An Irish Country Christmas (56 page)

“Och, just the one roll won’t hurt,” he said, popping it whole into his mouth and making little puffing breaths. It was still too hot.

“And no more,” she said. “Flo Bishop asked me to help cater for the party, and I’ll not have all my hard work eaten before it leaves this house.”

“All right.” O’Reilly looked round. “Holy Moses,” he said, surveying
the laden shelves, “is it the five thousand you’re going to feed? What are all these things?” He waited for Kinky to explain. She took great pride in her culinary skills, and it pleased her when people showed an interest in what she had cooked. And, O’Reilly thought, if he distracted her, he might be able to pinch another sausage roll. They were delicious.

“Well, sir,” she said, “that there’s a plate of ham sandwiches, and those are egg mayonnaise. Here are two trays of sweet mince pies . . . keep your hands off the sausage rolls, sir.”

O’Reilly felt suitably chastened. He knew he should have known better than to try to outfox Kinky in her own kitchen. “Sorry.”

She pointed. “That’s a cold baked ham wrapped in foil. And do you see those terra-cotta pots covered with aluminium foil held down with a red rubber band?”

“I do.”

“Six are my smoked salmon paté, and six my smoked mackerel paté.”

O’Reilly started to salivate at the thought of her smoked mackerel. “Come on now, Kinky. It’s the season to be jolly. One more roll? Please?”

“ ’Tis a terrible man you are, Doctor O’Reilly.” She smiled. “All right, but just the one.” She looked up at the wall-hung kitchen clock. “Doctor Laverty’s changed and ready. He’s in the lounge. You’ll need to change and get your Santa suit. I’ve put it in a canvas holdall, and I’ve polished the boots.” She smiled. “You can see your face in them . . . but if I was you, sir,” she chuckled, “I’d not bother looking.”

O’Reilly laughed so loudly he sprayed a fine dust of pastry into the air. “You’re one sharp woman, Kinky Kincaid.”

“Aye, so, and sure isn’t it the season to be jolly?”

“It is. By God, it is.” For a moment in his mind he was happy in the long-ago season in Portsmouth, and he decided that in Deidre’s memory he’d make this Christmas, for himself and for those around him, the merriest ever.

“So when you go upstairs, will you ask Doctor Laverty to come
down? I’m sure he’ll not mind helping me load the boot of your car.”

“I will.” He stretched out his hand to the rolls.

“I said
one
more . . . sir.”

O’Reilly was still smiling when, dressed in his best tweed suit, brown boots, overcoat, and paddy hat and carrying the bag containing his outfit, he climbed into the Rover. “Everything on board, Kinky?”

“It is, so.”

“All set, Barry?”

“Aye.”

O’Reilly fired up the engine. “Then off we go.”

As he drove he thanked the Lord it wasn’t snowing or icy, because to get to the rugby clubhouse in time for the party he’d have to get a move on. He did. The Rover might be old, but there were plenty of horses under the bonnet. He paid no attention to Barry’s occasional sharp in-drawings of breath when the car leant into a sharp curve.

O’Reilly parked outside the front door of the clubhouse. “Go on in, Kinky,” he said. “Get your troops mobilised to empty the boot.”

The back door slammed.

“Out, Barry. Open the boot and start giving Kinky a hand. As soon as we’re unloaded, I’ll run this thing to the car park; then I’ll meet you in the changing room.”

Barry left, the boot door creaked open, and O’Reilly watched Barry, carrying the ham, and Kinky, with a plate of sandwiches, heading for the pavillion. Outside the corridor of light coming from the open front door, the night was pitch-black.

O’Reilly sat and watched the partygoers arrive. There was Alice Moloney, and . . . sweet Mother of Jesus! . . . she was in deep conversation with Helen Hewitt. They must have called a truce if not an entente cordiale. Good.

He recognized Willy Lindsay, his sister Mary, and praise be, Sammy, who was holding on to Eileen’s hand. O’Reilly, safe in the
knowledge that in a very short time she was going to win the raffle, reckoned he knew how Ebenezer Scrooge felt when he sent the boy to buy the biggest goose and deliver it to the Cratchetts.

