An Irish Country Christmas (28 page)

“Thank you, sir. I’ll see to it.”

“Mister Chairman,” Bertie Bishop interrupted. He stood as he always did, with his thumbs hooked behind the lapels of his suit jacket. “Will it be the same arrangement for the kiddies’ presents this year?”

The marquis frowned. “I think the ladies’ secretary still has the floor.”

Flo stared at her husband. Perhaps, O’Reilly thought, he had been hasty in likening her to the basilisk. If she had a few serpents for hair, she’d have made a first-class Medusa. “You go ahead, Bertie, dear . . .” Her expression gave the lie to her honeyed tones.

“Like I said, will it be the same for the kiddies’ presents?”

“Aye, Councillor.” The priest spoke softly, his Cork brogue musical like Kinky’s to O’Reilly’s ear. “We’ll tell the parents to bring a wrapped present for each of their own children. They’ll mark the child’s name clearly on a label and give the parcels to me to put in Santa’s sack.” He smiled at O’Reilly. “Just before Santa arrives, I’ll pop the sack under the tree; then when Father Christmas pulls out a present, he can read the tag, call the child’s name, and the wee one can come forward for its gift, so.”

O’Reilly nodded. It was a good plan and had worked for many years. It should bloody well work; it had been his idea. Bertie Bishop was rabbitting on about something else, but O’Reilly was not paying attention. The image of himself pulling presents out of a sack had given him the germ of an idea, a brilliant idea if he did think so himself. With a bit of luck, he might well be able to solve Eileen Lindsay’s Christmas fund difficulties. “By God,” he said aloud, “it’ll be just the ticket . . . literally.”

“I beg your pardon, Fingal?” O’Reilly saw the marquis looking puzzled and realized that he himself had just voiced his thoughts.

He coughed. “I’m sorry. Just thinking aloud. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

“It’s perfectly all right. You had finished, hadn’t you, Bertie?”

“Aye.” The councillor sat down.

“Thank you. Now does anyone have anything more to say about the party arrangements?” He waited. No one spoke. “Very well. That brings me to the last item. It was on the agenda on Tuesday, but unfortunately Doctor O’Reilly was a bit under the weather and couldn’t be with us. Fingal, will you please stand up?”

O’Reilly frowned. This must be the surprise the marquis had warned him about when he had visited on Tuesday. O’Reilly stood.

The marquis picked up a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, from the tabletop. O’Reilly hadn’t noticed it before.

“Doctor O’Reilly,” the marquis said, “after due consideration for your efforts on behalf of the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts for fifteen years, ever since we started working on making the pitch, the committee has decided to recognize your contribution by making a small presentation.” He handed the parcel to O’Reilly to the accompaniment of applause from the other members.

“Open it, Doctor,” Flo said.

Completely at a loss for words, O’Reilly, not least because of a considerable lump in his throat, started to remove the wrapping slowly and carefully. He footered with a bit of Sellotape that stuck the paper closed. He was always embarrassed by public displays of gratitude, and indeed when the occasional patient said thank you, he found that recompense enough.

Once the paper was removed, he found a small velvet-covered box and opened it. Nestled in its recesses were a matching Parker fountain pen and mechanical pencil. Still feeling embarrassed, he managed to say, “Thank you all; thank you very much.”

“Read what the inscription says,” Bertie Bishop called. “Read it out loud.”

There was a small brass plate on the inside of the box’s lid. It read:
To Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly in recognition for many services rendered to the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts Rugby Club
.

There was a chorus of “Hear! hear!” and applause, and then Bertie Bishop, never the shrinking violet, said, “It was me made them write ‘many,’ so it was.”

“Wheest, Bertie,” his wife said, and her chiding was greeted by chuckles from around the table.

O’Reilly was grateful that those interjections had given him time to collect his thoughts. “Look,” he said, holding the open box toward his audience so every one could see. “I’ve never had a Parker pen, never mind a pen
and
pencil. I’ve always wanted a set like this, and considering the circumstances of how I got it”—he closed the box and slipped it into his pocket—“I’ll treasure it. I really will. Thank you. Thank you all.”

