An Irish Country Christmas Part 45

He saw Phyllis pus.h.i.+ng her way through the crowd, waving to attract his attention. Too late. If she gave him some toys now, the little Shankses would see and the illusion would be shattered. He'd better get on with it.

O'Reilly disengaged his right arm and put his hand into his pocket. Before he produced his surprise, he said, "Mrs. Claus and the elves were very, very busy this year. She said to say she's sorry they didn't have time to wrap your presents. Anyway, they'd run out of paper at the North Pole."

He pulled out the presentation pen and pencil set he'd taken from his jacket after he had changed into his Santa suit. He spoke loudly. "Here you are." He handed the pen to Angus and the propelling pencil to Siobhan. "Merry Christmas."

The two piped, "Thank you, Santa," and the way Gerry stood smiling broadly was worth more than any presentation pen and pencil set. O'Reilly raised his voice. "Ho, ho, ho!" he roared. "Ho, ho, ho! Merrrrry Christmas!" Then he raised both arms above his head, extended his hands palms out, and in the immortal words of Tiny Tim, said, "G.o.d bless us, every one."

The applause and cheering, which started as a dull rumble, eventually became so loud that they must have scared the jackdaws from their roosts in the big elm trees at faraway Ballybucklebo House.

O'Reilly left the sack on the floor and headed for Barry. "That," he said, "in the words of that great Irish-born duke of Wellington after Waterloo, was 'the nearest run thing you ever saw in your life.' "

"Fingal, that was most generous-"

"Balderdash." He shook his head. "Christmas is for the kiddies. How could I let a couple of them get hurt?"

Barry whispered under his breath, "Suffer the little children . . ."

"Stop mumbling, Barry. Come into the hall with me. I've still got to be Santa 'til I get out of here." O'Reilly turned and faced the crowd. He waved and waved and roared, "Merrrrry Christmas!" as he sidled to the door.

The minute Barry had joined him and the door was closed, O'Reilly ripped off his black belt and started to unb.u.t.ton his coat. "I have to get out of this suit. It's like being in one of those Scandinavian saunas, so be a good lad and get me a Jameson." Without waiting for a reply, he strode off, yelling, "I'll be back as quickly as I can. I don't want to miss the raffle."

Back in his tweeds once more, O'Reilly headed for the hall.

Come, they told me, pa rum pum pum pum . . . blared from overhead.

He made a beeline for Kinky, who stood behind two trestle tables. The roasts Barry had described had been reduced to bony skeletons. There was no sign of Kinky's sausage rolls. A couple of lonely sandwiches, their edges curled, lay on a plate.

There were a few nuts, some sad-looking mandarin oranges. It looked as if Barry's confident a.s.sertion that n.o.body was going to die of starvation might be proved false.

" 'Twas a Grand Santa you were, Doctor O'Reilly." Kinky smiled at him from behind her table.

"Hungry work," he said, still looking at the tables. "Was it a swarm of locusts went through here?" He sighed. "Is there a bite left in the house for when we get home?"

"Better," she said, stooping and straightening up. She handed him a plate laden with beef, turkey, ham, and sausage rolls. "I didn't bother with anything sweet," she said. "Those Santa pants will be a size smaller next year, or my name's not Kinky Kincaid."

"It's not," O'Reilly said. "It's the angel of mercy. Bless you, Kinky." He accepted the plate.

"The cutlery's on the next table," she said, "so you go along, and I'm going to see Cissie and Flo and Aggie in the back. The three of them worked very hard, and we've set a bit aside for ourselves in there, so."

"Thanks, Kinky." His thanks were heartfelt. Not only had she thought to save some grub for him, she'd not gone to get her own until he'd been seen to. That woman would have been a marvellous mother.

O'Reilly grabbed a knife and fork wrapped in a paper napkin from the next table and headed to where Barry stood in conversation with the marquis.

"Here, Fingal." Barry handed him a gla.s.s. "It's a double, and by the way I thanked Phyllis. She said it was no trouble as long as the kiddies got some kind of present."

"Good man." O'Reilly, full plate in one hand, grabbed the whiskey from Barry. "Slainte." He drank and turned to the marquis. "My lord."

"Fingal, I saw what you did for those children. That was generous, most generous."

