An Irish Country Christmas Part 50

"Not a word, Maggie. Not a word."

She winked at him and turned to Sonny. "Right, dear. Time we were running along. My turkey needs attention, and the General and your dogs have been on their own long enough."

No doubt, O'Reilly thought, Sonny's five dogs and Maggie's battle-scarred cat, Sir Bernard Law Montgomery, would be dining on turkey today too. "Safe home," he said.

"And to you, Doctor," Sonny said, and with his arm protectively round Maggie's waist, he started to steer her to the door. "We'll see you all tomorrow, I hope, at the Bishops' open house."

"You will," said O'Reilly. He turned to Kitty. "Could you make it down for that?"

She shook her head. "Sorry, Fingal. Some of us have to work."

He shrugged but inside he felt as keenly disappointed as he knew Barry must be about Patricia not coming today. "Can't be helped. I understand, and perhaps-"

O'Reilly got no further. He glanced around the room. The latest gale of laughter, a mix of guffaws, belly laughs, and giggles, seemed to be coming from a group surrounding the tall cadaverous-looking Doctor Fitzpatrick. The man was grinning like a mooncalf and clutching his pince-nez in his left hand.

"What the h.e.l.l-?"

"I think," said Barry, "that your old university friend is holding court."

"We should go and listen," O'Reilly said, taking Kitty's hand. "Come on."

"Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me." He forced his way past several strangers. He knew that Kitty and Barry were following in his wake. He brought his party to a standstill at the back of the group surrounding Fitzpatrick.

"Merry Christmas, Father O'Toole."

"Doctor."

"Compliments of the season, Reverend, Mrs. Robinson."

"Doctor O'Reilly. Doctor Laverty. Miss O'Hallorhan."

He heard Barry saying, "I'm glad the iron pills aren't causing you any trouble, Alice," and then heard Miss Moloney wis.h.i.+ng Barry a merry Christmas.

It was like a family reunion, and wasn't that what Ballybucklebo was? And wasn't he very glad to be a member of that family?

Fitzpatrick's harsh voice carried. He was well into his story. "Anyway, the patient trusted the doctor, and he took his gunpowder every day, quite religiously . . ."

He took his gunpowder? What was Fitzpatrick doing?

"Every day . . . for six months . . . six whole months."

O'Reilly looked around. The audience had grown and seemed to encompa.s.s every one of the partygoers. The marquis, his son, O'Brien-Kelly, and Sir John MacNeill were at the far side of the crowd. There were Bertie and Flo. He smiled at them and they smiled back.

"And then . . ." Fitzpatrick lowered his voice. "And then the poor man died."

There was a sudden communal in-drawing of breath, and the silence following was broken only by the notes of the final movement of the Mozart symphony.

"And do you know what happened next?"

O'Reilly was impressed. Fitzpatrick certainly knew how to hold an audience. He would be a difficult candidate to argue with in an election.

"They tried to cremate the corpse."

"And a very good idea," Mr. Coffin called.

"Wheest, Christopher," Constable Mulligan whispered in a loud voice.

"You're right, sir. It did seem like a good idea, but . . ."-Fitzpatrick swept his gaze around the room-"but to this very day they're looking for the back wall of the crematorium."

O'Reilly joined in the universal laughter and applauded with the others. He minded not at all that Fitzpatrick had pinched the line he himself had used when he'd chastised Fitzpatrick for using gunpowder as a treatment. Fair play to the man. O'Reilly let go of Kitty's hand and shoved his way to the front. He grabbed Fitzpatrick's hand and shook it. "Well done, Ronald. Well done."

"Thank you, O'Reilly. Coming from you that means a lot."

"Och, it's Christmas Day."

"So a Merry Christmas to you, Fingal, and I hope we all have a very happy New Year." He slipped the pince-nez back on his narrow nose and swallowed so his Adam's apple bobbed.

"I couldn't have said it better myself," O'Reilly said.

He felt a tapping on his shoulder and turned to see Kitty. "Excuse me, Ronald," she said.

"Certainly, Kitty."

"Fingal, it's four thirty . . ."

"And we have to go, or Kinky will baste me instead of the turkey." O'Reilly smiled at Fitzpatrick. "I've to go and say thanks to His Lords.h.i.+p; then we'll be off. Enjoy yourself."

"And when you get home," said Fitzpatrick with a small bow, "please wish Mrs. Kincaid a Merry Christmas from me."

"Presents," I Often Say, "Endear. . ."

Barry was still amazed by the apparent transformation of Doctor Fitzpatrick. He had thought that seeing the light on the road to Damascus only happened in the Bible. But if the tousling O'Reilly had given the man last week had produced this change, then more power to his wheel.

