An Irish Country Christmas Part 43

d.a.m.n it. The moment to get her phone number was gone. Perhaps that wasn't such a bad thing. He knew he'd be devastated if he found out Patricia had given her number to another man.

"Why don't you stay, Barry, and watch from the wings?" Her eyebrow lifted. He swallowed. "I'd like that," he said. "Very much."

Sue vanished and the priest left. Barry walked to the wings above the doorway. He stood silently watching Sue Nolan positioning her charges, and he smiled when she ran across the stage and joined him. "It's a good thing the innkeeper's not needed for the rest of the play."

Barry grinned at her.

She held a finger up to her lips.

He heard applause and the rustling of the curtains, and he watched in silence, aware of her nearness and her light perfume.

The children acted the old story of the nativity of the Christ Child; of heavenly hosts and shepherds abiding in the fields; of stars in the east and wise men. Barry recognized many of the little performers as patients he had seen in the surgery.

The curtains were drawn on the final scene. "Barry," Sue said, as they waited for the applause to die down. "I've to conduct the closing carol."

"Off you go."

Her voice was soft. "Will you wait here for me until it's over? I'm leaving for Broughshane as soon as the performance is over. I'd like to wish you a Merry Christmas properly."

He knew he should say no, find some excuse, but instead he said, "Of course." And why not? She was going away that night.

She stretched up and kissed his cheek. "I'll not be long."

He whistled under his breath and felt the place she had kissed. It was a good thing she was leaving tonight. He watched her cross the stage and marshal the combined forces of the actors and the choir.

The curtains reopened. The choir stood stage left; the actors, stage right. Shepherds and wise men knelt before Joseph and Mary, who in her arms held a dolly wrapped in swaddling clothes.

Sue Nolan took the mike. The footlights outlined her. d.a.m.n, but she did have very good legs.

"My lord, ladies and gentlemen, 'Our revels now are ended.' Well, almost. There's one last carol, and we invite you to join in the singing. Father O'Toole?"

The harmonium played the introductory chords. Barry listened to the piping of the children onstage and the singing of the entire audience. He silently mouthed the words.

Once in royal David's city

Stood a lowly cattle shed,

Where a mother laid her baby

In a manger for his bed.

Jolly Gentlemen in Coats of Red.

O'Reilly took one peep into the waiting room. Holy Mother of G.o.d. It seemed to him as if there were more people in there than you'd see at an international rugby match. He'd never get them all seen in time to go to the Rugby Club party that night. He closed the door and walked quietly back to the dining room where Barry sat finis.h.i.+ng his coffee and reading the Belfast Newsletter.

The paper rustled as Barry looked up. "There's an interesting article here, Fingal. Canada's dropped the old Red Duster, and now they have a new red and white flag with a red maple leaf on it."

"Wonderful. I'm happy for them, but we have a bigger problem. How many home visits have you to make?"

"This morning? None. Why?"

"Because the entire populations of Ballybucklebo, the townland, and for all I know the Outer Hebrides and parts of the Isle of Man are in our waiting room. I need your help."

O'Reilly had deliberately said "our," and he was gratified to see Barry smile. It was good the lad felt that way about the practice.

"Is there a flu epidemic, Fingal or-?"

"No. It's the same every year on the last day the surgery will be open until January. I've always shut down, except for emergencies, two days before Christmas. The locals know that, so everyone and their cat comes in. Some will have a recent complaint that's blown up last night or today, but the rest want to get prescriptions refilled at the last minute, or they have vague aches and pains seen to in case they might flare up and spoil the holidays. I think some just come in to say, 'Merry Christmas.' It's been like this every year I've been here. I have a theory about why it happens."

"Why?"

"I think it goes back to pagan times. The country folks, professed Christians as they may be, haven't left all their pagan roots behind."

"You mean like . . . like Kinky and her gift?" Barry asked.

"Exactly." The boy's still worrying about his girl, O'Reilly thought. Then he said, "Yule marks the winter solstice, the time when the days start to lengthen and the year has turned. People used to clear out their rubbish so they could start the New Year with a clean slate. I think there's a sort of communal health spring-cleaning too. They come in to leave behind whatever has ailed them this year."

"I wouldn't have thought of that."

"It took me a year or two to work it out, and I could be wrong . . ."

