An Irish Country Christmas Part 37

When he looked out over the water, the black sea slowly changed to battleship grey dappled with ranks of cream whitecaps.

The sun's heat began to warm him, and O'Reilly sensed his inner maroon-hued serenity, that peace he only ever felt here on Strangford, his querencia. It restored the soul as surely as running on the surface recharged the batteries of a submarine.

"And that, Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly"-he told himself-"that is why you're out here in this winter weather with no one but a b.l.o.o.d.y great Labrador for company." He bent and patted Arthur's head. Then he said to the dog, "Today I'd rather be here than back at Number One, even if"-he blew on his hands-"it'll be a d.a.m.n sight cosier there."

He propped his gun against the stone wall, pulled the thermos from the gamebag, poured a steaming cup of coffee, and settled down to see what the rest of the Sat.u.r.day might bring.

To Travel Hopefully Is a Better Thing.

Barry, grinning like a Barbary ape, took the stairs two at a time, then brushed aside Kinky, who was saying, "I'm sorry I yelled up to you, sir, but I have a cake in the oven, so and-"

He grabbed the receiver. "Patricia? Patricia? Where are you?" Was she home in Newry already?

"Bourn."

Barry's grin collapsed. "Is everything alright?"

"Of course, silly. I just wanted to hear your voice." She sounded happy.

"It's been a while." He waited.

"I know that, and I know what you're going to ask, and don't get cross, but no I haven't had a chance yet . . ."

d.a.m.n. d.a.m.n. Barry kept his voice level. "Why not?"

"I've been staying with Jenny at her aunt's cottage. It's a beautiful old thatched place that was built in sixteen fifty-three, in a tiny place called Draycot near Slimbridge in Gloucestershire."

Here we go again, he thought, more chitchat. More avoiding talking about important things. "Where the ducks are. I know." b.l.o.o.d.y ducks. Pity O'Reilly wasn't over there with his gun. Barry was having difficulty keeping his temper. This prevarication had gone on long enough.

"Slimbridge is an amazing place. They're real conservationists here. They've bred one species, the Hawaiian goose, back from near extinction."

"Good." But was she going to do something to save him from extinction, or was she going to let them fall apart?

"Barry, I'm trying to explain."

"I wish you would."

"I asked you not to be cross."

"d.a.m.n it, Patricia, I want to see you. It's hard not to get cross. You promised to come." He hesitated. "Are you sure you really want to come back to Ireland?" He waited. "Telling me you'd rather see a bunch of birds is a pretty lame excuse."

"I did want to see the waterfowl. I'm glad I did. I may not get another chance. And it's not as if you're free much when I do come home. You still have a job to do. I'd be bored half to death hanging around in Newry. There's nothing to do there."

"I can understand that, but O'Reilly will give me time off. He knows I need to see you." Barry was now sure that even though she had admitted to some reluctance to travel, she still wasn't telling him the real reason. "There's something else, isn't there?"

Her tone changed from placatory to matter-of-fact. "Do you want an honest answer?"

"Of course I do." Never mind something else; there must be somebody else. He closed his eyes and waited.

"I'm not sure I want to leave here."

d.a.m.nation. Barry took a deep breath. "Not sure? Not even for a few days? Why not?" This was starting to sound like last July, when she'd told him she was too busy with her career to fall in love.

"I've been doing a lot of thinking."

"Yes," he said cautiously. "About what?"

"About us."

Barry blew out his breath through pursed lips. "What about us?" For G.o.d's sake, man, he told himself, ask her. "Patricia, are you trying to tell me you've met someone else?"

"Yes and no-"

"Yes and no?" he cut in. "What the h.e.l.l does that mean?"

"I'm trying to say, yes, I've met a lot of people and, no, n.o.body in particular, just a whole lot of really interesting people. Cambridge is full of folks from all over the world. Thinkers. Questioners." He heard excitement in her voice. "You hear all kinds of new ideas. n.o.body lives in the past, not like-"

"Not like your average Ulsterman. And your new friends are all a d.a.m.n sight more exciting than a country GP from a little town in the back of beyond. Is that it?"

