"Short, sharp, and to the point," O'Reilly said. "We've all the arrangements made for the Christmas party. I'll be Santa."

"And any idea you have of me being an elf-"

"You're far too tall," O'Reilly said, "and anyway I've another job for you."

"Not tonight you haven't. I'm going up to Belfast as soon as my friend Jack phones."

"Good," said O'Reilly. "Enjoy yourself and sleep late tomorrow. My job'll keep until Monday, until Donal Donnelly and Julie get back from their honeymoon."

Barry sensed the ringing of distant alarm bells at the merest mention of Donal's name.

"Yes," O'Reilly charged on, "I've the answer to Eileen Lindsay's financial woes."

"Oh? What is it?" Barry frowned. He was all for helping Eileen, but if O'Reilly wanted to involve Donal, the plan probably involved robbing the Ballybucklebo branch of the Bank of Ireland, and Barry did not fancy being cast as the driver of the getaway car. Before O'Reilly could offer an explanation, Barry heard the telephone ringing below.

"That'll be your friend Mills," O'Reilly said. "Nip down and see like a good lad. Save Kinky having to climb up here."

Barry remembered that O'Reilly, who planned to take Kitty to the Crawsfordsburn Inn for dinner, had said he'd not take it amiss if Barry disappeared at about this time in the evening. "All right, Fingal." Barry started for the door, half turned, and said, "If I don't see you again, have a pleasant evening, Kitty." Without waiting for a reply, he trotted down the stairs, picked up the receiver, and said, "h.e.l.lo?"

"How the h.e.l.l are you, Barry?" Jack's Cullybackey accent was as thick as ever. "Sorry we've been missing each other, but you know what it's like when a ward's busy."

"I'm grand, Jack," Barry said, "and never worry about missing a few phone calls. It can't be helped." He took a deep breath, thought about Patricia, realized he was still feeling somewhere between disappointed and angry, and decided what the eye didn't see, the heart wouldn't grieve over. "Are you still on for some kind of do tonight?"

"Is the pope Catholic? There's a dance at the nurses' home."

"Let's go to it. Do you want to come down here for supper first? Kinky's made a steak-and-kidney pie."

"No, thanks. I've to pick up Mandy, and she lives away out the Antrim Road. It'll take me a while to get to her place and back before seven. The dance is at eight in the nurse's home, Bostock House, just across the road in the grounds of the Royal."

"Jesus, Jack, don't try to teach your granny to suck eggs. I know where Bostock House is. Didn't we both use to pick up nurses there?"

"Indeed, Effendi. What a silly man I am, but then I am coming from a silly people. Let us meet in the oasis of O'Kane at sevenish. It is of my father's people, the Beni-sadr, not of the Howitat tribe, and the drinks are ours for the taking." Jack's accent was a perfect imitation of Omar Sharif's in Lawrence of Arabia, which Barry and Jack had seen together a couple of years earlier.

Barry laughed. "You and your imitations. b.u.g.g.e.r off, Mills . . . I'll see you and Mandy in the Oak at seven." Barry replaced the receiver.

He glanced at his watch. Good, he'd have time enough to get cleaned up and then eat Kinky's steak-and-kidney pie. He knew she would be very hurt if he left it uneaten. She knew O'Reilly was not dining at home tonight, and it would have been very inconsiderate of Barry to let her prepare supper for him alone rather than tell her well in advance that she'd not need to. He had some understanding of how hard Kinky worked to keep her charges properly fed. She never minded if her doctors had to miss a meal if they were called out for medical reasons, but she could get sniffy if they knew in advance they'd be out and neglected to inform her. And rightly so, Barry thought. Keeping her apprised of his plans was the least courtesy he could pay her.

He climbed the stairs on the way to his attic bedroom. As he pa.s.sed the closed door to the upstairs lounge, he heard O'Reilly say, ". . . and Donal Donnelly's the man for the job," followed by O'Reilly's booming laugh and Kitty's higher-pitched chuckle.

Barry smiled. He realized that whatever the job for Donal was, it would be revealed in the fullness of time. Tonight he was going to see his friend and forget about medicine, the citizens of Ballybucklebo, and the stubbornness of the love of his life.

A Feast of Wine on the Lees.