The Shanks family had made it. Terrific. Gerry was holding Mairead, his arm around her waist. He smiled down on her while they both ignored their two children, who were yelling happily and dashing about like a pair of collies rounding up sheep. By that smile O’Reilly inferred that it was indeed sugar Gerry was now having in his tea.

Kinky reappeared. She was accompanied by Flo Bishop, secretary of the ladies committee, and committee members Aggie Arbuthnot and Cissie Sloan.

He wound down his window. “Do you need another pair of hands?”

“Not at all, thank you, sir,” Kinky said.

“Is it yourself, Doctor O’Reilly? Fit and well you’re looking.” He got no chance to answer as Cissie charged on. “You’ll be Santa again this year.
Well
. . .” He heard how righteously indignant she sounded. “I hope you’ve only a lump of coal for that wee gurrier Colin Brown, because—”

“Cissie Sloan,” Flo Bishop said, in a voice that could have come from a regimental sergeant major of the Irish Guards. “Give over your colloguing, and grab those pots.”

He closed his window.

When they had finished emptying the boot, O’Reilly drove around the back and parked. Then carrying his bag, he rushed back to the pavilion and in through the back door to transform himself into Santa Claus—or Father Christmas, as he was known in Ulster.

He opened the carryall, half undressed, and laid his tweed jacket and suit pants on a bench. “ ‘
Vesti la giubba
,’ ” he sang. “On with the motley.” He took out the red trousers, recently enlarged by Miss Moloney, and pulled them on. “Ho, ho, ho.” He took his wallet from his tweed suit and, along with his pipe and tobacco pouch, shoved it into the pocket of his red trousers. Then he sat and hauled his black knee-boots on. Kinky really had worked on them.

Barry came in. “I’m starting to get used to these Ballybucklebo
hooleys,” he said, “and this one has the makings of what you’d call a fine ta-ta-ta-ra.”

“Getting going, are they?”

Barry parked himself on a bench. “When I came in, the noise was deafening. A gramophone was playing Bing Crosby singing ‘White Christmas.’ People had to shout to be heard over the music. Children were running about like dervishes, screaming, laughing, and yelling. You can hear it in here.”

O’Reilly had no trouble agreeing with Barry. “And how’s Kinky making out?”

“She was in her element behind a couple of trestle tables. I’ve never seen grub like it.”

“I,” said O’Reilly, “like the sound of that.”

Barry had a tinge of wonderment in his voice. “I counted eight cold roast hams, four cold roast turkeys that must weigh at least twenty pounds apiece, three topside roasts of beef, two cold joints of mutton . . . I can’t remember everything.”

“And how about ‘Three French hens, two turtle doves . . . ’”

“ ‘And a partridge in a pear tree’?” Barry laughed. “ ‘I didn’t see any of those, but I saw hills of dried dates stuffed with marizpan, dunes of dried figs, and a small mountain of chocolate-covered cherries.” Barry smiled. “Nobody’s going to die of starvation. People are filling their faces. And”—Barry handed O’Reilly his red fur-trimmed coat—“all the kiddies keep charging over to a Christmas tree and staring at a bulging sack, so come on, Santa. Everybody’s waiting.”

“Right.” O’Reilly put on the coat. He lifted his suit pants and jacket, rummaged through all the pockets, and laid his valuables on the bench. He handed Barry his tweed suit. “Shove that in a locker.”

O’Reilly cinched the black patent-leather belt with its silver buckle round his waist. “How do I look?”

“You need your beard.”

O’Reilly bent and pulled a huge white beard from the bag, and with two curved wires he clipped it around his ears.

“You’re him to a tee,” Barry said. “At least you’re the version made
popular by Coca-Cola advertisements since nineteen thirty-one. The jolly old elf.”

