An Irish Country Christmas Part 51

O'Reilly took his seat. He nodded to Barry's parcel. "So what's in there?"

Barry pulled off the brown paper. A book. Fis.h.i.+ng 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 G.o.d," he said, when his gift was revealed. "Holy, thundering mother of Jesus in a gold lame 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 gla.s.ses 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 gla.s.s.

"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 gla.s.s and sniffed its contents before sipping. "That's very good, Fingal," she said and held out her gla.s.s. The wine gurgled.

O'Reilly poured for himself and then said, "Shove your gla.s.s up here, Barry."

Barry did so, then waited for O'Reilly to fill his winegla.s.s and return it.

"Now," said O'Reilly, holding his gla.s.s 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. "d.a.m.n few, and they're mostly dead." Gla.s.s clinked against gla.s.s; 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 gla.s.s. "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 gla.s.ses again with me. We don't say grace in this house, but I will say, G.o.d 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 carca.s.s to make the stock."

"Lord bless you, no, Miss O'Hallorhan. I use the giblets-the heart, liver, and gizzards-and the wings. n.o.body eats turkey wings."

"Well, it is truly wonderful, Kinky."

"Hear, hear," mumbled O'Reilly, his mouth full.

Barry savored his helping. But he wondered where he was going to find room for the entire meal. He knew the turkey course was to come, and hadn't Kinky been getting her Christmas puddings ready a couple of weeks ago when she'd found one had eaten a hole in a stainless steel bowl?

He glanced at the sideboard. The plates of sweet mince pies, the Christmas cake, and the meringues were tucked in between ranks of Christmas cards and two flanking holly wreaths that encircled lit candles. The meringues were soft, white, sugary, whorled cones, each one fixed to the next by a layer of whipped cream.

Get through all that, Barry Laverty, he told himself, and you'll be taking your new pants to Miss Moloney-to be let out.

"I'll be back with the bird soon," said Kinky, as she left.

O'Reilly muttered something like "Thanks" through a full mouth.

Barry had nearly finished his soup when he heard the front doorbell ring. Who in Hades would be at their door at dinnertime on Christmas Day, with the snow coming down hard enough to stop traffic? He exchanged a quick glance with Fingal, whose eyebrows were raised.

"Are we expecting anyone?" said O'Reilly.

"Doctor dears." They heard Kinky's shout through the noise of pots and pans clattering meaningfully. "Can one of youse see to that?"

Barry glanced at O'Reilly, who was starting to rise. The man had his Kitty here. Let him enjoy her company. "Kinky clearly has her hands full. I'll go, Fingal."

He heard O'Reilly yell after him, "Don't worry, Barry. When Kinky brings in the main course, we'll set up a plate for you and pop it in the oven. If it's a patient, fix 'em up quick and ask them if they've eaten."

The sound of Fingal's and Kitty's laughter followed him as he crossed the hall and opened the door to a small figure shrouded in a huge duffle coat with the hood up. The light from the hall illuminated the swirling snow-it was a scene from a snow globe. A car engine receded, red taillights heading toward Belfast.

"Can I help you?" The stranger stepped forward, and Barry noticed the limp. Jesus Christ. "Patricia? Is that you?"

"Barry."

He felt his heart swell.

She stepped through the doorway, dropped her case, and threw back the hood of her coat. "I'm sorry I've led you such a song and a dance. I really am." She moved close to him.

He held her and kissed her, hard and long, and the sweetness of her . . . She was here . . . His heart sang. She was here. He moved back a little. "How did you . . . ?"

She was a little breathless when she said, "I've had h.e.l.l's delight getting here. I took the travel agent's advice and went to Heathrow."

"But I thought all the flights were full."

"I was lucky. I got a standby seat midmorning. Dad picked me up at Aldergrove airport. I've been in Newry with my folks-"

"Why didn't you phone? Jesus, Patricia, you might have let me know."

"I tried, Barry. Honestly, I did try. Everything happened so fast. I just had time to call Dad from London before I got on the plane. I was going to phone as soon as I got home, but in Newry it's snowing heavily enough to beat Banaher. The telephone lines have been down since noon-"

"Ssshh," he said, taking her into his arms again and kissing the top of her head.

"I wanted to let you know I was here, in Ulster, for Christmas. Dad said to wait until tomorrow, but I had to come and see you today." Her voice cracked. "I just had to."

"It wasn't your fault. I understand. How did you get here?"

