An Irish Country Christmas Part 12

He parked on the road outside the fenced front garden and told Arthur to stay. Then he got out and let himself in through the cast-iron gate. Not four months ago he'd walked this path, crus.h.i.+ng black h.o.r.ehound underfoot where it was growing through the cracks in the paving stones; he remembered how unpleasant it had smelled. That was the time Councillor Bishop, true to a promise O'Reilly had wrung out of him, had a crew at work replacing Sonny's roof, the necessary condition for the celebration of the long-delayed marriage of Sonny Houston to Maggie MacCorkle, spinster of this parish.

While he was still a few yards from the front door, Barry heard the clamour of barking dogs. Sonny had five and he doted on them. Before he and Maggie married and moved into this house, Sonny had lived in his car and housed his dogs in an old caravan. Now they must all be living in the house together. Oh, well, Barry thought, being greeted by animals was an integral part of visiting houses and farms in Ulster.

He climbed the two front steps. The barking from inside was deafening. In many houses without telephones, and as far as Barry knew the Houstons didn't have one, excited yapping was the first indication that someone was coming to call. It was the Ulster equivalent of an early warning system.

Before he could rap on the front door, it was opened by a tall, older man with an erect posture, bright eyes, and cheeks that were slightly dusky, which Barry knew was a sign of controlled congestive heart failure. The man held a pair of horn-rimmed gla.s.ses in one hand. Dogs, yipping and barking joyously, tumbled through the open door and out along the path created by the hall light's rays.

"Doctor Laverty." Sonny extended his hand. "What a pleasant surprise."

"Good evening, Sonny." Barry removed his right glove before shaking hands. It would have been impolite not to do so. "May I come in?"

"Please." He stepped aside and as Barry pa.s.sed him, Sonny stuck two fingers in his mouth and produced a whistle that Barry thought would have done justice to a steam-driven locomotive.

Barry was surrounded by a tide of dogs as they jostled with each other to obey their master's summons home. "Kitchen," Sonny commanded, and the dogs disappeared along the hall. He heard Sonny close the door.

"Let me take your coat, Doctor."

As Barry took off his coat and scarf, he noticed framed black-and-white photographs hanging on the hall wall. He could see porticos and pillars and house fronts carved into cliff faces. "Where's that, Sonny?"

"Petra. In Jordan. I took those snaps thirty years ago. I was on an archaelogical dig. It's quite spectacular in colour."

Barry remembered that Sonny Houston, Ph.D., was an expert on, among other things, Nabataean civilization. "Petra." Barry struggled to remember the obscure quotation. "Something to do with roses?" he said.

"Petra, 'a rose-red city, half as old as time . . . ' " Sonny said and smiled. "That's what Dean Burgon called it after a Swiss chap, Johann Ludwig Burckhardt, discovered it. Fascinating place. I must say I'd rather like to go back, but it would be much too hot for Maggie. Much too hot." He smiled fondly. "She's in the front room. Do come in, Doctor." He opened a door and held it for Barry.

His immediate thought was that Sonny was preparing Maggie for a trip to Jordan by getting her acclimatized to the heat to be expected there. A turf fire roared up a wide chimney, and the temperature in the room was probably close to that usually experienced in the boiler room of a coal-fired s.h.i.+p.

"Doctor dear," said Maggie from her seat in a high-backed rocking chair, "come on, on, in." She grinned her toothless-as-an-oyster grin at him and turned to an overstuffed armchair where a large one-eyed, one-eared cat lay curled in a ball. "And you get to h.e.l.l out of that, General Montgomery." Then she pulled a ball of wool from a knitting bag on her lap and chucked it with unerring accuracy at the cat, who awoke, yowled, and leapt down from the chair. "Sit down, Doctor dear."

Barry sat. He knew better than to argue with Maggie.

Sonny moved to a second rocker beside his wife and lifted a book in his gnarled hands. Barry noticed the t.i.tle, The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. As Sonny, a little creakily, lowered himself into the chair, he slipped his gla.s.ses onto his nose and smiled at Barry.

"Now," Maggie said, putting her knitting aside, "you'll take a wee cup of tea in your hand and a slice of my plum cake?"

It was less of a question than an order. Barry, who had tried Maggie's culinary delights before, had his excuse ready. "I'd love to, but I've another call to make so I can only stay for a few minutes." Maggie's tea was brewed strong enough to trot a mouse on.

