An Irish Country Christmas Part 41

Barry pa.s.sed the tureens. He sampled the duck meat. He'd never eaten wild duck before and found the plum sauce set off the flavour of a flesh that was drier and much less gamey than he'd antic.i.p.ated. "You're right, Fingal. It is."

"Mallard's the best eating," O'Reilly said. "Widgeon can be a bit fishy. They eat eel gra.s.s."

"How do you think a Hawaiian goose would taste?" Wasn't that the bird Patricia said had been brought back from near extinction at the wildfowl place?

O'Reilly stopped his fork halfway to his mouth. "Anybody who killed one of those craythurs wouldn't get a chance to try eating it. The folks at Slimbridge would have his guts for sausage skins and-" He frowned. "Are you still stewing over your Patricia? You said she'd gone there."

"A bit." Barry ate another slice of breast and watched as O'Reilly, whose own helping of duck had disappeared, grabbed the carving set and laid into the second bird. "She might have got a ferry ticket if she'd not gone bird-watching. I wish she hadn't."

Now the second bird was dissected, Barry noticed that O'Reilly's helping was considerably more than what was left on the serving plate. "If wishes were horses, beggars would ride," O'Reilly said. "Pa.s.s the plum sauce."

Barry smiled as he pa.s.sed the sauceboat. "You're right. I should stop feeling sorry for myself. I think I will take you up on that offer to go to England after Christmas."

"If," said O'Reilly, "she doesn't show up here and surprise you."

Barry shook his head. "I'll believe it when I see it." Barry finished his duck. "Is there a sc.r.a.p left, Fingal?"

"Aye. Pa.s.s up your plate."

Barry did.

O'Reilly returned it. Two small slices and one thigh. Barry shook his head. "I'm enjoying my wee bit of bird," he said. He waited to see how O'Reilly would respond.

"Good." He pushed his plate away. "In that case, you'll not mind if I go shooting again."

You're hopeless when it comes to taking a hint, Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, Barry thought. He finished his helping.

"Come on," said O'Reilly. He picked up his plate and the peas and potato tureens. "Bring the sauce dish and your plate through to the kitchen."

When Barry had finished his meal, he followed O'Reilly's lead and carried his dirty plates out to the kitchen.

"I'll get our coats," O'Reilly said, putting his utensils in the sink.

"There was no need for that, Doctors," Kinky said. "I could have seen to them after we got back. But thank you both." She was wearing her winter coat, white buckskin gloves, and her green hat, her best green hat. It had been a present from her doctors in August, and she'd worn it to Sonny and Maggie's wedding.

"The minted peas were lovely, and the duck was wonderful, Kinky. Truly wonderful," Barry said.

"Thank you, Doctor Laverty." She inclined her head graciously.

"It's the truth, Kinky," O'Reilly said, handing Barry his overcoat and opening the door. "Come on. Out to the car."

Barry could see frost on the gra.s.s sparkling in the light from the open door. He shut it and followed O'Reilly and Kinky, hearing their footsteps crunching along the lawn. The moon, two days past full, blazed against a black velvet sky, yet even its brightness it could not mask the icy fires of Polaris, Castor, and Pollux, and Aldebaran high overhead, and Sirius low on the southeastern horizon.

He hummed, out of tune, the old carol, "It Came upon a Midnight Clear." His breath hung in visible clouds, and the tip of his nose tingled. On a December night much like this, 1,964 years ago, a boy child was born in Bethlehem of Judea.

From the middle distance he could hear the pealing of the chapel bells summoning all to the reenactment of that night, although back then, he thought, the wise men travelled to the event on camels, not in an elderly Rover.

The Parish Hall was packed. The curtains were closed. The house-lights were up. Row upon row of folding kitchen chairs were occupied by what Barry reckoned must have been the entire population of Ballybucklebo and the surrounding townland. People stood in the aisle and at the back of the room. The hum of conversation was deafening.

O'Reilly stopped and scanned the crowd. "There's Eileen Lindsay and two of her kiddies second row from the front. Last seat on the right side. Behind those nuns. Come on, I need to have a word with her." Barry and Kinky followed as O'Reilly, like an icebreaker in the Arctic seas, forced his way through the throng.

Progress was slow. O'Reilly was stopped by a pale-faced man wearing a tweed suit. "Liam Gillespie," he explained to Barry.

The man who'd needed a splenectomy, Barry remembered.

"Doc," said the big man, "I never got to thank you properly for what you done for me."

"Are you all better?" O'Reilly asked.

"I am, sir."

"That's all the thanks I need. Merry Christmas to you, Liam." O'Reilly didn't wait to hear the response.

A few rows further forward, they were stopped again. Councillor Bertie and Mrs. Flo Bishop perched on opposing aisle seats, presumably to give them that little extra room. As O'Reilly was about to stride past them, Bertie leaned to his wife and said sotto voce, "I'm not sure I like it here with all these papists, Flo. All them nuns and all."

