An Irish Country Christmas (29 page)

“Och, sure, it’s what my own mother taught me,” Kinky said, her grin wide. “Go on with you now.”

“Right.” Kitty walked to the hall door. “I know my way. I’ll leave my coat in the hall.”

Barry had started to follow when Kinky said, “It’s himself that’s on call today, is it not?”

“It is,” Barry said, hesitating. “Have there been any calls for him?”

“Nary the one, but your friend Doctor Mills rang and said he was sorry he’d not called last night and then missed your call today. But he said he’d ring back later.”

Barry had expected to hear from Jack, but he had guessed, as was often the case in the lives of junior doctors in training, that things medical had come up. “Thanks, Kinky.”

He headed for the staircase and on the way past the hall telephone thought about some of the conversations he’d had on it recently.

A few days earlier he’d suggested Jack come here for one of Kinky’s dinners. Now, given Patricia’s stubbornness about allowing Barry to pay for her ticket home, Barry wasn’t so sure. Perhaps, he would go with Jack to one of the nurses’ parties or to the dance he’d mentioned. The dance might be a bit of fun. He’d almost certainly see some of his old classmates and be able to catch up with their doings. Why not? he asked himself, as he resumed his climb. Why not indeed?

Kitty was standing in front of the fireplace in the lounge, her back to the fire, her black stirrup pants complemented by a cream, heavy knit, rollneck wool sweater that Barry couldn’t help noticing she filled rather well.

“Would you like something, Kitty?” Barry nodded at the cut-glass decanters on the sideboard.

“No, thanks, Barry. I’ll wait for Fingal.” She held her hands behind her to the fire for a moment before rubbing them together and blowing on them. “It got nippy enough out there. I’m not sorry to be here in the warm,” she said, moving to sit in one of the armchairs.

Suddenly Barry saw Lady Macbeth spring lightly into Kitty’s lap, to be greeted with a stroke as the little cat made herself comfortable. Kitty smiled at Barry. “It’s a law, you know.”

“What is?”

“Whatever the colour of the cat, they’ll be attracted to clothes of the opposite shade. My black pants will be covered in white hairs.” She chuckled. “I don’t mind and she’s a pretty wee crayture. Aren’t you?” She tickled Lady Macbeth under the chin and was rewarded with a low purring. “I’d never have thought Fingal was a cat man,” she said. “He’s more like that bull-in-a-china-shop dog of his.”

Barry nodded. “I don’t think he ever had any notion of getting a cat, but someone abandoned her here and he just took her in. It seemed a natural thing for him to do.”

Kitty looked up into Barry’s eyes. “He’s always been like that, you know, ever since I’ve known him. Always on the side of the waifs and strays. I think,” she said, “he’s a big softie inside, and all the bluster and bravado is a cover for that.” Barry thought he heard a touch of wistfulness in her voice.

“You could be right, Kitty.”

“It can make him a hard man to get to know well. Very hard.”

He was in no doubt now. And it was less the tone of her voice than the way she was looking at him that made Barry decide she was somehow seeking reassurance. “It’s difficult for me to know. I’ve only been here for a few months, but I think I am getting to understand him a bit.” Lord, he thought, she could be my own mother. I’m hardly in a position to advise her. “Maybe it just takes time.”

She sighed. “You could be right.”

Barry had an unexpected desire to go give the woman a hug and mutter, “There, there. It’ll be fine.” He’d not expected Kitty O’Hallorhan to be so open with him, a relative stranger. When next she spoke, his eyes widened, and he wondered if she had been able to read his mind.

“It’s not for myself I’m asking you this,” she said. “I’m very fond of the big eejit, Barry, but he’s only had Mrs. Kincaid to keep an eye to him and now there’s yourself. Will you do me a favour?”

He saw something deep in those amazing grey-flecked-with-amber eyes that would have had him saying yes, even if she’d asked him to pluck out a couple of his own fingernails. “Of course,” he said.

“Take the time to get to know him, and in time, and don’t ask me how long that will take, try to be his friend. Please?”

Barry wasn’t quite sure how to respond, so he simply said, “I’ll do my best, Kitty.”

