“Your family?” he asked, looking more closely at one of a moustached and bespectacled man, an older woman, and two younger women. They all wore prewar clothes. They were sitting under a canopy and were flanked by two bearded Indians wearing jodhpurs, long jackets, and turbans.
She rose, set her cup aside, picked up the picture, and handed it to him. “That’s Havildar-Major Baldeep Singh and Subedar-Major Gurjit Singh. They were friends of Daddy’s. That’s Mummy and Daddy.” She sighed. “Mummy never got over his death. She followed him two years later. We were back in Ireland then. In Belfast.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thank you. It’s all right.” She pointed at one of the young women. “Ellen, my sister, the one who’s in Millisle, was married, so I—that’s me on the left—I was on my own.”
Barry looked at the picture more closely. She had bobbed hair and a wide smile. As a girl Alice Moloney had been quite lovely, yet she had never married.
“I’m afraid young gels—that was what girls were called then—young gels didn’t have much education before the war, and Daddy left a very tiny pension that dried up when Mummy died. I had been taught to play the piano, arrange flowers, and sew. I did that sampler above the fireplace . . .”
Barry smiled. He’d been right.
“I wasn’t a very good cook or pianist, or flower arranger for that matter,” she said, with a faint smile, “but I was good with a needle. So I took my share of the inheritance and bought the dress shop here.”
“And you’ve been here since nineteen-fifty?” Living alone, with few if any friends as far as he knew. No wonder she had struck him as a bitter woman when he’d first met her.
“That’s right.” She took the picture back and put it in its place beside one that immediately caught Barry’s attention.
“Good heavens. That’s Mahatma Gandhi with your father.”
“Oh, yes, he often came to visit. I think in some ways he was what got me interested in Hinduism. He was a lovely little man.”
“You must have loved India.”
“I did. Very much.” She sighed. “It was quite the most fascinating place.” As she spoke, she gazed fondly at one framed picture. It was of a handsome, smiling young man astride a polo pony. He wore a solar topee, the pith helmet beloved by the sahibs of the Raj, and carried a polo stick over one shoulder.
Barry was sure this had to be the captain of Skinner’s Horse who had died of leukemia. He was glad he was soon going to be able to set her mind at rest about her own condition.
“The climate was warmer there, but I’ve grown very fond of Ireland too, even when it pours. It was kind of you to call on such a horrible day,” she said, as she once more took her chair and picked up her cup.
“I promised I would. I knew you’d be worried until you heard the results of your X-ray, particularly after what you told me in the surgery.”
“I am.” She sat stiffly, her back ramrod straight, and for a moment Barry wondered if as a “gel” she’d taken deportment classes.
“There’s no cancer in your bowel.”
Miss Moloney swallowed, took a very deep breath, and putting her cup into the saucer, glanced at the young man’s picture. Her tremor had vanished. She exhaled. “Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much for coming straight to the point.”
Barry had learned the technique from O’Reilly, who had told him months ago, “Every patient who goes for a test will have a secret fear they have cancer. The very first thing you tell them if you can when they come to hear the result is that it’s not cancer.”
“Your X-ray was perfectly normal.” He pulled an envelope from his inside pocket and offered to show her the report. “You can read it yourself if you like.”
She smiled. “That won’t be necessary, Doctor Laverty. You are a very sensitive young man. I trust you. Thank you for setting my mind at rest.”
Barry felt his cheeks redden.
“And thank you for asking if we could come up here. You saw when you came into the shop how busy it was. Sally McClintock’s a good girl. I took her on last week. She’ll manage by herself for a while without me, and the shop was not the place to talk about my medical condition. Not in front of those nosy parkers.”
Barry laughed. He’d narrowly missed being trapped in a conversation with Cissie Sloan and her cousin Aggie, who were being served by Sally, a farmer’s daughter he was treating for painful periods. He hoped Cissie would be gone by the time he’d finished his tea.
Miss Moloney shook her head. “When Cissie’s finished blethering, the whole village will be convinced I’m terminally ill simply because she saw you coming up here with me.” She smiled at him. “But I’m not, am I? I really am very grateful for you coming to tell me.”