"You Fingal? Never."

O'Reilly laughed and said, "Less of your lip, young Laverty." Inwardly he was pleased to see how Barry's self-confidence, so badly rattled when he was facing a possible malpractice suit in August, had grown enough that he was able to risk teasing his senior colleague. "I did think I was wrong once . . . in 1956 . . . but I turned out to be mistaken about it."

Barry laughed. "To err is human," he said.

"Alexander Pope. And 'to forgive divine.' But there'll be no forgiveness for us from the customers if we don't get into the trenches right quickly."

Barry didn't hesitate. "Fair enough."

His response pleased O'Reilly. Barry would have been quite within his rights to say it wasn't his turn to take surgery today.

"So I'll work in the surgery," Fingal said. "You work in here, Barry. Just keep going down to the waiting room and yelling, 'Next!' until the place is empty."

"All right, but even with two of us working, some folks are going to have to wait forever to be seen."

"Not at all." O'Reilly shook his head. "I'll show you. Come on." He headed for the waiting room with Barry at his heels. O'Reilly opened the door a crack and allowed Barry to peep in. "Do you still think Fitzpatrick's a threat?"

Barry shook his head and grinned.

That was one less thing for the boy, who was a congenital worrier, to fret over. O'Reilly flung open the door. "Gooood morning, all."

"Good morning, Doctor O'Reilly." It sounded like the roar of the supporters when a winning try has been scored.

"Right. Listen to me. There's one h.e.l.l of a lot of you here. Doctor Laverty's going to help out, but it's still going to take time." He waited for the muttering to die down. "I have a couple of suggestions. First. Is there anyone here just to wish us a merry Christmas?"

There was a muted chorus of "Me, sirs" and "I am's."

"It's very nice of you, very civil indeed, so Doctor Laverty and I thank you and wish you the same in return." He hoped they'd get the hint. O'Reilly waited and watched Kieran O'Hagan hold the outside door open for his wife Ethel. He noticed Kieran was carrying a brown paperwrapped parcel. "I don't mean to be ungracious, and I know some folks have been like the three wise men and are bearing gifts."

The room was filled with chuckling.

"If you are, go round to the front door. Mrs. Kincaid will be happy to accept them and say thank you very much on our behalfs." As several other people rose and left, O'Reilly continued. "Rather than have you all hanging about for two or three hours-or more, because Doctor Laverty and I will break for lunch . . ."

"I hear your Santa suit needed letting out, sir," a voice from the back of the crowd observed. It was greeted by a round of laughter.

"I'll let that pa.s.s in the spirit of the season, Connor O'Brien." O'Reilly waited. "And are you in for your usual very deep injection with a big needle?"

"I am not, sir." Connor's voice sounded anxious. "No, sir."

The second round of laughter was louder than the first.

O'Reilly thought to himself, Barry thought I'd been joking when I told him my first law: Never let the patients get the upper hand. "So rather than hanging round, I want a third of you-and you all know who came in early and who came in late-to go home and come back at one o'clock, unless you reckon you're so sick you need to be seen at once."

Even as the procession started to file out the back door, O'Reilly yelled, "Who's first?" Then he waited until Agnes Arbuthnot had risen. " 'Morning, Aggie," he said, then turned and headed for the surgery.

He heard Barry's loudly spoken "Next" and felt confident that his a.s.sistant, who he hoped would stay on as a full partner next year, would do a first-cla.s.s job in the dining room.

O'Reilly parked the Rover and let Arthur out. He'd really enjoyed his late afternoon run on Ballybucklebo beach. The big dog had slept in the car, while O'Reilly made two home visits that had been requested in the middle of the morning. Barry had stayed in Number 1 to deal with the patients who returned after lunch.

"Into your kennel."

Arthur obeyed.

O'Reilly let himself into the kitchen. Kinky had her back to him. She mustn't have heard him come in. She was taking small sausage rolls on a baking tray from the oven and putting them on a wire-mesh rack to cool. The smell of the freshly baked pastry was tantalizing.

"h.e.l.lo, Kinky." He snaffled a hot roll and juggled it from hand to hand.

"Doctor O'Reilly, sir." Kinky turned and stood foursquare with a hand on her hip. "I'd have thought my leek-and-potato soup at lunchtime would have been enough, so."

