An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry said, “See? Didn’t I tell you?”

  “It’s warming up all right.”

  O’Reilly looked around the room. Colourful streamers hung from the ceiling, and the Christmas tree stood glittering in one corner. Beside it an empty armchair awaited Santa. Donal Donnelly was bending over the bulging sack by the chair, tucking something inside. Presents for some chiseler. Father O’Toole, who usually looked after receiving the gifts, must have asked Donal to help out. Was there anything in this village that didn’t involve Donal?

  “There’s the marquis chatting with Sonny and Maggie,” O’Reilly remarked to Barry.

  “That’s a sprig of yellow gorse in her hatband. It was two wilted geraniums the first time I met her.”

  “And you thought she was craiceáilte. Crazy.”

  “A woman who said she’d headaches two inches above her head? Don’t you think I’d every reason to?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “But you learned better.” You’ve learnt a lot of things, Barry Laverty, in five months. I’m proud of you, son, O’Reilly thought.

  The music changed to Bing Crosby’s “Christmas in Killarney.” “The holly green, the ivy green . . .”

  “And sure isn’t that a pretty picture too, all those folks standing around in groups? Do you know, Barry, it makes me think they look like islands in the sea, and from time to time one or two folks, like canoes on a voyage of exploration, cast off from their own shores, make a short voyage, and land on another atoll to see if the natives are friendly.”

  “That’s poetic, Fingal.”

  “You mean I’m a poet . . . and I don’t know it?”

  Barry groaned. “I heard that in kindergarten.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “I’m glad you learnt something there, son.” He saw the marquis detach himself and head for the doorway in which the two were standing. “Now I’ve about five minutes before I have to go on because here comes His Lordship looking for Santa.” O’Reilly stepped back and opened the door more widely.

  “Fingal. Laverty.” The marquis offered O’Reilly his hand.

  “John.” O’Reilly shook the hand and noted that Barry kept a respectful silence.

  “All set at your end, Fingal?”

  “I think so, as long as Donal has the sack ready.”

  “He has. So give me a couple of minutes to arrange your grand entry, and you’re on.” The marquis vanished into the hall.

  O’Reilly took one last look before letting the door close. Gerry and Mairead Shanks were listening to Cissie Sloan, and the two little Shanks were playing tag with Colin Brown and Micky Corry. There was more to this Rugby Club party than having a good time, he thought. It was serving tonight to introduce the Shanks to Ballybucklebo, and if the way they were giggling and laughing was anything to go by, it had been a place for Colin and Micky to bury the hatchet with each other. Begod, Fingal, he told himself, if Fitzpatrick were here I’d offer to buy the man a drink.

  He was letting the door close when he saw Gerry Shanks again. This time O’Reilly frowned. He tried to remember exactly what he’d said when he’d suggested Gerry and his family come to the party. It came back to him. “Mother of Jesus.”

  “What’s up?”

  “I’ve just had an awful thought. You remember the Shankses?”

  Barry smiled. “The gunpowder man?”

  “Aye. They’re out there with their kids. They’re new here. I told them to come to the party.”

  “What’s wrong with that?”

  “I forgot to tell them to bring presents for their own kids.”

  “Jesus, Fingal. It would be a disaster if Santa had nothing for them.”

  “Don’t I know it. To be ignored by Santa in front of the entire village? They’d be devastated.” Think, O’Reilly. You made the mess, you fix it.

  “What’ll we do, Fingal?”

  O’Reilly looked at Barry. “We?”

  “Of course, we. I’ll help however I can.”

  “Good man ma da.” O’Reilly was still trying to find a solution when Barry asked, “Could I maybe drive to Ballybucklebo and buy something?”

  “No, the shops will be shut. Everybody’s here.” And Bangor and Holywood were too far away. Think, O’Reilly. Think. Got it. “Have a word with Phyllis Cadogan.”

  “Billy-the-asthmatic’s mother?”

  “The Cadogans run the newsagent’s, and they stock Dinky Toy cars, little dollies, and stuffed puppy dogs. Maybe she could get there, open up, and get back here in time with some things.”