There was another, longer round of applause.

Good God, he thought, the gift was in recognition of the fifteen years he’d spent with the Rugby Club, almost as many years as he had spent here in Ballybucklebo. Good years, very good years, and it was humbling yet gratifying to be singled out as someone who had contributed to the little community. He’d not realized how truly moved he was until he became aware of a prickling behind his eyelids.

When the applause died, everyone was still looking expectantly at him.

O’Reilly swallowed. He wasn’t used to this sort of public recognition, wasn’t entirely sure if he approved, and yet he sensed he must say something more. He cleared his throat.

“It’s like Eeyore in
Winnie-the-Pooh
said, ‘It’s nice to be noticed.’ But I have to say, there’s many a one’s done just as much, aye, and more for the club as I—”

“We thought,” said the marquis with a broad grin, “it was more a gift from the committee given in self-preservation.”

O’Reilly frowned.

The marquis offered the open minute book to O’Reilly. “We felt that if our esteemed secretary-treasurer had the right implements, we might finally have a fighting chance of reading the minutes.”

Everyone laughed.

“Och,” said O’Reilly, relieved. Obviously, the marquis had sensed his friend’s embarrassment and was making everyone laugh to divert their attention for the moments it had taken O’Reilly to collect himself. “Do you not know that writing an illegible scrawl is the hallmark of every first-class doctor?”

“In that case, Doctor,” the priest said softly, “if the last prescription you wrote for me is anything to go by, you should be soon up for a Nobel Prize, so.” There was more laughter.

O’Reilly smiled and shook his head. “I am very touched, and all I can say is thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed. I will treasure this gift . . . and . . . seeing as how I am apparently in favour at the moment, I’d like to ask for an indulgence. I know I should have given advance notice of a small item I’d like the committee to discuss, but when I said a minute ago, ‘By God, it’ll be just the ticket,’ the notion had just occurred to me.”

The marquis looked from face to face, then said, “Please go ahead, Fingal.”

“I’m going to ask you to take this on trust for a week or two because I have to keep it a secret. I want to run a raffle for a very good cause. I can’t tell you what at this moment, but I know all of you”—he let his gaze linger on the faces of each man of the cloth in turn—“will approve.” He made a rapid mental calculation. “And I want the club to agree to take only twenty-five percent of the proceeds.”

“ ’Scuse me, Doctor.” Bertie Bishop spoke from where he was sitting. “I don’t see what any of this has to do with the club. Why don’t you just run the raffle yourself?”

“I’m asking, Bertie, because the club has the legal right to sponsor a raffle. I don’t—”

“Right enough. I never thought of that.”

“And,” O’Reilly ploughed on, “the party would be a great place to have the draw.” Because, he thought, when Eileen gets the money, and I know how to arrange that, she can go shopping for presents the next day and Santa would come to her house on Christmas Eve after all. “I would like to ask for the executive’s approval.” He looked around the table and hoped mightily. Ordinarily he would have first
done his political homework, a bit of quiet lobbying of the members, often lubricated with a jar or two.

“Do you want to make that a formal motion, Fingal?” the marquis asked.

“Not if everybody agrees.” He waited.

“Does anybody object?”

“I don’t like the percentage split,” Bishop said. “How about fifty-fifty?”

“Councillor,” Father O’Toole said, “I believe Doctor O’Reilly said it was for a good cause.”

“A very good cause,” O’Reilly added. “And it’s Christmas, Bertie.”

Bishop had the grace to blush. “In that case I withdraw my objection.”

“Good man, Bertie.” The marquis looked around the table and waited before finally saying, “I hear no other dissent.” He smiled at O’Reilly. “Looks like you have the go-ahead, Fingal, and the split you’ve asked for. I presume you will look after the details?”

“I will. Thank you, everybody,” O’Reilly said. All right, problem one was almost solved and off O’Reilly’s agenda. Fitzpatrick might have to wait, but although he was out of sight, he was not out of O’Reilly’s mind but merely tabled.

