An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  “I did want to see the waterfowl. I’m glad I did. I may not get another chance. And it’s not as if you’re free much when I do come home. You still have a job to do. I’d be bored half to death hanging around in Newry. There’s nothing to do there.”

  “I can understand that, but O’Reilly will give me time off. He knows I need to see you.” Barry was now sure that even though she had admitted to some reluctance to travel, she still wasn’t telling him the real reason. “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  Her tone changed from placatory to matter-of-fact. “Do you want an honest answer?”

  “Of course I do.” Never mind something else; there must be somebody else. He closed his eyes and waited.

  “I’m not sure I want to leave here.”

  Damnation. Barry took a deep breath. “Not sure? Not even for a few days? Why not?” This was starting to sound like last July, when she’d told him she was too busy with her career to fall in love.

  “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking.”

  “Yes,” he said cautiously. “About what?”

  “About us.”

  Barry blew out his breath through pursed lips. “What about us?” For God’s sake, man, he told himself, ask her. “Patricia, are you trying to tell me you’ve met someone else?”

  “Yes and no—”

  “Yes and no?” he cut in. “What the hell does that mean?”

  “I’m trying to say, yes, I’ve met a lot of people and, no, nobody in particular, just a whole lot of really interesting people. Cambridge is full of folks from all over the world. Thinkers. Questioners.” He heard excitement in her voice. “You hear all kinds of new ideas. Nobody lives in the past, not like—”

  “Not like your average Ulsterman. And your new friends are all a damn sight more exciting than a country GP from a little town in the back of beyond. Is that it?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  Barry’s jaws tightened. “You might as well have.”

  “That’s not fair.”

  “Why not? It’s what I am.”

  “Barry, look . . . I’ve never been away from Ulster before. It’s taken a bit of getting used to. I’m in some pretty tough courses and the competition is fierce here. There are only three women in the class, and we have to show everyone how good we are. It’s hard work . . . but I’ve never been happier.”

  Jesus, and he’d been stupid enough to believe he’d been competing with a bunch of ducks. If it were only that simple. This was the side of Patricia that frightened him. This was the aggressive I’m-a-woman-making-my-way-in-a-man’s-world Patricia. This was the nothing-is-going-to-get-in-my-way Patricia, not even you, Barry Laverty. It had been hard enough to accept this when she was living in Ulster, but he had tried and succeeded reasonably well.

  He wondered how many of the “really interesting people” she’d met at the university shared her opinions, reinforced them, hardened them. Was it one of them who had told her never to accept money from a man?

  “I see,” Barry said, as levelly as he could manage, “and it’s so exciting there, although term’s over and you don’t have any classes, that you can’t bear to drag yourself away even for a few days to be with—” He was going to say “the man who loves you” but bit off the words.

  “Christ, Barry, that’s not true.”

  “Patricia, I haven’t changed. You have. I don’t think you want to see me.” Barry held his breath. If she said he was right, his world would collapse.

  “I do, Barry. I still love you.” She spoke quietly.

  Barry exhaled. He felt relief, but it was tinged with wondering if it was the truth. He couldn’t quite bring himself to say, “I love you too.” “Then why haven’t you made an effort to get a booking to come home?”

  “Because I couldn’t.”

  “Couldn’t? Come on, Patricia. How much effort does it take to make a ferry booking? A phone call or two?” He heard an edge creep into his voice.

  Her words were more terse too. “I said I couldn’t, and I meant I couldn’t. Draycot’s tiny. Jenny’s aunt hasn’t got a telephone. There’s no travel agent here. Today’s the first chance I’ve had.”

  “And?” He knew he should have apologized for his sarcasm.

  “And as soon as I get off the phone, Jenny’s going to run me to Cambridge to the travel agent there. I am going to try to get home.”

  Good. At least he’d be able to thrash all this out with her face-to-face. “Then why did you tell me you weren’t sure if you wanted to leave?”