"I didn't say that."

Barry's jaws tightened. "You might as well have."

"That's not fair."

"Why not? It's what I am."

"Barry, look . . . I've never been away from Ulster before. It's taken a bit of getting used to. I'm in some pretty tough courses and the compet.i.tion is fierce here. There are only three women in the cla.s.s, and we have to show everyone how good we are. It's hard work . . . but I've never been happier."

Jesus, and he'd been stupid enough to believe he'd been competing with a bunch of ducks. If it were only that simple. This was the side of Patricia that frightened him. This was the aggressive I'm-a-woman-making-my-way-in-a-man's-world Patricia. This was the nothing-is-going-to-get-in-my-way Patricia, not even you, Barry Laverty. It had been hard enough to accept this when she was living in Ulster, but he had tried and succeeded reasonably well.

He wondered how many of the "really interesting people" she'd met at the university shared her opinions, reinforced them, hardened them. Was it one of them who had told her never to accept money from a man?

"I see," Barry said, as levelly as he could manage, "and it's so exciting there, although term's over and you don't have any cla.s.ses, that you can't bear to drag yourself away even for a few days to be with-" He was going to say "the man who loves you" but bit off the words.

"Christ, Barry, that's not true."

"Patricia, I haven't changed. You have. I don't think you want to see me." Barry held his breath. If she said he was right, his world would collapse.

"I do, Barry. I still love you." She spoke quietly.

Barry exhaled. He felt relief, but it was tinged with wondering if it was the truth. He couldn't quite bring himself to say, "I love you too." "Then why haven't you made an effort to get a booking to come home?"

"Because I couldn't."

"Couldn't? Come on, Patricia. How much effort does it take to make a ferry booking? A phone call or two?" He heard an edge creep into his voice.

Her words were more terse too. "I said I couldn't, and I meant I couldn't. Draycot's tiny. Jenny's aunt hasn't got a telephone. There's no travel agent here. Today's the first chance I've had."

"And?" He knew he should have apologized for his sarcasm.

"And as soon as I get off the phone, Jenny's going to run me to Cambridge to the travel agent there. I am going to try to get home."

Good. At least he'd be able to thrash all this out with her face-to-face. "Then why did you tell me you weren't sure if you wanted to leave?"

"Because you asked me and because it's true. I've all kinds of reasons to want to stay. Jenny's dad's got tickets to King's College Chapel for the Christmas Eve lessons-and-carols service. I'd love to go. I'm enjoying living in Bourn with my friend. Some of my other cla.s.smates and Jenny and I are going down to the Tate Gallery in London today, and after we've been to Cambridge they're planning trips to the National Gallery and the Victoria and Albert. Newry's a dump, and even though I love Mum and Dad, I've already told you I'd be bored stiff there."

He clenched his fist. The temptation was huge to lose his temper and yell, "Then why don't you stay?" Barry forced his fist to uncurl. "When will you know for sure exactly when you are coming?"

"As soon as I've got my tickets, you'll be the first to know, Barry." She managed a small laugh and said, "After the travel agent and Jenny, that is. But I may not get a chance to ring for a day or two."

Here we go again. "Why not, for heaven's sake?"

"I told you; I'm going up to town today." That was a very English expression for going to London. "And we'll be staying with Jenny's sister in Chelsea until Tuesday morning. I may not get a chance to phone you until I'm back in Bourn."

"Patricia, London is full of public telephones. They're in red kiosks. If you've no money, reverse the charges. You can leave a message with Mrs. Kincaid if I'm not here. I really want to know when you'll be arriving." He pursed his lips. "Look, I'm sorry if I was a bit snappy, but I miss you like mad, and Patricia . . . ?"

"Yes, Barry?"

"I love you."

