The marquis picked up a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper, from the tabletop. O'Reilly hadn't noticed it before.

"Doctor O'Reilly," the marquis said, "after due consideration for your efforts on behalf of the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts for fifteen years, ever since we started working on making the pitch, the committee has decided to recognize your contribution by making a small presentation." He handed the parcel to O'Reilly to the accompaniment of applause from the other members.

"Open it, Doctor," Flo said.

Completely at a loss for words, O'Reilly, not least because of a considerable lump in his throat, started to remove the wrapping slowly and carefully. He footered with a bit of Sellotape that stuck the paper closed. He was always embarra.s.sed by public displays of grat.i.tude, and indeed when the occasional patient said thank you, he found that recompense enough.

Once the paper was removed, he found a small velvet-covered box and opened it. Nestled in its recesses were a matching Parker fountain pen and mechanical pencil. Still feeling embarra.s.sed, he managed to say, "Thank you all; thank you very much."

"Read what the inscription says," Bertie Bishop called. "Read it out loud."

There was a small bra.s.s plate on the inside of the box's lid. It read: To Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly in recognition for many services rendered to the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts Rugby Club.

There was a chorus of "Hear! hear!" and applause, and then Bertie Bishop, never the shrinking violet, said, "It was me made them write 'many,' so it was."

"Wheest, Bertie," his wife said, and her chiding was greeted by chuckles from around the table.

O'Reilly was grateful that those interjections had given him time to collect his thoughts. "Look," he said, holding the open box toward his audience so every one could see. "I've never had a Parker pen, never mind a pen and pencil. I've always wanted a set like this, and considering the circ.u.mstances of how I got it"-he closed the box and slipped it into his pocket-"I'll treasure it. I really will. Thank you. Thank you all."

There was another, longer round of applause.

Good G.o.d, he thought, the gift was in recognition of the fifteen years he'd spent with the Rugby Club, almost as many years as he had spent here in Ballybucklebo. Good years, very good years, and it was humbling yet gratifying to be singled out as someone who had contributed to the little community. He'd not realized how truly moved he was until he became aware of a p.r.i.c.kling behind his eyelids.

When the applause died, everyone was still looking expectantly at him.

O'Reilly swallowed. He wasn't used to this sort of public recognition, wasn't entirely sure if he approved, and yet he sensed he must say something more. He cleared his throat.

"It's like Eeyore in Winnie-the-Pooh said, 'It's nice to be noticed.' But I have to say, there's many a one's done just as much, aye, and more for the club as I-"

"We thought," said the marquis with a broad grin, "it was more a gift from the committee given in self-preservation."

O'Reilly frowned.

The marquis offered the open minute book to O'Reilly. "We felt that if our esteemed secretary-treasurer had the right implements, we might finally have a fighting chance of reading the minutes."

Everyone laughed.

"Och," said O'Reilly, relieved. Obviously, the marquis had sensed his friend's embarra.s.sment and was making everyone laugh to divert their attention for the moments it had taken O'Reilly to collect himself. "Do you not know that writing an illegible scrawl is the hallmark of every first-cla.s.s doctor?"

"In that case, Doctor," the priest said softly, "if the last prescription you wrote for me is anything to go by, you should be soon up for a n.o.bel Prize, so." There was more laughter.

O'Reilly smiled and shook his head. "I am very touched, and all I can say is thank you very much. Thank you very much indeed. I will treasure this gift . . . and . . . seeing as how I am apparently in favour at the moment, I'd like to ask for an indulgence. I know I should have given advance notice of a small item I'd like the committee to discuss, but when I said a minute ago, 'By G.o.d, it'll be just the ticket,' the notion had just occurred to me."

The marquis looked from face to face, then said, "Please go ahead, Fingal."

"I'm going to ask you to take this on trust for a week or two because I have to keep it a secret. I want to run a raffle for a very good cause. I can't tell you what at this moment, but I know all of you"-he let his gaze linger on the faces of each man of the cloth in turn-"will approve." He made a rapid mental calculation. "And I want the club to agree to take only twenty-five percent of the proceeds."

" 'Scuse me, Doctor." Bertie Bishop spoke from where he was sitting. "I don't see what any of this has to do with the club. Why don't you just run the raffle yourself?"

"I'm asking, Bertie, because the club has the legal right to sponsor a raffle. I don't-"

"Right enough. I never thought of that."

"And," O'Reilly ploughed on, "the party would be a great place to have the draw." Because, he thought, when Eileen gets the money, and I know how to arrange that, she can go shopping for presents the next day and Santa would come to her house on Christmas Eve after all. "I would like to ask for the executive's approval." He looked around the table and hoped mightily. Ordinarily he would have first done his political homework, a bit of quiet lobbying of the members, often lubricated with a jar or two.

"Do you want to make that a formal motion, Fingal?" the marquis asked.

"Not if everybody agrees." He waited.

"Does anybody object?"

"I don't like the percentage split," Bishop said. "How about fifty-fifty?"

