An Irish Country Christmas (60 page)

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate this very much . . . especially today.”

Barry frowned. “I don’t understand. Why ‘especially’?”

“Because, sir, tomorrow is called Boxing Day because it’s the day servants usually get their Christmas boxes.”

Barry at once understood. Typical of O’Reilly to ignore that social distinction and treat Kinky, as he had told Fitzpatrick to, as a human being worthy of respect.

She smiled at O’Reilly. “I’ll open them now then?”

“You’ll not know what’s inside if you don’t.” O’Reilly sat again and started to attack his pancakes. “Can’t have these going cold.”

“True.” She nodded, then examined the tags. “This one’s from you, sir.” She took off the wrapping paper with great care and folded it neatly. “It’ll come in handy next year,” she said to herself. She opened a flat white cardboard box.

Barry smiled. He already knew, courtesy of Alice Moloney, what was in there.

Kinky took a midnight blue silk scarf from a nest of green tissue paper. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, sir.” She put it back in the box and set the box on the table. “Now for the other. And it’s not from Santa. It’s from you, Doctor Laverty, dear.”

Barry smiled, hoping she would be pleased. He silently blessed Alice for telling him that O’Reilly had bought a blue scarf and then advising Barry about his own choice. The transition in that woman, he thought, from harpy to pleasant human being had been quite remarkable.

Kinky went through the same ritual of saving the paper and finally produced a green silk scarf. “It’s lovely.” She bent and dropped a tiny kiss on Barry’s cheek. “Thank you, Doctor Laverty. Thank you very much.”

“My pleasure,” he said, then blushed.

Kinky looked from one scarf to the other. “You two gentlemen have put a poor Cork woman in a fix, so.”

O’Reilly swallowed his mouthful. “No, we haven’t. Wear the green one today because it goes very well with your hat. There’ll be no offence taken by me.”

“Thank you, sir.” She picked up both boxes. “I’ll be running along, but I’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Enjoy yourself,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll be here just in case there are any emergencies.” Barry heard the anticipation in his senior colleague’s voice and saw the brightness in his eyes when he said, “Kitty’s coming down this morning.”

Barry sighed and wished he was waiting for Patricia to arrive.

“I’ll go then and thank you both for my presents. They’re
álainn
.”

“
Álainn
, that’s beautiful to you, Barry,” said O’Reilly, once Kinky had left. “And it’s a high compliment coming from Kinky. She really likes her scarves.” He squinted at his own parcel, picked it up, and shook it against his ear as a child would, Barry thought.

“And what could be in there? Have a look.”

“All right.” O’Reilly tried to rip the wrapping off, but a couple of strips of Sellotape resisted his initial assault. He sliced through them with his knife, picked up the oblong box, and flipped it open. His eyes
widened as he extracted a briar with a straight stem and a pale, sandy brown bowl. He whistled on the intake of breath. “Thundering Jesus, that’s a Dunhill Tanshell,” he said. “Thank you, Barry. Thank you very much.”

Barry inclined his head.

O’Reilly rummaged in his pocket and produced his tobacco pouch. “I’ll have to break it in”—he started filling the bowl—“and there’s no time like the present.”

Barry smiled. The man in the local tobacconist’s had been most helpful. He’d said Dunhills were the Rolls-Royces of pipes and not to be put off by the pale colour. With use it would develop a patina of great beauty. “Glad you like it,” Barry said.

“Mmmfh,” O’Reilly agreed, the new pipe clamped between his teeth. He held a lit match over the bowl. Its flame dipped down as he drew, and puffs of smoke escaped from between his lips. When it was drawing well, he said, “It is a beauty.” He let go his customary blue cloud, took the pipe from his mouth, and pointed the stem at Barry’s parcel. “Thank you.”

Barry’s pleasure was as great as O’Reilly’s obvious delight.

“Your turn, Barry.”

