An Irish Country Christmas (52 page)

“I think,” said O’Reilly softly, “there’s more to this than just disappointment that she’s not coming. Sit down, Barry. Tell me about it.”

Barry slumped in the armchair. “I don’t know where to start.” He sounded more resigned than angry now. He put his hands, one clasping the other, between his thighs, pursed his lips, and let his head droop.

O’Reilly rose and walked to the sideboard. When he returned he handed Barry a whiskey. “It’s early for a Jameson, but this is for medicinal purposes.”

Barry looked up and took the glass. “Aren’t you having one?”

O’Reilly shook his head. “I’m not the patient. You are.” He sat again.

Barry didn’t drink. “Fingal, you know how worried I was when she went to Cambridge? Worried we’d grow apart?”

O’Reilly sat and looked at Barry. Let the boy talk, he told himself.

Barry swallowed. “I think we have.” He looked into O’Reilly’s eyes.

O’Reilly saw a young man pleading for reassurance that it wasn’t so. “Why would you say that?”

“Because she’s not coming, and she promised she would.”

O’Reilly frowned. “It’s hardly her fault she couldn’t get a ticket. That’s what you said.” With a bit of luck it was just a storm in a teacup. Perhaps Barry was reading too much into it.

Barry clenched his teeth. “Not couldn’t. Didn’t want to.”

“How do you know that? Did she tell you?”

“She didn’t have to. First, she didn’t have the money for a plane ticket. She had to wait to see if her dad got a Christmas bonus.”

“Sounds reasonable to me.”

“I thought so too . . . then. I offered to pay her way.” Barry managed
a wry grin. “You know the funny notions she has sometimes about men and women. I wasn’t entirely surprised when she refused my offer. Maybe I should have seen it coming then . . . or pretty soon after.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Barry held his glass in both hands and stared deeply into it. He shrugged.

God, O’Reilly thought, getting him to open up was like pulling teeth without anaesthetic. “Come on, Barry. Why should you have seen it coming?”

He looked directly at O’Reilly. “I had to suggest she might like to try for a ferry. She won a scholarship to Cambridge. She’s one very clever woman, but the thought had never occurred to her. Or she didn’t want to think of an alternative to flying. I really think she doesn’t want to come.”

“Perhaps she was too preoccupied with her studies? You know how all-consuming a professional course can be.” O’Reilly knew he was searching for an explanation that would comfort Barry.

“Right. All bloody consuming.” Barry snorted. “Fingal, the Cambridge Michaelmas term ended on December the first.”

“Oh.” That was more worrisome.

“She’d left it far too late to book. She’s just admitted that she got too wrapped up in herself.” Barry shook his head like a dazed boxer. O’Reilly’d seen that often enough in the ring. “Fingal, she could have been here a couple of weeks ago, but she’s made new friends over there. She wanted to go to some Wildfowl Trust place. She should have booked before she went there. It would only have taken a few minutes.”

O’Reilly sat silently, his eyes never leaving Barry’s face.

“She’s in London now for a few days. She’s going to art galleries, museums. Places like the Victoria and Albert Museum. What have we got in Belfast? A few mouldy dinosaur bones and a mummy in the Ulster Museum? We can’t compete. I don’t think I can compete.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “She’d like to do almost anything except
come home to Ulster and see me. I’m not sure she isn’t glad she can’t get a ticket. For the last couple of weeks she’s been going to come, then she’s not going to be able to, then she is. I’ve been going up and down like a bloody yo-yo.”

O’Reilly fished out his pipe and started to fill it. He needed a moment to think. Was Patricia simply being carried away by new experiences, or was Barry right? His own experience in practice had led him to believe that two people either grew together or grew apart. He didn’t want to ask the next question because Ulstermen like himself and Barry were notoriously reticent about discussing their feelings. He lit his pipe. Want to or not, it must be asked. “Is she still in love with you, do you think?” O’Reilly let both eyebrows move up, but otherwise kept his face calm.

He thought perhaps Barry was going to say, “Mind your own business.” So it pleased him that after a few moments, Barry said, “She says she is. She says she does still love me, but she’s not behaving as if she did. If it were me I’d have been on the first available transport back home, unless I had a bloody good reason not to.”