He followed O'Reilly and Kitty across the back lane and into the garden. He could see lazy flakes drifting down and glistening in the glow from the nearby street light. As he and the other two walked through O'Reilly's dark garden, all he could hear was the crunching of shoes and boots in the snow. There were no traffic noises coming from the road, no chapel bells, no children's voices, no mewling of gulls, no lowing of beasts. Nightfall and snowfall had coc.o.o.ned Ballybucklebo in a web of gentle silence.

There was no sign of Arthur. O'Reilly did not seem concerned, so it was unlikely that the dog had managed to roam.

It was nippy in the garden, but as soon as he was in the kitchen Barry had to take off his coat. And the cooking smells . . . oh, the aromas. His mouth watered.

"Nice to see you all home on time." Kinky, wreathed in a cloud of steam, closed the oven door and straightened up. She held a turkey baster in one oven-mitted hand. "The bird's coming on a treat. I'd not want it too dry from overcooking."

"I'm sure it'll melt in our mouths," O'Reilly said. He stood holding a bag that Barry knew contained Kitty's high heels. Kitty removed her coat and her fur-lined ankle boots. She slipped into her heels.

"And by the way, Doctor Fitzpatrick said to wish you a merry Christmas."

"By the Lord," she said, "will wonders never cease?" She looked at Kitty."Pop your boots in the corner there, Miss O'Hallorhan."

"And I'll hang my coat in the hall." Kitty started to leave but hesitated when Kinky said, "Doctor O'Reilly, sir. I've a little job for you and Doctor Laverty."

"What?" O'Reilly asked. "I hope you don't expect me to bake the ham."

Kinky laughed so much her chins wobbled. "No, sir. I do not." Barry thought she sounded like a mother rea.s.suring an eight-year-old that he'd not be expected to run the mile in four minutes. "Even though I am a bit behind with the cooking."

And that was the first time in five months Barry had ever heard Kinky confess to anything less than perfection. Somehow it made her even more admirable.

"I've been back and forth like a fiddler's elbow answering the door to all the folks who've come to wish this house a Merry Christmas." She used her forearm to shove an errant wisp of hair out of her eyes. "I know people do come round every year to thank yourself, sir." She pointed at O'Reilly with the baster. "I know some folks came to the surgery on Wednesday with gifts, those who'd not been here before came today, and now there's two doctors here, every last visitor brought two bottles. There's enough whiskey in the dining room to have emptied Jameson's distillery, aye, and made a dent in the stock of Bushmills as well."

Barry saw O'Reilly's huge grin. The bottle they'd taken to Kieran O'Hagan would not be missed.

Kinky put the baster down on the counter and rattled a saucepan on the stovetop. "Boiled potatoes. They'll be ready to drain and start roasting in ten minutes," she muttered to herself. Then she continued to instruct O'Reilly. "I'd appreciate it, sir, if you'd take all them bottles upstairs." A saucepan lid rattled. She turned and tipped it so steam could escape. "Christmas pudding. It'll be done in another hour." She turned back to O'Reilly. "You can see, sir, I'm just a tad busy here. If you'd put them in the sideboard in the lounge . . . I'll need the sideboard in the dining room to put things on when I bring dinner through, so."

Kitty handed her coat to O'Reilly. "Hang that in the hall, Fingal, on your way to the dining room, please."

She sounded as if she'd been asking O'Reilly for that kind of little favour for years and, Barry noticed, O'Reilly accepted the coat as if he'd been doing it for years-and enjoying it.

Kitty rolled up her sleeves. "Mrs. Kinkaid, can I not give you a hand?"

"Bless you, Miss O'Hallorhan, that's very kind, so." Kinky pointed to three laden plates. "But if you'd just take the Christmas cake, the sweet mince pies, and the meringues through and set them on the sideboard once the doctors get it cleared, that would be help enough, thank you very much."

There was a finality in her thank-you, that edge that Barry interpreted as, Too many cooks spoil the broth, and saving your presence, Miss O'Hallorhan, this is my domain. He wondered if perhaps Kinky Kincaid, who for years had regarded Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly as her property, was feeling a bit jealous.

"I understand completely," Kitty said. "I'm a guest here. It's your kitchen, Kinky."

Nice peace offering, Barry thought, amazed as always at how astute women could be at sensing undercurrents.

Kitty picked up two laden plates. "I'll come back for the meringues. Lead on, Fingal."

O'Reilly headed for the hall with Kitty following. Barry saw Kinky watch her departure. There was a hint of a smile on the Cork woman's round face. She opened the oven again and pulled the lower rack halfway out. Barry admired the ham. Kinky had scored the fat into diamond patterns, and in the centre of each stood a clove. "Coming on nicely," she said, before pus.h.i.+ng it back inside and closing the oven door.

"It looks lovely, Kinky."

"I think it will be," she said, "if I'm given peace to get on."

Barry took the not-too-subtle hint and went to help O'Reilly.

