An Irish Country Christmas (58 page)

Conversation gradually died as people turned to see what was happening.

“Could Johnny Jordan please come forward?”

The crowd parted to let through a jolly-looking, red-cheeked, bald-as-a-coot man of about thirty. He stood beside the marquis and held aloft a very large turkey.

“Mother of God”—Barry heard a woman’s voice from nearby—“that thing’s mother must have been an ostrich. It’s twenty pounds if it’s an ounce.”

“Johnny here has very kindly donated this bird for our first annual Christmas raffle.”

Polite applause.

“The club can always use cash . . .”

“Hear, hear . . .”

“So we decided to sweeten the pot. Naturally the winning ticket gets this magnificent bird.”

Johnny held it higher.

“But we wanted more people to buy tickets, and so we decided to gamble. The odds are long, but if the winning ticket’s numbers are all identical, the holder will also win seventy-five percent of the money collected, which is . . . Donal?”

“One hundred and ninety-five pounds, my lord,” Donal said, from where he stood off to one side.

There was a communal in-drawing of breath and several muted “ooohs” and “aaahs.”

“Will Donal Donnelly and Councillor Bertie Bishop please come forward now?”

The two men appeared. Donal carried a hat. The councillor looked fit to bust with pride.

“Give the hat a good stir, Donal.”

Donal tilted the headpiece forward so everyone could observe how thoroughly he was mixing the ticket stubs. “Ready, sir,” he said.

“If you please, councillor?”

Bertie Bishop made a great show of rolling up his sleeve. Then, imitating a music hall conjuror, he said, “My lord, ladies and gentlemen, see, there’s nothing up my sleeve but my strong right arm.”

“Makes a change,” a voice called. There was good-natured laughter.

Bertie closed his eyes, plunged his hand into the hat, and produced a single ticket. He handed it to the marquis of Ballybucklebo.

“And the winner of the turkey is . . . whoever holds ticket number 4444. I repeat, 4444.”

Everyone applauded and looked all around to see who the lucky winner was.

O’Reilly tried not to look smug. He looked for Eileen. She was laughing as she and her brood moved to the front. She handed the marquis her ticket. “Here, sir.” She turned to her children. “See, you’ll get your turkey now.”

O’Reilly watched the wee ones jumping up and down. He realized that the significance of the numbers all being the same had not dawned on Eileen.

The marquis read it, beamed, and stooped to her, saying, “I’m sorry. I don’t know your name.”

“Eileen. Eileen Lindsay, sir,” she said. “Thank you very much.”

“Don’t thank me. It was the luck of the draw.”

She beamed at him. “It’s very good luck then, sir. A big turkey and all.”

“It’s more than that, Eileen.”

She looked puzzled.

“I think, people,” the marquis roared, “in case anyone has not noticed, the ticket numbers are identical. That means—”

There was a great joyous shout of approval.

“Congratulations, Eileen.” He handed her an envelope. “The money’s in there, and will you please give Eileen her bird, Mr. Jordan?”

“Thank you, sir. Thank you, everybody.” She gathered her children around her and told them. “It’s going to be the best Christmas ever. The very best.”

Johnny Jordan moved forward as Donal started making his way toward O’Reilly. He recalled Donal saying he suspected Johnny had a crush on Eileen. The man certainly looked excited, almost as excited as Eileen herself. “Eileen.” He offered her the bird. “Here’s your turkey. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” She leant forward to take it. “And thank you for donating it.”

He was holding something over her head. It was a sprig of mistletoe.

“I’ll settle for a Christmas kiss.” He kissed her firmly and soundly. He looked breathless when he stopped.

Everyone waited silently to see what Eileen would do.

She didn’t slap his face. Instead she said, “Shame on you, Johnny Jordan.”

He blushed deeply and hung his head.

She took the mistletoe from him, held it over
his
head, and kissed him back. Then she said, “It’s a very big bird and you a bachelor man. Would you like to come to us for your Christmas dinner?”

His obvious assent was drowned by the cheers.

Donal had finally arrived, still carrying the hat he’d used for the draw. “Didn’t I promise you, Doctor, sir?” he said with a bucktoothed grin.

“You did. Well done, Donal, and the timing’s very good,” O’Reilly remarked. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, so Eileen will still have time to shop. Santa will come to her house after all.”

“I’m pleased about that, sir. She and her chisellers deserve to have a merry Christmas. I’m glad I could help, so I am. Julie’s pleased too.”

O’Reilly bent closer and said, sotto voce, “How
did
you do it?”

Donal offered the hat to both O’Reilly and Barry. “Take a ticket.”

O’Reilly did. Barry did. He showed his to O’Reilly. Both tickets read 4444.

“I told you I got them from a printer friend of mine. Sure, as well as the ones we sold, didn’t I have him run off a couple of hundred all the same, and didn’t I put only those stubs in the hat?”

Barry laughed.

O’Reilly guffawed so loudly that people turned around to see what was so funny. He put an avuncular arm around Donal’s shoulder. “I wonder about you sometimes, Donal,” he said. “It’s only the Lord who is meant to move in mysterious ways.”

It Came upon a Midnight Clear

The stern, fifteenth-century nonconformist Martin Luther would not have approved of O’Reilly’s suggestion, but then, Barry thought, it was unlikely the old Puritan would have approved of O’Reilly at all.

“Why don’t we go to midnight mass?” O’Reilly asked. “Father O’Toole does the service very well.” He finished another mouthful of his Christmas Eve dinner.

“I’d like that, Fingal,” Barry said. “I’d enjoy that very much.”

“Good. And we’ll ask Kinky if she’d like to come. Even if she is a Presbyterian, she’s very broad-minded. You know now—you were at the pageant—that there’s quite a tradition here of ecumenism, particularly at Christmas, and I think Kinky approves.”