  “Right. I’m sure I saw her.”

  The door opened. Bing Crosby’s velvety voice, made harsh by the loudspeakers, crooned, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas . . .”

  Donal shut the door. “The marquis sent me to switch off the music. Gramophone’s in the committee room, and he says once the music stops, Santa’s on.”

  “All right.” O’Reilly made sure his beard was properly attached. “And Donal”—O’Reilly pulled out his wallet—“here’s the stub you wanted.” He handed over the stub of Eileen Lindsay’s raffle ticket.

  Donal palmed it, winked, and started back along the corridor.

  “I’m off, Fingal.” Barry let himself into the hall and left the door ajar.

  Bing Crosby was wishing “May your days be merry and bright,” but he didn’t get any further. Donal had done his job.

  O’Reilly took a deep breath, flung the door wide, and strode into the hall.

  The cheers that greeted him were, if anything, louder than the earlier racket. He bowed and began his progress, as slowly as he could. The more time he gave Barry, the better. Bugger. He’d lost Barry in the crowd, and could only hope he would find Phyllis Cadogan quickly.

  O’Reilly climbed onto his chair and roared, “Ho, ho, ho!”—sentiments he did not exactly share. “It’s good to be back in Ballybucklebo with presents for the children.” All of them, please God, if Barry gets a move on. “Let me see who’s first.” He opened the sack, pulled out a parcel, and read the label. “Callum Sloan, get you up here this very instant.” There was applause, and O’Reilly’s “Ho, ho, ho!” rang out over the noise.

  “Ho, ho, ho! Come on, Colin Brown. Your turn. There’s room in my sack for your prezzy, even if there didn’t seem to be much room at your inn.” The laughter was subdued. No one, it seemed, wished to embarrass the boy. As Colin walked forward, he blushed until his face was almost as red as Santa’s tunic. O’Reilly enveloped the boy in an enormous bear hug, hoisted him onto his knee, and handed him a gift-wrapped parcel. “Try to be a good boy next year.”

  “Yes, Santa. I promise.”

  O’Reilly solemnly shook the boy’s hand to seal the agreement.

  Colin walked away. The applause was deafening. Maybe that’s put the wee lad’s stock up a bit, O’Reilly hoped.

  He scanned the room. Phyllis was heading purposefully for the door. O’Reilly noticed her husband surrounded by their five children waiting their turns. Get a move on, Phyllis. Please. Fingal O’Reilly had to get on with things here.

  “Jeannie Kennedy, where are you?” he roared. Crisis notwithstanding, he really enjoyed being Santa, and he had room to regret he’d never been able to play it for children of his own.

  Up she came, shining in her frilly party dress. Hair was neatly brushed and held in place with a green Alice band.

  “Ho, ho.” He lifted her onto his knee. “Have you been naughty or nice this year, Jeannie?”

  “Nice, Santa. And my pet pig has too.”

  O’Reilly remembered running from the sow last July when he and Barry had visited her parents’ farm. He’d thought the animal was chasing him, but in reality she had only wanted her snout scratched.

  “Good, but she’s not getting a present. You are.” He handed her a parcel. “Off you trot.” He set her back on the floor and put his hand into the sack, which was a great deal emptier than it had been fifteen minutes ago.

  O’Reilly glanced to the Shanks. Gerry had his arm around Mairead’
s shoulder. Their two children stared at Santa with obviously eager anticipation. Angus was grinning widely and turning to say something to his younger sister. She clapped her hands and jumped up and down. It wasn’t difficult to infer that he’d been reassuring her that their turn would come soon.

  It was still far too early to expect to see Phyllis returning. “Lucy MacVeigh.” O’Reilly called.

  A little girl was brought forward by her mother. She was sucking her thumb and resisting her mother’s efforts. As she neared O’Reilly, she started to cry. He towered over her from his seat, and to the child he must have seemed huge.

  O’Reilly immediately slipped from his perch and knelt before little Lucy, bringing his face down to her level. He whispered to her. She stopped crying, slowly fingered his Santa’s beard, and started to giggle. O’Reilly did not stand up until Lucy had shyly accepted her gift and she and her mother had moved away.

