An Irish Country Christmas (63 page)

“Now,” said the marquis, “I will try to get a proper word later, but soon I must go and greet my other guests. I think you know most of them, Fingal.”

“I’m sure I do, and if I don’t, haven’t I a mouth between my nose and my chin?”

The marquis laughed. “I don’t think you’ll have to introduce yourself to that colleague of yours, Fingal.” The marquis nodded toward Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, who stood beside the decorated tree at the far end of the room where two of the marquis’s dogs, an Irish setter and an Irish wolfhound, slept beneath the branches. Good God, Fingal thought.

“I thought you might like to meet a fellow medical man under social circumstances. The Kinnegar’s not far, and it used to be part of the estate before my father sold it to pay death duties for his father. Grandpa lived to be a hundred and one, you know, and I’m afraid my dad didn’t outlive him by much.”

O’Reilly, stifling his surprise at seeing Fitzpatrick, looked at the marquis and saw in him a living symbol of the age-old history and permanence of a place like Ballybucklebo.

“I’ll have a word with him.” O’Reilly resolved to go speak to Fitzpatrick soon, but not until he’d had a drink. Fitzpatrick was talking to
a very tall man with an aquiline nose who sported a monocle in his left eye. “Who’s that, John?”

O’Reilly had to wait to hear the answer. Once the laughter died, the marquis said, “Sir Aidan Creighton-Dwyer-MacNeill. He’s a baronet. We’re related distantly. His father was a MacNeill from the Antrim branch of the family. They have quite a large farm near Ballymoney. He married Annie O’Sullivan. She’s one of
the
O’Sullivans, and they boast John L. Sullivan, the boxer, from their Tralee branch and Maureen O’Sullivan, the actress, who comes from their Roscommon connection. She’s Mia Farrow’s mother, you know . . .”

The marquis frowned. “Sometimes I do go on about genealogy. Families here do tend to get a bit complicated. A second cousin of ours had to be sent to Purdysburn mental hospital about twenty years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Barry said.

“It was a long time ago and”—the marquis chuckled—“Dolores really was quite gaga. She had a habit of presenting strangers with her dentures.”

Just a bit more speeding up. The marquis beckoned to a uniformed maid, who was carrying a tray of full glasses. “I really must circulate now, but please make yourselves completely at home, and a very merry Christmas to you all.”

“Jameson, Doctor O’Reilly?”

Mafeking had been relieved. O’Reilly grinned. “Of course, Margaret.” He helped himself. He recognized her because he’d treated her for mumps when she was eight.

The maid offered her tray to Kitty. “Madam?”

“Are those Buck’s Fizz?” Kitty pointed to champagne flutes with an orange-coloured liquid inside.

The maid nodded.

“Thank you.” Kitty took one. “Champagne and orange juice. Just the job for Christmas Day.”

“Sir?” The maid offered the tray to Barry.

He took a fizz. “Thank you.”

“Cheers,” Kitty said and sipped. “I like the marquis. He’s even more charming than he was at Sonny and Maggie’s wedding.”

O’Reilly decided, peer of the realm or not, when it came to Kitty O’Hallorhan he’d keep an eye on John MacNeill, 27
^th
Marquis of Ballybucklebo.

“He is a good man,” O’Reilly said, and lack of mistletoe be damned, he encircled Kitty’s waist with his arm, pulled her to him, and gently kissed her lips. “Bless you, Kitty, for being here. I . . .” God Almighty, he was within an ace of telling her he loved her, but he couldn’t quite summon the courage. “I wish you a very merry Christmas.” Damn it, Fingal, he thought, tell her, you great lummox. But as he bent to say the words, he realized that Barry was within earshot and Sonny and Maggie were rapidly approaching. He decided to hold his tongue.

“Merry Christmas, Doctor dear,” Maggie said. “Doctor Laverty.”

“And you remember Miss O’Hallorhan?” O’Reilly said.

“I do.” Maggie cocked her head and looked at Kitty appraisingly. “It’s a nice outfit,” she said, “but I prefer the one you had on for my wedding.”

“If I’d known, Mrs. Houston, I’d have worn it.” Kitty chuckled.

O’Reilly was impressed that Kitty had remembered Maggie’s married name. “We popped in with Eileen Lindsay this morning. You’ll be glad to hear Sammy’s completely better and the Lindsays are having a wonderful Christmas.”

“That is good,” Sonny said. “Very good. I’m pleased.”