O’Reilly guessed what Barry feared that reason might be. It was time it was voiced. “And you’re not sure if there’s another fellah over there, are you, Barry? Is that it?”

Barry blew out his breath. “She swears blind there’s not.”

O’Reilly tapped his teeth with his pipe stem. “I don’t know the girl very well, but she struck me as somebody who’d not lie to you about a thing like that.” He waited to see if that would bring Barry any comfort.

Barry shrugged. Took a drink.

“Barry? How about you? Is there someone else for you?”

“Don’t be daft.” Barry looked away. “I ran a nurse home after the dance I went to last Saturday. Pretty girl, but not much going on on the upper deck.”

“I hesitate to ask, son. How about that schoolteacher? You seemed to be getting on well with her at the rehearsal.”

“She’s a lovely-looking girl, and I’m sure she’d go out with me if I asked.”

“Are you going to?”

“Do you know, Fingal, I just don’t know. I’m so mad at Patricia I’ve thought about it.”

“There’s nothing wrong with that. I was going out with a girl once; then I met someone else. It happens.”

Barry looked at O’Reilly quizzically before he said, “I thought we were right for each other. I still half do, but there is something else. I know her horizons have widened. When I met her she told me she had too much that she wanted to accomplish to have time to fall in love. I think now that she’s had a taste of life beyond Ulster, she’s recognized how tiny the place is and maybe how uninteresting a country GP like me is.” He took another small sip. “I’m going to lose her.” Barry looked at O’Reilly. “I honestly believe I am, Fingal.” There was the kind of pleading in his eyes that O’Reilly had seen in the eyes of sick children who silently begged, “Make it better, Doctor. Make the pain go away.”

O’Reilly stuck his pipe into his mouth. “You’re probably entirely wrong, Barry . . .”

“For a time I was uncertain if it would matter if I did lose her. There are other pretty girls out there. Three years, mostly apart, is going to be a hell of a long time. I wondered if the whole thing was worth the candle.”

“And is it?”

“I think so, Fingal, but—”

O’Reilly was sure he understood Barry’s reservations, if only because he was having the same kind of feelings about Kitty O’Hallorhan. “But you wonder if you cut your losses now whether it might hurt less than it would if things fall apart later?”

“That’s right.”

“I’m afraid it will, Barry. There’s no cutting your losses once you’ve opened yourself to somebody. None at all.”

Barry’s expression changed. His pained frown slipped into a look of concern.

“And I know that you know what I’m talking about—”

“But—”

“It’s all right, Barry. It’s all right. Kinky told me a couple of months ago that she’d told you that I’d been married.”

Barry’s eyes widened. He took a quick drink. “She what?”

“She told me. I think her conscience got the better of her.”

“What did you say to her?”

“I thanked her.”

“For breaching a confidence?”

“Barry, when you’ve known Kinky Kincaid as long as I have, you’ll understand that woman never does anything without giving it a lot of thought. I knew if she’d told you it was because she trusted you and because she’d decided having you here was good for me.” O’Reilly leant forward and touched Barry’s knee. “She thought it would help you make up your mind to stay if you knew a bit more about the old ogre who ran the place.” That’s floored him, O’Reilly thought. He hasn’t suspected that I am well aware of how I often come across to people.

“You’re not an ogre, Fingal. Far from it.”

“I can be. Seamus Galvin thought so when I chucked him into the rosebushes. You thought so when you watched me chucking him.” O’Reilly chuckled at the memory and was gratified to see Barry smile.

“I nearly bolted and went to look for a job somewhere else.”

O’Reilly sat back. “I’m very glad you didn’t. Very glad.”

“Thank you, Fingal. So am I.”

“And it’s not just because you’re a great help in the practice . . .”

Barry blushed.

God, O’Reilly thought, but he was an easy man to embarrass. “Watching you and your Patricia got me thinking.”

“What about?”