O’Reilly adjusted his beard. “But there was a real Saint Nick. He is the patron saint of children, bankers, pawnbrokers and mariners . . . I always had a soft spot for him when I was at sea.” O’Reilly lifted his valuables from the bench and stuffed them in his red pocket. “I’d not want to leave those unattended in here,” he said. “Saint Nick was the patron saint of murderers and thieves too.”

“Busy chap,” Barry said. “After today’s two surgeries I can sympathise.”

“But you enjoyed being busy, didn’t you?”

“I did, Fingal.” Barry was looking into O’Reilly’s eyes. “Just like you.”

“I’ll not deny it.” O’Reilly adjusted the hang of his coat and said something he had believed for a long time. “There’s not much point practicing medicine if you don’t enjoy it. You might as well be a . . . I don’t know . . . a civil servant stuck in some dreary office.”

“I know.”

“And I’m having no truck with anything dreary tonight.” He headed for the door. “ ‘Kiddies’ gifts first, then the raffle, and then by God, a large Jameson for me. I’ll have earned it by then.” Which he had to admit to himself wasn’t entirely true. He enjoyed playing Santa so much he’d have paid for the privilege.

Surprised by Joy

With Barry following, O’Reilly strode along the corridor. He opened one of the doors leading to the main hall. The noise was palpable. Raised voices all but drowned out the lyrics of “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” coming from a loudspeaker system. O’Reilly could hear childish squeals and the clatter of running feet. Barry was right. The hooley was getting going nicely, and O’Reilly was pleased—he really enjoyed a good party.

Barry said, “See? Didn’t I tell you?”

“It’s warming up all right.”

O’Reilly looked around the room. Colourful streamers hung from the ceiling, and the Christmas tree stood glittering in one corner. Beside it an empty armchair awaited Santa. Donal Donnelly was bending over the bulging sack by the chair, tucking something inside. Presents for some chiseler. Father O’Toole, who usually looked after receiving the gifts, must have asked Donal to help out. Was there anything in this village that didn’t involve Donal?

“There’s the marquis chatting with Sonny and Maggie,” O’Reilly remarked to Barry.

“That’s a sprig of yellow gorse in her hatband. It was two wilted geraniums the first time I met her.”

“And you thought she was
craiceáilte
. Crazy.”

“A woman who said she’d headaches two inches
above
her head? Don’t you think I’d every reason to?”

O’Reilly laughed. “But you learned better.” You’ve learnt a lot of
things, Barry Laverty, in five months. I’m proud of you, son, O’Reilly thought.

The music changed to Bing Crosby’s “Christmas in Killarney.” “
The holly green, the ivy green
. . .”

“And sure isn’t that a pretty picture too, all those folks standing around in groups? Do you know, Barry, it makes me think they look like islands in the sea, and from time to time one or two folks, like canoes on a voyage of exploration, cast off from their own shores, make a short voyage, and land on another atoll to see if the natives are friendly.”

“That’s poetic, Fingal.”

“You mean I’m a poet . . . and I don’t know it?”

Barry groaned. “I heard that in kindergarten.”

O’Reilly laughed. “I’m glad you learnt something there, son.” He saw the marquis detach himself and head for the doorway in which the two were standing. “Now I’ve about five minutes before I have to go on because here comes His Lordship looking for Santa.” O’Reilly stepped back and opened the door more widely.

“Fingal. Laverty.” The marquis offered O’Reilly his hand.

“John.” O’Reilly shook the hand and noted that Barry kept a respectful silence.

“All set at your end, Fingal?”

“I think so, as long as Donal has the sack ready.”

“He has. So give me a couple of minutes to arrange your grand entry, and you’re on.” The marquis vanished into the hall.

O’Reilly took one last look before letting the door close. Gerry and Mairead Shanks were listening to Cissie Sloan, and the two little Shanks were playing tag with Colin Brown and Micky Corry. There was more to this Rugby Club party than having a good time, he thought. It was serving tonight to introduce the Shanks to Ballybucklebo, and if the way they were giggling and laughing was anything to go by, it had been a place for Colin and Micky to bury the hatchet with each other. Begod, Fingal, he told himself, if Fitzpatrick were here I’d offer to buy the man a drink.