“You two were a great help when he was sick, Maggie. I mean it.” O’Reilly said.

“Och, sure, wasn’t it Doctor Laverty’s idea?”

O’Reilly saw Barry smile. And rightly so. The lad was learning there was more to country doctoring than making diagnoses and writing prescriptions. There was pleasure to be taken from helping folks get on with their lives.

“And anyway,” Maggie continued, “the babysitting was nothing. What made it for her was winning that raffle, so it was.”

O’Reilly nodded. He felt rather pleased with himself.

“Och, sure, and wasn’t it a Christmas miracle?”

“It was, Maggie.” O’Reilly picked up another stuffed date.

“And run by Donal Donnelly.” Her smile was very wide when she leant over and whispered, “And me never knowing that Donal was an angel.”

She knew it had been fixed, or more likely she knew Donal.

“But we’ll say no more about it, will we, Doctor dear?”

“Not a word, Maggie. Not a word.”

She winked at him and turned to Sonny. “Right, dear. Time we were running along. My turkey needs attention, and the General and your dogs have been on their own long enough.”

No doubt, O’Reilly thought, Sonny’s five dogs and Maggie’s battle-scarred cat, Sir Bernard Law Montgomery, would be dining on turkey today too. “Safe home,” he said.

“And to you, Doctor,” Sonny said, and with his arm protectively round Maggie’s waist, he started to steer her to the door. “We’ll see you all tomorrow, I hope, at the Bishops’ open house.”

“You will,” said O’Reilly. He turned to Kitty. “Could you make it down for that?”

She shook her head. “Sorry, Fingal. Some of us have to work.”

He shrugged but inside he felt as keenly disappointed as he knew Barry must be about Patricia not coming today. “Can’t be helped. I understand, and perhaps—”

O’Reilly got no further. He glanced around the room. The latest gale of laughter, a mix of guffaws, belly laughs, and giggles, seemed to be coming from a group surrounding the tall cadaverous-looking Doctor Fitzpatrick. The man was grinning like a mooncalf and clutching his pince-nez in his left hand.

“What the hell—?”

“I think,” said Barry, “that your old university friend is holding court.”

“We should go and listen,” O’Reilly said, taking Kitty’s hand. “Come on.”

“Excuse me, excuse me, excuse me.” He forced his way past several strangers. He knew that Kitty and Barry were following in his wake. He brought his party to a standstill at the back of the group surrounding Fitzpatrick.

“Merry Christmas, Father O’Toole.”

“Doctor.”

“Compliments of the season, Reverend, Mrs. Robinson.”

“Doctor O’Reilly. Doctor Laverty. Miss O’Hallorhan.”

He heard Barry saying, “I’m glad the iron pills aren’t causing you any trouble, Alice,” and then heard Miss Moloney wishing Barry a merry Christmas.

It was like a family reunion, and wasn’t that what Ballybucklebo was? And wasn’t he very glad to be a member of that family?

Fitzpatrick’s harsh voice carried. He was well into his story. “Anyway, the patient trusted the doctor, and he took his gunpowder every day, quite religiously . . .”

He took his
gunpowder
? What was Fitzpatrick doing?

“Every day . . . for six months . . . six whole months.”

O’Reilly looked around. The audience had grown and seemed to encompass every one of the partygoers. The marquis, his son, O’Brien-Kelly, and Sir John MacNeill were at the far side of the crowd. There were Bertie and Flo. He smiled at them and they smiled back.

“And then . . .” Fitzpatrick lowered his voice. “And then the poor man died.”

There was a sudden communal in-drawing of breath, and the silence following was broken only by the notes of the final movement of the Mozart symphony.

“And do you know what happened next?”

O’Reilly was impressed. Fitzpatrick certainly knew how to hold an audience. He would be a difficult candidate to argue with in an election.

“They tried to cremate the corpse.”

“And a very good idea,” Mr. Coffin called.

“Wheest, Christopher,” Constable Mulligan whispered in a loud voice.

“You’re right, sir. It did seem like a good idea, but . . .”—Fitzpatrick swept his gaze around the room—“but to this very day they’re looking for the back wall of the crematorium.”

O’Reilly joined in the universal laughter and applauded with the others. He minded not at all that Fitzpatrick had pinched the line he
himself had used when he’d chastised Fitzpatrick for using gunpowder as a treatment. Fair play to the man. O’Reilly let go of Kitty’s hand and shoved his way to the front. He grabbed Fitzpatrick’s hand and shook it. “Well done, Ronald. Well done.”

