An Irish Country Christmas (50 page)

“Your family?” he asked, looking more closely at one of a moustached and bespectacled man, an older woman, and two younger women. They all wore prewar clothes. They were sitting under a canopy and were flanked by two bearded Indians wearing jodhpurs, long jackets, and turbans.

She rose, set her cup aside, picked up the picture, and handed it to
him. “That’s Havildar-Major Baldeep Singh and Subedar-Major Gurjit Singh. They were friends of Daddy’s. That’s Mummy and Daddy.” She sighed. “Mummy never got over his death. She followed him two years later. We were back in Ireland then. In Belfast.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. It’s all right.” She pointed at one of the young women. “Ellen, my sister, the one who’s in Millisle, was married, so I—that’s me on the left—I was on my own.”

Barry looked at the picture more closely. She had bobbed hair and a wide smile. As a girl Alice Moloney had been quite lovely, yet she had never married.

“I’m afraid young gels—that was what girls were called then—young gels didn’t have much education before the war, and Daddy left a very tiny pension that dried up when Mummy died. I had been taught to play the piano, arrange flowers, and sew. I did that sampler above the fireplace . . .”

Barry smiled. He’d been right.

“I wasn’t a very good cook or pianist, or flower arranger for that matter,” she said, with a faint smile, “but I was good with a needle. So I took my share of the inheritance and bought the dress shop here.”

“And you’ve been here since nineteen-fifty?” Living alone, with few if any friends as far as he knew. No wonder she had struck him as a bitter woman when he’d first met her.

“That’s right.” She took the picture back and put it in its place beside one that immediately caught Barry’s attention.

“Good heavens. That’s Mahatma Gandhi with your father.”

“Oh, yes, he often came to visit. I think in some ways he was what got me interested in Hinduism. He was a lovely little man.”

“You must have loved India.”

“I did. Very much.” She sighed. “It was quite the most fascinating place.” As she spoke, she gazed fondly at one framed picture. It was of a handsome, smiling young man astride a polo pony. He wore a solar topee, the pith helmet beloved by the sahibs of the Raj, and carried a polo stick over one shoulder.

Barry was sure this had to be the captain of Skinner’s Horse who
had died of leukemia. He was glad he was soon going to be able to set her mind at rest about her own condition.

“The climate was warmer there, but I’ve grown very fond of Ireland too, even when it pours. It was kind of you to call on such a horrible day,” she said, as she once more took her chair and picked up her cup.

“I promised I would. I knew you’d be worried until you heard the results of your X-ray, particularly after what you told me in the surgery.”

“I am.” She sat stiffly, her back ramrod straight, and for a moment Barry wondered if as a “gel” she’d taken deportment classes.

“There’s no cancer in your bowel.”

Miss Moloney swallowed, took a very deep breath, and putting her cup into the saucer, glanced at the young man’s picture. Her tremor had vanished. She exhaled. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much for coming straight to the point.”

Barry had learned the technique from O’Reilly, who had told him months ago, “Every patient who goes for a test will have a secret fear they have cancer. The very first thing you tell them if you can when they come to hear the result is that it’s
not
cancer.”

“Your X-ray was perfectly normal.” He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and offered to show her the report. “You can read it yourself if you like.”

She smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor Laverty. You are a very sensitive young man. I trust you. Thank you for setting my mind at rest.”

Barry felt his cheeks redden.

“And thank you for asking if we could come up here. You saw when you came into the shop how busy it was. Sally McClintock’s a good girl. I took her on last week. She’ll manage by herself for a while without me, and the shop was
not
the place to talk about my medical condition. Not in front of those nosy parkers.”

Barry laughed. He’d narrowly missed being trapped in a conversation with Cissie Sloan and her cousin Aggie, who were being served by Sally, a farmer’s daughter he was treating for painful periods. He hoped Cissie would be gone by the time he’d finished his tea.