“All you’ll need to do—”
A piercing shriek interrupted the sentence. Barry jumped and almost spilled his tea.
The budgerigar pecked at a piece of cuttlebone, preened itself, and shrieked again.
Miss Moloney went to the cage and made quick, gentle noises with her pursed lips. “Who’s a good boy, then? Billy Budgie’s a good boy. He is. He is. Billy Budgie’s Mummy’s good boy.”
Billy Budgie’s a noisy bugger, Barry thought, as he finished his tea and rose, but she obviously doted on the bird. “As I was saying, Miss Moloney—Alice—all you need do is keep taking the iron tablets. Eat lots of green vegetables, and if you can bring yourself to do it, eat more red meat.”
“I will, Doctor. I promise. Will you excuse me for a minute?”
“I was going anyway.”
“It’ll just take a moment.” She left the room.
Barry shrugged. He wasn’t in a hurry. He went to the cage where the bird was now clinging to one of the wires. It cocked its head to one side and regarded Barry with one of its beady black eyes. “Nice bird,” he said, and he pushed a finger through the bars to stroke the budgerigar’s head. It struck with lightning speed. Barry felt its beak slice into his fingertip. “Ow.” He pulled his finger away and sucked it, tasting the copperiness of his own blood. He looked at the finger. It was a small wound, but he had to wrap it in a hanky to stop the blood dripping onto the carpet.
He looked at the budgie and could have sworn it was grinning at him. He shook his head. He should have known better than to tempt the creature.
He heard Miss Moloney return. She handed him a parcel. “Would you please give that to Doctor O’Reilly? It’s the pants to his Santa suit. I’ve let them out.”
He took it with his uninjured hand, keeping the other behind his back. “I’ll give it to him the minute I see him, Alice.”
“Thank you.” She opened the door to a small landing above the stairs. “Now, Doctor, I’ll go and finish my tea before I go back to work. I’ll wish you the compliments of the season today, but I’m sure I’ll see you at the pageant.”
“You will, of course.” Barry took his overcoat from a peg and slipped it on. “Good-bye, Alice.”
“Good-bye, and thanks again.” She closed the door.
Barry went down the stairs and into the shop, relieved to note that Cissie had left. He greeted Sally and then took the short walk back to Number One. The gale was on its last legs, and the sign outside the Black Swan was swinging gently. It had been flapping back and forth when he’d passed it on his way to the shop.
Poor Alice. She probably needed a few minutes to collect herself before she went back to work. Having a worry removed could be unsettling. At least this time life had been kind. It hadn’t always been, and all she had were her souvenirs, her memories, her photographs of what must have been her happy past, and precious little else. By the way she’d looked at his picture, Barry thought she must have loved the young captain very dearly.
Barry’d taken some snaps of Patricia in September and had had one enlarged. He kept it on his bedside table. The rest were in the table’s drawer. If he did lose her, would he still have those pictures twenty-five years later? He’d rather not find out. He’d rather have h
er in the flesh. Barry took comfort from having spoken with her earlier this morning.
He quickly covered the distance to Number One, walking past the same rosebushes O’Reilly had once thrown Seamus Galvin into because he had asked O’Reilly to look at his ankle without bothering to wash his feet. Barry smiled. Fingal really was unique. He wondered what time his senior colleague would get home.
O’Reilly slung his full gamebag over his shoulder, grabbed his gun, got out of the Rover, and let Arthur out. As soon as O’Reilly opened the gate, Arthur rushed through and began noisily lapping at his water bowl.
“Thirsty, are you? I’d go a pint myself, but I’d need to get cleaned up first.”
Arthur paid no attention, took one last slurp, and disappeared inside his kennel to sleep, perhaps, O’Reilly thought, to dream doggy dreams reliving his great retrieves of the day.