"Councillor," Father O'Toole said, "I believe Doctor O'Reilly said it was for a good cause."

"A very good cause," O'Reilly added. "And it's Christmas, Bertie."

Bishop had the grace to blush. "In that case I withdraw my objection."

"Good man, Bertie." The marquis looked around the table and waited before finally saying, "I hear no other dissent." He smiled at O'Reilly. "Looks like you have the go-ahead, Fingal, and the split you've asked for. I presume you will look after the details?"

"I will. Thank you, everybody," O'Reilly said. All right, problem one was almost solved and off O'Reilly's agenda. Fitzpatrick might have to wait, but although he was out of sight, he was not out of O'Reilly's mind but merely tabled.

"Very well," the marquis said, "if there is no further business, I'll entertain a motion for adjournment."

With the motion duly proposed and seconded, the meeting broke up. O'Reilly had to wait for the other members to collect their hats and coats before he could get his own. He stayed at the table, wishing they would get a move on. He took out his gift. It was a truly handsome set. He would treasure it.

The little crowd thinned out quickly, each member bidding O'Reilly a good evening as they departed. Only the Presbyterian minister remained when O'Reilly came forward to get his coat, scarf, and cap. "Doctor O'Reilly," he said, "I'm willing to take your idea at face value, that it's for a good cause. Can I help you with it?"

"That's very civil of you, Reverend; if you'll forgive me, very Christian . . ."

The minister chuckled.

"But I'm on my way home now to discuss it with Doctor Laverty, and I already have a man in mind to run the raffle for me."

"Oh?"

"Indeed," said O'Reilly, "Donal Donnelly will be back from his honeymoon on Monday, and I've no doubt, no doubt whatsoever, that he's the man for the job."

Thou Art a Hard Man.

Barry drove carefully home to Number 1 Main Street. He and Kitty greeted Kinky and then started to head upstairs, but the smell of brandy from the kitchen was overpowering. Kinky was about to start icing the Christmas cake she had baked in August and which she had liberally seasoned with spirits on a regular basis ever since.

"Can I watch, Kinky?" Kitty asked. "I never seem to be able to get the icing quite right on mine."

"Bless you, Miss O'Hallorhan, of course you can."

Barry kept his counsel and watched too.

The cake stood on a pastry board on the countertop, and as she worked, Kinky explained her methods step-by-step to Kitty.

"The marzipan needs to be half an inch thick, so, and you stick it on with apricot jam," Kinky said. "You put it on four days before you do the icing; otherwise the almond paste leaks through the icing."

"That's what I've been doing wrong. Thank you, Kinky," Kitty said.

"Most folks do make the same mistake," Kinky said. "You have to leave it for four days before you put on the royal icing." She lifted a ceramic bowl covered with a piece of damp gauze. Pulling the gauze away, she revealed a pure white paste that Barry could see was soft enough to be spread with a knife over the marzipan. As she worked, Kinky hummed to herself. She used the knife to transform the initially smooth surface into a series of irregular ridges like the sastrugi found on Antarctic ice sheets. "There. Now that looks more like a snow scene, so." She rummaged in a tin caddy and produced a miniature snowman, two circus clowns, and a ballerina wearing a short gauze tutu and carrying a star-tipped wand. All of the figurines were two inches tall and stood on circular flat bases. Kinky set them in a group at one corner of the cake's top by pressing their bases into the already setting icing.

"I'll put a sprig of holly at the other corner on the big day," she said. "The decorations please the kiddies, so"-she looked knowingly at Kitty-"and the big fellah likes them too."

Kitty chuckled.

Barry smiled with the two women, yet watching Kinky at work had made him a little sad. Her cake had unexpectedly reminded him of times from his own childhood Christmases, with his own mother-now in Australia and to whom he really must write-decorating their cake. He'd not be surprised if even O'Reilly felt nostalgic when some sights at this season brought back memories. "It's beautiful, Kinky," he said.

She gave a little start. "Lord Jesus, Doctor Laverty. I'd forgotten you were there," she said. "Don't creep up on a body. You could give a poor Cork woman the rickets, so."

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No real harm done. I'll forgive you-but thousands wouldn't." She was smiling as she lifted the cake to put it into a cake tin. "Will you take Miss O'Hallorhan upstairs now, sir? I've a bit more to do here."

"Certainly," Barry said. "Doctor O'Reilly should be home soon, Kinky. We left him at the Rugby Club." Then he spoke to Kitty. "Come on. We'll go up and wait for Fingal."

"Thank you for the lesson, Kinky. I'll remember the trick with the marzipan," Kitty said.

"Och, sure, it's what my own mother taught me," Kinky said, her grin wide. "Go on with you now."

"Right." Kitty walked to the hall door. "I know my way. I'll leave my coat in the hall."

Barry had started to follow when Kinky said, "It's himself that's on call today, is it not?"

"It is," Barry said, hesitating. "Have there been any calls for him?"

"Nary the one, but your friend Doctor Mills rang and said he was sorry he'd not called last night and then missed your call today. But he said he'd ring back later."