“Thank you, O’Reilly. Coming from you that means a lot.”

“Och, it’s Christmas Day.”

“So a Merry Christmas to you, Fingal, and I hope we all have a very happy New Year.” He slipped the pince-nez back on his narrow nose and swallowed so his Adam’s apple bobbed.

“I couldn’t have said it better myself,” O’Reilly said.

He felt a tapping on his shoulder and turned to see Kitty. “Excuse me, Ronald,” she said.

“Certainly, Kitty.”

“Fingal, it’s four thirty . . .”

“And we have to go, or Kinky will baste me instead of the turkey.” O’Reilly smiled at Fitzpatrick. “I’ve to go and say thanks to His Lordship; then we’ll be off. Enjoy yourself.”

“And when you get home,” said Fitzpatrick with a small bow, “please wish Mrs. Kincaid a Merry Christmas from me.”

“Presents,” I Often Say, “Endear. . .”

Barry was still amazed by the apparent transformation of Doctor Fitzpatrick. He had thought that seeing the light on the road to Damascus only happened in the Bible. But if the tousling O’Reilly had given the man last week had produced this change, then more power to his wheel.

He followed O’Reilly and Kitty across the back lane and into the garden. He could see lazy flakes drifting down and glistening in the glow from the nearby street light. As he and the other two walked through O’Reilly’s dark garden, all he could hear was the crunching of shoes and boots in the snow. There were no traffic noises coming from the road, no chapel bells, no children’s voices, no mewling of gulls, no lowing of beasts. Nightfall and snowfall had cocooned Ballybucklebo in a web of gentle silence.

There was no sign of Arthur. O’Reilly did not seem concerned, so it was unlikely that the dog had managed to roam.

It was nippy in the garden, but as soon as he was in the kitchen Barry had to take off his coat. And the cooking smells . . . oh, the aromas. His mouth watered.

“Nice to see you all home on time.” Kinky, wreathed in a cloud of steam, closed the oven door and straightened up. She held a turkey baster in one oven-mitted hand. “The bird’s coming on a treat. I’d not want it too dry from overcooking.”

“I’m sure it’ll melt in our mouths,” O’Reilly said. He stood holding a bag that Barry knew contained Kitty’s high heels. Kitty removed her coat and her fur-lined ankle boots. She slipped into her heels.

“And by the way, Doctor Fitzpatrick said to wish you a merry Christmas.”

“By the Lord,” she said, “will wonders never cease?” She looked at Kitty.“Pop your boots in the corner there, Miss O’Hallorhan.”

“And I’ll hang my coat in the hall.” Kitty started to leave but hesitated when Kinky said, “Doctor O’Reilly, sir. I’ve a little job for you and Doctor Laverty.”

“What?” O’Reilly asked. “I hope you don’t expect me to bake the ham.”

Kinky laughed so much her chins wobbled. “No, sir. I do not.” Barry thought she sounded like a mother reassuring an eight-year-old that he’d not be expected to run the mile in four minutes. “Even though I am a
bit
behind with the cooking.”

And that was the first time in five months Barry had ever heard Kinky confess to anything less than perfection. Somehow it made her even more admirable.

“I’ve been back and forth like a fiddler’s elbow answering the door to all the folks who’ve come to wish this house a Merry Christmas.” She used her forearm to shove an errant wisp of hair out of her eyes. “I know people do come round every year to thank yourself, sir.” She pointed at O’Reilly with the baster. “I know some folks came to the surgery on Wednesday with gifts, those who’d not been here before came today, and now there’s
two
doctors here, every last visitor brought
two
bottles. There’s enough whiskey in the dining room to have emptied Jameson’s distillery, aye, and made a dent in the stock of Bushmills as well.”

Barry saw O’Reilly’s huge grin. The bottle they’d taken to Kieran O’Hagan would not be missed.

Kinky put the baster down on the counter and rattled a saucepan on the stovetop. “Boiled potatoes. They’ll be ready to drain and start roasting in ten minutes,” she muttered to herself. Then she continued to instruct O’Reilly. “I’d appreciate it, sir, if you’d take all them bottles upstairs.” A saucepan lid rattled. She turned and tipped it so steam could escape. “Christmas pudding. It’ll be done in another hour.” She turned back to O’Reilly. “You can see, sir, I’m just a tad
busy here. If you’d put them in the sideboard in the lounge . . . I’ll need the sideboard in the dining room to put things on when I bring dinner through, so.”