An Irish Country Christmas (51 page)

O’Reilly, fresh from the bath Barry had heard being drawn half an hour ago, strode in in a scented cloud of Badedas.

Barry smiled. It was hard to picture tough-as-nails O’Reilly taking bubble baths, but soon after Barry started to work here, O’Reilly had confessed his liking for them. He’d even told Barry to help himself to the pine-scented bubble maker.

“ ‘Home is the sailor home from the sea . . .,’ ” said O’Reilly, parking his recently bathed, dressing-gowned, and slippered self into his armchair.

“ ‘And the hunter home from the hill.’ Robert Louis Stevenson.” Barry set his puzzle on the coffee table. “Except you weren’t on a hill. You were at Strangford. Did you have fun?”

“I had a great morning. So had Arthur.” O’Reilly took a pipe and matches from his dressing-gown pocket. “And I’m going to slough about for a while before I get dressed. It was bloody cold out there, and I need to get properly warmed up.” He rose and stirred the fire before sitting again. “We went to Gransha Point. Do you know it?”

“I do indeed.” Barry could see with perfect clarity a day in August when he had taken Patricia there for a picnic and but for a sudden summer squall would have made love to her for the first time.

“There’s an old ruined sheep cot about halfway along . . .” O’Reilly busied himself lighting his pipe.

“I know.” Barry closed his eyes.

They’d been lying on a blanket on the grass in its lee. If he tried hard he could almost hear the sea on the shingle, feel the warm summer breeze, nearly as warm as her breast. He’d unbuttoned Patricia’s blouse and was caressing her when the storm struck. She’d risen and stood, arms raised above her head facing the wind and rain, her soaked blouse plastered to her and limning her breasts. He remembered exactly how her dark hair had been wind-tossed and how he had thought she looked like an Indian princess worshipping the lightning god. He opened his eyes again. “I know it very well.”

“It’s right under a flight path,” O’Reilly said, “and makes a great hide. There’s two mallard in the kitchen.”

“I’m glad you had a good time,” he said, although in truth he was only half concentrating on what O’Reilly was saying.

O’Reilly let go a huge blast of smoke. “So did Arthur.”

And so will I when she finally gets here. She should have her tickets by now. He glanced at the door, hoping that in doing so the telephone would ring in the hall. Any minute now, he thought.

The first day we’re both free I’ll borrow Jack Mills’s flat in Belfast while Jack’s at work. Barry smiled. There’d be no sudden gales in there to interrupt them, and the urgency of his need for her made him tingle. He missed what O’Reilly had just said. “Pardon?”

“I asked what you’d been up to.”

Barry coughed, then spluttered, “Well I, um . . . that is, it’s been pretty quiet here. I went to see Alice Moloney and gave her test results.”

“Alice, is it?” said O’Reilly, sounding mildly surprised. “You getting to be friends with the old targe?”

“In a way. She’s not so bad when you get to know her.”

“You could have fooled me, but go on.”

“She’s had a pretty tough life. I can understand why she comes over the way she does.”

“Really?”

“Did you know she grew up in India during the Raj?”

“No.”

“Her dad was in the Indian civil service. He was killed there when she was quite young.”

“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry to hear it. It’s always tough losing someone you love.” O’Reilly frowned. “I haven’t seen much of Miss Moloney. Ordinarily I’ve had little call to frequent dress shops.” There was a wistfulness in his voice.

“We went there to buy Kinky that green hat,” Barry said. “Remember?”

“I do. That and a couple of professional visits are all I know of the woman. She’s a very private person. I saw her for piles. I told you about them.”

“I know. She has a simple iron-deficiency anaemia, and it was good to know that history. They might have been the cause if she still had them, but she doesn’t.”

“Good.” O’Reilly set his pipe in an ashtray and said, “You were with me the second time I saw her, when she was having the vapours because of Helen Hewitt. That girl showed a lot of spunk after the way Miss Moloney persecuted her.”

“Do you know, Fingal?” Barry said. “I can almost forgive Alice for that. She’s had her own tragedies. I’m not surprised she’s a bit bitter at times.”

“What tragedies?”

“I told you her dad was killed.”

“Barry. That’s
a
tragedy. You said, ‘tragedies.’ What else happened?”

