An Irish Country Christmas (65 page)

Barry and Kitty both joined in. “Damn few, and they’re mostly dead.” Glass clinked against glass; 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 glass. “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 glasses again with me. We don’t say grace in this house, but I will say, God 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 carcass to make the stock.”

“Lord bless you, no, Miss O’Hallorhan. I use the giblets—the heart, liver, and gizzards—and the wings. Nobody 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 hell’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 glass. 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 butterfly 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 glass of wine, won’t you?”

“Please.”

He handed her the glass 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, cocked 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 butter on the kitchen shelf.” She let the hem of her apron 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.”

“What?” She tensed and raised her shoulders.

O’Reilly’s grin was huge. “You, Mrs. Kinky Kincaid, you’ve done all the work, and we’ve not had a chance to thank you yet.”

Her shoulders sagged, and Barry could sense her relief.

“So, Kinky”—he poured a glass of wine—“take that in your hand.” He reached over and moved a chair by the sideboard to the table, dislodging Lady Macbeth for a second time. “Come round here and sit for a minute. I want you to have a drink with us, and here”—he handed her an envelope—“that’s a wee tangible thank-you from Doctor Laverty and me.”

Kinky bobbed and sat on the chair O’Reilly held out for her. “Thank you both.”

Barry wondered how much money was in the envelope—and how
much his yet-unasked-for share was. Damn it, he didn’t begrudge her a penny. He looked at Patricia. To have her here to share Kinky’s Christmas feast was all he could have wanted. Whoever had said, “Money isn’t everything,” was right. He reached under the table and took Patricia’s hand, feeling its cool softness.

O’Reilly, who was still standing, bent and filled his glass, then raised it. “Now everybody, Kitty, Barry, Patricia”—he peered under the table—“and you, Your Ladyship, and you lummox, Arthur Guinness, here’s to Kinky Kincaid.”

Barry reckoned that four people saying, “Kinky Kincaid,” in unison, accompanied by “Aaaaghow” from Arthur, made a very respectable noise. It certainly stimulated Lady Macbeth, who leapt onto the table, only to be deposited on the floor by O’Reilly.

Kinky blushed and stuttered her thanks.

O’Reilly inclined his head. “Now get that wine into you, Kinky. I’ll carve the turkey and the ham, and while I’m at it, will you tell us all exactly what’s on the plate and in the bird?” He picked up the carving knife and fork. “White or dark meat, Kitty?”

“Both, please.”

He nodded and began to carve the breast. “Come on now, Kinky. Tell us all.”

Kinky took a sip of her wine. “Well,” she said, “around the plate are roasted potatoes and parsnips. Those little thingys are chipolata sausages. In the neck end of the bird I’ve put pork and chestnut stuffing, and in the vent end my usual sage and onion and breadcrumbs, so.”

“That’s amazing,” Kitty said. “However do you get it all done, Kinky?”

Kinky took a sip of her wine. “It’s just a matter of planning.”

So, Barry thought, was the D-day invasion. One hell of a lot of planning.

Patricia took the words from his mouth. “I think you’re a marvel, Mrs. Kincaid.”

“
Think
?” said O’Reilly. “I bloody well know it. Have done for years.” He handed a plate to Kitty. “Help yourself to the trimmings. Patricia?”

“Just a teeny helping, please. I’ve already had one Christmas dinner today, Mrs. Kincaid.”

Barry sat patiently waiting for O’Reilly to serve Patricia, then him. O’Reilly’s own helping, Barry thought, would have fed two. Barry added bread sauce and vegetables to his own already heaped plate.

Kinky finished her wine and rose. “I’ll be leaving—”

“Not just yet, please,” Barry said. He got to his feet “I have a toast of my own.” He hesitated, trying to find exactly the right words for what he wanted to say.

“Get on with it,” O’Reilly called. “Your dinner’s getting cold.”

“All right.” He bowed his head, then spoke clearly. “Here’s to Kinky Kincaid, the best housekeeper in all Ireland . . .”

“Hear, hear,” O’Reilly said.

“To Fingal O’Reilly, my colleague . . . and my friend . . .” He stared at O’Reilly, who was nodding a silent agreement.

“To Kitty O’Hallorhan. May Number One Main Street see lots more of her next year . . .”

“Thank you, Barry.” Kitty was smiling at O’Reilly.

“To Arthur and Her Ladyship. May their Christmas truce persist . . .”

No luck with that one. As if on cue, Lady Macbeth took a swipe at Arthur’s nose, but missed. Barry had to wait until O’Reilly had finished laughing before he could continue. “And to Patricia. May her studies go from strength to strength . . .” He stared at her and smiled. “And may the road between Cambridge and Ballybucklebo rise up to meet her when next she makes the journey . . .”