O’Reilly walked to the back of the house, propped his unloaded gun against the wall, and sat on the grass to wrestle off his waders. Leaving them outside, he picked up his gun and let himself into the kitchen. After the bitter cold of the day and the old Rover’s less than efficient heating system, the room felt stiflingly hot. Something that smelled delicious was cooking. He slipped off his jacket.
Kinky had her back to him. She turned. “Is it home you are, Doctor dear?”
“I am, and pleased to be, Kinky. It was bloody bitter on the Lough today.”
“Begging your pardon, but you’ve no sense, sir.” She tutted. “Yourself just over the bronchitis and going out on a day like that. You need your head examined, so.”
“Come on, Kinky. You’ve seen me go out in worse.”
“I have, but Doctor O’Reilly, sir. You’re not getting any younger.”
“None of us are, Kinky, but it was grand to get away from this place and away down to the shore. It’s a great spot for a bit of contemplation.”
She nodded. “Everyone needs a bit of peace and quiet once in a while.”
“I’d a great day,” he said, “and I did so much thinking that I think I’ve probably unravelled all the secrets of the universe. I was even thinking about you in the car on the way home.” And indeed he had been ruminating that he’d not done enough to show support for her when Fitzpatrick had been so bloody rude.
“Away with you, Doctor dear.” She smiled.
“No, it’s true. I’ve not had a chance to tell you about it, but Barry and I had a word in Fitzpatrick’s delicate shell-like ear on Tuesday. I thought over how it had gone, and do you know? I think I might just have managed to get through to the man.”
Kinky grunted. “He’s an ignorant spalpeen, so.”
“That’s certainly how he comes over, but I’ve a notion he’s never been a very happy man and so he doesn’t understand how important a bit of courtesy is to other people. I decided this afternoon that he prescribes all his weird and wonderful nostrums because he thinks that it’ll make his patients love him.”
“If you say so, sir, but I don’t see what that has to do with me.”
“Among other things, I told him he’d been bloody rude to you, Kinky.”
“He was.”
“You handled him very well, Barry says, and I never thanked you. You did a great job of protecting me, Kinky.”
“Sure weren’t you sick, and isn’t keeping an eye to you my job?”
“No, it’s not . . .” He saw how she lowered her eyes. “Your job is to run this house, but . . . Kinky?”
She looked up.
“I very much appreciate your attention to me and young Laverty.” He saw her smile. “And I should have thanked you for handling Fitzpatrick, so Doctor Laverty and I made him promise to mind his p’s and q’s and be polite to you in future.”
She sniffed. “Maybe he will and maybe he won’t. My mother used to say, ‘Neither give cherries to a pig nor advice to a fool,’ but thank you for doing it all the same, sir, and the next time I see him I’ll hold no grudge . . . as long as he behaves.”
“Good for you. You’re a powerful woman, Kinky Kincaid.” O’Reilly sneezed.
Her eyes widened and there was concern in her voice when she said, “Is it another chill you’ve taken?”
“Not at all, there’s nothing wrong with me today that a nice hot bath and maybe some of your broth for lunch won’t cure.”
She frowned. “I have some Scotch broth ready to be heated. Would that do?”
He took her in his arms and gave her a hug that lifted her feet off the ground. “Kinky Kincaid, you’re a godsend.”
“Put me down, sir,” she said, as she laughed. “Put me down.”
He did as he was asked and then stepped back to watch her fussing with her hair and straightening her apron. “I’ll be off in a minute for a bath,” he said, “but I need to get my gun cleaned first and get the ducks in my bag plucked and gutted.”
“What birds have you, sir?”
“Two mallard.”
She went to the oven. “Don’t you worry about plucking the birds, sir. You see to your gun and go for your bath, so. I’ll see to the ducks once I’ve taken my meringues out of the oven.” She turned away, opened the oven door, and muttered, “They’re coming on a treat.” Then she turned back to O’Reilly and said, “And Doctor Laverty came in about ten minutes ago. He’s upstairs, sir.”
Feel the Pangs of Disappointed Love
O’Reilly, fresh from the bath Barry had heard being drawn half an hour ago, strode in in a scented cloud of Badedas.
