An Irish Country Christmas Part 9

A Mighty Maze! But Not Without a Plan.

When Arthur Guinness came bounding out of his doghouse, eyes fixed on Barry's trouser legs, Barry was too tired from his day and too eager to talk to Patricia to suffer much nonsense. He stood his ground. "Sit, you!" he yelled, and to his amazement the big dog did. Then Barry said, "Go home."

Barry waited until the dog was back in his kennel before he crossed the backyard, wondering as he did why Arthur had been amenable to being ordered about. Was Barry gaining a bit more confidence, a bit more authority? He hoped so.

"Evening, Kinky," he said, as he opened the kitchen door.

Mrs. Kincaid was standing at the counter with her back to him. She turned and handed him a small metal basin. "Would you look at that, sir?" Her voice was hushed, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

He took the basin and turned it over. There was a jagged hole in the bottom, about one inch across. "It looks as if it's been hit by a sh.e.l.l," he said. "What happened?"

She pointed to a round, dark brown, fruit-studded Christmas pudding, one of a pair, that sat on a plate. Its shape was exactly that of the basin.

"I think something ate the bowl," she said. Her eyes were wide. "Or else it was the little people."

"I beg your pardon, Kinky?" Barry smiled. "Ate the bowl? Little people?"

"Do you see, Doctor Laverty, I always make this year's Christmas puddings the year before, keep them in basins in my pantry, and bring them out once a month to season them with a taste of brandy. Then a week or two before the big day, I get two out of their bowls and wrap them in greaseproof paper so they're ready to boil on Christmas Day."

"I see." Of course, being absolutely ignorant of matters culinary, he didn't understand a thing Kinky had said, but he thought it best to humour her in her distressed state.

"Well . . .," she sighed, "when I got those two out, the bowl you have in your hands, sir, had that hole." She made the sign to ward off the evil eye. "My cooking never hurt n.o.body, sir. Not ever, but something must have done it. Maybe the leprechauns. Maybe Old Nick himself." There was a tiny tremble in her voice.

It would be useless to tell her not to worry. Only a rational explanation would calm her. Barry frowned and tried to remember some of his organic chemistry cla.s.ses. Something about sugars in fruits and alcohol. "Kinky, you put fruit and brandy in your puddings, right?"

"Bless you, sir, I do, so. Raisins, sultanas, currants, glace cherries, mixed peel, and then that nip of brandy each month."

Fruit, brandy? Sugar plus alcohol? Then he remembered. The combination could produce a powerful acid. One powerful enough to eat through . . . he looked at the metal bowl. "What's this made of, Kinky?"

"Stainless steel, sir. Himself gave it to me out of the surgery last year when I'd the pudding mixture made but broke one of my regular ones. Like that one." She pointed to a grey ceramic bowl on the counter.

Barry smiled. "I don't think you need worry about the little people or the devil, Kinky."

"And why not?"

"I'm pretty sure the fruit and the brandy combined to make an acid that attacks stainless steel but not pottery."

She looked from one bowl to the other, then back again. "Now there's a thing, so." But she did not look entirely convinced. Still she said, "I suppose I'll have to take your word for it, sir, seeing as you're a learned man and understand all that science."

"You don't have to take my word for it, Kinky; ask Doctor O'Reilly."

"Och, no, Doctor Laverty. I believe yourself. Sure aren't you a gentleman and a scholar?"

Barry laughed. "And the last line of that toast, as you very well know, Kinky Kincaid, is 'And if the truth be known, sir, probably a fine judge of Irish whiskey'-which I am not."

They both laughed but then her face fell. "But if there's acid, would that not make anybody who ate it sick?" She looked sadly at her puddings. "I'd hate to have to throw them out."

"You used lemon juice in Doctor O'Reilly's hot Irish, didn't you?"

"Yes."

"Lemon juice is full of citric acid and it doesn't hurt anybody, does it?"

"No."

"Then don't worry about your puddings. They'll be fine."

"You're sure, sir?"

"Positive."

"That's all right then. I'll get on with wrapping them, and you get on with making your phone calls."

"Calls? I thought I'd only one to make."

"Your pal Doctor Mills rang. He wants you to try to get hold of him."

"I will. Thanks, Kinky."

Barry headed for the hall, shedding his coat as he went. He'd been chilled when he came in, but standing round chatting with Kinky in the hot kitchen had made him uncomfortably warm. He hung the coat in the hall, picked up the phone, dialed the Royal's number from memory, and asked the operator to page Jack Mills.

"h.e.l.lo, Barry?" Barry recognized the strong Cullybackey accent. "How the h.e.l.l are you?"