“Even if Bertie Bishop doesn’t?”

“But Flo does. We’ll see her there.” Then O’Reilly, who had once pronounced the adage “Eating time is eating time, and talking time is talking time,” nodded, grunted, and applied himself with vigour to devouring his share of Kinky’s roast goose. She’d ignored his instructions about no more fowl.

Barry was glad she had. He was quite content to savour his own meal in silence. It
would
be pleasant to bring in Christmas by going to midnight mass, he decided. It would make a change from sitting up past midnight and listening to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast by the BBC from King’s College Chapel. When he’d lived at home, his parents made listening to it a family Christmas tradition. Ever since he’d turned nine, his parents had allowed him to stay up for it.

He exhaled hard through his nose. King’s College? Humbug. Barry didn’t want to be reminded of anything to do with Cambridge. One of the reasons Patricia had given for staying there was that her friend Jenny’s father had got tickets for this year’s service.

Fair enough, it must be spectacular to be there in person. He remembered how, as a boy, once the service was over, he’d been allowed to open one Christmas present. Then, after a small piece of Christmas cake, he was bundled off to bed to try to sleep, because everybody knew there’d be no presents in the pillowcase at the foot of the bed for any child who stayed awake. Oooh, the anticipation, but for a little chap the very late night had always produced the effect his parents had hoped for. Sleep came quickly then.

But tonight, after the mass, would he be able to drop off? Barry sighed. He was missing Patricia, still worried about her. Would he lie awake picturing her in the chapel at King’s College and, despite her reassurances, wondering who she was with?

He speared a piece of roast parsnip and looked around as Kinky came in.

She was carrying the iced, beribboned, and decorated Christmas cake on a large plate. It was accompanied by a serrated cake knife. She set them on the sideboard. “For later,” she said.

Barry wondered if Kinky observed the same tradition as his folks, who cut the cake—“opened it,” as the locals said—once they had come back from church.

“Mrs. Kincaid, you’ve done yourself proud,” O’Reilly said. “The chestnut stuffing and applesauce set off your goose to perfection. Perfection.”

“And,” Barry added, “the roast potatoes were simply marvelous. Thank you, Kinky.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed them, sir. I roasted them in the fat from the goose.” She put the cake in front of O’Reilly. “I learned that trick from my mother down in
Béal na mBláth
in West Cork . . .

“Where the Big Fellah was shot?” Barry asked.

“Michael Collins himself, God rest him.” Kinky paused. “He was a darlin’ man, so.” She lifted the plate on which rested the wreckage of
the goose. “We always had a goose on Christmas Eve, but my aunty preferred to serve salted beef.” She peered at O’Reilly’s florid complexion. “I believe, sir, too much salt is not good for the blood pressure, so. Not even on Christmas Eve. That’s why I never do it.”

O’Reilly laughed. “All right, Kinky. You’re right.”

“That’s why,” Kinky continued, “I’ve had tomorrow’s ham soaking since eight o’clock last night, and I’ll take it out at eight o’clock tonight.

“Twenty-four hours? Why so long?” Barry asked.

“To get
all
the salt out before I boil it tonight and then roast it tomorrow along with the turkey.”

“How long will the boiling take?” O’Reilly pushed his now empty plate away.

“A ten-pound ham at twenty minutes per pound?” Kinky frowned and looked up before saying, “Three hours and ten minutes, so.”

“So if you start boiling it at eight, you’ll be done by eleven-thirty?” O’Reilly enquired.

“I will, sir. Why?”

“Doctor Laverty and I are going to midnight mass. I know you usually go with Flo Bishop, but this year we thought you might like to come with us.”

She pursed her lips and furrowed her brow. “I’d like that,” she said. “I’ve to finish the house cleaning, but I’ll be done in time.”

“House cleaning? On Christmas Eve?” Barry said. “It seems a bit of an extra chore to me.”

“Oh, no, sir,” she said quite seriously, “it’s no trouble at all, at all. Country folks everywhere in Ireland do it. It’s for the same reason we leave a candle burning in the front window.”

“Why’s that, Kinky?”

“Our Lord came at Christmastide once before. He’d nowhere to stay. You’d want the house to be ready if he comes again.” She looked him directly in the eye. “And not only him. You never know
who
might be coming to stay tomorrow.”

Barry felt tingly. The locals would say he felt as if a goose had
walked over his grave. A strange idea, considering he’d just finished eating a goose. Kinky couldn’t mean Patricia, who’d already told him that coming home wasn’t physically possible.

“Well,” said O’Reilly, “you carry on, Kinky, but don’t worry that Miss O’Hallorhan’ll be staying. She’s just coming for the dinner.”

“There’ll be plenty for all. I’ll see to that,” she said, still looking at Barry. “And there’ll be room here even if there was no room at the inn once—”

O’Reilly chuckled and said, “Twice, if you count the pageant.”

“True, sir, but at Number One we’ll be ready no matter who comes.” She lifted the cake. “But we’ll not be ready if I don’t go and get on now.”

“Leave the cake, Kinky.” O’Reilly had half risen.

“Sure, sir,” she said, moving the plate out of his range. “I think maybe we should observe another of my mother’s traditions. We’ll open the cake tomorrow morning when the three of us get back from the mass.”

Although the moon was not many days past full, there was no moon glow nor any stars to be seen when O’Reilly parked at the chapel. Barry got out and inhaled the scent of the sea borne on a chilly northeaster. The bells in the steeple pealed, chimed, and merrily ding-donged in the out-of-sequence cadence of hand-pulled church bells. He could picture the ringers hauling on the bell ropes.