Barry smiled. It was hard to picture tough-as-nails O’Reilly taking bubble baths, but soon after Barry started to work here, O’Reilly had confessed his liking for them. He’d even told Barry to help himself to the pine-scented bubble maker.
“ ‘Home is the sailor home from the sea . . .,’ ” said O’Reilly, parking his recently bathed, dressing-gowned, and slippered self into his armchair.
“ ‘And the hunter home from the hill.’ Robert Louis Stevenson.” Barry set his puzzle on the coffee table. “Except you weren’t on a hill. You were at Strangford. Did you have fun?”
“I had a great morning. So had Arthur.” O’Reilly took a pipe and matches from his dressing-gown pocket. “And I’m going to slough about for a while before I get dressed. It was bloody cold out there, and I need to get properly warmed up.” He rose and stirred the fire before sitting again. “We went to Gransha Point. Do you know it?”
“I do indeed.” Barry could see with perfect clarity a day in August when he had taken Patricia there for a picnic and but for a sudden summer squall would have made love to her for the first time.
“There’s an old ruined sheep cot about halfway along . . .” O’Reilly busied himself lighting his pipe.
“I know.” Barry closed his eyes.
They’d been lying on a blanket on the grass in its lee. If he tried hard he could almost hear the sea on the shingle, feel the warm summer breeze, nearly as warm as her breast. He’d unbuttoned Patricia’s blouse and was caressing her when the storm struck. She’d risen and stood, arms raised above her head facing the wind and rain, her soaked blouse plastered to her and limning her breasts. He remembered exactly how her dark hair had been wind-tossed and how he had thought she looked like an Indian princess worshipping the lightning god. He opened his eyes again. “I know it very well.”
“It’s right under a flight path,” O’Reilly said, “and makes a great hide. There’s two mallard in the kitchen.”
“I’m glad you had a good time,” he said, although in truth he was only half concentrating on what O’Reilly was saying.
O’Reilly let go a huge blast of smoke. “So did Arthur.”
And so will I when she finally gets here. She should have her tickets by now. He glanced at the door, hoping that in doing so the telephone would ring in the hall. Any minute now, he thought.
The first day we’re both free I’ll borrow Jack Mills’s flat in Belfast while Jack’s at work. Barry smiled. There’d be no sudden gales in there to interrupt them, and the urge
ncy of his need for her made him tingle. He missed what O’Reilly had just said. “Pardon?”
“I asked what you’d been up to.”
Barry coughed, then spluttered, “Well I, um . . . that is, it’s been pretty quiet here. I went to see Alice Moloney and gave her test results.”
“Alice, is it?” said O’Reilly, sounding mildly surprised. “You getting to be friends with the old targe?”
“In a way. She’s not so bad when you get to know her.”
“You could have fooled me, but go on.”
“She’s had a pretty tough life. I can understand why she comes over the way she does.”
“Really?”
“Did you know she grew up in India during the Raj?”
“No.”
“Her dad was in the Indian civil service. He was killed there when she was quite young.”
“I didn’t know that. I’m sorry to hear it. It’s always tough losing someone you love.” O’Reilly frowned. “I haven’t seen much of Miss Moloney. Ordinarily I’ve had little call to frequent dress shops.” There was a wistfulness in his voice.
“We went there to buy Kinky that green hat,” Barry said. “Remember?”
“I do. That and a couple of professional visits are all I know of the woman. She’s a very private person. I saw her for piles. I told you about them.”
“I know. She has a simple iron-deficiency anaemia, and it was good to know that history. They might have been the cause if she still had them, but she doesn’t.”
“Good.” O’Reilly set his pipe in an ashtray and said, “You were with me the second time I saw her, when she was having the vapours because of Helen Hewitt. That girl showed a lot of spunk after the way Miss Moloney persecuted her.”
“Do you know, Fingal?” Barry said. “I can almost forgive Alice for that. She’s had her own tragedies. I’m not surprised she’s a bit bitter at times.”
“What tragedies?”
“I told you her dad was killed.”
An Irish Country Christmas Page 37