  “Because you asked me and because it’s true. I’ve all kinds of reasons to want to stay. Jenny’s dad’s got tickets to King’s College Chapel for the Christmas Eve lessons-and-carols service. I’d love to go. I’m enjoying living in Bourn with my friend. Some of my other classmates and Jenny and I are going down to the Tate Gallery in London today, and after we’ve been to Cambridge they’re planning trips to the National Gallery and the Victoria and Albert. Newry’s a dump, and even though I love Mum and Dad, I’ve already told you I’d be bored stiff there.”

  He clenched his fist. The temptation was huge to lose his temper and yell, “Then why don’t you stay?” Barry forced his fist to uncurl. “When will you know for sure exactly when you are coming?”

  “As soon as I’ve got my tickets, you’ll be the first to know, Barry.” She managed a small laugh and said, “After the travel agent and Jenny, that is. But I may not get a chance to ring for a day or two.”

  Here we go again. “Why not, for heaven’s sake?”

  “I told you; I’m going up to town today.” That was a very English expression for going to London. “And we’ll be staying with Jenny’s sister in Chelsea until Tuesday morning. I may not get a chance to phone you until I’m back in Bourn.”

  “Patricia, London is full of public telephones. They’re in red kiosks. If you’ve no money, reverse the charges. You can leave a message with Mrs. Kincaid if I’m not here. I really want to know when you’ll be arriving.” He pursed his lips. “Look, I’m sorry if I was a bit snappy, but I miss you like mad, and Patricia . . . ?”

  “Yes, Barry?”

  “I love you.”

  “You weren’t snappy, just worried, I know that. And I will try to get time to phone, but I am going to be very busy, darling. I do love you.”

  He tingled at the words.

  “Hang on . . . what? We need to leave? All right. Sorry, darling, Jenny wants to leave now. I’ve got to dash.” And before he could tell her once more that he loved her, the line went dead.

  He shook his head and replaced the receiver. Although she was finally going to make the arrangements, Barry now knew he’d been right to worry that after experiencing life in England she might be less enchanted with a small town in Ulster. That was something they would have to talk about once she got here, but there wasn’t much point stewing over it now.

  He climbed the stairs to the lounge and plumped himself down in his chair. His abandoned coffee was stone cold. He shrugged. It didn’t really matter. He wasn’t that interested in it anyway. Just as long as his romance wasn’t going cold too.

  He looked over into the corner, where Lady Macbeth lay curled up sleeping under the oddly decorated Christmas tree. She clutched a little red glass ball to her chest.

  Three evenings ago O’Reilly had called for all hands on deck to trim the tree. Very splendid it had looked until Lady Macbeth decided the dangling ornaments were fair game. O’Reilly had conceded defeat and removed some of the temptations. The tree now stood with an angel at its apex. Baubles, tinsel, and fairy lights graced the upper branches, but there was a two-foot strip of tree between the glory above and the green, crepe paper–swathed butter box below, which was devoid of any decoration.

  Gift-wrapped and bow-adorned parcels lay beneath the tree on a maroon cloth Kinky had produced. Barry glanced at the one he had bought for Patricia. Please hurry up and make a booking, he thought. I want to see your face when you open it.

 
; Barry sighed, picked up the paper, and folded it to display the cryptic puzzle. He’d do that first, write his Christmas cards, and finish the half-completed letter to his folks. Then it would be time to pop around as he had promised and give Alice Moloney her test results.

  He looked at one across. Seven letters. “Ripped after a party. Got the wind.” He smiled. Sometimes the answer seemed to jump off the page. The word in question had to do with wind. Ripped meant torn. “After a storm” suggested putting the letter “a” after torn and you got “torna.” A party was a “do.” Answer: “torn-a-do.” He wrote “tornado” in the squares and moved on to the next clue.

  At least his mind was still working, even if his heart was as roiled as must be the grey seas of Strangford Lough.

  “Jesus,” said O’Reilly to Arthur, “we’re not meant to get bloody tornadoes in Ireland. We’ve not seen a bird for the last couple of hours. It’s so bloody windy they’re probably walking.” He moved closer to the wall and tried to get what shelter he could. If anything, the wind’s force had increased, and it made a mournful whistling sound as it blasted through a crack.