Miss Moloney shook her head. “When Cissie’s finished blethering, the whole village will be convinced I’m terminally ill simply because
she saw you coming up here with me.” She smiled at him. “But I’m not, am I? I really am very grateful for you coming to tell me.”

“All you’ll need to do—”

A piercing shriek interrupted the sentence. Barry jumped and almost spilled his tea.

The budgerigar pecked at a piece of cuttlebone, preened itself, and shrieked again.

Miss Moloney went to the cage and made quick, gentle noises with her pursed lips. “Who’s a good boy, then? Billy Budgie’s a good boy. He is. He is. Billy Budgie’s Mummy’s good boy.”

Billy Budgie’s a noisy bugger, Barry thought, as he finished his tea and rose, but she obviously doted on the bird. “As I was saying, Miss Moloney—Alice—all you need do is keep taking the iron tablets. Eat lots of green vegetables, and if you can bring yourself to do it, eat more red meat.”

“I will, Doctor. I promise. Will you excuse me for a minute?”

“I was going anyway.”

“It’ll just take a moment.” She left the room.

Barry shrugged. He wasn’t in a hurry. He went to the cage where the bird was now clinging to one of the wires. It cocked its head to one side and regarded Barry with one of its beady black eyes. “Nice bird,” he said, and he pushed a finger through the bars to stroke the budgerigar’s head. It struck with lightning speed. Barry felt its beak slice into his fingertip. “Ow.” He pulled his finger away and sucked it, tasting the copperiness of his own blood. He looked at the finger. It was a small wound, but he had to wrap it in a hanky to stop the blood dripping onto the carpet.

He looked at the budgie and could have sworn it was grinning at him. He shook his head. He should have known better than to tempt the creature.

He heard Miss Moloney return. She handed him a parcel. “Would you please give that to Doctor O’Reilly? It’s the pants to his Santa suit. I’ve let them out.”

He took it with his uninjured hand, keeping the other behind his back. “I’ll give it to him the minute I see him, Alice.”

“Thank you.” She opened the door to a small landing above the stairs. “Now, Doctor, I’ll go and finish my tea before I go back to work. I’ll wish you the compliments of the season today, but I’m sure I’ll see you at the pageant.”

“You will, of course.” Barry took his overcoat from a peg and slipped it on. “Good-bye, Alice.”

“Good-bye, and thanks again.” She closed the door.

Barry went down the stairs and into the shop, relieved to note that Cissie had left. He greeted Sally and then took the short walk back to Number One. The gale was on its last legs, and the sign outside the Black Swan was swinging gently. It had been flapping back and forth when he’d passed it on his way to the shop.

Poor Alice. She probably needed a few minutes to collect herself before she went back to work. Having a worry removed could be unsettling. At least this time life had been kind. It hadn’t always been, and all she had were her souvenirs, her memories, her photographs of what must have been her happy past, and precious little else. By the way she’d looked at his picture, Barry thought she must have loved the young captain very dearly.

Barry’d taken some snaps of Patricia in September and had had one enlarged. He kept it on his bedside table. The rest were in the table’s drawer. If he did lose her, would he still have those pictures twenty-five years later? He’d rather not find out. He’d rather have her in the flesh. Barry took comfort from having spoken with her earlier this morning.

He quickly covered the distance to Number One, walking past the same rosebushes O’Reilly had once thrown Seamus Galvin into because he had asked O’Reilly to look at his ankle without bothering to wash his feet. Barry smiled. Fingal really was unique. He wondered what time his senior colleague would get home.

O’Reilly slung his full gamebag over his shoulder, grabbed his gun, got out of the Rover, and let Arthur out. As soon as O’Reilly opened
the gate, Arthur rushed through and began noisily lapping at his water bowl.

“Thirsty, are you? I’d go a pint myself, but I’d need to get cleaned up first.”

Arthur paid no attention, took one last slurp, and disappeared inside his kennel to sleep, perhaps, O’Reilly thought, to dream doggy dreams reliving his great retrieves of the day.

