An Irish Country Christmas (62 page)

Thompson, now laden, began to carry coats and scarves to the coat stand.

“If you’ll excuse me, I’ll get these hung up. His Lordship’s expecting you, and you know your way, sir.” The butler limped away with the pile of coats.

“Come on then,” said O’Reilly, “the party’s along this way.”

Kitty stopped. “Hang on,” she said. “I want to get a good look.” She stared up at the arched cathedral ceiling. “It’s not every day a girl gets an invitation to the lord of the manor’s place.”

O’Reilly smiled as he watched Kitty scan the oil paintings that adorned the walls. There were a great many portraits of earlier holders of the title, almost all of whom had iron-grey hair.

“Good God,” she said, pointing to a painting of a periwigged soldier in a tricorne hat and scarlet coat who stood leaning against a caparisoned horse. “That could be Sir Joshua Reynolds’s painting of Captain Robert Orne. I’ve seen it in the National Gallery in London.”

“It
is
a Reynolds,” O’Reilly said, remembering that Kitty dabbled in painting. Somehow, he thought, I’ll give good odds she does more than merely dabble.

He heard footsteps approaching.

“My God,” Barry said, “it’s O’Brien-Kelly.”

O’Reilly looked down the hall. Two young men were approaching.
He recognized Sean, the marquis’s soldier son, and Sean’s senior officer, Captain O’Brien-Kelly. The captain, who had been in Ballybucklebo in August, was in O’Reilly’s opinion a buck eejit of the first magnitude. “This should be interesting,” he told Kitty, and before he could explain further, Sean was offering his hand. Almost as tall as his father, he had the same facial features, the same iron-grey hair.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor O’Reilly.”

“Merry Christmas, Sean. On leave?”

“For a week. I brought my captain with me for a day or two at the pheasants. This is Captain . . .”

“O’Brien-Kelly,” O’Reilly said, looking the man right in the eye. “We’ve met.”

“Captain, Sean, may I present Caitlin O’Hallorhan and Doctor Laverty?”

Barry shook hands with Sean and then said to O’Brien-Kelly, “We’ve met.”

O’Reilly turned to Kitty. “Caitlin O’Hallorhan. Lieutenant, the honourable Sean . . .”

“It’s Sean, and may I call you Caitlin?”

She smiled. “I’d prefer Kitty.”

“Kitty it is.”

“And,” O’Reilly continued, “this is Captain O’Brien-Kelly. He’s a great fan of Irish thoroughbreds.” O’Reilly struggled to keep a straight face. This was the man Donal Donnelly had sold Irish half crowns to for much more than they were worth. Donal had persuaded him that because the coins had a horse embossed on them, they were medallions specially struck to honour the great Irish thoroughbred Arkle.

“Delighted,” said O’Brien-Kelly. “And jolly pleased to see you again, O’Weilly. Didn’t get a chance to say cheewio. Had to leave in wather a wush after the waces.”

The poor man must believe that pronouncing his
r
’s as
w
’s adds class to his speech, O’Reilly thought.

“Something to do with a bookie . . . Honest Sammy Dolan, as I recall,” Barry said innocently.

Something to do with the marquis having to pay off O’Brien-Kelly’s gambling debt, O’Reilly remembered.

“Indeed,” the captain said. He quickly changed the subject. “I never had a chance to thank you, O’Weilly.”

“Thank me?” O’Reilly frowned. He’d been quite prepared to be sworn at for introducing O’Brien-Kelly to Donal.

“Well, when I went to sell those coins to the chaps in the wegiment—recoup a bit, as you might say—an Irish officer, not Sean here, told them that all I had was some worthless Irish currency.” He smiled widely. “The chaps twigged at once, but they seemed to think it was all a gag and that I was no end of a comic.”

O’Reilly guffawed mightily.

“That’s wight. No end of a joke, weally. The chaps do enjoy a bit of fun at a senior officer’s expense, so my stock’s been very high since. That’s why I owe you my thanks.”

“My pleasure.” O’Reilly said, as he thought, will wonders never cease? He’d characterized O’Brien-Kelly as the classic Anglo-Irish upper-class twit, yet the man was able to laugh at himself. He’d give the captain points for that, even if he was a bit dim.