"Most generous," Barry added.

"The club will make it up-"

"The club will do no such thing," O'Reilly said very quietly and very seriously. "I'd prefer if no fuss is made. I did what I had to, that's all. And it was my mistake in the first place, inviting them without telling them to bring presents." If you b.u.g.g.e.r something up, you b.l.o.o.d.y well fix it, he thought. My father taught me that. The old man was right.

"I'll respect that," the marquis said.

"Thank you." O'Reilly took a hefty swallow of his drink. "Now, John, we've one more piece of business, and then we can all get on with the party." He balanced his gla.s.s on the side of his plate, ignored the wrapped cutlery, and used his fingers to pop a slice of ham into his mouth. "Can you get the raffle up and running?"

"Naturally. You enjoy your supper." The marquis turned and headed for the front of the hall.

O'Reilly thought, as he savoured a piece of roast beef, in about ten minutes Eileen Lindsay'll have the wherewithal. Jesus, he loved Christmas. He swallowed the beef and tried a piece of turkey.

The marquis, standing at the front of the hall, was demanding silence. "Ladies and gentlemen," he boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I might have your attention?"

Conversation gradually died as people turned to see what was happening.

"Could Johnny Jordan please come forward?"

The crowd parted to let through a jolly-looking, red-cheeked, bald-as-a-coot man of about thirty. He stood beside the marquis and held aloft a very large turkey.

"Mother of G.o.d"-Barry heard a woman's voice from nearby-"that thing's mother must have been an ostrich. It's twenty pounds if it's an ounce."

"Johnny here has very kindly donated this bird for our first annual Christmas raffle."

Polite applause.

"The club can always use cash . . ."

"Hear, hear . . ."

"So we decided to sweeten the pot. Naturally the winning ticket gets this magnificent bird."

Johnny held it higher.

"But we wanted more people to buy tickets, and so we decided to gamble. The odds are long, but if the winning ticket's numbers are all identical, the holder will also win seventy-five percent of the money collected, which is . . . Donal?"

"One hundred and ninety-five pounds, my lord," Donal said, from where he stood off to one side.

There was a communal in-drawing of breath and several muted "ooohs" and "aaahs."

"Will Donal Donnelly and Councillor Bertie Bishop please come forward now?"

The two men appeared. Donal carried a hat. The councillor looked fit to bust with pride.

"Give the hat a good stir, Donal."

Donal tilted the headpiece forward so everyone could observe how thoroughly he was mixing the ticket stubs. "Ready, sir," he said.

"If you please, councillor?"

Bertie Bishop made a great show of rolling up his sleeve. Then, imitating a music hall conjuror, he said, "My lord, ladies and gentlemen, see, there's nothing up my sleeve but my strong right arm."

"Makes a change," a voice called. There was good-natured laughter.

Bertie closed his eyes, plunged his hand into the hat, and produced a single ticket. He handed it to the marquis of Ballybucklebo.

"And the winner of the turkey is . . . whoever holds ticket number 4444. I repeat, 4444."

Everyone applauded and looked all around to see who the lucky winner was.

O'Reilly tried not to look smug. He looked for Eileen. She was laughing as she and her brood moved to the front. She handed the marquis her ticket. "Here, sir." She turned to her children. "See, you'll get your turkey now."

O'Reilly watched the wee ones jumping up and down. He realized that the significance of the numbers all being the same had not dawned on Eileen.

The marquis read it, beamed, and stooped to her, saying, "I'm sorry. I don't know your name."

"Eileen. Eileen Lindsay, sir," she said. "Thank you very much."

"Don't thank me. It was the luck of the draw."

She beamed at him. "It's very good luck then, sir. A big turkey and all."

"It's more than that, Eileen."

She looked puzzled.

"I think, people," the marquis roared, "in case anyone has not noticed, the ticket numbers are identical. That means-"

There was a great joyous shout of approval.

"Congratulations, Eileen." He handed her an envelope. "The money's in there, and will you please give Eileen her bird, Mr. Jordan?"

"Thank you, sir. Thank you, everybody." She gathered her children around her and told them. "It's going to be the best Christmas ever. The very best."

