An Irish Country Christmas Part 18

O'Reilly accepted the cup and saucer. "Thanks, Barry. How was your night?"

Barry returned to his place and took a big swallow. "Busy."

"Oh?"

"Aye. I'd to go out at two. Judge Egan was having chest pains."

"He's got angina," O'Reilly said. "Was he having a coronary?"

"I don't know, but his nitroglycerine tablets weren't stopping the pain, so I gave him a quarter grain of morphine and sent for the ambulance. I'd to wait until they got there."

"Good lad," said O'Reilly, b.u.t.tering his third slice of toast. "Eoin's a decent man. He'll be seventy-three next Thursday."

Barry shook his head. He could swear O'Reilly carried around every sc.r.a.p of useful information about every one of his patients in his big, craggy-faced, s.h.a.ggy-haired head. Barry set to work to separate the filet from the bones but stopped when O'Reilly said, "He suits his name."

"Eoin? Why? It's just archaic Irish for John. Most folks today use Sean."

O'Reilly shook his head. "I'm not talking about Eoin. I'm talking about his surname, Egan. It's derived from MacAodhagain. The family were the brehons, the hereditary lawyers and judges, to the chieftains of Roscommon."

"I'll be d.a.m.ned." Barry chuckled and returned to filleting his fish. "That would make him Judge Judge . . . just like that bloke Major Major Major in Catch-22."

"Joseph h.e.l.ler. b.l.o.o.d.y funny book." O'Reilly, who had finished his toast, eyed the toast rack.

Barry slid the slice of fish, now bone-free, to the side of his plate. "We had a research registrar who was working with urinary incontinence. Poor chap's name was Leakey. It suited him. He was a real drip."

O'Reilly guffawed long and hard, and that was why Barry didn't realize that the phone was ringing in the hall until Kinky came in and said, "Your Miss Spence is on the line."

Barry came out of his chair like a greyhound from the starting gate, jostled past Kinky, grabbed the receiver, and said, "h.e.l.lo, Patricia?"

"Barry, how are you?"

"Fine. How are you . . ."-he lowered his voice-"darling?" The dining room doorway was open.

"You'll have to speak up," she said.

He turned his back to the open door, cupped his hand around the mouthpiece, and said a little more loudly, "I love you."

He heard her chuckle. "I love you too, Barry. I really do."

That was a relief. He wanted to ask her if she was coming back to Ulster, but instead he said, "Where are you? The Residency?"

"No. I'm in Bourn. I'm spending the weekend with Jenny."

"Jenny who?" He wished to h.e.l.l she were spending the weekend with him.

"Jenny. Jenny Compton. I told you about her."

"Right." The girl Patricia would go to for Christmas if she didn't come back to Northern Ireland.

"Her folks have pots of money. Her dad's a stockbroker and says I can chat as long as I like on his phone, and hang the cost. He can write phone calls off as part of his business expenses."

"Must be nice," Barry said. "Still, being able to have a decent blether makes a change from a quick two minutes on the phone or the odd letter."

"I'm sorry, Barry," she said, "but my study load is very heavy. I just don't have time to write epistles every night."

"I understand that," he said, thinking that he still owed his folks a letter. "I'm as guilty as you are. But I do miss you, Patricia."

"And I miss you . . . particularly in my little room at night. It's quite chilly at this time of the year." There was a husky edge in her voice.

Christ, he longed to hold her. He was about to tell her how much he'd like to be there to keep her warm, but she ploughed ahead.

"My bedroom's lovely and cosy here. Jenny and her folks live in a cottage. Thatched roof, old oak beams. It was built in sixteen forty-three."

"Sounds very rustic." How could she do that to him? Make a s.e.xy remark, then change the subject. He wished she would stop prattling and tell him what he wanted to know.

"It is. It's just a wee ways from the local manor house, Bourn Hall, and that's a fascinating place."

"I'm sure it is." So was her mouth and her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and he ached for her.

"It was owned by the De La Warr family . . . the one the American state Delaware is named for."

"Patricia . . ." He smiled at Kinky as she headed back to the kitchen. Barry's smile faded. Patricia wasn't usually the garrulous type. She was rabbitting on because she had something unpleasant to tell him. He could sense it.

"The same family own property with a big wood, and that was the very spot A. A. Milne called the Hundred Acre Wood in the Pooh stories."

"Really?" He started to let his tone show his disinterest. He was certain she was using all this trivial chitchat as a smoke screen to avoid having to tell him she wasn't coming home. "That's interesting."

He heard her chuckle. "Speaking of Pooh, darling, you sound a bit like Eeyore."

Barry took a deep breath. "Look, Patricia, it's great to chat, but I need to know so I can work out on-call schedules with Fingal . . . are you coming home?"

He heard the edge of irritation creep into her voice. "I still don't know."

Barry tried not to let his own disappointment show. "If you still don't know, why did you call?"

"Because, Barry, I like to hear your voice"-her tones were measured-"and I knew Jenny's dad wouldn't mind. I miss you, and I was happy we would be able to talk."

"Christ. I like to talk to you too, but I'd rather be doing it face to face."

"So would I."

"Did you find out about the ferry?" He waited to see how she would respond. Nothing. "Patricia, are you still there? Did you find out about the ferry?"

"Not yet. I've been busy."

"Too busy to make a phone call? d.a.m.n it, Patricia, I'll pay for the ticket; it can't be that much."

