An Irish Country Christmas (15 page)

“Me too,” she said, “but it’s very public in here . . . listen.” She held the receiver away from her ear, and Barry heard a babble of female voices. “I wish it wasn’t,” she said, “so I could tell you properly.”

“So do I,” but for the time being he knew he must make do with that crumb. “Anyway, you’ll be able to tell me soon, won’t you?”

“Mmmm.”

God, was she already being infected with English habits? What did “mmmm” mean? “You will, won’t you?”

“Well, I . . . I . . .”

“But you promised you’d be home for Christmas.” He felt his grip tighten on the plastic. “You will, won’t you?”

“Barry, please try to understand. It costs a lot to fly back to Ulster from here, and my folks aren’t made of money.”

She wasn’t coming? But back when she told him she had won the scholarship to Cambridge, she said she’d be home for the holidays. Barry took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to plead, but damn it, she’d promised. “I see. So where will you spend Christmas? In your rooms?” He knew the earlier warmth in his voice had fled.

It was some time before Patricia said, “I’m not sure yet. I’d like to come back to Ulster, Barry. I really would.”

Barry bit back his immediate response, which would have been a sarcastic “Decent of you,” and instead said, “It’s up to you, but you know how much I want to see you. I just told you I love you.”

“I know you do.” She lowered her voice, and he had to strain to hear her next few words. “And I love you, Barry. I really do, but this term was more expensive than we’d budgeted. The bursary didn’t cover everything, and I had to ask my folks for money.”

“But where would you go if you don’t come home?”

“I’ve made some friends since I came here in September.”

“That’s nice,” he said. He hoped to God they weren’t men friends. He had thrown himself into his work and avoided the company of women since she left in October for what Cambridge University referred to as the Michaelmas term.

“Yes, it is nice. You didn’t expect me to sit all alone for three months, did you?”

“No,” he said, although in truth his answer really was yes.

“Jenny Compton’s another engineering student. She’s an amateur ornithologist like me. Her parents live in the village of Bourn. It’s only eight miles from Cambridge, and she’s invited me to spend the holidays there. Actually I’m going home with her tomorrow now that term’s over. We can go bird-watching on the Norfolk Broads.”

He sighed. “Like the day I took you to Strangford Lough, to Gransha Point?” He could see her when a sudden summer squall had broken, standing, reveling in the gale, the driving rain plastering her wet blouse to her braless breasts.

“Yes.” He heard the enthusiasm in her voice. “And I really want to see the Slimbridge Wildfowl Trust place on the River Severn. It’s not far to drive, and Jenny has a little car.”

“Slimbridge? Is that the place Peter Scott opened in . . .”—he had to think, but he’d seen the naturalist, son of Robert Falcon Scott of the Antarctic, on television—“nineteen forty-six?”

“That’s right. He’s made it a mecca for people interested in waterfowl, and I certainly am.”

So is O’Reilly, Barry thought, but Fingal would want to shoot them, and as Barry was now becoming convinced he would be playing second fiddle to birdlife, he thought it served them right. And, dear Christ, she’d just said term was over. She could be here in Ulster already if she’d kept her promise. He knew now he wasn’t going to talk Patricia into coming home unless she really wanted to. Better, he thought, to seem to accept defeat graciously. “I suppose,” he said, “if you must, you must.”

“Barry, you are wonderful,” she said. “I really
do
love you . . .” He noticed that this time she had not lowered her voice. “And I didn’t say I wasn’t coming home. I just said I wasn’t sure yet.”

Barry sighed. He’d have to lie content with a half promise. “When will you know?”

“Not for another week. That still gives me nine days until Christmas Eve. Lots of time to get a flight. It all depends on how big Dad’s Christmas bonus is.”

“Patricia, you’ll only need a lot of money if you fly.” He had a sudden thought about an alternative solution. “What about taking the ferry?”

“Ferry?”

“Yes, the one from Holyhead in Wales to Dun Laoghaire in the Irish Republic.” The more he thought about the idea, the more he liked it. “If you could get to Holyhead and catch the boat, I could drive down—It’s only about ninety miles from Belfast—pick you up, and we could have a night in Dublin before we drove back up north.”

“Welll . . .” She didn’t sound very enthusiastic.