Barry lifted his gift and noticed again the words
the finest assistant I could wish for
. His chest expanded. He removed the paper. One word on the box, Hardy, was enough to tell him of the treasure inside. He opened the box and took out a single-action fly reel. The manufacturers were the ne plus ultra in rod-and-reel building. This was the first Hardy reel he had ever owned. “Fingal, it’s wonderful. Thank you. Thank you very much. I can hardly wait to try it on the Bucklebo.” It didn’t seem very long ago that the villagers, at the going-away party for the Galvins, had given him a beautiful fly box full of hand-tied trout flies.

“Ask the marquis.” O’Reilly said. “You’ll be seeing him at his open house.”

The front doorbell rang.

“Will you see who that is, Barry?”

“But you’re on—” Barry bit off “call” and rose. He went into the hall and opened the front door to be greeted by Donal and Julie Donnelly.
By their glowing cheeks, both were perfectly well. “Good morning,” he said. “What can I do for the pair of you on Christmas Day? Nobody’s sick, I hope?”

Donal shook his head. “Not at all.”

Barry smiled. “Good. And I’m not buying any raffle tickets.”

Donal laughed. “Good one, sir. I’m not selling none, and you can’t do a thing for us,” Donal said, lifting his cap. “Me and Julie just wanted to wish you and himself the compliments of the season and hope that next year will be a very good one for the both of youse, so it will.” He handed Barry a parcel. “Julie’s a quare dab hand in the kitchen, so she is. Her granny was Scottish and it’s her recipe for shortbread, and”—he winked and lowered his voice—“we all know himself has a sweet tooth.”

Barry took the parcel. “That’s very kind of you. Thank you, Donal. Julie. A very merry Christmas to you two, and a very happy New Year . . .”—he glanced at Julie’s tummy—“to you
three
.”

Julie laughed. “Thank you, Doctor Laverty. Enjoy the shortbread.” She tugged at Donal’s hand. “Come on, love,” she said. “We don’t want to be late for the service . . . Good-bye, sir.”

Barry stood in the open doorway. He was cold without a hat and coat, and yet there was a feeling inside him that was toasty warm.

He recognized Councillor Bertie and Mrs. Flo Bishop walking to church along the opposite pavement, and he called, “Merry Christmas.” He was rewarded by a smile from the councillor, a return of his greetings, and a reminder from Flo. “We’ll see you and himself tomorrow at our open house. It starts at one.”

“Right. Thank you,” said Barry, wondering how his liver was going to stand up to all the festive good cheer. He had forgotten all about the Bishops’ party, but he was damn sure O’Reilly hadn’t. It wouldn’t be worth mentioning.

He stepped inside and went back into the dining room. “Shortbread from Julie and Donal,” Barry explained, setting the parcel on the table. “They just came to wish us—”

“A Merry Christmas.” O’Reilly shook his head. “We’re going to hear a lot of that today, and do you know what?”

“What, Fingal?”

“It never sounds trite or hackneyed to my ears.”

“I know what you mean.” It was funny how much a little show of gratitude made working with people so worthwhile.

“Come on,” said O’Reilly, “let’s go up to the lounge.”

The time between Kinky’s leaving for church and her return passed quickly. There were no calls. O’Reilly was putting on their second LP of the morning—part of a three-record set of Herbert von Karajan conducting the Berlin Philharmonic in Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony—when Kinky stuck her head around the door and announced, “I’m back, so.”

The doorbell rang again. “Go and get your hat and coat off, Kinky. I’ll answer it,” O’Reilly said and then headed for the stairs.

Barry heard the roar from below. “Kitty. Kitty O’Hallorhan. Merry Christmas. Come in, come in. Let me take your coat.”

“It’s nippy out there,” she said.

“Let me look at you in that powder-blue twin set.” Pause. “By God, Kitty O’Hallorhan, you look good enough to eat. Give me a hug.”

Barry heard what sounded like a kiss, then Kitty’s chuckle. “Coming from you, Fingal, that’s a rare compliment.”

