An Irish Country Christmas (14 page)

“Bless you, sir, I do, so. Raisins, sultanas, currants, glacé cherries, mixed peel, and then that nip of brandy each month.”

Fruit, brandy? Sugar plus alcohol? Then he remembered. The combination could produce a powerful acid. One powerful enough to eat through . . . he looked at the metal bowl. “What’s this made of, Kinky?”

“Stainless steel, sir. Himself gave it to me out of the surgery last year when I’d the pudding mixture made but broke one of my regular ones. Like that one.” She pointed to a grey ceramic bowl on the counter.

Barry smiled. “I don’t think you need worry about the little people or the devil, Kinky.”

“And why not?”

“I’m pretty sure the fruit and the brandy combined to make an acid that attacks stainless steel but not pottery.”

She looked from one bowl to the other, then back again. “Now there’s a thing, so.” But she did not look entirely convinced. Still she said, “I suppose I’ll have to take your word for it, sir, seeing as you’re a learned man and understand all that science.”

“You don’t have to take my word for it, Kinky; ask Doctor O’Reilly.”

“Och, no, Doctor Laverty. I believe yourself. Sure aren’t you a gentleman and a scholar?”

Barry laughed. “And the last line of that toast, as you very well know, Kinky Kincaid, is ‘And if the truth be known, sir, probably a fine judge of Irish whiskey’—which I am not.”

They both laughed but then her face fell. “But if there’s acid, would that not make anybody who ate it sick?” She looked sadly at her puddings. “I’d hate to have to throw them out.”

“You used lemon juice in Doctor O’Reilly’s hot Irish, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Lemon juice is full of citric acid and it doesn’t hurt anybody, does it?”

“No.”

“Then don’t worry about your puddings. They’ll be fine.”

“You’re sure, sir?”

“Positive.”

“That’s all right then. I’ll get on with wrapping them, and you get on with making your phone calls.”

“Calls? I thought I’d only one to make.”

“Your pal Doctor Mills rang. He wants you to try to get hold of him.”

“I will. Thanks, Kinky.”

Barry headed for the hall, shedding his coat as he went. He’d been chilled when he came in, but standing round chatting with Kinky in the hot kitchen had made him uncomfortably warm. He hung the coat in the hall, picked up the phone, dialed the Royal’s number from memory, and asked the operator to page Jack Mills.

“Hello, Barry?” Barry recognized the strong Cullybackey accent. “How the hell are you?”

“Fine. You?”

“Grand. We’d one of your customers in last night and whipped out his ruptured spleen. Good thing you got him here as quickly as you did.”

“You can thank O’Reilly for that.”

Barry heard a chuckle. “Nah. You thank him. Your patient’s doing fine, but he’s sore from his incision and a couple of bust ribs.”

“Will you get him home for Christmas?”

“Don’t see why not.”

“Good. I’ll let his wife know.”

“No need. Sir Donald phoned the wife immediately post-op. She knows.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“All part of the service. How’re things at your end of the universe?”

“Busy. O’Reilly has bronchitis so I’m running the shop on my own.”

“And if I know you, Laverty, you’re loving it.”

“Well, I—”

“Might as well because the love of your life is miles away.”

“Yes, but I’m going to phone her tonight.”

“Daft. There’s a million gorgeous birds out there, and most of them are up for a bit of slap-and-tickle. I’d imagine it’s a bit tricky over the phone.”

Barry shook his head. Typical Jack Mills. “Are you still seeing Helen Hewitt?” he asked.

“The redhead with the green eyes?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, aye, when I’m not seeing your old friend Mandy, the brunette ward clerk with the great legs.”

Barry laughed. “You’re incorrigible, Mills.”

“I probably would be if I could spell it. Any chance the pair of us could get together for a jar?”

“Not until O’Reilly’s back on his feet, unless you want to take a run-race down here.”

“I maybe could at the weekend, but this time of the year there’s a brave wheen of Christmas parties. The nurses’ Christmas dance is on at the Nurses Home. Why don’t you try to get up here to Belfast? It would do you a power of good to get out.”

Barry shook his head. That wouldn’t be fair to Patricia. “You try to get down here, mate. You’ve already had a go at Kinky’s cooking.”