O’Reilly stood, walked to the window, and peered out at the tilted steeple and the ragged clouds tearing over it. He heard the rain thrashing against the windowpane. He turned. Barry was looking up expectantly. Perhaps, O’Reilly thought, listening to me has lifted his mind from his own troubles for a while. He just needs one more nudge. “When I lost Deidre . . .”—he saw Barry’s eyes widen—“Deidre
Mawhinney was my wife’s name before we were married.” He’d not spoken her name aloud for as long as he could remember, and it pleased him to have done so without great pain. “When I lost her I turned inward and decided never to open to another woman again.”

Barry frowned and his eyes softened. “That’s very sad, Fingal,” he said softly.

“I do know that, Barry. I told you I was seeing someone. It was Kitty. Then Deidre came along. Poor Kitty didn’t have a chance. I thought Deidre was perfect.”

“I really am very sorry. I know how you must have felt. I’m like that about Patricia.”

“I know. That’s why seeing you last summer, so happy with that girl, made me take stock, and when Kitty reappeared . . .” He looked down at his slippers, then back at Barry. “I was
very
fond of her when I was a student . . .”

“I think she’s a lovely woman. You’re lucky she reappeared.”

O’Reilly smiled. Now the boot was on the other foot. Barry couldn’t help himself. If somebody needed advice he’d give it gladly. “Aye. I think you’re right. It’s taken me a while to recognize it, but between you and me, Barry, I’m ready to take a chance again, and when I do I’m going to risk getting hurt again.”

Barry stood. “So what you’re telling me is, don’t despair. Keep hoping. Stay open to her, give Patricia the benefit of the doubt . . . but keep my options open with Sue Nolan?”

“No reason why you shouldn’t be nice to her.”

“I suppose, but keep trying with Patricia?”

“That’s right. If she doesn’t come, would you like to scoot over to England? You could have a week off after Christmas.”

Barry smiled. “Thanks, Fingal. Let’s see what happens . . .”

“And,” said O’Reilly, pleased to see Barry smiling, “I do mean
after
Christmas. There’ll be far too much going on here between now and then for you to miss.”

“Indeed so,” said Kinky, who walked in carrying a tray with two steaming plates of what O’Reilly knew would be her Scotch broth. “And the jollifications start tomorrow with the pageant.” She set the
tray on the sideboard. “I was thinking, Doctor O’Reilly, would you like the two mallard you shot today for your supper on Monday before the pageant? Maybe with a plum sauce?”

“I would.” O’Reilly felt himself start to salivate at the prospect of roast wild duck. “But no more fowl after that, Kinky, until the turkey on Christmas Day, or Doctor Laverty and I will start to grow feathers.”

Not Half So Surprised as I Am Now

“Now there,” said O’Reilly, “is a thing of beauty. Thank you, Kinky.”

“It is how you like them, sir.”

Barry inhaled. The scent of the roast wild ducks she had set before O’Reilly was overpowering. He sat forward and eagerly waited for O’Reilly to carve.

“And there’s the plum sauce, creamed potatoes, and green peas. I’m sorry I had to use Eskimo frozen peas, but I boiled them with a dried mint leaf.”

“No need to apologize,” O’Reilly said, lifting the carving knife and fork.

Kinky headed for the door. “If you need me, give me a shout, sir. I’m having a pot pie in the kitchen, then I’ll be in my room getting ready. And don’t tarry. We’ve to leave at six-thirty. The pageant starts at seven, so.”

“Here,” said O’Reilly handing Barry a plate of duck. “Help yourself to the vegetables, then bung them up here.” O’Reilly had put slices of breast and two thighs on his own plate. Before even waiting to add the peas and potatoes, he lifted one little drumstick and popped it into his mouth. When O’Reilly pulled the bone out, it was as cleanly stripped of flesh as South American cattle when they wander into a piranha-infested river. “That,” he said, “is tasty.”

Barry passed the tureens. He sampled the duck meat. He’d never eaten wild duck before and found the plum sauce set off the flavour of
a flesh that was drier and much less gamey than he’d anticipated. “You’re right, Fingal. It is.”

“Mallard’s the best eating,” O’Reilly said. “Widgeon can be a bit fishy. They eat eel grass.”