An Irish Country Christmas (61 page)

We
with
you a Merry
Chrithmath . . .

Barry came down and stood where he could see the front path. For the second time in two weeks he was reminded of
The Wind in the Willows
, one of the favourite books of his childhood. The children caroling could have been the dormice singing for Rat and Mole. The
youngsters’ cheeks were rosy, their mouths wide, and their eyes serious. Their breath made small clouds of vapour on the still air.

We wish you a merry Christmas . . .

The tall girl conducted energetically. Her long, black hair spilled out from under a green and red striped, woolly bobble hat. She faced Colin and Jeannie, and behind them were Micky Corry, Eddie Jingles, who was well and truly over his pneumonia, and Billy Cadogan, the asthmatic.

And a happy New Year
.

There were more Barry could call by name. He felt proud to be able to recognize so many.

Oh, bring us a figgy pudding . . .

The carollers grinning started and Barry realized why when Mrs. Kincaid headed back toward her kitchen. She was going to fetch treats for the singers.

Oh, bring us a figgy pudding . . .

Fine snow drifted slowly down, winter’s white substitute for summer’s dandelion puffs, and like icing sugar it powdered the shoulders of new overcoats, multihued woollen toques, and the flat tops of duncoloured tweed caps.

. . . and a cup of good cheer
.

The black-haired girl held up her hands and turned to stare at O’Reilly. Barry was struck by the darkness of her eyes and the length of her eyelashes, where a single, large snowflake had lodged. She turned back to her choir and with more forceful movements of her arms exhorted the voices to greater efforts.

We
won’t
go until we get some; we
won’t
go until we get some
. . .

Kinky appeared, pushing a trolley laden with plates of sweet mince pies and a steaming bowl of dark liquid that Barry knew would be hot Ribena Black Currant Cordial.

Barry joined in a round of applause when the carol ended. Then he stepped aside as Kinky invited the children into the hall.

All but the dark-haired girl queued for their mince pies and hot drinks. She held up a collecting tin with UNICEF on its label.

Barry pushed a pound note through the slot in its top. The United Nations International Children’s Emergency Fund was a worthy cause.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor Laverty,” she said.

“Well done, Hazel Arbuthnot and all the rest of you,” O’Reilly said. “Aggie’s daughter,” he remarked to Barry, who couldn’t help wondering if Hazel had an extra toe like her mother.

O’Reilly put a five-pound note in the tin. “That’s from Miss O’Hallorhan and me.”

Hazel made a small curtsey. “Thank you, sir.”

“Well done, all of you,” he said, ignoring the chorus of thank-yous. “Now Kitty, Barry, we’ve calls to make, so get your coats on. I’ve to get a wee thing.” He stepped into the dining room and then reappeared clutching a bottle-shaped, paper-wrapped parcel. “Hold that.” He handed it to Barry and shrugged into his coat.

“Who are we going to see, Fingal?” Barry wanted to know.

“Declan and Mélanie Finnegan, then Eileen Lindsay. They all live on the estate.”

Barry glanced first at the bottle he was carrying and then to O’Reilly. “And will we be bringing food and wine and pine logs too?”

“No,” said O’Reilly, “I’m not Good King Wenceslas and you’re certainly not my page, but with his Parkinson’s disease Declan doesn’t get out much, and he always enjoys a wee half-un with his Christmas dinner.”

Barry wondered if this was the first Christmas O’Reilly had made this kind of call, but decided it almost certainly was not.

“Come on,” said O’Reilly. “Time we were off.”

Kinky looked up from dabbing at the coat of a small boy who had spilled his juice. “Then run along, make your calls, and enjoy His Lordship’s hooley,” she said. “But I’ll expect you all back by five, not a minute later. I’d not want the dinner spoiled.”

The Corridors of Power

“
Ne dites plus, Mélanie. C’était notre plaisir.”
O’Reilly had sent Kitty and Barry out and was saying good-bye to the Finnegans. And it
had
been his pleasure to see Declan’s stiff smile and Melanie’s obvious happiness to have the opportunity to speak her native French. The operation Declan had undergone earlier that year had not cured his Parkinson’s disease, but it had certainly improved it.

“
Joyeux Nöel et une bonne et heureuse année, Docteur O’Reilly.”

“Et à toi, Mélanie.”

She closed the door behind him, and he started to walk along Comber Gardens to catch up with Kitty and Barry. Somehow, he thought, the street seemed less dingy today. Perhaps it was the covering of snow. Perhaps it was the happy shouts of children. Mary Lindsay sat on a small toboggan, and while Willy Lindsay pulled, another boy pushed. The sled’s runners crunched through the snow. They didn’t pay him any attention. And why should they? They were having fun. He hoped Sammy was enjoying himself too, and that was something he’d find out as soon as they made their call on Eileen.

Barry and Kitty stopped where a group of children were building a lopsided snowman on the footpath. “That’s a good one,” Kitty said. “I like the way they’ve given him a smile.”

O’Reilly looked at the upturned, curved row of small pieces of coal at the bottom of the snowman’s head. Anne-Marie Mulloy—he’d treated her last year for chicken pox—was sticking in a carrot for its nose between the larger lumps of coal that were the eyes. “Whose dad is short a
bowler hat,” O’Reilly asked, “and a Glentoran scarf?” He wondered if the items might belong to Gerry Shanks, but saw no sign of either of his kiddies.

O’Reilly pulled out his old briar—the new Dunhill was in his other pocket—and he looked at the pipe’s bowl burnt black and irregular by years of use. “Here, Malachy.” He offered it to a hatless boy in a grey coat. “Stick that in your man’s gob. He doesn’t look right without a pipe.”