“She lost someone she loved. I think she loved him very much.”

“Did she now?” O’Reilly looked away from Barry and out through the rain-streaked window. He stared for a while, then turned back and asked softly, “And who would that have been?” Barry saw sadness in O’Reilly’s eyes.

“A young army captain. He died of leukemia.”

O’Reilly turned back to the window.

Barry heard the phone ringing below. “I’m on call. I’ll answer that,”
he said, glad of the excuse to leave O’Reilly alone for a few minutes, and hoping for the phone call he so much wanted.

Kinky, wiping her hands on her apron, was on her way from the kitchen to answer the phone. “It’s all right, Kinky.” Barry lifted the receiver. “Hello? Doctor Laverty here.”

“Barry?”

“Patricia.” Barry was sure his heart turned over. “Where are you now?”

“You’ll not believe this.”

For a second he hoped she would say the ferry terminal in Holy-head, but he realized she couldn’t have got there in the few hours since they last spoke. “Try me.”

“London. In Thomas Cook’s.”

“The travel agent?”

“Yes.”

“Terrific.” She had finally kept her promise. As soon as he knew her arrival time, he’d get straight onto Jack to see about borrowing his flat. He wanted no more storms interrupting them. “Wonderful, darling. When can I expect you?” He held his breath.

“Barry, I’m sorry. I don’t know how to say this.”

“What? Say what?” She was dissembling again. There
was
another man. Barry’s palms sweated. His mouth felt dry. He took a deep breath and said as levelly as he could, “Just go ahead.”

“It’s
all
my fault. I got so wrapped up in the fun
I
was having. I was selfish. I didn’t think. I didn’t bother getting on with buying my ticket soon enough.”

Barry frowned. He wasn’t sure if he could believe her. “Patricia, if there is someone else, I’ll try to understand. Honestly.”

“Don’t be silly. I
love
you, Barry. I love
you
.”

“But you’re not coming, right?” Damnation. Bugger it. Well, by God, he might phone Jack anyway. Try to see him for a pint. Barry could use his friend’s advice and his comfort right now.

“I’m afraid not. I’ve been to two travel agents in Cambridge. I’ve left it far too late to get a ticket. I am truly sorry, Barry. I really do want to see you. I love you.”

Barry held the receiver away from his ear, looked at it, and wondered what the hell to say. He heard garbled, tinny noises coming from the phone. He put it back against his ear.

“. . . Barry. Barry, are you still there?” He heard her urgency.

“Yes. And I’ll not pretend I’m not disappointed, Patricia.”

“I know. So am I, and I tried. I really tried. The Holyhead run was booked solid; so were both the Liverpool and the Heysham boats to Belfast. I even tried to get a spot on the Stranraer-to-Larne ferry . . .”

“But it’s hundreds of miles from Cambridge to Scotland . . .”

“I know, but it would have been worth it, Barry. I do love you, and I feel terrible. I didn’t know what to do. Jenny suggested we try Cook’s in London. She thought perhaps they might have bought blocks of tickets to resell. They’re the biggest travel agent in England. I’m here now. The agent was wonderful, but she said all their tickets were gone.”

“At least you let me know straightaway. Thank you.”
O thou that tellest good tidings to Zion
, he thought. Some bloody tidings. He told himself not to be sarcastic—at least not out loud.

“It was the least I could do. Not keep you hanging on hoping.”

“Thank you.” But, he thought, if you’d booked before you tore off to see those bloody ducks.

“The agent could see how disappointed I was, and when I told her why, she insisted I use her phone to make a quick call to you.”

“Decent of her.” He couldn’t keep the edge from his voice. Jesus, five minutes ago he’d been fantasizing about making love to her.

“Barry, don’t be like that. Please. I will call as soon as I get back to Bourn. Try to explain. Try to make it up to you.”

From eight hundred miles away. Good luck. Barry rocked to and fro on his heels, inhaled, and then said, “Patricia, I’ve tried. God knows, I’ve tried to understand.”

“Barry, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I can guess how new and exciting Cambridge is. I thought Belfast was pretty cosmopolitan after Bangor and a boys’ boarding school. I can see how you got carried away by all of that.” And I still want to know who he is . . .