"Not even a slice of cake?" She sounded disappointed.

He shook his head. "Sorry." It was an old country custom at a wedding to throw a slice of the wedding cake onto the ground. If, as was usual, the cake shattered, the couple would be a.s.sured of many children. If it remained intact, infertility might ensue. But in the case of Maggie's cakes, the concern was for whether or not the ground would fracture.

"Oh, well, I'll cut you a slice to take home." She leant over and pinched his cheek. "Young men always have a sweet tooth."

"That would be wonderful, Maggie." Barry made himself more comfortable. "So how's married life suiting you?" he asked. He saw how she took Sonny's hand and gazed at him. No words were needed. Hoping he'd not embarra.s.sed Maggie, Barry cleared his throat and changed the subject. "Maggie, I have a favour to ask."

"A favour?" Her dark eyes twinkled. "From me? Dead on. What do you want?"

"Do you know Eileen Lindsay?"

"Aye. Lives on the estate? Her with the three kiddies and the useless layabout of a husband that done a bunk a couple of years back?"

"That's her."

"What can I do for her?"

He leant forward and spoke seriously. "Her Sammy is a bit sick and needs looking after so Eileen can still go to her work, and I was wondering . . . that is, Doctor O'Reilly and I were wondering . . ."

"G.o.d bless you, Doctor Laverty dear. Of course. Sonny and me'd be delighted, so we would. Wouldn't we?" She smiled across to Sonny, who nodded and smiled back. "When would you like us to start?"

Barry was now regretting that he had not accepted Maggie's offer of a cup of tea. He knew that would have pleased her. "How about the day after tomorrow? I'll need to have a word with her first."

"That would be grand, so it would. She still lives at 31 Comber Gardens?"

"Yes, she does."

"You'll run me there, won't you, Sonny?"

"Of course, my dear." Sonny whipped off his gla.s.ses, squinted at her, and asked, "Are you sure you're warm enough, Maggie?" Without letting her answer, he let go of her hand, rose, went to the hearth, lifted a sod of peat from a wicker basket, and tossed it on the fire. Sparks burst forth like a flock of overexcited fireflies to whirl and dance and cavort up the wide chimney mouth. "She feels the cold, you know, Doctor Laverty."

Barry heard the concern in the man's voice. Sonny had waited thirty-odd years to marry the woman he loved, and it certainly appeared to Barry that for Sonny the wait had been worth it. At the rate he himself was going with Patricia, he wondered if he'd have to wait thirty b.l.o.o.d.y years. It certainly was beginning to feel like it. And there wasn't a d.a.m.n thing he could do about it.

Barry stood. "I must be running, but I'll speak to Eileen tomorrow."

"And you won't need to come all the way out here, Doctor, to tell us what she says," Sonny said, opening the lounge door. "We've had a phone installed. I'll give you the number."

Maggie bustled past him. "Thanks, Sonny," Barry said, returning his pen and notebook to an inside pocket.

Maggie reappeared and handed him a small parcel. "Here you are, Doctor dear. A wee slice of cake to have with your tea. There's enough in there for himself too."

Barry accepted the gift. "Thanks, Maggie."

Sonny stood beside Maggie, his arm draped around her shoulder. He inclined his head to the parcel and winked at Barry. Clearly, Barry thought, Sonny shared his opinion of Maggie's cake, but perhaps that was part of the definition of true love-Sonny would eat it without complaint just to please her.

"Good-night," he said, letting himself out.

The parcel seemed heavier than its size would suggest. He smiled. Arthur was in for a treat.

As Barry walked down the path, he realized he was feeling a little smug, perhaps justifiably so. He was well on the way to solving Eileen's problem, which although hardly a medical matter was as much a concern to him as it would have been to his senior colleague. And he had dealt with it as O'Reilly would have.

He opened the car door and hopped in. Arthur was snoring in the backseat, and already Brunhilde held aroma of dog. Well, having a smelly car was a small price to pay for the opportunity to work here in Ballybucklebo. So different from impersonal Belfast. Here people knew each other, were ready to help out, and didn't throw older folks on the sc.r.a.p heap. He remembered with great pleasure how the whole village had pulled together in August to get Sonny's house ready for the newlyweds.