She smiled. "My dad's a poppet. He's got an ancient old Land Rover that'll get through anything. He said to wish you a merry Christmas, but he needed to start for home before the snow got any heavier." She kissed Barry again, stood back, looked deep into his eyes, and said, "I love you, darling."

"I love you, Patricia." Barry's hands trembled as he reached for her shoulders and said, "Let me help you out of your coat." She was here. It was the best Christmas ever. He didn't even notice what she was wearing as he hung up her coat, took her hand, and led her into the dining room. "Look who's come," he said.

"Why, Miss Patricia Spence," said Fingal. "What a pleasant surprise. Come in, come in. You've only missed the soup course. Sit yourself down."

Barry clung to Patricia's hand and stared at her oval face, her almond eyes, her lips.

The room was silent and when Barry finally looked up from Patricia's face, he could feel three sets of eyes on his. "Jesus, Barry," O'Reilly said, "are you going to keep the poor girl standing there all day?"

He wasn't sure if anyone heard his mumbled "Sorry" through the laughter, but it didn't matter. Kitty was leaning under the table, shooing Lady Macbeth off the extra seat. O'Reilly was busy uncorking the second bottle of wine and pouring Patricia a gla.s.s. Arthur lumbered out to sniff Patricia's hand and give it a welcoming lick.

"Thank you, everyone," she said, and then she sat down. "I didn't mean to intrude."

Barry saw the nape of her neck beneath her ponytail and longed to drop a b.u.t.terfly kiss there.

"Intrude, is it?" said Kinky, as she appeared in the doorway and set her tray on a clear spot on the tabletop. "There's enough here for twice the number. Merry Christmas to you, Miss Spence. That's Nollaig shona dhuit in the old tongue." She looked hard at Barry, and he knew by her look what she was thinking: So you didn't believe your girl was coming?

Kinky sniffed, then unloaded tureens and small bowls, identifying the contents of each as she put them on the table. "Mashed potatoes, brussels sprouts. Carrot-and-parsnip mix. Bread sauce. Gravy." She set a pile of dinner plates on O'Reilly's placemat. "I'll be back with the bird."

"You'll not starve in this house, Patricia," O'Reilly said.

She laughed, a sound Barry had longed to hear for what had seemed like an eternity. "I'm more likely to explode. Mum had our dinner ready for two o'clock."

"Just nibble a bit then," said O'Reilly. "It'll please Kinky to see you eating. And you'll take a gla.s.s of wine, won't you?"

"Please."

He handed her the gla.s.s he'd already poured. "Now, I think I'll just pop to the kitchen and help Kinky with the ham." He rose, then quickly sat again, as Kinky appeared bearing the turkey on an ornate silver platter the size of a child's sleigh.

"Here it is," Kinky said proudly. It was a big bird. The skin of its breast was browned to a deep gold and striped with strips of fatty bacon. She set the plate in front of O'Reilly, stood back, folded her arms across her chest, c.o.c.ked her head to one side, admired it, and said, "Johnny Jordan did us proud again this year. It's a young one. It should be easy to carve. I hope you all enjoy your meals, so."

"Kinky, you've outdone yourself this year. That is the most magnificent sight I've ever seen. Now, Mrs. Kincaid, that bird's been enough for you to carry. I'll be back in a second with the ham."

"If you say so, sir," she said with a smile.

In a minute he was back, a ham on an oval plate in one oven-mitted hand.

For the second time that day Barry admired its glazed outer skin marked with a diamond pattern of crisscrossing dark lines and studded with myriad cloves.

Kinky wiped her hands on her pinafore. "I've just the sherry trifle to take out of the fridge, and the pudding out of the boiler." She looked at the still-standing O'Reilly. "And will you warm the brandy, sir, to pour over the pudding so you can set it alight?"

"Of course."

"There's a sprig of holly and a bowl of brandy b.u.t.ter on the kitchen shelf." She let the hem of her ap.r.o.n fall. "So, sir, Miss O'Hallorhan, Doctor Laverty, Miss Spence, I'll wish you all a very merry Christmas, hope you enjoy your meal, and I'll be off to change. I'm having my dinner with Cissie Sloan and her family this year. She's a very good cook even if she is a bletherskite."

"Not yet," said O'Reilly.

Her eyes widened. "Is there something wrong with the meal, sir?"

O'Reilly sounded very serious. "Only one thing."