The boy dashed a snot track from his upper lip with one hand as he grabbed the pipe in the other. “Thanks, Doctor O’Reilly. That’s wheeker, so it is. Thanks a million.” He turned and pushed the pipe into the middle of the snowman’s mouth.

“That’s more like it,” said O’Reilly, chuckling as he led his companions to Number 31.

The air was crisp and the smell of burning coal was strong. When O’Reilly looked up, he could see that every chimney in sight was smoking. There was no central heating in any of these houses, but at least the occupants would be keeping warm today.

O’Reilly pounded on the front door frame so hard that the holly wreath fixed to the door shuddered and swayed. Realizing he had overdone the announcement of his arrival, he stopped hammering and stamped his feet as he waited.

Eileen Lindsay opened the door. “Doctor O’Reilly? Is everything all right?”

“Of course, Eileen. We just came to wish you the compliments of the season. Can we come in?”

“Please.” She stepped aside.

“This is Miss O’Hallorhan.”

Eileen made a tiny bob. “Pleased to meet you.” She closed the door. “Go on into the parlour. Can I get youse anything? A cup of tea in your hand? A wee half-un? Maybe an eggnog?”

“No thanks, Eileen,” O’Reilly said. “We’ve only popped in for a minute to see how Sammy is.” He led Kitty to the parlour, and Barry followed along.

A fire blazed in the grate. Three empty red felt stockings lay on the
carpet, and O’Reilly could see the hooks in the mantel from which they had hung. An unlit red candle surrounded by a holly wreath sat in the middle of the mantelpiece.

Johnny Jordan and Sammy sat on the floor at the control box of a Hornby Dublo 00 electric train, an engine, two passenger coaches, and a guard’s van. The train cars made a high-pitched clattering as they ran around and around an oval track. “How’s about ye, Doctor O’Reilly?” Sammy asked.

“I’m fine, thanks, Sammy. How are you?” O’Reilly nodded to Johnny, who smiled. Donal had been right. The man was no oil painting. His bald pate glistened in the light coming in through the window. His smile was very wide, and O’Reilly noticed that two of his lower incisors were missing. “Doctor,” he said, lowering his head slighty.

Sammy stopped the engine and showed O’Reilly his arms. “My rash is all gone now, so it has, and I’m not swollen up no more.”

“Good.”

“But Mammy wouldn’t let me go out yet. She says it’s too cold. Willie and Mary’s gone to throw snowballs, so they have.”

“I know. I saw them. Do you mind not going out?”

Sammy grinned. “Nah. Santa brung all three of us bicycles . . . but you can’t ride a bike in the snow. Anyway I’d rather play with Johnny and my new train set.”

O’Reilly tousled the boy’s hair. “Good for you.” O’Reilly was delighted, and the best part of helping the Lindsays had been watching Donal work the fiddle. Admit it, Fingal, he told himself, that kind of scheming has always appealed to you. “Right then,” he said, “we’ll be off.” He steered Kitty to the door. “A Merry Christmas to this house,” he said. “A very happy New Year.”

The chorus of returned greetings was still ringing in his ears as he closed the front door.

O’Reilly held open the back door of the Rover for Kitty. “Next stop, Ballybucklebo House. We’re running a bit late but His Lordship won’t mind, and by the time we get there the party should be in full swing.”

“I don’t care if we’re a bit late. Please drive carefully, Fingal,” Kitty
said, as she got in. “Sammy may think it’s too snowy to ride a bike, but if there are any cyclists out today . . .”

“And you don’t want to think of anybody in a ditch on Christmas Day.” He started the engine. “All right. Careful it is.”

The boughs of the monkey puzzle tree in front of the Rover were bent low, their prickly leaves sheathed in softness. There were a lot of parked cars. Quite a few were Rolls-Royces, Bentleys, and Daimlers. O’Reilly had to park some distance from the big house, but the drive had been cleared.

The snow, glistening as it reflected the rays of the low winter sun, lay almost unblemished on the lawns. The only imperfections in the white smoothness were tracks of birds’ feet. O’Reilly narrowed his eyes. At least three pheasants had been there. With a bit of luck the marquis would have a shoot in January.

O’Reilly looked at Kitty. Her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks ruddy, and he had a sudden desire to push her down and roll her in the snow, ignore her laughing protests, and then hug her to warm her up. Instead he took her soft leather gloved hand in his.

“I love days like this,” she said, “and we haven’t had many for quite a while.” She held his gaze.

“More’s the pity,” he said, and he smiled down at her when she smiled up at him and squeezed his hand. He looked away but held her hand more tightly. The lower windows of the Georgian front of the big house were festooned inside with evergreen branches and holly sprigs. By God, if there was a mistletoe sprig somewhere about the place, he’d get her under it before the day was over.

He led his little party up the wide front steps. Inside the portico the big front door was open and led to a marble-floored entrance hall.

“Hang on, Fingal. Hold this, please.” Kitty handed him a shoe bag she was carrying. In no time she was standing in a pair of elegant grey-suede stiletto heels. “Can I leave my boots here?”

“I don’t see why not,” O’Reilly said.

He heard a low creaking and turned to see a pair of mullioned glass doors being opened by a middle-aged man in a morning suit and grey gloves. O’Reilly recognized His Lordship’s butler.

“Good morning, Thompson.”

“Good morning, Commander O’Reilly, and a Merry Christmas.”

“The same to you.”

“May I take your coats?”

O’Reilly, Kitty, and Barry shed their outerwear. “Fingal,” Barry asked quietly, “he called you Commander?”

O’Reilly smiled. “Your dad and I weren’t the only Ulstermen on the
Warspite
. Thompson was gunnery chief petty officer then. He won a Distinguished Service Medal at Cape Matapan.” And bloody nearly lost his left foot, O’Reilly thought.