“Thank you, Barry.” She looked away and stared to somewhere in the middle distance. Her eyes were very shiny as she said, “I’d appreciate that very much.”

Barry was trying to frame a suitable answer when the subject of the conversation arrived.

“It’s as cold out there as a stepmother’s breath,” said O’Reilly, barging in past Barry and heading for the sideboard. “I think,” he remarked, pouring himself a stiff Jameson, “a little internal antifreeze is indicated. Anyone else?”

Kitty, with her back still turned to him, said cheerfully, “Could I have a gin and tonic, please, Fingal?”

O’Reilly smiled at her. “We don’t normally stock the stuff, but I remembered you used to like it as well as Jameson so I did get a bottle.” He bent, opened a door in the sideboard, and produced a bottle of Gilbey’s gin and a bottle of Schweppes tonic water. “Barry?” O’Reilly straightened and started to mix Kitty’s drink.

Barry shook his head. “I’ll be driving up to Belfast later, Fingal, and the roads are a bit icy.”

“I didn’t notice,” O’Reilly said, “but then I was in a hurry to get home.” And when that happens, Barry thought, not even an ice age would have the temerity to hinder your progress, Fingal, never mind the odd patch of black ice.

O’Reilly handed Kitty her drink, plonked himself down in the other armchair, grinned at her, raised his glass, and said, “
Sláinte
.”

She faced him and clinked her glass against his, smiling openly. “Cheers, Fingal. Nice to have you back. It really is.”

Barry wondered if there was a deeper subtext to her comment. “How did it go at the Rugby Club?” he asked.

“Short, sharp, and to the point,” O’Reilly said. “We’ve all the arrangements made for the Christmas party. I’ll be Santa.”

“And any idea you have of me being an elf—”

“You’re far too tall,” O’Reilly said, “and anyway I’ve another job for you.”

“Not tonight you haven’t. I’m going up to Belfast as soon as my friend Jack phones.”

“Good,” said O’Reilly. “Enjoy yourself and sleep late tomorrow. My job’ll keep until Monday, until Donal Donnelly and Julie get back from their honeymoon.”

Barry sensed the ringing of distant alarm bells at the merest mention of Donal’s name.

“Yes,” O’Reilly charged on, “I’ve the answer to Eileen Lindsay’s financial woes.”

“Oh? What is it?” Barry frowned. He was all for helping Eileen, but if O’Reilly wanted to involve Donal, the plan probably involved robbing the Ballybucklebo branch of the Bank of Ireland, and Barry did not fancy being cast as the driver of the getaway car. Before O’Reilly could offer an explanation, Barry heard the telephone ringing below.

“That’ll be your friend Mills,” O’Reilly said. “Nip down and see like a good lad. Save Kinky having to climb up here.”

Barry remembered that O’Reilly, who planned to take Kitty to the Crawsfordsburn Inn for dinner, had said he’d not take it amiss if Barry disappeared at about this time in the evening. “All right, Fingal.” Barry started for the door, half turned, and said, “If I don’t see you again, have a pleasant evening, Kitty.” Without waiting for a reply, he trotted down the stairs, picked up the receiver, and said, “Hello?”

“How the hell are you, Barry?” Jack’s Cullybackey accent was as thick as ever. “Sorry we’ve been missing each other, but you know what it’s like when a ward’s busy.”

“I’m grand, Jack,” Barry said, “and never worry about missing a few phone calls. It can’t be helped.” He took a deep breath, thought about Patricia, realized he was still feeling somewhere between disappointed and angry, and decided what the eye didn’t see, the heart wouldn’t grieve over. “Are you still on for some kind of do tonight?”

“Is the pope Catholic? There’s a dance at the nurses’ home.”

“Let’s go to it. Do you want to come down here for supper first? Kinky’s made a steak-and-kidney pie.”

“No, thanks. I’ve to pick up Mandy, and she lives away out the Antrim Road. It’ll take me a while to get to her place and back before seven. The dance is at eight in the nurse’s home, Bostock House, just across the road in the grounds of the Royal.”

“Jesus, Jack, don’t try to teach your granny to suck eggs. I know where Bostock House is. Didn’t we both use to pick up nurses there?”