"You weren't snappy, just worried, I know that. And I will try to get time to phone, but I am going to be very busy, darling. I do love you."

He tingled at the words.

"Hang on . . . what? We need to leave? All right. Sorry, darling, Jenny wants to leave now. I've got to dash." And before he could tell her once more that he loved her, the line went dead.

He shook his head and replaced the receiver. Although she was finally going to make the arrangements, Barry now knew he'd been right to worry that after experiencing life in England she might be less enchanted with a small town in Ulster. That was something they would have to talk about once she got here, but there wasn't much point stewing over it now.

He climbed the stairs to the lounge and plumped himself down in his chair. His abandoned coffee was stone cold. He shrugged. It didn't really matter. He wasn't that interested in it anyway. Just as long as his romance wasn't going cold too.

He looked over into the corner, where Lady Macbeth lay curled up sleeping under the oddly decorated Christmas tree. She clutched a little red gla.s.s ball to her chest.

Three evenings ago O'Reilly had called for all hands on deck to trim the tree. Very splendid it had looked until Lady Macbeth decided the dangling ornaments were fair game. O'Reilly had conceded defeat and removed some of the temptations. The tree now stood with an angel at its apex. Baubles, tinsel, and fairy lights graced the upper branches, but there was a two-foot strip of tree between the glory above and the green, crepe paperswathed b.u.t.ter box below, which was devoid of any decoration.

Gift-wrapped and bow-adorned parcels lay beneath the tree on a maroon cloth Kinky had produced. Barry glanced at the one he had bought for Patricia. Please hurry up and make a booking, he thought. I want to see your face when you open it.

Barry sighed, picked up the paper, and folded it to display the cryptic puzzle. He'd do that first, write his Christmas cards, and finish the half-completed letter to his folks. Then it would be time to pop around as he had promised and give Alice Moloney her test results.

He looked at one across. Seven letters. "Ripped after a party. Got the wind." He smiled. Sometimes the answer seemed to jump off the page. The word in question had to do with wind. Ripped meant torn. "After a storm" suggested putting the letter "a" after torn and you got "torna." A party was a "do." Answer: "torn-a-do." He wrote "tornado" in the squares and moved on to the next clue.

At least his mind was still working, even if his heart was as roiled as must be the grey seas of Strangford Lough.

"Jesus," said O'Reilly to Arthur, "we're not meant to get b.l.o.o.d.y tornadoes in Ireland. We've not seen a bird for the last couple of hours. It's so b.l.o.o.d.y windy they're probably walking." He moved closer to the wall and tried to get what shelter he could. If anything, the wind's force had increased, and it made a mournful whistling sound as it blasted through a crack.

The tide had risen and the waves were steeper and broke on the sh.o.r.e, sending spume flying over his shelter. He ducked, then felt the spray hit his waterproof jacket and another trickle of cold water penetrate his neck towel. He shuddered.

O'Reilly pulled the last three sausage sandwiches out of the game-bag, which now held two mallard. "Here." He tossed one sandwich to Arthur and took a great bite out of one of his own. "Best b.l.o.o.d.y bangers in Ireland."

He had no idea how long Cookstown, a small town in county Tyrone, had been producing sausages, but trust Kinky always to have a dozen in her refrigerator. They were always ready, she said, if she wanted to make toad in the hole. He could almost taste the pork sausages wrapped in a Yorkshire-pudding batter.

Kinky's store of sausages had come in handy the previous Sat.u.r.day when Kitty rustled up that great fry after they'd come back from delivering Gertie Gorman's baby. He'd enjoyed the meal and he'd enjoyed kissing Kitty good-night when she left Number One to drive back to Belfast.

O'Reilly gulped down the last bite of the first sandwich and started on the second one.

Never mind how much he'd enjoyed her cooking and that kiss, Kitty had impressed him that night with her professionalism. He'd been disappointed when she told him he wouldn't be able to buy her another dinner because she was leaving on Monday to spend time with her mother in Tallaght.