There was a long pause before she said flatly, "I'm not sure I'd like that, Barry."

"Why the h.e.l.l not? I'm working. Making money. You're a student. I love you. I want to see you. I presume you want to see me?"

"Don't be silly."

He pursed his lips. "Why is offering to pay for your ticket silly?"

"I meant of course I want to see you, and if you think I don't, you're being silly."

"Then let me pay for your ticket." He waited.

"Barry . . ." Her voice was level. "I do love you . . . but . . ."

"But? But? But what?"

"But it seems like an awful lot of money for an underpaid medical a.s.sistant . . ."

He sensed she was trying to let him down gently. "It's my money."

"And you work very hard for it."

He recognized he was fighting a losing battle. "I don't think it's that at all. It's your d.a.m.n pride. Somehow you think it would threaten your independence to accept money from me."

He heard her clear her throat, then say levelly, "I do believe women shouldn't be financially dependent on men."

"Oh, come on, Patricia. I'm not asking you to. I'm not asking you to compromise your principles. All I want to do is see you. I'm missing you like crazy."

"And I'm missing you, Barry. But I won't accept your money."

"That's not principles. That's being stubborn. You told me not to be silly. Don't you be stupid." His hand was squeezing the receiver.

"Barry, I love you, but this conversation's going nowhere."

The words slipped out. "Neither are we, not with you over there refusing to come home."

Her words were clipped. "I am not refusing to come, but I am refusing to take your money."

"And that's final?" He waited. Could he hear a catch in her voice when she said yes?

He held the receiver in front of his face and stared at it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder? The h.e.l.l it does. He put it back to his ear and mouth.

"Are you still there, Barry? . . . Barry?"

"Yes."

The silence hung and stretched. He'd be d.a.m.ned if he'd be the first to speak.

"Barry? I love you."

"Then let me buy your ticket."

"No."

He screwed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, and said, "I'm going to ring off now, Patricia. You know where to find me if you change your mind." There was a p.r.i.c.kling behind his eyelids.

"Good-bye, Barry." He heard the click and the line went dead. b.u.g.g.e.r it. Why couldn't the b.l.o.o.d.y woman see reason? He replaced the receiver. "Enjoy your stupid ducks," he said to no one in particular. Barry cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes, smoothed down the tuft that he knew would be sticking up from the crown of his head, and went back into the dining room.

O'Reilly was chewing, and the plate of two kippers that should have been waiting in Barry's place had miraculously moved in front of O'Reilly, who was finis.h.i.+ng the last sc.r.a.p. He smiled guiltily, Barry thought. "They were getting cold," O'Reilly said. "It would have been a shame to waste them. Kinky's gone to boil you a couple of eggs."

"Jesus, Fingal . . ." But Barry found he couldn't be bothered to start another fight. Not immediately after the last one. "Never mind. Eggs will be fine." He picked up his half-full coffee cup and went to the sideboard to fill it with fresh brew from the coffeepot.

O'Reilly burped. "Excuse me," he said, and went to look out the bow window. "It's a lovely day out there, Barry. What are you going to get up to now you're free?"

Barry shrugged. "I'm not sure. Put my feet up for a while."

O'Reilly laughed. "You yust vant to be ahloan?"

Barry couldn't help smiling. "Fingal, that's the worst imitation of Marlene Dietrich I've ever heard."

"But it's true, isn't it? I wasn't eavesdropping, but I couldn't help hearing the tone of your voice."

Barry shrugged. "She's being stubborn, that's all."

O'Reilly moved closer to Barry, laid a hand on his shoulder, and said gently, "She'll come round, son. You'll see."

Barry would have laughed at anyone else who said that, but O'Reilly was an astute judge of people. Barry found his advice comforting, if not altogether believable. "Thanks, Fingal."

"And in the meantime," O'Reilly continued, "you can relax this morning and do your cryptic crosswords, but this afternoon you're coming with me and Kitty."

"And Kitty? Where to?"

"I phoned her last night. She's coming down, and we-Kitty, me, and Arthur . . . and that includes you now-are going to watch a battle of the t.i.tans. A rugby match between the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts and the Glengormley Gallowgla.s.ses."

Barry laughed. The Bonnaughts were named for fourteenth-century Irish mercenary soldiers, and the Gallowgla.s.ses for professional Scottish fighting men who had first come over to Ireland in 1258. And the way the two teams carried on every time they met, it was very apt that each was named for a group of warriors. Some of their encounters were legend in Ulster rugby football circles. "Should be quite the tussle," Barry said. "You're on, Fingal, but-"

"But what?"

"Would you not prefer to be by yourself with Kitty?"

O'Reilly guffawed mightily. "At a rugby match? Alone? Don't be daft. I'm taking her to the Crawfordsburn for dinner, and I could use your help there."

"You need my help eating?"

"No. Eejit. I have to go to some mysterious committee meeting after the game. I'd like you to amuse her until it's over."

"Fair enough."

"But, Barry, I'd not take it amiss if you disappeared when the meeting's over."

Given O'Reilly's naturally high colour, it was impossible to tell if the big man was blus.h.i.+ng. "I can do that, Fingal," Barry said. He remembered he was meant to contact Jack Mills and either have him down for a bite of Kinky's cooking or-now that was a thought-join Jack at the dance at the Nurses Home. "I'll just need to go and make a phone call."