An Irish Country Christmas

by Patrick Taylor

  “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 l
et 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 . . .”

  “At Easter, and I will book in time. I promise.”

  He nodded in agreement.

  “And to us all in this room. May nineteen sixty-five be the best of New Years and the happiest.”

  And happy and at peace with the world, Barry Laverty sipped his wine, and inside he smiled.

  AFTERWORD

  by

  Mrs. Kincaid

  Dia dhuit. Hello. It’s December the twenty-sixth, and I’ve a chance to take more of a breather than usual. All my life, because my mother drilled it into us children, Boxing Day was the day that thank-you letters had to be written, even if one was to an auntie who lived next door and had given you a string vest that you didn’t want in the first place. So here I am sitting at my kitchen table with a pen in my fist and this writing tablet before me, but it’s not for thank-you letters.

  This year, glory be, I’m going to break with that tradition. Doctor O’Reilly says I can use the telephone to talk with anyone I don’t feel like writing to. He did say there was a condition, so. I was to use the time saved to sit down and give you some more of my recipes.

  He says that Taylor fellah who spins these yarns has had a lot of letters since I put my recipes in his first two books. One nice lady from America said she’d tried my mock turtle soup, and by the hokey it was better than the recipes she’d got from four other cookery books, so.

  I have the time to do it because I’ll not be cooking today. My doctors are away to Flo Bishop’s hooley, and when they come home I’ve a fridge full of cold turkey and ham. I took the meat off the bones this morning, and the carcass and the hambone are boiling away so I can make stock. Ould Arthur’ll get the hambone later, and I’ve some turkey treats put aside for Her Ladyship. The wee dote.

  Himself says for me to give you a clatter of Christmas recipes, and that’s not as silly as it sounds even if Christmas Day is over. Of the things I’m going to tell you about, Christmas puddings and the Christmas cake are traditionally made the year before in Ireland. I made my Christmas cake last August, but ever since the pudding ate my steel bowl, I’m not so sure about doing them too soon either. I think they can wait a while.

  You’ll see when you read on that this year I’m making a change from just giving you quantities in pounds and ounces, cups and spoonfuls. Your man Taylor’s first book was translated into German, Dutch, and Russian—how in the name of the wee man you translate “not come within a beagle’s gowl” is beyond me—but there’s been a request for me to use these newfangled grams for the sake of the continentals. Now I can’t convert measures, but when that nice schoolteacher lady Miss Nolan comes back next term I’ll get her to give me a hand.

  Whether you follow the old measures or the newfangled ones, here are the recipes. I hope they turn out well for you.

  Ulster Christmas Recipes

  SWEET MINCE

  225 g/8 oz/1 cup vegetarian suet

  225 g/8 oz/1 cup Bramley apples, peeled, cored, and chopped finely (These apples are grown in County Armagh, so if you cannot find any, use any apples that you like.)

  115 g/4 oz/½ cup candied peel, chopped

  225 g/8 oz/1 cup each of seedless raisins or yellow raisins

  225 g/8 oz/1
cup currants

  175 g/6 oz/¾ cup demerara sugar

  1 teaspoon mixed spice or allspice

  zest and juice of an orange

  60 ml/2 fluid oz brandy

  Mix all the ingredients together. Pack into sterilised jars and seal. Store in a cool dark place until you want to use it.

  This makes about 1.8 kg/4 lb/8 cups of sweet mince, a traditional Irish filling for individual mince pies, served warm at Christmas. It has been used in my family down through the ages, and originally it did contain meat. Now the only meat present is in the suet, and for the sake of vegetarians like Miss Moloney I have used vegetarian suet.

  BRANDY BUTTER

  Here’s another wee Christmas speciality of mine which goes down a right treat with your mince pies or your Christmas pudding, and it’s made in no time at all.

  115 g/4 oz/1 stick unsalted butter, softened

  115 g/4 oz/½ cup confectioner’s sugar

  2 tablespoon boiling water

  3 tablespoon brandy

  Cream together the butter and the icing sugar. Beat in water and brandy until smooth. Chill until needed, and serve with hot mince pies or Christmas pudding.

  CHRISTMAS CAKE

  225 g/8 oz/2 sticks butter

  225 g/8 oz/1 cup soft brown sugar

  225 g/8 oz/1 cup plain or all-purpose flour

  225 g/8 oz/1 cup each: currants, raisins, muscatel raisins, and seedless raisins

  115g/4 oz/½ cup each: glacé cherries and mixed peel

  55g/2 oz/¼ cup ground almonds

  1 teaspoon mixed spice or allspice

  ½ teaspoon cinnamon

  ½ teaspoon salt

  4 eggs

  grated rind of one lemon and one orange

  Preheat oven to 140 C/275 F/gas mark 1. Grease and line an 8-inch cake tin so that the paper extends above the sides by 1 inch.

  Cream together the butter and brown sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs one at a time, beating in well. Stir in the almonds, flour, salt, and spices. Finally add the cherries, dried fruit, and rinds. Pour the mixture into the prepared tin. Bake for 3 hours. Check for readiness by inserting a thin skewer. When it comes out clean, the cake is done. Cool on a wire rack, and store in an airtight container until you are ready to ice it.