of Schweppes tonic water. “Barry?” O’Reilly straightened and started to mix Kitty’s drink.

  Barry shook his head. “I’ll be driving up to Belfast later, Fingal, and the roads are a bit icy.”

  “I didn’t notice,” O’Reilly said, “but then I was in a hurry to get home.” And when that happens, Barry thought, not even an ice age would have the temerity to hinder your progress, Fingal, never mind the odd patch of black ice.

  O’Reilly handed Kitty her drink, plonked himself down in the other armchair, grinned at her, raised his glass, and said, “Sláinte.”

  She faced him and clinked her glass against his, smiling openly. “Cheers, Fingal. Nice to have you back. It really is.”

  Barry wondered if there was a deeper subtext to her comment. “How did it go at the Rugby Club?” he asked.

  “Short, sharp, and to the point,” O’Reilly said. “We’ve all the arrangements made for the Christmas party. I’ll be Santa.”

  “And any idea you have of me being an elf—”

  “You’re far too tall,” O’Reilly said, “and anyway I’ve another job for you.”

  “Not tonight you haven’t. I’m going up to Belfast as soon as my friend Jack phones.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. “Enjoy yourself and sleep late tomorrow. My job’ll keep until Monday, until Donal Donnelly and Julie get back from their honeymoon.”

  Barry sensed the ringing of distant alarm bells at the merest mention of Donal’s name.

  “Yes,” O’Reilly charged on, “I’ve the answer to Eileen Lindsay’s financial woes.”

  “Oh? What is it?” Barry frowned. He was all for helping Eileen, but if O’Reilly wanted to involve Donal, the plan probably involved robbing the Ballybucklebo branch of the Bank of Ireland, and Barry did not fancy being cast as the driver of the getaway car. Before O’Reilly could offer an explanation, Barry heard the telephone ringing below.

  “That’ll be your friend Mills,” O’Reilly said. “Nip down and see like a good lad. Save Kinky having to climb up here.”

  Barry remembered that O’Reilly, who planned to take Kitty to the Crawsfordsburn Inn for dinner, had said he’d not take it amiss if Barry disappeared at about this time in the evening. “All right, Fingal.” Barry started for the door, half turned, and said, “If I don’t see you again, have a pleasant evening, Kitty.” Without waiting for a reply, he trotted down the stairs, picked up the receiver, and said, “Hello?”

  “How the hell are you, Barry?” Jack’s Cullybackey accent was as thick as ever. “Sorry we’ve been missing each other, but you know what it’s like when a ward’s busy.”

  “I’m grand, Jack,” Barry said, “and never worry about missing a few phone calls. It can’t be helped.” He took a deep breath, thought about Patricia, realized he was still feeling somewhere between disappointed and angry, and decided what the eye didn’t see, the heart wouldn’t grieve over. “Are you still on for some kind of do tonight?”

  “Is the pope Catholic? There’s a dance at the nurses’ home.”

  “Let’s go to it. Do you want to come down here for supper first? Kinky’s made a steak-and-kidney pie.”

  “No, thanks. I’ve to pick up Mandy, and she lives away out the Antrim Road. It’ll take me a while to get to her place and back before seven. The dance is at eight in the nurse’s home, Bostock House, just across the road in the grounds of the Royal.”

  “Jesus, Jack, don’t try to teach your granny to suck eggs. I know where Bostock House is. Didn’t we both use to pick up nurses there?”

  “Indeed, Effendi. What a silly man I am, but then I am coming from a silly people. Let us meet in the oasis of O’Kane at sevenish. It is of my father’s people, the Beni-sadr, not of the Howitat tribe, and the drinks are ours for the taking.” Jack’s accent was a perfect imitation of Omar Sharif’s in Lawrence of Arabia, which Barry and Jack had seen together a couple of years earlier.

  Barry laughed. “You and your imitations. Bug
ger off, Mills . . . I’ll see you and Mandy in the Oak at seven.” Barry replaced the receiver.

  He glanced at his watch. Good, he’d have time enough to get cleaned up and then eat Kinky’s steak-and-kidney pie. He knew she would be very hurt if he left it uneaten. She knew O’Reilly was not dining at home tonight, and it would have been very inconsiderate of Barry to let her prepare supper for him alone rather than tell her well in advance that she’d not need to. He had some understanding of how hard Kinky worked to keep her charges properly fed. She never minded if her doctors had to miss a meal if they were called out for medical reasons, but she could get sniffy if they knew in advance they’d be out and neglected to inform her. And rightly so, Barry thought. Keeping her apprised of his plans was the least courtesy he could pay her.

  He climbed the stairs on the way to his attic bedroom. As he passed the closed door to the upstairs lounge, he heard O’Reilly say, “. . . and Donal Donnelly’s the man for the job,” followed by O’Reilly’s booming laugh and Kitty’s higher-pitched chuckle.

  Barry smiled. He realized that whatever the job for Donal was, it would be revealed in the fullness of time. Tonight he was going to see his friend and forget about medicine, the citizens of Ballybucklebo, and the stubbornness of the love of his life.

  A Feast of Wine on the Lees

  O’Reilly stood back and held Kitty’s coat for her. He noticed how delicately the fine hairs curled from the nape of her neck, her subtle perfume.

  “I think, Fingal,” she said, “as I’ve only had a small gin and tonic and you had your snake antivenin at the game and a large John Jameson just now, I should drive.”

  “Drive my Rover? It’s a big heavy brute.”

  “My Mini is parked in the lane beside Barry’s Volkswagen.” She linked her arm in his and began to walk toward the kitchen. “I’ll drive to the Crawfordsburn, and I’ll bring us back here afterward so you can have a drink there and not worry about driving home.”

  The kitchen was empty. Kinky must have disappeared up to her quarters to watch her small television set. The comedy Steptoe and Son, about a couple of English rag-and-bone men and their horse, Hercules, was one of her favourites, and O’Reilly knew she had also enjoyed the late-night political satire That Was the Week That Was before it was taken off the air the year before.