Flo immediately leant closer to him, and Barry distinctly heard her hoa.r.s.e whisper. "Houl' your wheest, Bertie Bishop. It's Christmas, so it is." She looked up and clapped her hand over her mouth before removing it and saying, "I never seen you there, Doctor O'Reilly." She glowered at her husband. "Sometimes Bertie doesn't think before he opens his big trap."

"Evening, Flo." Barry couldn't tell from O'Reilly's expression if he had overheard their exchange about papists. If he had, he was clearly willing to ignore it. "Great turnout," he said. "It's good to get the Orange and Green together once in a while, isn't it, Bertie?"

Councillor Bishop shrugged.

"I kept you a seat, Mrs. Kincaid." Flo stood and moved into the aisle.

"Thanks," Kinky said. "I'll see you at the front door when it's over, if that's all right, Doctor O'Reilly." She started to shuffle sideways past Flo.

"Of course, Kinky." O'Reilly moved on.

Their progress, Barry thought, was as erratic as a metal ball bearing in a pinball machine, bouncing from Kieran O'Hagan, who insisted on showing Barry his healing thumbnail ("It's coming on a treat, sir"), to Julie and Donal, where O'Reilly stopped.

Barry thought how lovely she looked. She was wearing the same cream suit and maroon blouse she'd worn as her going-away outfit. He guessed it was what would be called in these parts her Sunday best.

"I got your blood work in today, Julie. Everything's grand. Come and see us in a month."

"Thank you."

Donal winked, grinned, and nodded his head to the row immediately in front. "I see Eileen's here."

"I'll be having a word." O'Reilly said, moving on.

"Doctor O'Reilly." It was Reverend Robinson. He wore a rusty black serge suit and his starched dog collar. "The marquis and I have kept seats for you and Doctor Laverty over there." He pointed.

"Thanks. We'll be with you in a minute, Reverend." O'Reilly went to the front and walked past a row of seated nuns. Barry followed. He thought all their faces looked freshly scrubbed. They conversed, one with the other, in low undertones, the younger ones occasionally darting glances at their mother superior, a tall hawk-faced woman whose constant smile belied the severity of her aquiline features.

O'Reilly went to the second row.

Eileen Lindsay smiled at him and stood up. "Doctor O'Reilly."

Barry glanced down. Neither of her stockings was laddered. He hoped the money she was making now that she was back at work was helping her to make ends meet.

"How are you, Eileen?"

"Very well, sir."

"And how's Sammy?"

She smiled. "Nearly better. Maggie's minding him tonight so I can bring wee Mary and w.i.l.l.y."

Barry saw her two children, each sitting primly, Mary in a frilly skirted frock, w.i.l.l.y in short pants and his school blazer. A rip in the left-hand pocket had been repaired with neatly placed st.i.tches. Sometimes, Barry often thought, a good seamstress might make a better fist of sewing up human cuts than would a physician.

O'Reilly pulled out his wallet. "I've a wee present for you, Eileen."

"A what?" She frowned. "Why? What is it?"

"Don't get all hot and bothered," O'Reilly said. "We're having a raffle at the Rugby Club party on Wednesday."

"Doctor, I can't afford to throw away money on a ticket. It's tight enough these days."

"I know that, but your man over there, His Lordship, he bought a wheen and gave them to me. 'Fingal,' says he, 'hand these out to a few decent folks.' Here's yours, Eileen." He removed it from his wallet, tore it in two, and put the stub back in his wallet.

Barry saw her take the green ticket. "I . . . will you say thank you to him for me, sir?"

"I will," said O'Reilly. "You'll be there for the draw?"

"I'll try, sir," she said, and she bent and whispered something in his ear. Barry wondered what.

O'Reilly nodded. "Good la.s.s."

"May I have your attention? May I have your attention?" An amplified, tinny voice a.s.sailed Barry's ears. He looked up to see Sue Nolan standing on the stage in front of the curtain. She held a microphone in her right hand. Her copper hair was down and glistened in the glow of the footlights. Somehow, he thought, her four-inch patent-leather stiletto heels were a bit at odds with her severe academic gown, but they accentuated the curve of her calves very well. "Thank you. The pageant will start in five minutes. Five minutes. Will you all please take your seats?"

"Come on, Barry." O'Reilly walked back the way he had come, stopping for a moment to say, "Evening, Father," to Father O'Toole, who sat at the harmonium beneath the stage. He was simply dressed in his black ca.s.sock. The Christmas pageant was not a religious ceremony, so he was able to forgo the splendour of copes and chasubles and the rest of the liturgical vestments.

"What did Eileen want?" Barry asked.

"It's the tradition at the party for parents to bring their own kiddies' presents to put in Santa's sack. She wanted to tell me that if she came she'd be able to bring some things for her three. I'd been concerned that she'd be too short of cash for that. I'm glad she let me know. Can you imagine how a wee one would feel if Santa had nothing for him?"