O’Reilly walked to the back of the house, propped his unloaded gun against the wall, and sat on the grass to wrestle off his waders. Leaving them outside, he picked up his gun and let himself into the kitchen. After the bitter cold of the day and the old Rover’s less than efficient heating system, the room felt stiflingly hot. Something that smelled delicious was cooking. He slipped off his jacket.

Kinky had her back to him. She turned. “Is it home you are, Doctor dear?”

“I am, and pleased to be, Kinky. It was bloody bitter on the Lough today.”

“Begging your pardon, but you’ve no sense, sir.” She tutted. “Yourself just over the bronchitis and going out on a day like that. You need your head examined, so.”

“Come on, Kinky. You’ve seen me go out in worse.”

“I have, but Doctor O’Reilly, sir. You’re not getting any younger.”

“None of us are, Kinky, but it was grand to get away from this place and away down to the shore. It’s a great spot for a bit of contemplation.”

She nodded. “Everyone needs a bit of peace and quiet once in a while.”

“I’d a great day,” he said, “and I did so much thinking that I think I’ve probably unravelled all the secrets of the universe. I was even thinking about you in the car on the way home.” And indeed he had been ruminating that he’d not done enough to show support for her when Fitzpatrick had been so bloody rude.

“Away with you, Doctor dear.” She smiled.

“No, it’s true. I’ve not had a chance to tell you about it, but Barry
and I had a word in Fitzpatrick’s delicate shell-like ear on Tuesday. I thought over how it had gone, and do you know? I think I might just have managed to get through to the man.”

Kinky grunted. “He’s an ignorant spalpeen, so.”

“That’s certainly how he comes over, but I’ve a notion he’s never been a very happy man and so he doesn’t understand how important a bit of courtesy is to other people. I decided this afternoon that he prescribes all his weird and wonderful nostrums because he thinks that it’ll make his patients love him.”

“If you say so, sir, but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”

“Among other things, I told him he’d been bloody rude to you, Kinky.”

“He was.”

“You handled him very well, Barry says, and I never thanked you. You did a great job of protecting me, Kinky.”

“Sure weren’t you sick, and isn’t keeping an eye to you my job?”

“No, it’s not . . .” He saw how she lowered her eyes. “Your job is to run this house, but . . . Kinky?”

She looked up.

“I very much appreciate your attention to me and young Laverty.” He saw her smile. “And I should have thanked you for handling Fitzpatrick, so Doctor Laverty and I made him promise to mind his p’s and q’s and be polite to you in future.”

She sniffed. “Maybe he will and maybe he won’t. My mother used to say, ‘Neither give cherries to a pig nor advice to a fool,’ but thank you for doing it all the same, sir, and the next time I see him I’ll hold no grudge . . . as long as he behaves.”

“Good for you. You’re a powerful woman, Kinky Kincaid.” O’Reilly sneezed.

Her eyes widened and there was concern in her voice when she said, “Is it another chill you’ve taken?”

“Not at all, there’s nothing wrong with me today that a nice hot bath and maybe some of your broth for lunch won’t cure.”

She frowned. “I have some Scotch broth ready to be heated. Would that do?”

He took her in his arms and gave her a hug that lifted her feet off the ground. “Kinky Kincaid, you’re a godsend.”

“Put me down, sir,” she said, as she laughed. “Put me down.”

He did as he was asked and then stepped back to watch her fussing with her hair and straightening her apron. “I’ll be off in a minute for a bath,” he said, “but I need to get my gun cleaned first and get the ducks in my bag plucked and gutted.”

“What birds have you, sir?”

“Two mallard.”

She went to the oven. “Don’t you worry about plucking the birds, sir.
You
see to your gun and go for your bath, so.
I’ll
see to the ducks once I’ve taken my meringues out of the oven.” She turned away, opened the oven door, and muttered, “They’re coming on a treat.” Then she turned back to O’Reilly and said, “And Doctor Laverty came in about ten minutes ago. He’s upstairs, sir.”

Feel the Pangs of Disappointed Love