An Irish Country Christmas

  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 cocooned 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 reassuring 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 pushing 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 hell 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 massaged 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 Ladyship 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 th
e 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 Ladyship.”

  “Right.” Barry set the brown paper–wrapped 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.

  O’Reilly took his seat. He nodded to Barry’s parcel. “So what’s in there?”

  Barry pulled off the brown paper. A book. Fishing Round the World by the American writer of westerns, Zane Grey. Barry was definitely pleased. He’d always wanted to read it, and with no surgery to run for the next few days—and no Patricia—he’d have all the time he needed. “It’s from my folks,” he said.

  “Your turn, Fingal,” Kitty said, handing him the small parcel beside her. “I promised you’d get it when we got home.” She smiled. Barry saw her watching O’Reilly expectantly.

  His eyes widened. “Mother of God,” he said, when his gift was revealed. “Holy, thundering mother of Jesus in a gold lamé frock. You’re a genius, Kitty O’Hallorhan. A certifiable genius.” He rose, pulled her to her feet, enveloped her in a great hug, and kissed her firmly.

  Barry could see why Kitty was a genius. Lying on the table beside O’Reilly was a Parker fountain pen and propelling pencil set.

  O’Reilly let her go, held her at arm’s length, stared into her eyes for just a bit longer than Barry thought necessary, took her by one hand, and said, “Thank you, Kitty. Thank you very much.” O’Reilly frowned. “But how did you know?”

  “If you want to know anything in this house,” Kitty said, “I’m sure Mrs. Kincaid can help.”

  Except, Barry thought, when it comes to knowing if certain people would be coming home. Yet somehow Barry’s happiness at seeing O’Reilly so comfortable with Kitty softened his own disappointment.

  O’Reilly laughed. “Kinky told you?”

  “She did. She knew about the presentation from the Rugby Club, and what Santa did at the party, and . . .” Her voice softened. “I think what you did for those kiddies was very sweet. Mind you, I’d have expected no less from you. You always were a softie.” She stood on her tiptoes and kissed him. “What you did was wonderful,” she said.

  “Ha-hmm.” O’Reilly cleared his throat, looked at her, and then said, “Kinky’s wonderful.”

  Barry heard footsteps and turned to see Kinky standing in the doorway. Several wisps of hair straggled across her forehead, where Barry noticed a few beads of sweat. “I am not, so,” she said. “I’m sorry, but dinner’s five minutes late.”

  “Kinky,” said O’Reilly, rising, crossing the floor, and grabbing her around the waist to whirl her around once. “Kinky Kincaid, if you were a week late at the pearly gates, Saint Peter would wait for you. We’ll survive five minutes.” Barry heard the growling of his senior’s stomach.

  “Well, you may survive,” she said, “but if you don’t put me down, sir, and get yourself and Miss O’Hallorhan and Doctor Laverty down to the dining room, my turkey vegetable soup will get cold.”

  And, Barry thought, in the world of Kinky Kincaid, housekeeper sans pareil, that would be a catastrophe. He rose, headed for the door, and said in a fair imitation of O’Reilly, “Come on, you two. I’m famished.”

  A Feast Fit for a King

  “This table,” said O’Reilly, looking at the place settings, “is a thing of beauty.”

  Barry had to agree. The best cutlery was arranged on either side of green, woven placemats. To the right of each setting lay multicoloured Christmas crackers. Waterford crystal glasses sparkled in the light. Crisp white linen napkins were embraced by silver napkin rings.

  O’Reilly, to Barry’s surprise, didn’t grab his seat but instead ushered Kitty past him. As he pulled out a chair to the right of his usual place at the head of the table, he said, “Please sit here, Kitty.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And you, sir. Under the table,” he said to Arthur Guinness, who had followed them downstairs.

  Arthur sighed mightily and obeyed.

  Lady Macbeth had made herself at home on a chair in front of an extra place set to Barry’s immediate left. He wondered who it was for. Perhaps an empty place at the table was a Cork custom with which he was not familiar, like having a candle burning in the window last night. He refused to believe that Kinky, fey though she might be, still thought that Patricia would show up.

  He sighed as deeply as Arthur had, then waited until O’Reilly was seated. As Barry took his own chair, he heard O’Reilly say to Kitty, “Will you try the wine? I don’t normally drink much of this stuff, but today’s dinner is special.”

  Indeed it is, Barry thought, looking around.

  A bright red cloth covered the dining room table. The centrepiece was a set of angel chimes. Heat rising from the lit candles made a canopy spin, and as it did so, cut-out angels struck bells, causing them to tinkle. Barry swallowed. His mother had owned one just like it. Above the ringing, he heard the clink of bottleneck on glass.

  “It’s a Montrachet,” O’Reilly said, “to make up for the one we didn’t get to finish at the Inn. See if you like it.”

  Kitty spun her glass and sniffed its contents before sipping. “That’s very good, Fingal,” she said and held out her glass. The wine gurgled.

  O’Reilly poured for himself and then said, “Shove your glass up here, Barry.”

  Barry did so, then waited for O’Reilly to fill his wineglass and return it.

  “Now,” s
aid O’Reilly, holding his glass aloft, “a toast. It was one of my father’s. Here’s to us. Who’s like us . . . ?” He winked at Barry.

  Barry and Kitty both joined in. “Damn few, and they’re mostly dead.” Glass clinked against glass; then they sipped the wine. Cold, crisp, and dry, Barry thought. He was no oenophile, but he found the wine delicious. He chuckled, then asked, “Why that toast on Christmas Day, Fingal?”

  O’Reilly roared with laughter. “Because, young fellah, it’s the only one I know that’s fit for mixed company.”

  Kitty said. “You should have heard him, Barry, when he was a student.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Kitty chuckled. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “Och, sure,” said O’Reilly, “and haven’t I mellowed?”

  “Just like good wine,” Kitty said. She raised her glass. “To the doctors of Ballybucklebo.”

  Barry smiled and sipped. At least she hadn’t suggested, “To absent friends.”

  Barry took his serviette out and laid it on his lap. He peeked inside the ring. A hallmark of a harp surmounted by a crown told Barry this was Irish silver like the set his mother kept for best. So many memories of Christmases past.

  “Now,” said O’Reilly, “Kitty, Barry, Merry Christmas. Raise your glasses again with me. We don’t say grace in this house, but I will say, God bless us, every one.” He drank.

  “Indeed,” said Kinky. Her tray was laden with steaming soup plates and an extra bottle of wine. She slipped the wine onto the sideboard and then served Kitty first. “I know who said that, Doctor O’Reilly, sir. I’ve read the book, so.” She stared at his tummy. “Tiny Tim. Here’s your turkey soup, sir, and I hope next year we’ll be asking Miss Moloney to take your Santa suit in again.”

  She set O’Reilly’s plate before him, moved around the table, and then gave Barry his soup. “And yours, Doctor Laverty. It’s my own turkey-vegetable-barley soup. I hope you enjoy it.”

  “That’s delicious,” Kitty said, “but I thought you’d need the turkey carcass to make the stock.”