“Very well,” the marquis said, “if there is no further business, I’ll entertain a motion for adjournment.”

With the motion duly proposed and seconded, the meeting broke up. O’Reilly had to wait for the other members to collect their hats and coats before he could get his own. He stayed at the table, wishing they would get a move on. He took out his gift. It was a truly handsome set. He
would
treasure it.

The little crowd thinned out quickly, each member bidding O’Reilly a good evening as they departed. Only the Presbyterian minister remained when O’Reilly came forward to get his coat, scarf, and cap. “Doctor O’Reilly,” he said, “I’m willing to take your idea at face value, that it’s for a good cause. Can I help you with it?”

“That’s very civil of you, Reverend; if you’ll forgive me, very Christian . . .”

The minister chuckled.

“But I’m on my way home now to discuss it with Doctor Laverty, and I already have a man in mind to run the raffle for me.”

“Oh?”

“Indeed,” said O’Reilly, “Donal Donnelly will be back from his honeymoon on Monday, and I’ve no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, that he’s the man for the job.”

Thou Art a Hard Man

Barry drove carefully home to Number 1 Main Street. He and Kitty greeted Kinky and then started to head upstairs, but the smell of brandy from the kitchen was overpowering. Kinky was about to start icing the Christmas cake she had baked in August and which she had liberally seasoned with spirits on a regular basis ever since.

“Can I watch, Kinky?” Kitty asked. “I never seem to be able to get the icing quite right on mine.”

“Bless you, Miss O’Hallorhan, of course you can.”

Barry kept his counsel and watched too.

The cake stood on a pastry board on the countertop, and as she worked, Kinky explained her methods step-by-step to Kitty.

“The marzipan needs to be half an inch thick, so, and you stick it on with apricot jam,” Kinky said. “You put it on four days before you do the icing; otherwise the almond paste leaks through the icing.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing wrong. Thank you, Kinky,” Kitty said.

“Most folks do make the same mistake,” Kinky said. “You have to leave it for four days before you put on the royal icing.” She lifted a ceramic bowl covered with a piece of damp gauze. Pulling the gauze away, she revealed a pure white paste that Barry could see was soft enough to be spread with a knife over the marzipan. As she worked, Kinky hummed to herself. She used the knife to transform the initially smooth surface into a series of irregular ridges like the sastrugi found on Antarctic ice sheets. “There. Now that looks more like a snow scene, so.” She rummaged in a tin caddy and produced a miniature
snowman, two circus clowns, and a ballerina wearing a short gauze tutu and carrying a star-tipped wand. All of the figurines were two inches tall and stood on circular flat bases. Kinky set them in a group at one corner of the cake’s top by pressing their bases into the already setting icing.

“I’ll put a sprig of holly at the other corner on the big day,” she said. “The decorations please the kiddies, so”—she looked knowingly at Kitty—“and the big fellah likes them too.”

Kitty chuckled.

Barry smiled with the two women, yet watching Kinky at work had made him a little sad. Her cake had unexpectedly reminded him of times from his own childhood Christmases, with his own mother—now in Australia and to whom he really must write—decorating their cake. He’d not be surprised if even O’Reilly felt nostalgic when some sights at this season brought back memories. “It’s beautiful, Kinky,” he said.

She gave a little start. “Lord Jesus, Doctor Laverty. I’d forgotten you were there,” she said. “Don’t creep up on a body. You could give a poor Cork woman the rickets, so.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“No real harm done. I’ll forgive you—but thousands wouldn’t.” She was smiling as she lifted the cake to put it into a cake tin. “Will you take Miss O’Hallorhan upstairs now, sir? I’ve a bit more to do here.”

“Certainly,” Barry said. “Doctor O’Reilly should be home soon, Kinky. We left him at the Rugby Club.” Then he spoke to Kitty. “Come on. We’ll go up and wait for Fingal.”

“Thank you for the lesson, Kinky. I’ll remember the trick with the marzipan,” Kitty said.