An Irish Country Christmas (8 page)

A Memory of Yesterday’s Pleasures

O’Reilly reckoned he could be doing a damn sight better. He fidgeted in his armchair in the upstairs sitting room and stared at his unlit pipe in the ashtray. Christ, he wanted a smoke, but the flaming cough refused to go away, and it had kept him awake for half the bloody night.

He twitched his plaid dressing gown shut, tightened the waist tie, and scowled at his pyjamaed legs and slippered feet sticking out from under a blanket where they were propped up on a footstool. He cleared his throat, spat into a big linen handkerchief, and looked at the results.

The sputum was clear and sticky. There wasn’t a large amount. Classically sputum was expected to be like that with early bronchitis, which was almost certainly what ailed him now. Last night he’d had a sore tickly throat and Barry had been right about tracheitis, but by the early hours of this morning O’Reilly’s entire chest had become tight and wheezy.

Acute bronchitis, while hardly life-threatening, was a bit more serious than tracheitis, and it might take just that bit longer for him to recover. He frowned at the gob in his handkerchief. If there were lots of pus cells, the stuff would have a greenish-yellow colour. It didn’t, so he’d not have to worry about acute bacterial bronchitis or pneumonia. In the latter case, there would be a rusty tinge as well. He peered more closely. No blood. Excellent.

Blood in sputum meant one thing and one thing only until proved otherwise. Last night, the expression on young Laverty’s face had told
O’Reilly what Barry was thinking, as clearly as if he had spoken his thoughts aloud. He probably assumed that his senior colleague hadn’t read about the connection between smoking and lung cancer. But he had, by God, and as things stood in the research community, cigarettes were definitely implicated. Pipe smoking didn’t seem to be so bad. O’Reilly looked at the gob once more. Definitely no blood. It was a relief. Even doctors were not impervious to worrying about their own health.

He heard the front door slamming below. Young Barry was at his work, showing one patient out and going to get the next. Good for Barry. O’Reilly certainly didn’t feel up to facing the multitudes this morning. He heard the telephone in the hall ringing. No doubt somebody who wanted a home visit, and that would keep Barry occupied for part of the afternoon. O’Reilly half listened to Kinky’s voice coming from below as she answered the phone. It seemed odd that after all the years when he’d had nobody to share the work, he could now happily delegate some to his new assistant.

He yawned, coughed again, stuffed his handkerchief into the pocket of his dressing gown, and with his eyes half closed, lay back against the cushion at the back of the chair. He was sleepy and, he realized, bored.

He heard a quiet “Ahem,” opened his eyes, and turned his head. Kinky came in through the doorway, head cocked to one side, a steaming mug held in one hand.

“Yes, Kinky?”

“Is yourself feeling a bit better, sir?”

“A little, thanks.”

“Huh.” Mrs. Kincaid shrugged. O’Reilly thought she looked as believing as a mother who, having just caught a child out in some minor peccadillo, asks, “What are you doing?” and gets the sheepish reply, “Nothing.”

“Well, my granny used to say, ‘Feed a cold and starve a fever,’ so I’ve made you some beef tea.” She set the mug on the coffee table, stood back with arms folded, and glowered down at O’Reilly. “Here.”

He knew he had no choice but to drink from the mug. He lifted it,
and the tangy, meaty smell of the bouillon filled his nostrils. He sipped. “By God, that’s powerful stuff, Kinky.” He was relieved to see her expression soften. “Made it with Oxo, did you? Bovril maybe?” He knew at once that that had been a stupid thing to say. Kinky would
never
use a proprietary brand of anything if she could make her own.

“I did not.” She frowned. “Indeed not, sir. It’s made from the grade A beef, and—”

“Sorry, Kinky. I should have known, but I’m not altogether myself today.” He took a deeper swallow.

“I’ll forgive you,” she said. “Thousands wouldn’t”—she looked at his mug—“but get that down you, and get the good of it into you.”

He thought she was going to add “like a good little boy.”

“And I’ve a great big bowl of chicken broth for your lunch, so.”

O’Reilly smiled weakly. “And I thought it was the Jews who believed in chicken soup?”

“Well, maybe they do and maybe they don’t, but the Cork people do, so.” She moved closer. “Sit forward.”

He did as he was bid, and she grabbed the cushion, pulled it free, fluffed it up, and stuck it behind his back. “Now lean you back against that,” she said.

O’Reilly leaned back and handed her the now empty mug. “Thanks, Kinky.” He coughed, shook his head like an irritated stallion trying to dismiss an annoying cleg-fly, and said, “Who was on the phone?”

“The new doctor from the Kinnegar; he says his name’s Fitzpatrick. He wants to come calling. He said it would be a courtesy visit.”

“I hope you told him not today. I don’t feel much up to having visitors.”

“Of course I did.” Kinky bent and arranged O’Reilly’s blanket more tidily. “We’ve to get you back on your feet, so.” She frowned. “I hope I convinced him for he seemed bound and determined to come today. If he does, I’ll see to him.”

O’Reilly smiled. This new Doctor Fitzpatrick might
sound
bound and determined. However, if anyone ever produced an illustrated dictionary, a photo of Kinky, arms folded on chest, multiple chins thrust
out, would accompany the entry for “determined.” Doctor Fitzpatrick would have his work cut out if he imagined he could get by Kinky.

She snorted but smiled back. “Now is there anything else you’d be needing?”

“Just one wee favour?”

“What?”

He pointed to the big wall-mounted bookshelf. “Fourth shelf up, halfway along. The book in the orange cover.”

She went to the bookshelf. “This one?
The Happy Return
by C. S. Forester?”

“That’s it.”

She brought the book and handed it to him. “About birthdays, is it? Like ‘many happy returns’?”