Barry had expected to hear from Jack, but he had guessed, as was often the case in the lives of junior doctors in training, that things medical had come up. "Thanks, Kinky."

He headed for the staircase and on the way past the hall telephone thought about some of the conversations he'd had on it recently.

A few days earlier he'd suggested Jack come here for one of Kinky's dinners. Now, given Patricia's stubbornness about allowing Barry to pay for her ticket home, Barry wasn't so sure. Perhaps, he would go with Jack to one of the nurses' parties or to the dance he'd mentioned. The dance might be a bit of fun. He'd almost certainly see some of his old cla.s.smates and be able to catch up with their doings. Why not? he asked himself, as he resumed his climb. Why not indeed?

Kitty was standing in front of the fireplace in the lounge, her back to the fire, her black stirrup pants complemented by a cream, heavy knit, rollneck wool sweater that Barry couldn't help noticing she filled rather well.

"Would you like something, Kitty?" Barry nodded at the cut-gla.s.s decanters on the sideboard.

"No, thanks, Barry. I'll wait for Fingal." She held her hands behind her to the fire for a moment before rubbing them together and blowing on them. "It got nippy enough out there. I'm not sorry to be here in the warm," she said, moving to sit in one of the armchairs.

Suddenly Barry saw Lady Macbeth spring lightly into Kitty's lap, to be greeted with a stroke as the little cat made herself comfortable. Kitty smiled at Barry. "It's a law, you know."

"What is?"

"Whatever the colour of the cat, they'll be attracted to clothes of the opposite shade. My black pants will be covered in white hairs." She chuckled. "I don't mind and she's a pretty wee crayture. Aren't you?" She tickled Lady Macbeth under the chin and was rewarded with a low purring. "I'd never have thought Fingal was a cat man," she said. "He's more like that bull-in-a-china-shop dog of his."

Barry nodded. "I don't think he ever had any notion of getting a cat, but someone abandoned her here and he just took her in. It seemed a natural thing for him to do."

Kitty looked up into Barry's eyes. "He's always been like that, you know, ever since I've known him. Always on the side of the waifs and strays. I think," she said, "he's a big softie inside, and all the bl.u.s.ter and bravado is a cover for that." Barry thought he heard a touch of wistfulness in her voice.

"You could be right, Kitty."

"It can make him a hard man to get to know well. Very hard."

He was in no doubt now. And it was less the tone of her voice than the way she was looking at him that made Barry decide she was somehow seeking rea.s.surance. "It's difficult for me to know. I've only been here for a few months, but I think I am getting to understand him a bit." Lord, he thought, she could be my own mother. I'm hardly in a position to advise her. "Maybe it just takes time."

She sighed. "You could be right."

Barry had an unexpected desire to go give the woman a hug and mutter, "There, there. It'll be fine." He'd not expected Kitty O'Hallorhan to be so open with him, a relative stranger. When next she spoke, his eyes widened, and he wondered if she had been able to read his mind.

"It's not for myself I'm asking you this," she said. "I'm very fond of the big eejit, Barry, but he's only had Mrs. Kincaid to keep an eye to him and now there's yourself. Will you do me a favour?"

He saw something deep in those amazing grey-flecked-with-amber eyes that would have had him saying yes, even if she'd asked him to pluck out a couple of his own fingernails. "Of course," he said.

"Take the time to get to know him, and in time, and don't ask me how long that will take, try to be his friend. Please?"

Barry wasn't quite sure how to respond, so he simply said, "I'll do my best, Kitty."

"Thank you, Barry." She looked away and stared to somewhere in the middle distance. Her eyes were very shiny as she said, "I'd appreciate that very much."

Barry was trying to frame a suitable answer when the subject of the conversation arrived.

"It's as cold out there as a stepmother's breath," said O'Reilly, barging in past Barry and heading for the sideboard. "I think," he remarked, pouring himself a stiff Jameson, "a little internal antifreeze is indicated. Anyone else?"

Kitty, with her back still turned to him, said cheerfully, "Could I have a gin and tonic, please, Fingal?"

O'Reilly smiled at her. "We don't normally stock the stuff, but I remembered you used to like it as well as Jameson so I did get a bottle." He bent, opened a door in the sideboard, and produced a bottle of Gilbey's gin and a bottle of Schweppes tonic water. "Barry?" O'Reilly straightened and started to mix Kitty's drink.

Barry shook his head. "I'll be driving up to Belfast later, Fingal, and the roads are a bit icy."

"I didn't notice," O'Reilly said, "but then I was in a hurry to get home." And when that happens, Barry thought, not even an ice age would have the temerity to hinder your progress, Fingal, never mind the odd patch of black ice.

O'Reilly handed Kitty her drink, plonked himself down in the other armchair, grinned at her, raised his gla.s.s, and said, "Slainte."

She faced him and clinked her gla.s.s against his, smiling openly. "Cheers, Fingal. Nice to have you back. It really is."

Barry wondered if there was a deeper subtext to her comment. "How did it go at the Rugby Club?" he asked.