An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  “I’d not worry. It wouldn’t be the first time Constable Mulligan, Ballybucklebo’s finest, has driven me home. He says it’s less trouble than arresting me. But I’ll only have the one or two more tonight. I am on call.” He opened the back door for her. He frowned. He wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being driven by a woman.

  “I’ll hold you to only a couple,” Kitty said, “and we are taking my car. It’s not just yourself you could put in the ditch. I like being in one piece.”

  And I like you that way too, he thought, as he followed her through the back door and closed it behind him.

  “You’re beginning to sound like a wife, Caitlin O’Hallorhan,” he said without thinking. He was glad they were out in the darkness of the back garden and she couldn’t see his face. He knew he was probably grinning like an idiot because as the words slipped out, it had struck him that he could do worse—if ever he married again. Aye, and that would be when cherries grew on his apple trees, the bare limbs of which he could just make out limned against a dark sky. The stars were shining like chrome-plated rivets in a black knight’s ebony cuirass. “But . . . all right. You drive.”

  “Aaarf?” Arthur asked sleepily, as they passed his kennel.

  “Next Saturday,” O’Reilly said to the dog, who snorted and stayed in his doghouse.

  As O’Reilly let Kitty out through the back gate, he explained, “The pair of us are going to Strangford Lough next weekend for a day’s wildfowling. Arthur really enjoys that.”

  “I’m happy for Arthur,” she said, “but I’m sorry for the poor ducks. I can’t see them enjoying it very much.”

  O’Reilly shivered. That was exactly how Deidre had felt.

  “Here we are,” Kitty announced. “Hop in.”

  He opened the car door, scrunched himself into the front seat of the Morris Mini, and immediately felt great empathy for those undergraduates who from time to time tried to see how many men they could cram into a telephone box. By dint of expelling his breath and tucking his arms tightly against his sides, he was able to get his door to close. Just. “Neat little car,” he said, inwardly cursing its designer, Sir Alec Issigonis.

  Kitty swung out onto the Belfast-to-Bangor road. O’Reilly thought it better to let Kitty concentrate on her driving, so he sat quietly even though the traffic was light. The inside of the little car was lit, then plunged into darkness, as it moved between the pools of light cast by the few streetlights.

  They left Ballybucklebo and drove through the countryside.

  He sat in the darkness and let his mind roam freely. O’Reilly considered his plan to help Eileen. It seemed pretty foolproof. He smiled. Good. He wondered idly how the Irish rugby team would fare in the international series this season. France, Wales, England, and Scotland all would be fielding powerful teams.

  The inside of the car was illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. He turned and studied Kitty’s profile. She’d been a pretty girl as a student nurse. She was a handsome, mature woman now.

  Why, he asked himself, as he had done several times since Tuesday, why had she not married? She’d surprised him on Tuesday, telling him she had never forgotten him, could still care for him if he’d let her. She couldn’t have been carrying a torch for him, not for twenty-five years or so. Could she?

  Why not? He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his gloved hand. He had carried one for Deidre for twenty-three years, The light from the first streetlamp in the village of Crawfordsdburn was reflected in Kitty’s eyes; then the car was in darkness again. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, he should let his torch’s flame gutter. Not go out, oh no, but flare a little less brightly.

  He remembered the touch of Kitty’s hand on his after dinner at Number 1 Main Street, the brush of her lips on his own, and for a moment he had an almost overwhelming urge to lean across and kiss her cheek. But she was indicating for a left turn into the Inn’s car park, and he didn’t want to distract her.

  After she parked, they stepped into the Inn and hung their coats in the hall cloakroom; then he held her elbow as he steered her to the front desk. The entrance to the Inn was decorated for Christmas with sprigs of holly placed on top of the gilt frames of Irish landscapes. Two multicoloured paper chains looped diagonally from corner to corner under the ceiling beams. A mirror on one wall was half sprayed with artificial frost.

  O’Reilly paused at the desk. “Evening, John. This is Miss O’Hallorhan.”

  “Evening, Doctor O’Reilly. Pleased to meet you, miss.”

  Kitty smiled at him. “John.”

  “Will you do me a wee favour?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Same as always, Doctor?”