“I meant it. Now, do you want a cup of tea? Some shortbread maybe?”

“No, thank you.”

“Then go you on up to the lounge. The fire’s lit. Stop footering with your overcoat. Go on with you and get warm.”

“But, Fingal, I—”

“Upstairs, woman. You said it was nippy out. I’ll not have you die of exposure in my house.”

Barry heard Kitty chuckle. “All right and Merry Christmas, Fingal,” she said. Then he heard the sound of footsteps ascending.

Barry moved from his armchair and took a straight-backed chair before they came into the lounge. He rose when Kitty entered. “Merry Christmas, Kitty. Have a pew.”

She took one armchair. “Please sit down.”

Barry sat. O’Reilly charged past and bent down beside the half-naked tree. Lady Macbeth jumped onto Kitty’s lap. She stroked the animal’s head. The cat, wearing a red ribbon round her neck, butted her head against the caressing palm and purred mightily.

“Listen to that,” said O’Reilly, straightening up, “but pay her no heed. It’s for her own good that a cat purrs. She’s trying to ingratiate herself.”

Don’t tell me he’s jealous of the cat, Barry thought. He’d never seen O’Reilly look at anybody or anything as fondly as he gazed on Kitty.

Kitty seemed to be oblivious. She turned to Barry. “Nice to see you again, Barry.”

“It’s been a while.”

“I had a week’s holiday. I went and spent it with my mother. She gave me the twin set. Mum lives in Tallaght. It’s a bit south of Dublin. I drove back up to town last night.”

“And about time too,” O’Reilly said. “We’ve missed you.”

“Och, sure, Fingal,” Kitty said, “doesn’t absence make the heart grow fonder?”

“Ahem,” said O’Reilly, clearing his throat. “Ha-hm. I have something for you, Kitty.” He handed her a long parcel.

“Thank you, Fingal. That’s very sweet.”

“Sweet, my aunt Fanny Jane. It’s Christmas.” O’Reilly lifted his shoulders.

Lord, Barry thought, you’d probably drop dead, Fingal, if you thought anyone suspected you’ve a soft side.

She looked at Fingal, said nothing, and opened her parcel. “My God,” she said, looking at the label of a bottle of red wine. “It’s a Lafite Rothschild ’61. That’s a noble vintage year. You haven’t changed much, O’Reilly, have you? You were always a romantic bugger.” She kissed his lips, then said, “I hope you’ll help me to drink it?”

O’Reilly spluttered and his face reddened.

Barry looked away. He didn’t want to embarrass O’Reilly further, and he desperately wished someone was kissing him.

Kitty stepped back. “And I have a wee something for you, but it’s
downstairs in my coat. You’ll get it when we come back from His Lordship’s.”

O’Reilly rose. “Now,” he said. “It’s eleven-thirty. Things kick off at the marquis’ at twelve. We don’t have to be there exactly on time, and we’ve a couple of calls to make first so we’d best get going.”

Calls? It was news to Barry. “Who’ve we to call on, Fingal? Nobody’s phoned.”

“Didn’t I tell you the first week you were here? Sometimes it’s the ones who don’t call that need the visit.”

“Oh. Right.” There was no arguing with that.

Before Barry could ask who they’d be visiting, O’Reilly was heading for the stairs with Kitty on his heels.

Barry followed, hoping the calls weren’t to patients, and he saw Kinky bustling down the hall. He was still three steps from the bottom of the stairs when she opened the front door. He stopped and looked over the heads of O’Reilly, Kitty, and Kinky.

“Och,” she said, “and would you look at that? What a lot of wee dotes.”

There were three children standing on the front steps. He recognized Colin Brown and Jeannie Kennedy. The third, a girl he guessed was twelve or thirteen, had her back to the doorway. She raised her hands above her head and, with both index fingers extended, began to conduct.

We wish you a Merry Christmas . . .

There were more than three children singing. A boy with a strong voice and a lisp could be heard over the rest.