“I have that, by God, and it beats hospital grub by a country mile. Tell you what. I’m off on Saturday. I’ll give you a bell on Friday night.”

“Fair enough.”

“And Barry?”

“What?”

“I’ll let you know if there’s any change in the splenectomy.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

“Right,” said Jack Mills. “If I fall through the mattress, I’ll see you in the spring.”

Barry chuckled, hung up, and headed up the stairs.

“You’re home,” said O’Reilly from his armchair when he saw Barry at the sitting room door.

“From the wilds of the Ballybucklebo housing estate.”

“Well,” said O’Reilly, nodding toward the sideboard, “that surely calls for a drink.”

“Whiskey?”

“Indeed,” said O’Reilly, “and purely for medicinal purposes.” He coughed and winked at Barry.

Barry shook his head. “You’re getting better, aren’t you, Fingal?” He poured a small measure. “Aren’t you?”

“Jesus,” said O’Reilly, “I’m on the mend. The chest’s not as tight, and I’m not coughing as much.” Barry could see O’Reilly frowning at the glass. “But the dose you’ve poured there is the kind of thing a homeopath would prescribe, or a vet treating a flea.”

“It’s all you’re getting.” Barry poured himself a small one and carried O’Reilly’s drink over to him.

“Jesus,” O’Reilly repeated, accepting the glass and draining half of it in one swallow. “It’s only enough to give a gnat an eyewash.”

“Hogwash,” said Barry. “We all want you back on your feet.”

“Have you not heard . . . ,” said O’Reilly, emptying the glass and holding it out to Barry, “have you not heard that alcohol is an antiseptic? It kills bacteria.”

Barry thought O’Reilly looked like a penitent supplicant. “Oh, very well.” He set his glass on the coffee table and topped up O’Reilly’s with a more generous measure. “Here,” he said, handing it back.

“
Sláinte,”
said O’Reilly.

“
Sláinte mHath
.” Barry sipped his whiskey.

“So,” said O’Reilly, “how was your afternoon?”

Barry shoved Lady Macbeth out of the other armchair and sat. “Pretty light. Two patients on the estate. Kieran O’Hagan had a subungual haematoma. I drained it.” Barry was pleased to see O’Reilly quietly nodding. “Then I’d to see wee Sammy Lindsay.”

“Chest bad again?” O’Reilly sipped his Irish.

“No. I’m pretty sure he has purpura.”

“Henoch-Schönlein?”

“Yes. I’ll be keeping an eye to him.”

“Good lad. He could get kidney damage.”

“Jesus, Fingal, he could die.”

O’Reilly frowned. “That’s what the textbook says. I’ve never seen it happen, and Lord knows I’ve seen enough cases over the years.”

“I know, but I’ll be watching him.”

“We will, son. Once I’m up and doing. We’ll watch him. He’ll be sick for a while.”

“I know.” Barry took a big swallow of his whiskey. “That’s what worries me.”

“It shouldn’t. He’ll be right as rain in no time.”

“Not him, Fingal. His mum. Eileen’s the only support of the family, and she’ll have to stay at home. The other two children, Mary and Willy, can go to school, but Sammy’s too young to leave on his own.”

O’Reilly scratched his stubbly jaw. “I hadn’t thought of that. And at Christmas too. Bad time to be a bit short of the ready.”

Barry thought of the tea caddy and its little hoard of ten-shilling notes.

O’Reilly frowned. “Have you any ideas?”

Barry set his now empty glass on the table. “I did have one half-baked notion, but I wanted your opinion.”

“And?”

“You remember when Sonny had to go into hospital in August and Maggie looked after his dogs?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think Maggie would say if we asked her to be a sort of honorary granny for Eileen’s brood?”

O’Reilly guffawed. He leant across the gap between the two chairs and patted Barry’s shoulder. “That, my boy, is a stroke of genius. Pure bloody genius. Sonny and Maggie have been married for four months now, and he’d probably not be sorry to have an excuse to get her out from under his feet for a while each day. She’s very good with chisellers. It’s a pity she never had kids of her own. I’m sure she’d love to look after Eileen’s. And Eileen could get back to work.” He finished his glass. “Brilliant.”