"Och, just the one roll won't hurt," he said, popping it whole into his mouth and making little puffing breaths. It was still too hot.

"And no more," she said. "Flo Bishop asked me to help cater for the party, and I'll not have all my hard work eaten before it leaves this house."

"All right." O'Reilly looked round. "Holy Moses," he said, surveying the laden shelves, "is it the five thousand you're going to feed? What are all these things?" He waited for Kinky to explain. She took great pride in her culinary skills, and it pleased her when people showed an interest in what she had cooked. And, O'Reilly thought, if he distracted her, he might be able to pinch another sausage roll. They were delicious.

"Well, sir," she said, "that there's a plate of ham sandwiches, and those are egg mayonnaise. Here are two trays of sweet mince pies . . . keep your hands off the sausage rolls, sir."

O'Reilly felt suitably chastened. He knew he should have known better than to try to outfox Kinky in her own kitchen. "Sorry."

She pointed. "That's a cold baked ham wrapped in foil. And do you see those terra-cotta pots covered with aluminium foil held down with a red rubber band?"

"I do."

"Six are my smoked salmon pate, and six my smoked mackerel pate."

O'Reilly started to salivate at the thought of her smoked mackerel. "Come on now, Kinky. It's the season to be jolly. One more roll? Please?"

" 'Tis a terrible man you are, Doctor O'Reilly." She smiled. "All right, but just the one." She looked up at the wall-hung kitchen clock. "Doctor Laverty's changed and ready. He's in the lounge. You'll need to change and get your Santa suit. I've put it in a canvas holdall, and I've polished the boots." She smiled. "You can see your face in them . . . but if I was you, sir," she chuckled, "I'd not bother looking."

O'Reilly laughed so loudly he sprayed a fine dust of pastry into the air. "You're one sharp woman, Kinky Kincaid."

"Aye, so, and sure isn't it the season to be jolly?"

"It is. By G.o.d, it is." For a moment in his mind he was happy in the long-ago season in Portsmouth, and he decided that in Deidre's memory he'd make this Christmas, for himself and for those around him, the merriest ever.

"So when you go upstairs, will you ask Doctor Laverty to come down? I'm sure he'll not mind helping me load the boot of your car."

"I will." He stretched out his hand to the rolls.

"I said one more . . . sir."

O'Reilly was still smiling when, dressed in his best tweed suit, brown boots, overcoat, and paddy hat and carrying the bag containing his outfit, he climbed into the Rover. "Everything on board, Kinky?"

"It is, so."

"All set, Barry?"

"Aye."

O'Reilly fired up the engine. "Then off we go."

As he drove he thanked the Lord it wasn't snowing or icy, because to get to the rugby clubhouse in time for the party he'd have to get a move on. He did. The Rover might be old, but there were plenty of horses under the bonnet. He paid no attention to Barry's occasional sharp in-drawings of breath when the car leant into a sharp curve.

O'Reilly parked outside the front door of the clubhouse. "Go on in, Kinky," he said. "Get your troops mobilised to empty the boot."

The back door slammed.

"Out, Barry. Open the boot and start giving Kinky a hand. As soon as we're unloaded, I'll run this thing to the car park; then I'll meet you in the changing room."

Barry left, the boot door creaked open, and O'Reilly watched Barry, carrying the ham, and Kinky, with a plate of sandwiches, heading for the pavillion. Outside the corridor of light coming from the open front door, the night was pitch-black.

O'Reilly sat and watched the partygoers arrive. There was Alice Moloney, and . . . sweet Mother of Jesus! . . . she was in deep conversation with Helen Hewitt. They must have called a truce if not an entente cordiale. Good.

He recognized w.i.l.l.y Lindsay, his sister Mary, and praise be, Sammy, who was holding on to Eileen's hand. O'Reilly, safe in the knowledge that in a very short time she was going to win the raffle, reckoned he knew how Ebenezer Scrooge felt when he sent the boy to buy the biggest goose and deliver it to the Cratchetts.

The Shanks family had made it. Terrific. Gerry was holding Mairead, his arm around her waist. He smiled down on her while they both ignored their two children, who were yelling happily and das.h.i.+ng about like a pair of collies rounding up sheep. By that smile O'Reilly inferred that it was indeed sugar Gerry was now having in his tea.