The time apart had allowed him to question his decision to let her into his life. He was a man who normally never hesitated to make a decision, and so he wondered if the act of questioning in itself was an indication that he wanted nothing beyond friendship with Kitty O'Hallorhan.

He ducked again as another wave hurled spume across the cot. He was getting chilled through, and the salt water had drenched the remains of his sandwich. He threw it over the wall. You were in love with her when she was a girl, he told himself. She's told you she still cares. She's giving you a second chance, but it won't last forever. She told you that too. Should you chuck her away as you chucked away the soggy bread and sausage?

O'Reilly picked up the game bag and slung it over his shoulder. He lifted his gun from where he'd left it propped against a corner, unloaded it, and tucked it in the crook of his left arm. "Come on, Arthur. Enough's enough. Let's head for home."

With Arthur at his heels, O'Reilly turned his right shoulder to the wind and started back to where he'd left the Rover. He trudged over the springy turf toward the five-bar gate at the end of the lane down from the Portaferry Road.

The wind and spray stung his cheek. A small pool of peat-brown water lay in his path. He could have walked around its verge, but instead he strode straight ahead, feeling the mud at the bottom sucking at his waders.

Arthur splashed through the water. "You must be getting b.l.o.o.d.y cold too," he said. "A run'll warm you up a bit. Get on out." He watched Arthur gallop off nose to the ground, quartering, looking for scent.

He thought of Kitty's perfume last Sat.u.r.day night, how handsome he had thought her, and-a little thing-how the fine hairs had curled on the nape of her neck. He remembered how she'd wanted a good wine but had been concerned lest he think it too expensive. That had been considerate.

He still felt jealousy of the other men who had kissed her. Kitty was a mature worldly woman, and he knew there must have been others. He'd guessed as much when she made him taste one of her garlicky snails, made sure they'd both eaten garlic before her not-so-subtle offer to kiss him. And he would have, by G.o.d, given her more than a good-night kiss in the hall, if the emergency hadn't intervened. He b.l.o.o.d.y well would have.

His thoughts were interrupted by a harsh high-pitched craaking, and he saw a small brown bird with a long narrow beak flying away, jinking erratically from side to side. A snipe. He threw the gun to his shoulder, then remembered he had unloaded. O'Reilly chuckled at himself and shouldered the shotgun.

You can be like that sometimes, Fingal. Acting reflexively without always taking the trouble to think things through. You did it with the raffle. A great idea, but you'd not considered how to ensure that Eileen won. It took Donal to sort that out. You took on Fitzpatrick without a clear plan of attack and were lucky to get away with cowing the man.

Now why, he wondered, why am I having reservations about Kitty?

He stopped to open the five-bar gate; its hinges were rusty and it refused to budge when he pushed at it. He planted his feet, then rammed at the gate with all his strength, and this time it creaked wide open. He went through and shoved it shut.

Arthur came racing down the Point, leapt, and soared over the gate.

"Well done," O'Reilly said. "You cleared that obstacle with room to spare." His utterance made him see clearly that as far as Kitty O'Hallorhan was concerned, the only obstacle was himself and the fear of being hurt. You're an amadan, O'Reilly, he told himself. When she comes back up north, she'll have Christmas dinner at Number One. Either that evening, if he could get her alone, or shortly after, he'd ask her if she'd . . . no, by G.o.d, he'd tell her he was going to take her up on her offer to give him a second chance.

He opened the back door of the Rover, putting his gun and gamebag on the backseat. "Get in, Arthur. That's enough for today. Let's head back to Number One, get warmed up, and see how Barry's doing."

Dog and master got into the car.

Even before O'Reilly started the car's engine-and certainly well before the unreliable old heater had a chance to warm him up-O'Reilly felt the chill leaving his bones. He knew it was because while he looked forward to Christmas dinner every year, this year there was an added fervour. Kitty O'Hallorhan would be there.