He took the slim volume and managed a little laugh. “No. It’s a story about a sea captain in Lord Nelson’s navy.”

“Nelson? And him the fellah with one eye and one arm on top of the column in Dublin City?”

“Right. They have one of him in London too. In Trafalgar Square.”

She shrugged and said, with a tinge of disapproval, “Huh. No doubt he keeps the London pigeons as happy as the ones in Dublin.”

O’Reilly knew Mrs. Kincaid was no respecter of English heroes. He pointed at the book. “This is a great read.”

“Well, I’m sure if it’s a story about the navy it’ll do grand to keep your mind occupied, an old sailor man like yourself.”

O’Reilly coughed. “Sure that was more than twenty years ago, Kinky.”

“And don’t I know it very well? And haven’t I been housekeeping here since you got off that big battleship when the war was over and you came here?”

“You’re right.”

“Neither the one of us is getting any younger . . . and . . .”—she headed for the door—“neither is my chicken soup. I’ll have to tend to it at once.”

“Kinky?” O’Reilly settled back against the cushion. “Thanks for the beef tea.”

“It’s nothing.” She hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll be bringing your soup up on a tray. Would you like me to ask young Doctor Laverty to join you for his lunch?”

“I would.”

“I’ll see to it, so.” She left.

Fingal O’Reilly smiled. Not for the first time he wondered just how an old bachelor man like himself would have managed without her. She could be as fussy as a mother hen, authoritarian as a sergeant major, and diplomatic as an ambassador. Although
he
ran the practice, there was no doubt about who ran Number 1 Main Street, Ballybucklebo.

He cleared his throat, reached over to the coffee table, picked up his half-moon spectacles from where he had left them, stuck them on his nose, and opened the book. He hadn’t read the Hornblower stories for years, and when he saw the handwriting inside the front cover, he gasped.
To Fingal on our engagement. With all my love, Deidre
.

He let the book fall into his lap.

He swallowed hard. Closed his eyes and felt the prickling behind the lids. Christ Almighty, you idiot, he berated himself, how could you have forgotten
she
gave you that book? How could you have forgotten
when
she gave you that book? Of all the books on the shelves, why in the name of the wee man did you ask Kinky to get you that one, when you’re not at your best and the last thing you need to be reminded of is why you are still a bachelor. As if you didn’t remember every bloody day, the golden girl, your bride of six months, snuffed out by a German bomb in 1941. Twenty-three years ago.

What did Kinky call you last night? An
amadán
. She was right.

He opened his eyes, lifted the book, reread the inscription, and firmly closed the cover. He knew that amputees, years after losing a limb, could for a fleeting moment be vividly conscious of its presence. But they must accept it is gone, as must he.

And yet . . . and yet, he still thought of her. Deidre, named for the Celtic princess, Deidre of the Sorrows. On their honeymoon night she’d quoted a line from the
Táin Bó Cúailgne—The Cattle Raid of Cooley
—the first epic in European history. He could remember her every word. “Deidre saw a raven drinking blood on the snow, and she
said . . . ‘I could love a man with those three colours: hair like a raven, cheeks like blood and body like snow.’ And I do love you, Fingal.”

Bugger it. It must be the bloody bronchitis that had knocked some of the stuffing out of him, letting in these melancholy thoughts. He’d be all right once this damn chest had cleared up and he was back in harness. If medical practice was no substitute for a wife, it was certainly a demanding mistress and had filled the empty spaces for him, along with his lifelong interest in rugby football and his enjoyment of a day’s wildfowling with Arthur Guinness for company.

He wriggled to a more comfortable position. As soon as his chest was better, he’d see if Barry would look after the shop for a day, and he, O’Reilly, would go down to Strangford Lough for a day’s duck hunting. When Barry had had his knickers knotted about his love life and his professional life the first month he’d been here, hadn’t O’Reilly suggested a day’s trout fishing to the boy as a good way of clearing his mind?

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to go and see Kitty O’Hallorhan again. Ever since he’d taken her to Sonny and Maggie’s wedding, they’d met once every week or so to rehash old times. He’d been a medical student and she’d been a student nurse back in Dublin, and he admitted to himself he’d been not a little in love with her. He might have married her if Deidre hadn’t come along but, och, he told himself, if she hadn’t he’d never have had those few months.

He felt the drowsiness starting to overcome him, but before he let himself drift off into a nap he resolved to get well as soon as he could. Barry’s Patricia would be coming home, and he’d want time off to see her. He could only have that if O’Reilly could carry his load, as Barry was carrying it this morning downstairs.

All the World’s a Stage, and All the Men
and Women Merely Players

After five months in Ballybucklebo, Barry had learned how to keep his amusement hidden and his sense of decorum in place. He resisted the temptation to ask Santa Claus if Donner, Blitzen, Prancer, and the rest of the reindeer were parked outside. Instead he walked the man to the front door and showed him out. He was better known as Billy Brennan, a usually out-of-work labourer, who had been making a few extra Christmas pounds working as Saint Nick for Robinson and Cleaver’s department store in Belfast.

His periorbital haematoma—the classic black eye—was the direct result of having told a rambunctious six-year-old sitting on his lap that Santa might not be able to deliver a real motor car. “By Jesus, Doc,” he’d said, “I never thought a wee lad like that had such a punch in him.”

Barry had examined the eye, satisfied himself that there was no damage to the eyeball itself or the bones of the eye socket, and reassured the man. That had been easy. The tricky bit, for which Barry had no answer, was trying to decide whether the injury might be considered an occupational hazard and so eligible for disability benefit. Barry had given a palpably grateful Billy the necessary certificate. He’d let the bureaucrats at the ministry make the final decision, but as far as Barry was concerned, with a shiner like that, Billy would hardly be an acceptable Santa.