“Indeed, Effendi. What a silly man I am, but then I am coming from
a silly people. Let us meet in the oasis of O’Kane at sevenish. It is of my father’s people, the Beni-sadr, not of the Howitat tribe, and the drinks are ours for the taking.” Jack’s accent was a perfect imitation of Omar Sharif’s in
Lawrence of Arabia
, which Barry and Jack had seen together a couple of years earlier.

Barry laughed. “You and your imitations. Bugger off, Mills . . . I’ll see you and Mandy in the Oak at seven.” Barry replaced the receiver.

He glanced at his watch. Good, he’d have time enough to get cleaned up and then eat Kinky’s steak-and-kidney pie. He knew she would be very hurt if he left it uneaten. She knew O’Reilly was not dining at home tonight, and it would have been very inconsiderate of Barry to let her prepare supper for him alone rather than tell her well in advance that she’d not need to. He had some understanding of how hard Kinky worked to keep her charges properly fed. She never minded if her doctors had to miss a meal if they were called out for medical reasons, but she could get sniffy if they knew in advance they’d be out and neglected to inform her. And rightly so, Barry thought. Keeping her apprised of his plans was the least courtesy he could pay her.

He climbed the stairs on the way to his attic bedroom. As he passed the closed door to the upstairs lounge, he heard O’Reilly say, “. . . and Donal Donnelly’s the man for the job,” followed by O’Reilly’s booming laugh and Kitty’s higher-pitched chuckle.

Barry smiled. He realized that whatever the job for Donal was, it would be revealed in the fullness of time. Tonight he was going to see his friend and forget about medicine, the citizens of Ballybucklebo, and the stubbornness of the love of his life.

A Feast of Wine on the Lees

O’Reilly stood back and held Kitty’s coat for her. He noticed how delicately the fine hairs curled from the nape of her neck, her subtle perfume.

“I think, Fingal,” she said, “as I’ve only had a small gin and tonic and you had your snake antivenin at the game
and
a large John Jameson just now, I should drive.”

“Drive my Rover? It’s a big heavy brute.”

“My Mini is parked in the lane beside Barry’s Volkswagen.” She linked her arm in his and began to walk toward the kitchen. “I’ll drive to the Crawfordsburn, and I’ll bring us back here afterward so you can have a drink there and not worry about driving home.”

The kitchen was empty. Kinky must have disappeared up to her quarters to watch her small television set. The comedy
Steptoe and Son
, about a couple of English rag-and-bone men and their horse, Hercules, was one of her favourites, and O’Reilly knew she had also enjoyed the late-night political satire
That Was the Week That Was
before it was taken off the air the year before.

“I’d not worry. It wouldn’t be the first time Constable Mulligan, Ballybucklebo’s finest, has driven me home. He says it’s less trouble than arresting me. But I’ll only have the one or two more tonight. I
am
on call.” He opened the back door for her. He frowned. He wasn’t sure he’d be comfortable being driven by a woman.

“I’ll hold you to only a couple,” Kitty said, “and we
are
taking my
car. It’s not just yourself you could put in the ditch. I like being in one piece.”

And I like you that way too, he thought, as he followed her through the back door and closed it behind him.

“You’re beginning to sound like a wife, Caitlin O’Hallorhan,” he said without thinking. He was glad they were out in the darkness of the back garden and she couldn’t see his face. He knew he was probably grinning like an idiot because as the words slipped out, it had struck him that he could do worse—if ever he married again. Aye, and that would be when cherries grew on his apple trees, the bare limbs of which he could just make out limned against a dark sky. The stars were shining like chrome-plated rivets in a black knight’s ebony cuirass. “But . . . all right. You drive.”

“Aaarf?” Arthur asked sleepily, as they passed his kennel.

“
Next
Saturday,” O’Reilly said to the dog, who snorted and stayed in his doghouse.

As O’Reilly let Kitty out through the back gate, he explained, “The pair of us are going to Strangford Lough next weekend for a day’s wildfowling. Arthur really enjoys that.”

“I’m happy for Arthur,” she said, “but I’m sorry for the poor ducks. I can’t see them enjoying it very much.”

O’Reilly shivered. That was exactly how Deidre had felt.

“Here we are,” Kitty announced. “Hop in.”