  “Aye. Miss O’Hallorhan and I will be in your dining room. If Mrs. Kincaid phones, will you come and get me?”

  “Like at the wedding?”

  O’Reilly nodded.

  “My pleasure, sir, but I hope I won’t have to.”

  “So do I,” O’Reilly said. He looked at the grandfather clock against one wall. “We’re a bit early so we’ll wait in the bar until our table’s ready.” Still holding Kitty by the elbow, he guided her to the Parlour Bar where the turf fire burned beneath a mantel hung with a holly wreath. Patrons, many of them the same men who’d been in on Monday, the regulars, occupied the same booths. He’d no need to come here very often, but the Duck had no restaurant, and if he were honest, taking Kitty there would set tongues wagging in Ballybucklebo.

  Colette was behind the bar. She greeted them with a huge grin, moved along the bar, and said, “How’s about ye, Doctor O’Reilly? You’re in for your dinner, I hear. Table for two? It’ll be ready in a wee minute, so it will. Would you both like a wee drink while you’re waiting?” She was already picking up a bottle of Jameson. She’d been serving O’Reilly on his infrequent visits for as long as he could remember, and Colette, he knew, was a superb barmaid with an encyclopaedic memory for what her customers favoured. She knew her wines too. She had to in a place that was too small to have a sommelier. He smiled and nodded his assent.

  “No, thanks,” Kitty said firmly. “We’ll be having a bottle of wine with our dinner, and I’m driving, and Fingal’s on call.”

  Colette’s eyes widened, but she kept her counsel and replaced the bottle. “You have a wee seat then and I’ll get you the menus, so I will.” She headed off along the bar.

  O’Reilly glanced at Kitty, shrugged, and reminded himself that he had promised to have only one or two more drinks. He waited for Kitty to sit at a small table, fished out his briar, and asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

  “Not at all. My father used to smoke a pipe. The smell of the tobacco reminds me of him.” When O’Reilly had the pipe well lit, she leant across the table, put both hands palm down on top, and looked into his eyes. “Thank you for taking me to the game today, Fingal. I really enjoyed it. It took me back.”

  O’Reilly smiled at her, and he knew she was alluding to the times she’d come to watch him play. Hearing her words, he too remembered those days, and the memories were bittersweet. His hand covered one of hers. “Me too,” he said.

  He heard a cough. Colette had returned. “Here youse are,” she said, handing each a menu. “And here’s the wine list.” She offered it to O’Reilly, but he shook his head. “Give it to the lady, Colette.” He saw the barmaid’s eyes widen for the second time in as many minutes. Men always selected the wines. “Kitty’s the wine expert. I’d not know a merlot from a marron glacé.”

  Colette shrugged and handed the list to Kitty. “I’ll give youse both a couple of wee minutes.” She left.

  O’Reilly opened the menu, scanned it quickly, and made up his mind. Scampi for a starter and then the lobster thermidor. He was particularly fond of the way the chef here prepared the scampi, deep-frying Dublin Bay prawns in a delicious batter. His tummy gurgled in anticipation. “Pardon me,” he said, putting the menu on the table.

  Kitty ignored him as she read. He watched her shaking her head over many of the offerings, noddin
g at others. Finally she gave one emphatic nod and closed the menu.

  “What would you like?” he asked.

  “Escargots,” she said, “and then . . . do they do the filet steaks well here, Fingal?”

  He nodded.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll have mine medium rare.”

  O’Reilly sat back in his chair and took his pipe from his mouth. He shook his head rapidly, then blinked twice, but the vivid mental image remained. A small restaurant in Dublin, low lights, a candle guttering on the table, a medical student wondering if he would be able to afford the meal they had just ordered to celebrate his date’s having qualified as a nurse. “That’s exactly what you had the very first time I took you out for dinner,” he said softly. “I remember because I’d never seen anybody eat snails before. We thought only the French did that.”

  “The restaurant was owned by a Frenchman.” She smiled, and he saw her colour heighten, her smile widen. She covered the back of his hand with her palm. “I didn’t think you’d remember,” she said, and there was huskiness in her voice.