“Come on, Patricia, you know it’s an option.”

“All right, Barry,” she said. “I will go to Jenny’s now for a few days, but I will look into it . . . promise.”

“Great—”

In the background he heard another female voice saying, “Come on, Patricia. You’ve been on for bloody ever. It’s my turn.” Then Patricia said, “Barry, I’m sorry. I have to go. I love you, and I’ll call again as soon as I’ve found out about the ferry. I promise.” The line went dead.

“Bugger. Bugger.” He replaced the receiver. He’d been banking on her coming home. Damn it, she’d promised him she’d come home, never mind phoning again as soon as she could. He wanted all of her, not just a bloody phone call. He shook his head. Well, at least she was willing to try to find a solution. That had to prove something, didn’t it? Didn’t it?

The only comfort he could take was that there didn’t seem to be another man in the picture. One thing about Patricia, she would never prevaricate, never beat about the bush. She’d have come right out and told him. Mind you, he thought, as he heard the front doorbell ringing, it was small consolation.

If he’d been in her shoes, he’d have been finding out about the next ferry. Forget about going to any friends like this Jenny. He’d be getting himself home as quickly as possible. Patricia may not have recognized what she’d done to the man she was supposed to love. She had, although not in so many words, told him that for a few days anyway he was going to be runner-up to a bunch of flaming ducks.

He crossed the hall and opened the front door.

“Hello, Barry.” Kitty O’Hallorhan came into the hall, and he closed the front door behind her. “Nippy out,” she said, “but at least the wind’s dropped, and the skies are clear again. The stars were lovely tonight driving down from Belfast.” She shrugged out of a cream raincoat, took off a pair of kidskin gloves and a head scarf, shook her head, and used her hand to rearrange her hair.

He’d thought her a handsome woman when he’d first met her on duty as a ward sister in the Royal, and he saw no reason to change his opinion tonight with the hall lamp highlighting her silver hair. Her title might be “Sister,” denoting her seniority over staff and student nurses, but it was a throwback to the days when most nurses were nuns. Kitty O’Hallorhan would have been wasted in a convent. “Come on upstairs, Kitty. Fingal’s expecting you, and the fire’s lit in the lounge.”

“Lovely,” she said. “How is the old rapscallion anyway?” Her Dublin tones were obvious to Barry’s ear. She smiled broadly. “I’ll bet
he’s as cantankerous as all get out. I’d not want to have him for a patient.”

Barry chuckled. “Come and see for yourself.” With that he stepped aside to let her precede him upstairs. As she climbed, he admired the rounded contours of her buttocks under her tightly fitting knee-length black skirt and the flex and relax of her calves beneath its hem, their shapeliness accentuated by a pair of suede stiletto-heeled pumps. She paused on the landing and stood staring at a framed photo of a battleship. “That’s HMS
Warspite
, isn’t it?”

“That’s right.” Barry was surprised that a woman would know the name of the old vessel. “Fingal and my dad served in her.”

“I didn’t know about your dad, but Fingal was on the
Warspite
when his wife was killed in 1941.” Barry heard a catch in her voice. Had she perhaps harboured some hope back then? “The last time I heard from him was in 1939 when he joined up. He sent me a picture taken on his ship.” She turned and grinned at Barry. “He looked quite the salty sailor man in his uniform.”

“I’ll bet.” Barry opened the door to the upstairs lounge. “He’s in there. Go on in.” He followed her into the big comfortable room, knowing that it was crisply icy outside, yet in here the lighting was softly warm and the heat from the coal fire made the room welcoming.

“Kitty.” O’Reilly stood. Barry was surprised to see he was freshly shaven and dressed in a sweater, shirt, and tweed pants, looking just a bit outdoorsy for the large, tartan carpet slippers on his feet. “Kitty.” O’Reilly stood and hugged her. “Glad you could come. Have a pew.” He waited until she took one armchair, then sat again in his own. Barry took the plain wooden chair the marquis had occupied that morning.

“So,” she remarked, peering at O’Reilly, “how are you, Fingal?”

He grinned. “On the mend, and all the better for seeing you, Caitlin O’Hallorhan. You’re looking lovely tonight.”