  The tide had risen and the waves were steeper and broke on the shore, sending spume flying over his shelter. He ducked, then felt the spray hit his waterproof jacket and another trickle of cold water penetrate his neck towel. He shuddered.

  O’Reilly pulled the last three sausage sandwiches out of the game-bag, which now held two mallard. “Here.” He tossed one sandwich to Arthur and took a great bite out of one of his own. “Best bloody bangers in Ireland.”

  He had no idea how long Cookstown, a small town in county Tyrone, had been producing sausages, but trust Kinky always to have a dozen in her refrigerator. They were always ready, she said, if she wanted to make toad in the hole. He could almost taste the pork sausages wrapped in a Yorkshire-pudding batter.

  Kinky’s store of sausages had come in handy the previous Saturday when Kitty rustled up that great fry after they’d come back from delivering Gertie Gorman’s baby. He’d enjoyed the meal and he’d enjoyed kissing Kitty good-night when she left Number One to drive back to Belfast.

  O’Reilly gulped down the last bite of the first sandwich and started on the second one.

  Never mind how much he’d enjoyed her cooking and that kiss, Kitty had impressed him that night with her professionalism. He’d been disappointed when she told him he wouldn’t be able to buy her another dinner because she was leaving on Monday to spend time with her mother in Tallaght.

  The time apart had allowed him to question his decision to let her into his life. He was a man who normally never hesitated to make a decision, and so he wondered if the act of questioning in itself was an indication that he wanted nothing beyond friendship with Kitty O’Hallorhan.

  He ducked again as another wave hurled spume across the cot. He was getting chilled through, and the salt water had drenched the remains of his sandwich. He threw it over the wall. You were in love with her when she was a girl, he told himself. She’s told you she still cares. She’s giving you a second chance, but it won’t last forever. She told you that too. Should you chuck her away as you chucked away the soggy bread and sausage?

  O’Reilly picked up the game bag and slung it over his shoulder. He lifted his gun from where he’d left it propped against a corner, unloaded it, and tucked it in the crook of his left arm. “Come on, Arthur. Enough’s enough. Let’s head for home.”

  With Arthur at his heels, O’Reilly turned his right shoulder to the wind and started back to where he’d left the Rover. He trudged over the springy turf toward the five-bar gate at the end of the lane down from the Portaferry Road.

  The wind and spray stung his cheek. A small pool of peat-brown water lay in his path. He could have walked around its verge, but instead he strode straight ahead, feeling the mud at the bottom sucking at his waders.

  Arthur splashed through the water. “You must be getting bloody cold too,” he said. “A run’ll warm you up a bit. Get on out.” He watched Arthur gallop off nose to the ground, quartering, looking for scent.

  He thought of Kitty’s perfume last Saturday night, how handsome he had thought her, and—a little thing—how the fine hairs had curled on the nape of her neck. He remembered how she’d wanted a good wine but had been concerned lest he think it too expensive. That had been considerate.

  He still felt jealousy of the other men who had kissed her. Kitty was a mature worldly woman, and he knew there must have been others. He’d guessed as much when she made him taste one of her garlicky snails, made sure they’d both eaten garlic before her not-so-subtle offer to kiss him. And he would have, by God, given her more than a good-night kiss in the hall, if the emergency hadn’t intervened. He bloody well would have.

  His thoughts were interrupted by a harsh high-pitched craaking, and he saw a small brown bird with a long narrow beak flying away, jinking erratically from side to side. A snipe. He threw the gun to his shoulder, then remembered he had unloaded. O’Reilly chuckled at himself and shouldered the shotgun.

  You can be like that sometimes, Fingal. Acting reflexively without always taking the trouble to think things through. You did it with the raffle. A great idea, but you’d not considered how to ensure that Eileen won. It took Donal to sort that out. You took on Fitzpatrick without a clear plan of attack and were lucky to get away with cowing the man.

  Now why, he wondered, why am I having reservations about Kitty?

  He stopped to open the five-bar gate; its hinges were rusty and it refused to budge when he pushed at it. He planted his feet, then rammed at the gate with all his strength, and this time it creaked wide open. He went through and shoved it shut.