Barry stood at the fire, which was burning brightly in the grate. He bent and patted Arthur Guinness's head. The Labrador and Lady Macbeth, who must have declared their own Christmas truce, shared the hearth rug. Barry noticed that the cat had shed her ribbon.

"And the lion shall lie down with the lamb," O'Reilly said, from where he stood putting the last of the liquid gifts into the sideboard.

"Try 'the calf and the young lion and the fatling together,' " Barry said. "Poor old Isaiah is never quoted correctly."

"You're right, but how in the h.e.l.l could you call that skinny wee white cat a fatling?"

"I see your point." Barry straightened.

Arthur looked up questioningly, as if to say. "I was enjoying that. Don't stop."

"We always let Arthur in for Christmas Day," O'Reilly said, which accounted for his absence from the back garden, Barry thought. Leaving an armchair for O'Reilly, Barry took the plain chair close to where Kitty sat in the other armchair. She'd set a small gift-wrapped parcel beside her. Barry had seen her pull it from the pocket of her camel-hair overcoat just before they'd all come up here. She kicked off her high heels and recrossed her legs. "They may be smart, but those shoes pinch my feet." She bent and ma.s.saged her toes.

Barry said nothing, but he was impressed by how obviously at home she must feel. He glanced through the window where outside snowflakes tumbled gently, white eiderdown feathers illuminated by the light spilling from the room and by the nearly full moon.

"I'll draw the curtains," O'Reilly said.

Barry had enjoyed watching the flakes swirl and dance, but now that they were hidden he felt the warmth of the familiar room. And it wasn't so much the heat from the fire as the feeling of belonging, of being cosily at home. Never mind lions and fatlings; he, Barry Laverty, once so intimidated by Doctor O'Reilly, no longer saw him as his senior. And just as Arthur and Her Ladys.h.i.+p were enjoying each other's company, so was Barry enjoying Fingal's. He just wished Patricia was here to make it a perfect evening.

O'Reilly, now back at the sideboard, asked. "Who wants what?" Then he quickly saw to drinks for Kitty and Barry. "I'm not a great enthusiast of mulled wine," he announced, pouring himself an enormous Irish. "And I'm glad you two aren't either."

"If I'd known you had it, I'd have asked for it," Kitty said. "I've always enjoyed shoving the red hot poker in." She accepted her gin and tonic.

There was a twinkle in her eyes, and Barry couldn't be sure if she was serious or was taking a hand out of his senior colleague. O'Reilly harrumphed and gave Barry a small whiskey, then went to the half-decorated tree. "Only a few more to go," he said, lifting a parcel. "One for you, Barry, and"-he lifted two more-"one apiece for Lady Macbeth and Arthur Guinness."

Barry looked over at the single gift-wrapped present that remained lonely beneath the tree. He knew only too well that the tag read: "To Patricia Spence." He sighed. There was nothing marked "From Patricia."

"Here," said O'Reilly, handing Barry two gifts. "Open Arthur's and your own, and I'll see to Her Ladys.h.i.+p."

"Right." Barry set the brown paperwrapped parcel with the Australian stamps on it on the carpet and unwrapped Arthur's present. He burst out laughing. It was a pair of child-size Wellington boots.

"What's so funny?" Kitty asked.

"Do you remember, Kitty, at Sonny and Maggie's wedding how Fingal gave me a job to do? My first unsupervised one?"

She frowned, then smiled. "You'd to look for the other half of a pair of wellies because Arthur had stolen one."

"That's right."

"And I thought," said O'Reilly, "that if he had his own pair to play with, he might leave other people's alone."

Barry took the boots to the dog. "Merry Christmas, Arthur."

Arthur opened one eye, his eyebrow shot up and twitched mightily, and he sniffed his gift. Then he promptly went back to sleep and snored.

"Ungrateful beast," said O'Reilly, setting a small opened tin beside Lady Macbeth. She awoke, stretched, and arched her back so highly that Barry thought she almost folded herself double. Then she straightened, lowered her head to the tin, and suddenly sprang backward as if she'd put her nose against an electric fence. Tail fluffed, she advanced very slowly and sniffed again, padded at the tin with one paw, sniffed again, bent, and started to eat.

"What's in the tin, Fingal?" Kitty asked.

"Anchovy fillets," he said. "I thought she might like them."

"She certainly seems to. You'd think she'd not eaten for a week the way she's wolfing them down."

"I hope she enjoys them," said O'Reilly quite seriously. "And Arthur doesn't know it yet, but the wellies are only a joke. There's a big marrow bone in his doghouse for him. I don't see why animals can't enjoy a special day too. After all, there were plenty of them in the stable that first Christmas. Ours should get their frankincense and myrrh. Mind you," he grinned, "I'm fond of Arthur and Lady Macbeth, but not fond enough to bring them gold."

And you are a wise man, Fingal, Barry thought, even if you're not a Magus.