O’Brien-Kelly, clearly dismissing O’Reilly, turned to Sean. “Now, Sean, are we going to see that gelding?”

“Yes. Please excuse us.” Sean bowed to Kitty, smiled at O’Reilly, and led O’Brien-Kelly toward the front doors.

O’Reilly grinned and shook his head. “You know, Barry,” he said, “I’ll be damned if I can remember who said the Lord looks after drunks, children, and idiots, but there went living proof.”

“I think,” said Barry, “it was attributed to Bismarck.”

“Wonderful,” said Kitty. “Now are you two going to stand there all day playing Brain of Britain, or are we going to a party?”

Come and Go, Talking of Michelangelo

Together they entered a large high-ceilinged drawing room. O’Reilly guessed there were fifty or sixty people standing in groups or sitting on comfortable armchairs and loveseats that were distributed in a seemingly haphazard manner throughout the room. This was, next to the Ballybucklebo races, the social event of the year, and certainly the women present were all dressed in their Sunday best.

Above the sound of conversations, rising and falling as waves in a narrow inlet, occasional roars of laughter rose like whitecaps on their crests.

He led Kitty and Barry to the fringes of the party. In the background he could hear a gramophone playing Vivaldi’s
Four Seasons
.

He accompanied the music, pom-pomming happily.

A man standing on the periphery turned and saw O’Reilly. “Merry Christmas, Doctor.”

“Merry Christmas, Constable Mulligan.” Judging by his blue three-piece worsted suit, the village’s single police officer was off duty. “Have you seen the marquis?”

“Yes, sir, I seen him proceeding in an easterly direction toward the library, but he said he’d be back, like.”

O’Reilly recognized the man approaching the constable. The undertaker’s nose bore a large rhinophyma, a blockage of the ducts of the sebaceous glands. The result was a red bulb that O’Reilly thought might have made Rudolph envious.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor O’Reilly.”

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Coffin.”

“How’s about ye, Christopher?” The constable beamed and began engaging the undertaker in a spirited conversation. O’Reilly knew the two had struck up a friendship after Seamus Galvin’s going-away party in August. “Great to see a white Christmas, so it is.”

“Right enough, but I hope it goes quick. It’s a bugger to get a hearse through it . . .”

O’Reilly left the two men chatting happily. “Let’s mingle,” he said, taking Kitty by the elbow. His tummy rumbled. He caught a whiff of the delicate scent of a potpourri of dried flowers and noticed a ceramic pot on a side table near the fireplace. The table also bore full silver cigarette boxes, bowls of nuts, boxes of Bendick’s Bittermints from Bond Street, plates of shortbread, and marzipan-stuffed dates. O’Reilly had a soft spot for marzipan-stuffed dates. He changed course to head in their direction.

The Bishops were chatting to Sonny and Maggie. A large sprig of holly was tucked into the band of Maggie’s purple felt hat. He noticed that in honour of the occasion she was wearing her false teeth.

None of them had seen O’Reilly, who was intent on reaching the stuffed dates. He decided he’d stop to chat a little later, but he hesitated when Bertie Bishop said to Sonny, “Anyway, says I to your man, ‘If you think I’m paying two thousand pounds for that horse—two
thousand
—you need your head examined, so you do, because—”

A roar of laughter from the far side of the room drowned out the councillor’s words. Whoever it was who was so amused had a giggle that could fillet a herring at ten fathoms.

“You were just right, Bertie,” Sonny said and smiled at Bishop. “The brass neck of your man, to think he could put one over on you . . .”

So, O’Reilly thought, Bertie’s not the only one suffused with the Christmas spirit. He knew that Sonny did not hold the councillor in high esteem, and he had good reason not to, but for today anyway he was willing to let bygones be bygones.

“Fingal.” It was Barry’s voice. “I thought you could use some sustenance.”

O’Reilly turned and saw Kitty holding something in a white paper
napkin. Barry had finished offering a plate of smoked salmon to her and was now holding it in O’Reilly’s direction. “Good lad.” He snaffled two slices of buttered wheaten bread covered with thin red portions of lox. He admired the pale green capers on top of the smoked fish and popped the first slice whole into his mouth. His words were muffled when he said, “ ‘For this relief much thanks.’ ”

“
Hamlet
,” said Barry. “Here. Have another.”