He started the engine and turned on the headlights. The beams didn't penetrate the darkness very far, but it didn't matter. He'd be driving slowly, and he knew where this road went. Perhaps that's exactly why he was enjoying living in this rural village. Life was busy but the pace was still slow, and he knew where he wanted to be: right here in Ballybucklebo.

Brunhilde bounced and rattled over a large pothole. Barry hoped his personal road would be less of an obstacle course. Still, there were some potholes to negotiate: the vague threat of Doctor Fitzpatrick and the nagging worry that Patricia's not coming home for Christmas might be an omen for the future. Civil engineers had nasty habits of heading off to distant parts. Wasn't his own father in Australia?

He stopped at a crossroads to let a tractor go past, and in the distance he could see the lights of the village sparkling in welcome.

b.u.g.g.e.r it! he told himself, driving on. He wasn't going to worry tonight. He was going to take Arthur for his promised walk and reward him with a lump of Maggie's cake. Then, to give O'Reilly a bit more time on his own with Kitty, Barry would drop in at the Mucky Duck for a nightcap. Then he'd head back to Number 1 Main Street, the big house that was not only a large part of his working life but was well on the way to becoming his home.

Barry and Arthur Guinness had enjoyed a brisk walk along Station Road, under the railway bridge, through the sand dunes, and out onto the firm s.h.i.+ngle. The tide was out and he couldn't make out the edge of the water, but he could hear the waves as each caressed the sh.o.r.e and made the pebbles rustle and rattle.

The noise of the surf grew louder when one of the big freighters going to or leaving the port of Belfast at the head of the Lough sent its wake to crash ash.o.r.e. It was then he was sure the salty scent of the sea was at its most pungent.

Now all he could hear was the gentle surf, the scuffling of Arthur's paws, and his panting as he raced to and fro. The burbling noise of the diesel engine of the Belfast-to-Bangor train, the train on which he'd first met Patricia, had faded, and there'd not be another for at least an hour.

He relished the quiet, the serenity, and the darkness. The beams of the few street lamps in Ballybucklebo did not have the strength to reach out here. Across the Lough, the lights from Greencastle, past Greenisland, and onto Carrickfergus looked as if flickering candle flames were being reflected from a silver mirror. With measured regularity, the beams from the lighthouses at Blackhead on the Antrim side and from the Copeland Island light further down the Lough thrust questing fingers into the night.

Barry looked up to a cold sky of polished, black obsidian. The moon had set early to the west of the Ballybucklebo Hills. The stars blazed in the clear frigid air, and he saw them as cleanly and as distinctly as he imagined Ernest Shackleton, another Irishman, would have seen them s.h.i.+ning in the crystal skies of Antarctica. There in the northeast, low to the horizon, was Ursa Major, the Great Bear. The Plough, what the Americans called the Big Dipper, had all but slipped beneath the horizon.

In August, when he'd walked Patricia from the station to her flat in Kinnegar, the whole of the Plough-the blade and the handle-had been high in the soft black velvet of a northwest sky, with the great stars of the handle-Alkaid, Mizar, and Alioth-blazing free.

Tonight only Alioth, the one nearest the blade, could be seen. It was as if the Plough were sinking, and for a moment he hoped to G.o.d his love for Patricia wasn't going to be sunk if she didn't come home for Christmas.

Then he told himself to get a grip and whistled for Arthur, making the big dog come to him. "Sit."

Arthur sat.

Barry unwrapped the two large slabs of Maggie's plum cake, shoved the paper in his coat pocket, and set the slices in front of Arthur.

In the dim light he saw the Labrador's square head move forward. He heard Arthur sniffing, scenting the offering. "Aaarf," said Arthur, as if to say, "You've got to be joking." Then he stood and wandered away.

Barry chuckled and dug a hole in the s.h.i.+ngle with the toe of his boot, shoved the cake in, and spread the s.h.i.+ngle over it. As he did he muttered a line he remembered from The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna: "We buried him darkly by dead of night."

Satisfied that the evidence was well concealed, he called Arthur to heel, and together they strode for the Mucky Duck. He'd have a quick one there, waste a bit more time, and by then he'd have done his tactful duty, and more, by leaving Number 1 Main Street to O'Reilly.

Will Someone Take Me to a Pub?