Johnny Jordan moved forward as Donal started making his way toward O'Reilly. He recalled Donal saying he suspected Johnny had a crush on Eileen. The man certainly looked excited, almost as excited as Eileen herself. "Eileen." He offered her the bird. "Here's your turkey. Congratulations."

"Thank you." She leant forward to take it. "And thank you for donating it."

He was holding something over her head. It was a sprig of mistletoe.

"I'll settle for a Christmas kiss." He kissed her firmly and soundly. He looked breathless when he stopped.

Everyone waited silently to see what Eileen would do.

She didn't slap his face. Instead she said, "Shame on you, Johnny Jordan."

He blushed deeply and hung his head.

She took the mistletoe from him, held it over his head, and kissed him back. Then she said, "It's a very big bird and you a bachelor man. Would you like to come to us for your Christmas dinner?"

His obvious a.s.sent was drowned by the cheers.

Donal had finally arrived, still carrying the hat he'd used for the draw. "Didn't I promise you, Doctor, sir?" he said with a bucktoothed grin.

"You did. Well done, Donal, and the timing's very good," O'Reilly remarked. "Tomorrow's Christmas Eve, so Eileen will still have time to shop. Santa will come to her house after all."

"I'm pleased about that, sir. She and her chisellers deserve to have a merry Christmas. I'm glad I could help, so I am. Julie's pleased too."

O'Reilly bent closer and said, sotto voce, "How did you do it?"

Donal offered the hat to both O'Reilly and Barry. "Take a ticket."

O'Reilly did. Barry did. He showed his to O'Reilly. Both tickets read 4444.

"I told you I got them from a printer friend of mine. Sure, as well as the ones we sold, didn't I have him run off a couple of hundred all the same, and didn't I put only those stubs in the hat?"

Barry laughed.

O'Reilly guffawed so loudly that people turned around to see what was so funny. He put an avuncular arm around Donal's shoulder. "I wonder about you sometimes, Donal," he said. "It's only the Lord who is meant to move in mysterious ways."

It Came upon a Midnight Clear.

The stern, fifteenth-century nonconformist Martin Luther would not have approved of O'Reilly's suggestion, but then, Barry thought, it was unlikely the old Puritan would have approved of O'Reilly at all.

"Why don't we go to midnight ma.s.s?" O'Reilly asked. "Father O'Toole does the service very well." He finished another mouthful of his Christmas Eve dinner.

"I'd like that, Fingal," Barry said. "I'd enjoy that very much."

"Good. And we'll ask Kinky if she'd like to come. Even if she is a Presbyterian, she's very broad-minded. You know now-you were at the pageant-that there's quite a tradition here of ec.u.menism, particularly at Christmas, and I think Kinky approves."

"Even if Bertie Bishop doesn't?"

"But Flo does. We'll see her there." Then O'Reilly, who had once p.r.o.nounced the adage "Eating time is eating time, and talking time is talking time," nodded, grunted, and applied himself with vigour to devouring his share of Kinky's roast goose. She'd ignored his instructions about no more fowl.

Barry was glad she had. He was quite content to savour his own meal in silence. It would be pleasant to bring in Christmas by going to midnight ma.s.s, he decided. It would make a change from sitting up past midnight and listening to the Festival of Nine Lessons and Carols broadcast by the BBC from King's College Chapel. When he'd lived at home, his parents made listening to it a family Christmas tradition. Ever since he'd turned nine, his parents had allowed him to stay up for it.

He exhaled hard through his nose. King's College? Humbug. Barry didn't want to be reminded of anything to do with Cambridge. One of the reasons Patricia had given for staying there was that her friend Jenny's father had got tickets for this year's service.

Fair enough, it must be spectacular to be there in person. He remembered how, as a boy, once the service was over, he'd been allowed to open one Christmas present. Then, after a small piece of Christmas cake, he was bundled off to bed to try to sleep, because everybody knew there'd be no presents in the pillowcase at the foot of the bed for any child who stayed awake. Oooh, the antic.i.p.ation, but for a little chap the very late night had always produced the effect his parents had hoped for. Sleep came quickly then.

But tonight, after the ma.s.s, would he be able to drop off? Barry sighed. He was missing Patricia, still worried about her. Would he lie awake picturing her in the chapel at King's College and, despite her rea.s.surances, wondering who she was with?