  Ten minutes later O’Reilly thrust his hand deeply into a sack that seemed to have collapsed for lack of contents. He looked over to the still-closed hall door. What the hell was he going to do?

  He stuck his hands deeply into the pockets of his jacket and felt something. Saved by the bell. He grinned and didn’t hesitate to decide what to do. “Are the Shanks children here?” O’Reilly boomed. “Angus? Siobhan?”

  He could see Siobhan clinging to her mother. “I know you’re here. I saw you,” Santa called. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  Gerry took each of his little ones by a hand and led them forward. The silence in the hall was so deep O’Reilly could feel it. Gerry stopped in front of O’Reilly. “Here they are, Santa.”

  “Come here, the pair of you,” O’Reilly said. He held out his arms and then embraced Siobhan in the crook of one and Angus in the other. “Welcome to Ballybucklebo.”

  He saw Phyllis pushing her way through the crowd, waving to attract his attention. Too late. If she gave him some toys now, the little Shankses would see and the illusion would be shattered. He’d better get on with it.

  O’Reilly disengaged his right arm and put his hand into his pocket. Before he produced his surprise, he said, “Mrs. Claus and the elves were very, very busy this year. She said to say she’s sorry they didn’t have time to wrap your presents. Anyway, they’d run out of paper at the North Pole.”

  He pulled out the presentation pen and pencil set he’d taken from his jacket after he had changed into his Santa suit. He spoke loudly. “Here you are.” He handed the pen to Angus and the propelling pencil to Siobhan. “Merry Christmas.”

  The two piped, “Thank you, Santa,” and the way Gerry stood smiling broadly was worth more than any presentation pen and pencil set. O’Reilly raised his voice. “Ho, ho, ho!” he roared. “Ho, ho, ho! Merrrrry Christmas!” Then he raised both arms above his head, extended his hands palms out, and in the immortal words of Tiny Tim, said, “God bless us, every one.”

  The applause and cheering, which started as a dull rumble, eventually became so loud that they must have scared the jackdaws from their roosts in the big elm trees at faraway Ballybucklebo House.

  O’Reilly left the sack on the floor and headed for Barry. “That,” he said, “in the words of that great Irish-born duke of Wellington after Waterloo, was ‘the nearest run thing you ever saw in your life.’ ”

  “Fingal, that was most generous—”

  “Balderdash.” He shook his head. “Christmas is for the kiddies. How could I let a couple of them get hurt?”

  Barry whispered under his breath, “Suffer the little children . . .”

  “Stop mumbling, Barry. Come into the hall with me. I’ve still got to be Santa ’til I get out of here.” O’Reilly turned and faced the crowd. He waved and waved and roared, “Merrrrry Christmas!” as he sidled to the door.

  The minute Barry had joined him and the door was closed, O’Reilly ripped off his black belt and started to unbutton his coat. “I have to get out of this suit. It’s like being in one of those Scandinavian saunas, so be a good lad and get me a Jameson.” Without waiting for a reply, he strode off, yelling, “I’ll be back as quickly as I can. I don’t want to miss the raffle.”

  Back in his tweeds once more, O’Reilly headed for the hall.

  Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum . . . blared from overhead.

  He made a beeline for Kinky, who stood behind two trestle tables. The roasts Barry had described had been reduced to bony skeletons. There was no sign of Kinky’s sausage rolls. A couple of lonely sandwiches, their edges curled, lay on a plate.

  There were a few nuts, some sad-looking mandarin oranges. It looked as if Barry’s confident assertion that nobody was going to die of starvation might be proved false.

  “ ’Twas a Grand Santa you were, Doctor O’Reilly.” Kinky smiled at him from behind her table.

  “Hungry work,” he said, still looking at the tables. “Was it a swarm of locusts went through here?” He sighed. “Is there a bite left in the house for when we get home?”

  “Better,” she said, stooping and straightening up. She handed him a plate laden with beef, turkey, ham, and sausage rolls. “I didn’t bother with anything sweet,” she said. “Those Santa pants will be a size smaller next year, or my name’s not Kinky Kincaid.”