The batwing doors of the Duck swung closed behind Barry and Arthur. After the quiet, crisp cold outside, this single low-beamed room with its noisy conversation and fug of pipe tobacco and damp undervest was a bright warm haven. The place was packed. Men leant elbows on the marble top along the bar. The tables were all taken by patrons in trousers, collarless s.h.i.+rts, and waistcoats, rust black jackets, and flat tweed dunchers, most smoking cheap cigarettes or stubby clay dudeens. Straight pint gla.s.ses of black Guinness and short ones of amber whiskey stood on the tables.

Mary Dunleavy, the proprietor's daughter, waved to Barry from behind the long bar. He smiled back and waited until two men standing with their backs to him turned, saw him, and moved sideways to give him room to get up to the bar. Barry recognized Fergus Finnegan, the bowlegged jockey, all four feet ten of him, dressed in jodhpurs and a tweed hacking jacket.

Barry felt Arthur collapse in a heap beside his leg. Mary was moving along the bar to where he stood.

"Evening, Doc," Fergus said. "It's a bit nippy out the night, so it is."

"Evening, Fergus." Barry took off his gloves. "Chilly enough. It must be the lack of heat out there."

They laughed together; then Barry asked, "How's your brother?"

"Declan? He's a brave bit less shaky since he'd that operation, so he is."

"I'm glad to hear that." Declan Finnegan suffered from Parkinson's disease.

"And my eye's never been better, Doc."

"Good." Fergus had suffered from acute conjunctivitis.

"Do you fancy a pint, sir?"

"Thanks, Fergus, but I'm on call. I'll buy my own tonight, and I've to get one for Arthur too." The effects of the whiskey he'd had at dinnertime should be pretty well gone by now, he thought, but he did not want to get involved in the "I'll buy you one-you buy me one" convention of drinking in an Ulster pub.

"h.e.l.lo, Doctor Laverty." Mary, a plump twenty-two-year-old with a tawny mane, freckles, and a snub nose, stood across the bar. "What would you like, sir?"

"Pint, please, and a Smithwick's for Arthur."

"Right." She busied herself at the pumps.

"Glad to see you're drinking stout, Doc," Fergus said. He nodded to a table where four younger men were drinking paler beers.

Probably Tennants lager or Harp lager made by Guinness and Company, Barry thought. Lager, particularly lager cut with a measure of concentrated Rose's lime juice, was becoming popular with the younger folks.

"Did you ever try one of them lagers, sir?"

"Once in a while. On a hot day."

Fergus shook his head and took a healthy swallow from his own Guinness, then said very seriously, "I had one once. Do you know, sir, there's more hops in a dead frog." He finished his pint and said to Mary, "When you've a wee minute, I'll have a half-un."

Barry laughed. "More hops in a dead frog." He'd remember that one.

"Take your hurry in your hand, Fergus," he heard Mary say. "And here, earn your keep and give that to Arthur." She handed Fergus a bowl of Smithwicks. "Sorry, Doctor, but you know it takes a wee while to build a decent pint." She pointed at the two-thirds full gla.s.s on the countertop.

"Of course. It has to settle." He watched the mysterious cascades in the gla.s.s and couldn't decide if the white bubbles were moving up or the black stout was moving down. "And so do I. Settle up, that is." He put a note on the counter and waited until she rang it into the till and quickly made change.

"You'll not mind if I pour Fergus his whiskey while I'm waiting?" Her smile was impish. "I hear the estate of a fellah like him might sue the establishment if he died of thirst in a public house."

"I might," said Fergus, straightening up from giving Arthur his bowl. "But sure wouldn't I forgive you for one wee kiss now, Mary?"

"Kiss is it, Fergus Finnegan? Kiss?" She handed him his whiskey. "That'll be two and sixpence."

He took the gla.s.s and put the coins on the bar top. "Just one wee kiss?"

She laughed. "I'd rather kiss a billy goat with bad breath."

"Och, Jesus, Mary, you've cut me to the onion," he said, clutching the left side of his chest. "You've my heart broken in me, so you have."

"You don't have a heart." She grinned and gave Barry his pint. "There's nothing in your chest, Fergus, but a big hard swinging brick. And it stunted your growth too."

"Well," he said with a pretend leer, "you know what they say about short men."

"Away off and chase yourself." Mary tossed her mane, stuck out her tongue at Fergus, and headed off down the bar to where another customer was beckoning to her.

Fergus laughed and shook his head. "That's a right sharp one there, so it is. She can give as good as she gets."