“Go on with you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, you great eejit! You always were full of the blarney,” she said, shaking her head. Yet Barry heard the smile in her voice, saw the tiny heightening of colour in her cheeks.

“And,” said O’Reilly, “you’d look even better with a glass in your hand. What’ll it be? The usual?”

“Please.”

“Barry, will you do the honours? And help yourself.”

Barry rose. “Certainly.” He knew exactly what O’Reilly wanted, but he had no idea what the “usual” was. Lots of women drank gin and tonic, vodka and orange, or a pear champagne, Babycham. He looked at Kitty.

“Jameson please, Barry,” she said.

“Right.” He stood at the sideboard and poured three Irish whiskeys. He handed one to Kitty and one to O’Reilly before returning to the sideboard and picking up his own glass.

“
Sláinte,”
O’Reilly said, but he coughed before he could take a drink.

“Indeed,” said Kitty, “I’ll be happy to drink to your health, Fingal, as long as you promise me you’ll look after it.”

Barry hid his smile. Poor old O’Reilly. Beset not only by Kinky but by Kitty O’Hallorhan as well. If concern was a medicine, he thought, O’Reilly would arise like Lazarus in no time flat.

“
Sláinte mHath
,” Barry said. He sipped the peaty spirits, the
uisce beatha
, the water of life, and relished its warmth. He now preferred it to the sherry he had favoured when he first came to Ballybucklebo.

Barry sensed movement behind him, and turned to see Kinky in the doorway. Her chignon was freshly coiffed, and she wore a hint of lipstick and rouge. Her calico apron was obviously fresh from the laundry, and she wore her best low-heeled brogues. “Miss O’Hallorhan,” she said, “nice to see you.”

“Hello, Kinky. How are you?”

“Grand, so.” Kinky smiled. “Now I want you all to enjoy your drinks but . . .” Barry heard the edge in her voice. “Doctor O’Reilly asked you to be ready to sit down and eat at six-thirty, Miss O’Hallorhan. If you need a little time to finish your drinks”—she looked straight at O’Reilly—“there’s honeydew melon balls ready in the dining room. They’ll not spoil for waiting a few more minutes, but the
main course will be ready at six forty-five. I’d not want for it to be overcooked.”

“Fair enough, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll be on time.”

“I’ll have the pork fillet ready in fifteen minutes, so,” Kinky said. Then, glancing at the clock on the mantel, she said, “No, I tell a lie. Fourteen.”

The Stars in Their Courses

Dinner was over. O’Reilly pushed his chair back, dumped his linen napkin on the dining room table, and stifled a satisfied belch. Kinky, as usual when a guest was coming, had done him proud. Mind you, he thought, it wasn’t as if she’d skimped in all the years he’d dined alone.

He knew he’d been content with his solitary life. The customers gave him more than enough contact with the human race, but he had to admit it had been pleasantly companionable since July to have Barry here, even if the pair of them were a bit like the two bachelors, Ratty and Mole, in Kenneth Grahame’s classic
The Wind in the Willows
.

O’Reilly looked at Kitty and he smiled to himself. Tonight he’d thoroughly enjoyed having a woman at his table. Kitty added a sparkle to the evening.

And he’d enjoyed the meal. Melon balls sprinkled with ginger to start, stuffed roast pork fillet, roast potatoes, cauliflower in a cheese sauce, baby carrots, and for dessert Kinky’s lemon meringue pie.

The whole had been finished off with coffee, and for O’Reilly another Jameson, and for Kitty a small Cockburn’s port. Barry, who would shortly be popping out to see Sonny and Maggie, had elected to make this drink his last. Good lad, O’Reilly thought.

Barry and Kitty were deep in conversation. O’Reilly was happy simply to listen to what Barry was saying and keep his thoughts on the subject to himself.

“Actually, the three stars in the Summer Triangle are Vega, Altair, and Deneb.” O’Reilly knew Barry had learned a fair bit of astronomy from his dad, who had been the navigating officer on the old
Warspite
.

O’Reilly hadn’t known that Kitty would be keen to know the names of the stars and constellations, but then she always had been interested in the world beyond the confines of her chosen profession. He watched her face, animated one minute, serious the next, frowning when Barry was unclear.