  “It’s not,” O’Reilly said. “It’s the angel of mercy. Bless you, Kinky.” He accepted the plate.

  “The cutlery’s on the next table,” she said, “so you go along, and I’m going to see Cissie and Flo and Aggie in the back. The three of them worked very hard, and we’ve set a bit aside for ourselves in there, so.”

  “Thanks, Kinky.” His thanks were heartfelt. Not only had she thought to save some grub for him, she’d not gone to get her own until he’d been seen to. That woman would have been a marvellous mother.

  O’Reilly grabbed a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin from the next table and headed to where Barry stood in conversation with the marquis.

  “Here, Fingal.” Barry handed him a glass. “It’s a double, and by the way I thanked Phyllis. She said it was no trouble as long as the kiddies got some kind of present.”

  “Good man.” O’Reilly, full plate in one hand, grabbed the whiskey from Barry. “Sláinte.” He drank and turned to the marquis. “My lord.”

  “Fingal, I saw what you did for those children. That was generous, most generous.”

  “Most generous,” Barry added.

  “The club will make it up—”

  “The club will do no such thing,” O’Reilly said very quietly and very seriously. “I’d prefer if no fuss is made. I did what I had to, that’s all. And it was my mistake in the first place, inviting them without telling them to bring presents.” If you bugger something up, you bloody well fix it, he thought. My father taught me that. The old man was right.

  “I’ll respect that,” the marquis said.

  “Thank you.” O’Reilly took a hefty swallow of his drink. “Now, John, we’ve one more piece of business, and then we can all get on with the party.” He balanced his glass on the side of his plate, ignored the wrapped cutlery, and used his fingers to pop a slice of ham into his mouth. “Can you get the raffle up and running?”

  “Naturally. You enjoy your supper.” The marquis turned and headed for the front of the hall.

  O’Reilly thought, as he savoured a piece of roast beef, in about ten minutes Eileen Lindsay’ll have the wherewithal. Jesus, he loved Christmas. He swallowed the beef and tried a piece of turkey.

  The marquis, standing at the front of the hall, was demanding silence. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he boomed. “Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention?”

  Conversation gradually died as people turned to see what was happening.

  “Could Johnny Jordan please come forward?”

  The crowd parted to let through a jolly-looking, red-cheeked, bald-as-a-coot man of about thirty. He stood beside the marquis and held aloft a very large turkey.

  “Mother of God”—Barry heard a woman’s voic
e from nearby—“that thing’s mother must have been an ostrich. It’s twenty pounds if it’s an ounce.”

  “Johnny here has very kindly donated this bird for our first annual Christmas raffle.”

  Polite applause.

  “The club can always use cash . . .”

  “Hear, hear . . .”

  “So we decided to sweeten the pot. Naturally the winning ticket gets this magnificent bird.”

  Johnny held it higher.

  “But we wanted more people to buy tickets, and so we decided to gamble. The odds are long, but if the winning ticket’s numbers are all identical, the holder will also win seventy-five percent of the money collected, which is . . . Donal?”

  “One hundred and ninety-five pounds, my lord,” Donal said, from where he stood off to one side.

  There was a communal in-drawing of breath and several muted “ooohs” and “aaahs.”

  “Will Donal Donnelly and Councillor Bertie Bishop please come forward now?”

  The two men appeared. Donal carried a hat. The councillor looked fit to bust with pride.

  “Give the hat a good stir, Donal.”

  Donal tilted the headpiece forward so everyone could observe how thoroughly he was mixing the ticket stubs. “Ready, sir,” he said.

  “If you please, councillor?”

  Bertie Bishop made a great show of rolling up his sleeve. Then, imitating a music hall conjuror, he said, “My lord, ladies and gentlemen, see, there’s nothing up my sleeve but my strong right arm.”

  “Makes a change,” a voice called. There was good-natured laughter.

  Bertie closed his eyes, plunged his hand into the hat, and produced a single ticket. He handed it to the marquis of Ballybucklebo.

  “And the winner of the turkey is . . . whoever holds ticket number 4444. I repeat, 4444.”