"Fine. You?"

"Grand. We'd one of your customers in last night and whipped out his ruptured spleen. Good thing you got him here as quickly as you did."

"You can thank O'Reilly for that."

Barry heard a chuckle. "Nah. You thank him. Your patient's doing fine, but he's sore from his incision and a couple of bust ribs."

"Will you get him home for Christmas?"

"Don't see why not."

"Good. I'll let his wife know."

"No need. Sir Donald phoned the wife immediately post-op. She knows."

"Thanks, Jack."

"All part of the service. How're things at your end of the universe?"

"Busy. O'Reilly has bronchitis so I'm running the shop on my own."

"And if I know you, Laverty, you're loving it."

"Well, I-"

"Might as well because the love of your life is miles away."

"Yes, but I'm going to phone her tonight."

"Daft. There's a million gorgeous birds out there, and most of them are up for a bit of slap-and-tickle. I'd imagine it's a bit tricky over the phone."

Barry shook his head. Typical Jack Mills. "Are you still seeing Helen Hewitt?" he asked.

"The redhead with the green eyes?"

"Yes."

"Oh, aye, when I'm not seeing your old friend Mandy, the brunette ward clerk with the great legs."

Barry laughed. "You're incorrigible, Mills."

"I probably would be if I could spell it. Any chance the pair of us could get together for a jar?"

"Not until O'Reilly's back on his feet, unless you want to take a run-race down here."

"I maybe could at the weekend, but this time of the year there's a brave wheen of Christmas parties. The nurses' Christmas dance is on at the Nurses Home. Why don't you try to get up here to Belfast? It would do you a power of good to get out."

Barry shook his head. That wouldn't be fair to Patricia. "You try to get down here, mate. You've already had a go at Kinky's cooking."

"I have that, by G.o.d, and it beats hospital grub by a country mile. Tell you what. I'm off on Sat.u.r.day. I'll give you a bell on Friday night."

"Fair enough."

"And Barry?"

"What?"

"I'll let you know if there's any change in the splenectomy."

"Thanks, Jack."

"Right," said Jack Mills. "If I fall through the mattress, I'll see you in the spring."

Barry chuckled, hung up, and headed up the stairs.

"You're home," said O'Reilly from his armchair when he saw Barry at the sitting room door.

"From the wilds of the Ballybucklebo housing estate."

"Well," said O'Reilly, nodding toward the sideboard, "that surely calls for a drink."

"Whiskey?"

"Indeed," said O'Reilly, "and purely for medicinal purposes." He coughed and winked at Barry.

Barry shook his head. "You're getting better, aren't you, Fingal?" He poured a small measure. "Aren't you?"

"Jesus," said O'Reilly, "I'm on the mend. The chest's not as tight, and I'm not coughing as much." Barry could see O'Reilly frowning at the gla.s.s. "But the dose you've poured there is the kind of thing a homeopath would prescribe, or a vet treating a flea."

"It's all you're getting." Barry poured himself a small one and carried O'Reilly's drink over to him.

"Jesus," O'Reilly repeated, accepting the gla.s.s and draining half of it in one swallow. "It's only enough to give a gnat an eyewash."

"Hogwash," said Barry. "We all want you back on your feet."

"Have you not heard . . . ," said O'Reilly, emptying the gla.s.s and holding it out to Barry, "have you not heard that alcohol is an antiseptic? It kills bacteria."

Barry thought O'Reilly looked like a penitent supplicant. "Oh, very well." He set his gla.s.s on the coffee table and topped up O'Reilly's with a more generous measure. "Here," he said, handing it back.

"Slainte," said O'Reilly.

"Slainte mHath." Barry sipped his whiskey.

"So," said O'Reilly, "how was your afternoon?"

Barry shoved Lady Macbeth out of the other armchair and sat. "Pretty light. Two patients on the estate. Kieran O'Hagan had a subungual haematoma. I drained it." Barry was pleased to see O'Reilly quietly nodding. "Then I'd to see wee Sammy Lindsay."

"Chest bad again?" O'Reilly sipped his Irish.

"No. I'm pretty sure he has purpura."

"Henoch-Schonlein?"

"Yes. I'll be keeping an eye to him."

"Good lad. He could get kidney damage."

"Jesus, Fingal, he could die."

O'Reilly frowned. "That's what the textbook says. I've never seen it happen, and Lord knows I've seen enough cases over the years."

"I know, but I'll be watching him."

"We will, son. Once I'm up and doing. We'll watch him. He'll be sick for a while."

"I know." Barry took a big swallow of his whiskey. "That's what worries me."

"It shouldn't. He'll be right as rain in no time."