  Arthur came racing down the Point, leapt, and soared over the gate.

  “Well done,” O’Reilly said. “You cleared that obstacle with room to spare.” His utterance made him see clearly that as far as Kitty O’Hallorhan was concerned, the only obstacle was himself and the fear of being hurt. You’re an amadán, O’Reilly, he told himself. When she comes back up north, she’ll have Christmas dinner at Number One. Either that evening, if he could get her alone, or shortly after, he’d ask her if she’d . . . no, by God, he’d tell her he was going to take her up on her offer to give him a second chance.

  He opened the back door of the Rover, putting his gun and gamebag on the backseat. “Get in, Arthur. That’s enough for today. Let’s head back to Number One, get warmed up, and see how Barry’s doing.”

  Dog and master got into the car.

  Even before O’Reilly started the car’s engine—and certainly well before the unreliable old heater had a chance to warm him up—O’Reilly felt the chill leaving his bones. He knew it was because while he looked forward to Christmas dinner every year, this year there was an added fervour. Kitty O’Hallorhan would be there.

  Now in Injia’s Sunny Clime, Where I Used to

  Spend My Time

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor Laverty. I do appreciate you taking the trouble to visit me on a Saturday morning.” Alice Moloney, wearing a maroon, knitted, midcalf-length dress and low-heeled brogues, stood beside a glass-topped wheeled trolley. She poured tea into a cup. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Just milk, please.”

  As she fussed with his cup of tea, Barry looked around the living room of her over-the-shop flat. The walls were papered with a cream flock paper. Prints by Edgar Degas and Claude Monet kept company with dried flowers in circular glass-fronted frames. A framed tapestry sampler of the Lord’s Prayer in fine needlework—he guessed it was her own stitching—hung over the mantel of a gas fireplace. The little blue flames danced and popped.

  Miss Moloney’s budgerigar sat on its perch in a domed wire cage hanging from a cast-iron stand in the corner of the room. Barry had never understood the appeal of keeping anything in a cage, but couldn’t deny that the little cobalt-blue bird was a handsome creature. Its white head and face were highlighted by a scarlet beak and piercing black eyes and surrounded by a black-and-wh
ite striped hood.

  A very large, almost spherical tortoiseshell cat lay asleep on a Victorian side chair in front of a tablecloth-draped sideboard, where small ivory carvings, intricately filigreed brass boxes, and a kirpan in a silver sheath—souvenirs from India, he thought—were arranged with geometric precision beside a few cheap knickknacks. Barry wondered if the cup emblazoned with A Present from the Isle of Man, the little Scotsman doll in a kilt, and the miniature Nelson’s Column were all mementos of less exotic places she had holidayed.

  A two-foot-high live fir tree in a pot of soil sat undecorated in the middle of a heavy bog-oak table.

  Only two Christmas cards flanked an ormolu clock on the mantel.

  “Thank you.” He accepted the cup and saucer and waited for Alice Moloney to finish pouring her own and be seated.

  Perched uncomfortably on the edge of an armchair he recognized as Queen Anne, Barry looked at the chair’s characteristic drake feet and sculpted cabriole legs. His parents, to whom he had just posted the long overdue letter, were interested in antique furniture, and he had absorbed a working knowledge of the subject listening to them and studying the illustrations in their books. This one, with its flared armrests, was typical of the early eighteenth century, and it was now upholstered in red velvet, a lace antimacassar draped over its back.

  “Will you have one?” She pointed to a plate of scones.

  “No, thank you, Alice. The tea’s fine.”

  “Nasty weather we’re having.” She held the handle of her Royal Doulton teacup between her thumb and first three fingers. Her little finger was outstretched. Her hand trembled slightly.

  “Indeed it is.” Miss Moloney had been brought up as a gentlewoman in preindependence India. She would insist on observing the social niceties before getting down to business. He sipped his tea and continued to test his knowledge of eighteenth-century furniture.

  The room was cluttered with reproduction pieces, but he was pretty certain that a dropleaf table against one wall was an original Sheraton. On the table he saw a collection of photographs in silver frames. The silver had been freshly polished, but the photographs were fading.