“Thank you, Barry. Thank you for trying to understand. I didn’t forget about you, back home waiting patiently.” There was a catch to her voice. “I do really want to see you. It has to be a ferry. I can’t afford—”

“A flight. I’ve already offered to—”

“Barry, I’ve tried to explain . . .” He heard her voice more faintly saying, “I’ll only be a second more. Please? Thank you.” Then she said, “Are you still there?”

“Yes.” His voice was flat.

“Easter isn’t too far away.”

“Right.” The hell it isn’t.

“The woman at Cook’s said the flights to Belfast are booked, but if I go to Heathrow on Christmas Eve I might get a standby ticket. They’re really cheap.”

“It’s worth a try, I suppose.” Barry shrugged. He knew he’d not sounded very enthusiastic. He’d had enough of having his hopes raised and dashed.

“Don’t you want me to?”

“Patricia I can’t tell you what to do.” He’d almost snapped suit yourself. “I still want to see you.”

“If I can’t get one, the next term doesn’t start until the fifteenth of January. Maybe I could come for the New Year . . .”

“Fine. Just let me know if you
are
coming, but I can’t be bothered with more ‘I might be coming’ stuff. Please don’t do it to me anymore.”

Her voice sounded stiff. “Very well. I won’t.”

He waited. He could hear muffled voices, as if she had her hand over the mouthpiece and was talking to someone else. “The agent says I’ve had long enough on the phone. I’ll have to go.”

“Fine. Have a lovely time at the Tate and the National . . .” Where the hell else had she said she was going to visit?

“Barry, don’t sulk.”

He ignored her and simply said, “Let me know what’s happening so I can plan, and if I don’t see you . . .”—and I know I bloody well won’t, Kinky notwithstanding—“have a very merry Christmas and
happy New Year.” Although how happy for him it would be, if this was the preliminary symptom of a final rift, didn’t bear thinking about.

“And you, Barry. I love you, darling.”

“And I love you,” he said, trying to sound enthusiastic, “but if the Cook’s woman wants you off the phone, you’d better run.”

He wasn’t sure if he heard a tiny sob just before she said, “All right. I love you, Barry. Good-bye.” The phone clicked dead.

Christ, that good-bye sounded awfully final. Barry sighed, replaced the receiver, and stood for a moment staring into space. Then he trudged back up the stairs.

I Feel My Heart New Opened

Lady Macbeth was curled up asleep in his lap. O’Reilly sat gazing into the grate. He watched as the ember patterns rearranged themselves, as a piece of coal, finally reduced to ash, collapsed, and the lumps it had been supporting tumbled lower in the grate. Black coals, cherry-red glowing cinders, and grey ash seemed to be an Impressionist’s oils on a canvas and gave to his eyes the warmth the fire gave to his body.

He thought wistfully of Deidre roasting chestnuts in their room in Portsmouth, holding the handle of a perforated, circular brass plate and giggling when a chestnut burst from the heat. Learning of Miss Moloney’s loss had brought his own grief back, despite his resolve to try to let Deidre’s memory fade.

He’d been able to think of nothing else since Barry had gone to answer the phone, and he hardly bothered to look up when his young colleague returned. “A call from the sick and suffering?”

“No.” Barry’s voice was clipped, flat.

O’Reilly turned to him. “Christ,” he said, “you look about as sour as an unripe gooseberry dipped in buttermilk. What’s wrong?”

Barry shrugged but said nothing.

“Barry. What’s up?” O’Reilly said. “Tell me.”

“It was Patricia.” Barry said. There was no life in his words. “She’s not coming for Christmas.” He took a deep breath.

“Not coming? Bugger.” O’Reilly sat so straight that he dislodged Lady Macbeth. “Why the hell not?”

“I’m sorry, Fingal”—Barry snapped the words—“but if Kinky can’t
find passage for Patricia on fully booked ferries or a seat on jam-packed aeroplanes, it’s a nonstarter, unless Kinky has a flying carpet in her cupboard. Patricia left it too bloody late to book.” By the way he spoke and stood, shoulders hunched, jaw thrust out, O’Reilly knew that Barry Laverty, usually a placid young man, was not so much feeling let down as angry.