Barry grinned. He’d thought it wasn’t a bad idea, but he had not expected such a powerful endorsement from the senior man. “I’ll run out now and see Maggie.” Barry started to rise.

“Take, as they say locally, your hurry in your hand.” O’Reilly held out a restraining hand. “If you don’t mind braving the bleak midwinter, you could go after supper.”

“Why not now and get it over with?”

“Because,” said O’Reilly, “I seem to remember Kinky saying you were to telephone a Miss Spence at eighteen hundred hours—that’s six to you—and it’s ten to six now.” Barry looked at his watch; O’Reilly managed a small cough. “Now by the time you’ve done that, and blethered to her, it will almost be suppertime, and you’re a better man than me if you’re willing to be late for one of Kinky’s specials.”

“Why special tonight, Fingal?”

“Because we’re having a dinner guest. Kitty O’Hallorhan. She’ll be here at six.”

Barry looked at O’Reilly. The big man was striving quite heroically to keep a bland expression on his face, but the lines at the corners of his eyes were a tiny bit deeper, and the twinkle in his eyes had some cause other than Jameson’s Irish whiskey.

“You are getting better, Fingal. A dinner guest indeed.” And inwardly Barry was delighted both that his senior colleague was
recovering his health and that he was seeing Kitty again. He wondered if that relationship might just develop into something more than simply a regular reunion of old friends. He hoped so.

“Fine, Fingal,” Barry said. “I’ll phone in a few minutes, then join you and Kitty for supper, but I will go out immediately after and have a word with Maggie.”

“Now there,” said O’Reilly, as Lady Macbeth leapt up on his blanket-covered lap, “is a young man with a sense of occasion, to say nothing of tact.” He stroked the cat’s head as she settled herself. Then he said to the paws-tucked-under loaf of cat, “Shall we keep him on in the practice, puss?”

Lady Macbeth yawned so widely, and stuck her pink tongue out so far, that Barry thought she had dislocated her jaw.

La Donna è Mobile, or
Women Change Their Minds

“Who? Patricia Spence? Never heard of her.” The unknown woman’s voice had a plummy accent.

Barry growled in his throat, then said. “This
is
the Girton College common room phone?”

“Mmmm.” That vague, guttural noise, beloved by the English upper classes and meant to sound affirmative without making a complete commitment.

“My girlfriend was supposed to be there to take a phone call from Ireland.”

“Really? Do they have telephones in Ireland? My word.”

“No,” said Barry, if only to keep the wretched girl talking until Patricia got there, “we usually send messages in cleft sticks carried by teams of trained runners. That’s why some of the English call us bog trotters.”

“Bog trotters?” He heard an in-drawing of breath and a giggle. “I say. Cleft sticks. That’s awfully good.” More tittering then. “Hang on. Would this Patricia of yours be a dark-haired girl with a limp?”

Barry’s heart gave a little hiccup. “Yes.” Dark eyes and ebony hair, like the words of the song, “My Lagan Love.”
The twilight’s gleam is in her eye, the night is on her hair
.

“Barry?” Patricia sounded rather short of breath, but he’d recognize her County Down contralto anywhere.

“Patricia? I thought I’d missed you.”

“Sorry about that,” she said. “The traffic was really heavy.”

“Traffic? In Cambridge? I thought Cambridge was pretty rural.”

He heard her laugh. “It is, silly, but everyone here gets around on bicycles, and when all the classes get out at once it’s bedlam. Trumpington Street looks like something in Shanghai or Dublin.”

“Oh.”

“I had to pedal like mad to get here.”

For a moment Barry had an incongruous mental image of Patricia as the Wicked Witch in
The Wizard of Oz
frantically charging along a Kansas dirt road with Dorothy’s dog, Toto, in the basket of her bike. “I’m glad you made it.” His voice softened. “I’ve missed you.” It had been a week since he had spoken to her last.

“And I’ve missed you, Barry.”

He glanced around to make sure no one could overhear him, chided himself because the only one who might was Kinky, and she certainly knew what he was going to say next, yet his Ulster reticence was difficult to override. “I love you, Patricia,” he said softly, and hoped she could hear the yearning in his voice.