  “I do, Kitty,” he said, “and you wore a green dress, and I leant over to tell you I thought you looked stunning . . . and I spilled a glass of red wine over your lap.” He felt her hand squeeze his and heard her throaty chuckles.

  “You’ve a very good memory, Fingal,” she said.

  “For some things. Important things.” He looked into her eyes and said, “Before you order the wine, so I can’t possibly spill it tonight, I’m going to lean over”—he leant so close that he was practically whispering in her ear—“and tell you you still look stunning.” He turned his hand and took hers in his. “Positively stunning.”

  “Thank you, Fingal.”

  He saw Colette approaching, guiltily released Kitty’s hand, leant back, stuck his pipe back in his mouth, and released a cloud of smoke that might have hidden the old Warspite from enemy eyes.

  “Ready?” Colette asked, pencil and notebook poised.

  O’Reilly gave the food order.

  Colette turned to Kitty. “And for the wine?”

  “I think we’d like the Bâtard-Montrachet,” Kitty said. “But is that all right, Fingal? It’s a bit pricey.”

  Typical Kitty, he thought. Great taste but a good eye for economics too. “For you, Kitty, on a day the Bonnaughts won, I think the O’Reilly exchequer can stand it.”

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling. “The Montrachet’s worth a few extra pounds, and it’s not hugely expensive, not like a Lafite Rothschild ’61.”

  Colette’s eyebrows shot up, and there was a tone of respect in her voice when she said, “We’ve a . . . we’ve a ’52 Montrachet; I know that for a fact, so I do.”

  “That would be lovely,” Kitty said. “Perhaps we could have a glass now?”

  “I’ll bring it right away.” Colette left.

  O’Reilly laughed. “And I suppose you like your martinis shaken not stirred, and you carry a Beretta 418 automatic or a Walther PPK?”

  “What ever do you mean, Fingal?” Her brows knit.

  “I mean like your man James Bond . . . he sure as hell knows his wines.”

  “I see.” She laughed. “Have you seen the films?”

  “No,” O’Reilly said, “but I’ve read every one of Ian Fleming’s books.”

  “Do you not go to the movies?”

  “I haven’t had the time,” he said, “but now I’ve Barry to share the load . . .”—he remembered kissing her in the back row of a cinema in Dublin—“we could go together.”

  “I’d like that very much.”

  “And I hope you’ll like this, miss,” Colette said, setting two glasses on the table and showing Kitty the bottle’s label.

  Their table in the Crawfordsburn dining room was in a small horseshoe-shaped alcove tucked in a corner. There was a semicircular banquette instead of chairs, and O’Reilly sat comfortably close on Kitty’s left side, with his back to the red velvet curtains he’d noticed as they were being shown to the table. He knew they were drawn over windows in the outside wall.

  Cotton-wool snow was stuck to the top of the half partitions separating the niche from other booths. The room was full of other diners and hummed to their conversations. O’Reilly was pleased that there was none of the tinny piped music now becoming a fixture in most Ulster restaurants.

  The lighting provided by two massive antique chandeliers was pleasantly dim. Dinner-suited waiters circulated silently, bringing full plates or retrieving empty dishes.

  On an immaculately white tablecloth, secure in its cut-glass candle-holder, a single red candle burned in the centre of O’Reilly and Kitty’s table. O’Reilly saw its flame reflected in Kitty’s eyes. He smiled at her and raised his glass.

  He wasn’t much of a wine drinker, but the Montrachet she had chosen was crisp and dry. “Nice,” he said, “very nice.”

  “I thought you’d enjoy it,” she said with a chuckle. “At least you will until you see the bill.”

  “I’ve already told you, and thank you for asking. Tonight,” said O’Reilly, sliding a little closer to her, “the sky’s the limit. Here’s to your bright eyes.” He drank.

  As she nodded in response, their waiter came to the table. “For madam,” he said, placing a plate of escargots in front of Kitty. The garlicky smell tickled O’Reilly’s palate. “And for you, Doctor, the scampi. Bon appetit,” he said, with a thick Belfast overlay, as he withdrew.

  O’Reilly watched Kitty pop the first snail into her mouth and the corners of her eyes crinkle. She swallowed. “That,” she said, “is very good.”