O’Reilly took one. It was a delicate soupçon, but he really fancied a stuffed date. He shoved on to his goal near the fireplace, confident that Barry and Kitty were following.

They skirted the loose group where Father O’Toole, Reverend and Mrs. Robinson, and Miss Moloney were listening to Fergus Finnegan, captain of the rugby fifteen.

“I reckon this new lad Michael Gibson’s going to turn out to be a better outhalf than Jack Kyle was.”

“I’m not so sure,” Miss Moloney ventured. “My father used to take us to the games before we went to India, and I kept going after I came back to Ulster. I went up to Belfast and saw Kyle at Ravenhill in nineteen fifty-three. He was at his peak then . . .”

O’Reilly waited. Anything to do with rugby football interested him, particularly when a woman had an obviously educated opinion on the subject.

“Against France?” Fergus said.

“That’s right. He made a break, sold two magnificent dummies, and scored a try that people still talk about.”

They did indeed, O’Reilly thought, impressed that Miss Moloney understood the game’s finer points. He’d been at Ravenhill himself, and to watch Kyle run, jinking like a snipe through the French defence, had been a moment he would never forget. And Jackie Kyle himself a doctor.

There was a note of respect in Fergus’s voice when he said, “Right enough, but I reckon we should give Gibson a year or two. That boy has talent. It’s sticking out a mile, so it is.” He moved a little closer to Miss Moloney. “Every year a bunch of the lads from the club charter a bus and go down to Dublin for the international games. Would you like to be put on the list, Miss Moloney?”

Her eyes sparkled. “I’d love it, if I can get away from the shop . . . and it’s Alice, by the way.”

Good for you, Alice Moloney, O’Reilly thought. He moved the last two steps to the table.

“My goodness,” Kitty said, looking around, “this
is
grand. This is very grand.”

“Nothing but the best if you travel with O’Reilly,” he said. “It is cosy, isn’t it?”

“It should be,” she said, “Look at the size of that fireplace.”

O’Reilly inhaled deeply, and the smell of burning wood mingled with the aroma of pipe tobacco and cigars.

A huge log burnt on black andirons in a cavernous fieldstone fireplace. The grate was flanked by inglenooks with benches. Two ceramic fire dogs, white-and-black painted Dalmatians, sat erect with supercilious grins on their glazed faces.

Kitty chuckled. “It makes the gas fire in my flat look a bit puny.”

The Four Seasons
had finished. It had been replaced with another piece he recognized, Mozart’s Thirty-ninth Symphony. O’Reilly had to strain to hear because the noise level in the room was now much higher. Old Doctor Flanagan, who had sold O’Reilly the practice, had called alcohol the universal social lubricant. He was right.

O’Reilly helped himself to a stuffed date and looked around to see if he could find a waiter. He’d not object to a bit of oiling of his own gears. No luck. He reckoned he knew how the garrison must have felt in the besieged town of Mafeking during the Boer War: cut off from supplies and very thirsty.

He helped himself to another date and turned to see Kitty scrutinizing a portrait above the Connemara marble mantel. It was of a much younger marquis wearing the dress uniform of the Irish Guards.

“I think that’s an Annigoni.” Kitty’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“It is. My father commissioned it,” the marquis said.

“Jesus, Your Lordship,” O’Reilly said, “don’t creep up on folks like that. As Kinky would say, you gave me such a surprise I near took the rickets.”

“I didn’t think anything could shock you, Fingal,” the marquis said with a grin.

“My lord.” Barry made a small bow.

“Laverty. Nice to see you, and it’s
very
nice to see you back, Miss O’Hallorhan. I recall you were here for Sonny’s wedding.”

“I was, and it’s Kitty, please, my lord.”

“Kitty. It’s a very friendly name.” He gazed at her face. “I must say you are looking lovely today.”

O’Reilly wasn’t quite sure whether to swell with pride or feel a tiny stab of jealousy. The marquis, who wasn’t much older than O’Reilly, had been a widower for eight years and was a charismatic man.

“Thank you, sir,” she said and smiled.

He noticed how graciously Kitty accepted the compliment. She didn’t blush. Kitty O’Hallorhan, he could tell, was well used to compliments.