Barry shuddered.

"And she said to thank you again for getting Maggie to babysit."

Barry took a leaf from O'Reilly's book, remembering what he'd said to Liam Gillespie. "Sure Fingal, if Sammy's getting better and Eileen's coping, that's thanks enough." He surprised himself by seeing that it was the truth.

As soon as they had crossed the centre aisle, Barry saw two empty front-row seats. Barry took his between O'Reilly, who was immediately immersed in conversation with the marquis of Ballybuckebo, and the Presbyterian minister.

He heard the rattle of the curtains being opened and the first bars of "Silent Night" being played.

Conversation died. The houselights dimmed. The set for the Nativity play was revealed in all its glory, with painted stable, animals, and a sign reading: Bethlehem Inn.

Miss Nolan stood centre stage in front of the children's choir, her arms outstretched, her hands raised above her shoulders. She really did have very good legs.

"Silent Night" died away.

She counted, "One, two, three." Then the harmonium played, and sweet voices rose in the first verse of "O Little Town of Bethlehem."

Miss Nolan kept the beat with her hands.

Barry closed his eyes and remembered the pageants when he was a boy. He half envied Colin Brown, who later would play the innkeeper. Barry had never risen above the rank of third shepherd, a nonspeaking role.

Barry became aware of a rhythmic disturbance that was somewhere between a low rumbling and the noise of a ripsaw. He turned. Good G.o.d, O'Reilly was fast asleep, head thrown back, mouth wide, his snores in danger of overpowering the children. Barry leant across, nudged his senior colleague in the ribs, and whispered loudly, "Wake up, Fingal."

"What? Huh?" O'Reilly opened his eyes, blinked, and closed his mouth. "Thanks, Barry. I must have nodded," he said quietly.

By the time that little drama had been played out, the carol had finished, the applause had died, and the choir was well into "Good King Wenceslas," known universally in Ulster as "Good King Wencelessla.s.s."

Barry watched, enjoying the expressions on the faces of the choristers as well as sneaking occasional glances at O'Reilly to make sure he'd not nodded off again, and admiring the fluid way Miss Nolan's body moved as she conducted.

The carol ended. Barry joined in the applause.

Miss Nolan turned to the audience and bowed on behalf of the children. She must have spotted Barry, because, looking him directly in the eyes, she smiled at him and her right eyebrow arched upward.

Barry smiled back. She was quite lovely, and Christmas spirit be d.a.m.ned, Kinky's rea.s.surances not withstanding, and O'Reilly's admonishments of Sat.u.r.day aside, he was going to try to get a word with her later.

The applause died and she addressed the room. "My lord, ladies and gentlemen, We beg your indulgence. It will take a few moments for the choir to leave the stage and for the players to take their places. While that is going on, I will set the scene."

A woman-another teacher, Barry a.s.sumed-appeared from stage left and began to shepherd the children off as the curtains were jerked closed.

Miss Nolan, who must have known the words by heart, began to recite, "And it came to pa.s.s in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed . . ."

Barry, who believed he had left religion behind, found he had a lump in his throat and a p.r.i.c.kling behind his eyelids as she told the story. In his mind he repeated the words with her. As a concession to the Protestants present, they were the majestic words of the King James Bible, which he had made no conscious effort to learn but had absorbed in his childhood, and knowing those words was as much a part of Barry Laverty as his blue eyes and his fair cow's lick.

He looked to O'Reilly, and to Barry's surprise the big man's lips were moving too. They were forming the same words that Barry was hearing from the stage: ". . . into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem, to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child . . ."

The pulleys creaked, the curtains opened. It came as no surprise to Barry that a group of shepherds near the back of the stage sat around a pen of live sheep. Such props would not be hard to come by in Ballybucklebo.

A spotlight focused on Joseph, who wore open sandals and a white robe tied at the waist with a piece of rope. The same cordage must have been haggled to tie a chequered hanky round his head for a kaffiyeh. Micky Corry led a live donkey by its halter.

Jeannie Kennedy, wearing a long blue dress up the front of which padding of some sort had been stuffed, rode sidesaddle. She clutched the donkey's mane and looked to Barry as if she was terrified she might fall off.

The party stopped outside the door over which hung the Bethlehem Inn sign. "Oh, dear, Mary. Everywhere's full. Maybe this inn will have a room." The lines were delivered in a flat monotone.

"I hope so, Joseph."

Joseph knocked on the door.

It was opened by Colin Brown. He was bareheaded and wore a grey robe that looked to Barry as if it might have started as one of Mrs. Brown's dresses. He sported a blue-and-white striped butcher's ap.r.o.n.

"h.e.l.lo, Innkeeper."

Colin's smile was beatific, his words enunciated loudly and clearly. "Who's there?"