  “Good.” O’Reilly speared three scampi at once, shoved them in his mouth, and chewed with gusto. The batter was crisp and done to perfection, the flesh of the little crustaceans firm and delicate of flavour. As he speared three more, Kitty asked, “Do you like garlic, Fingal?”

  He nodded, his loaded fork halfway to his mouth.

  “Try this,” she said, holding an escargot on a fork. Before he could speak, she popped it into his mouth as a mother bird would feed a hungry chick.

  He chewed.

  Leaning closer to him, she said, “It’s the only trouble with garlic. If you haven’t eaten some yourself, it’s not very pleasant being kissed by someone who has.”

  O’Reilly stopped in mid-chew. His mouth opened a trifle. By God, if that was an invitation to kiss her, he’d take her up on it at the earliest opportunity. That thought pleased him, and yet just as the wine had a slight aftertaste of apricots, so did her confident statement have an undertone. Kitty’s remark was one of a woman not unused to being kissed, and that, quite irrationally, made him jealous.

  He swallowed, grinned at her, and said, “You’ll not have to worry about that tonight, Kitty.” Let her decide if he meant he wasn’t going to kiss her or if he was now well prepared to do just that.

  Her smile was inviting and he moved a little closer, aware again of the musky perfume she wore. Bugger the other diners, he thought, and he inclined his head and kissed her cheek. As he straightened up, he saw John, the desk clerk, standing at the table. “Yes, John?”

  “I’m sorry to intrude, Doctor O’Reilly, but your Mrs. Kincaid’s on the phone and says it’s urgent.”

  “Right.” O’Reilly stood and shoved the table aside. He was oblivious to everything because he knew Kinky, who was a dab hand at fending off trivial calls, wouldn’t phone him unless it really was an emergency. He left the dining room and charged along the hall, not bothering to apologise to a guest he jostled on the way past.

  The receiver lay on the desk. He grabbed it. “Hello? Kinky?”

  “Doctor O’Reilly. I’ve just had Miss Hagerty, the midwife, on the phone. She’s with a patient, Gertie Gorman, at Twenty-seven Shore Road.”

  Gorman? O’Reilly didn’t recognize the name.

  “The woman’s in labour, Miss Hagerty doesn’t think it’s going smoothly, and she can’t reach the woman’s doctor. Doctor Laverty’s in Belfast, so she wants to kn
ow would you go and help, sir?”

  “Of course. Kinky, call Miss Hagerty, tell her I’m on my way, and then bring the maternity bags through to the kitchen. I’ll be there in half an hour.” He handed the receiver to John. “Hang that up for me.”

  O’Reilly trotted back to the dining room and explained the situation to Kitty and to the headwaiter, who agreed to sort out the bill the next time O’Reilly came in.

  “Come on, Kitty,” he said. “Drive me home.”

  As he hustled her along the hall, he said, “I’m sorry about this. When we get home I’ll take the Rover, and you head home yourself—”

  “The hell I will, Fingal,” she said, grabbing her coat from the cloakroom. “I’m a nurse, remember? I’m coming with you.”

  On with the Dance! Let Joy Be Unconfined.

  It was a short way from O’Kane’s pub, the Oak Inn, to Bostock House, the nurses’ home. Barry, Jack, and Mandy walked companionably side by side, Mandy’s stiletto heels clicking on the pavement.

  Barry felt the chill December air on his cheeks and nose, heard the descant of the siren of a rapidly approaching ambulance as the nee-naw, nee-naw rose above the constant basso rumble of the traffic.

  He inhaled the brassy city smells of exhaust fumes and chimney smoke. The noise and stink were so different from the quiet and the clean air of Ballybucklebo. He remembered with affection his recent years of training here in Belfast but knew now he could never live here.

  As they approached the nurses’ home he heard, faintly at first but louder as they neared the redbrick building, the sounds of a traditional jazz band.

  The three friends climbed the stone steps to the entrance of the home. Joe, the doorman and general factotum, a retired boxer, and jealous guardian of his young charges, sat at a table taking tickets. Jack handed over three. It had been decent of him to buy them and refuse Barry’s offer to repay him.