O'Reilly stood back and held Kitty's coat for her. He noticed how delicately the fine hairs curled from the nape of her neck, her subtle perfume.

"I think, Fingal," she said, "as I've only had a small gin and tonic and you had your snake antivenin at the game and a large John Jameson just now, I should drive."

"Drive my Rover? It's a big heavy brute."

"My Mini is parked in the lane beside Barry's Volkswagen." She linked her arm in his and began to walk toward the kitchen. "I'll drive to the Crawfordsburn, and I'll bring us back here afterward so you can have a drink there and not worry about driving home."

The kitchen was empty. Kinky must have disappeared up to her quarters to watch her small television set. The comedy Steptoe and Son, about a couple of English rag-and-bone men and their horse, Hercules, was one of her favourites, and O'Reilly knew she had also enjoyed the late-night political satire That Was the Week That Was before it was taken off the air the year before.

"I'd not worry. It wouldn't be the first time Constable Mulligan, Ballybucklebo's finest, has driven me home. He says it's less trouble than arresting me. But I'll only have the one or two more tonight. I am on call." He opened the back door for her. He frowned. He wasn't sure he'd be comfortable being driven by a woman.

"I'll hold you to only a couple," Kitty said, "and we are taking my car. It's not just yourself you could put in the ditch. I like being in one piece."

And I like you that way too, he thought, as he followed her through the back door and closed it behind him.

"You're beginning to sound like a wife, Caitlin O'Hallorhan," he said without thinking. He was glad they were out in the darkness of the back garden and she couldn't see his face. He knew he was probably grinning like an idiot because as the words slipped out, it had struck him that he could do worse-if ever he married again. Aye, and that would be when cherries grew on his apple trees, the bare limbs of which he could just make out limned against a dark sky. The stars were shining like chrome-plated rivets in a black knight's ebony cuira.s.s. "But . . . all right. You drive."

"Aaarf?" Arthur asked sleepily, as they pa.s.sed his kennel.

"Next Sat.u.r.day," O'Reilly said to the dog, who snorted and stayed in his doghouse.

As O'Reilly let Kitty out through the back gate, he explained, "The pair of us are going to Strangford Lough next weekend for a day's wildfowling. Arthur really enjoys that."

"I'm happy for Arthur," she said, "but I'm sorry for the poor ducks. I can't see them enjoying it very much."

O'Reilly shivered. That was exactly how Deidre had felt.

"Here we are," Kitty announced. "Hop in."

He opened the car door, scrunched himself into the front seat of the Morris Mini, and immediately felt great empathy for those undergraduates who from time to time tried to see how many men they could cram into a telephone box. By dint of expelling his breath and tucking his arms tightly against his sides, he was able to get his door to close. Just. "Neat little car," he said, inwardly cursing its designer, Sir Alec Issigonis.

Kitty swung out onto the Belfast-to-Bangor road. O'Reilly thought it better to let Kitty concentrate on her driving, so he sat quietly even though the traffic was light. The inside of the little car was lit, then plunged into darkness, as it moved between the pools of light cast by the few streetlights.

They left Ballybucklebo and drove through the countryside.

He sat in the darkness and let his mind roam freely. O'Reilly considered his plan to help Eileen. It seemed pretty foolproof. He smiled. Good. He wondered idly how the Irish rugby team would fare in the international series this season. France, Wales, England, and Scotland all would be fielding powerful teams.

The inside of the car was illuminated by the headlights of an oncoming vehicle. He turned and studied Kitty's profile. She'd been a pretty girl as a student nurse. She was a handsome, mature woman now.

Why, he asked himself, as he had done several times since Tuesday, why had she not married? She'd surprised him on Tuesday, telling him she had never forgotten him, could still care for him if he'd let her. She couldn't have been carrying a torch for him, not for twenty-five years or so. Could she?

Why not? He rubbed his forehead with the heel of his gloved hand. He had carried one for Deidre for twenty-three years, The light from the first streetlamp in the village of Crawfordsdburn was reflected in Kitty's eyes; then the car was in darkness again. Maybe, just maybe, he thought, he should let his torch's flame gutter. Not go out, oh no, but flare a little less brightly.

He remembered the touch of Kitty's hand on his after dinner at Number 1 Main Street, the brush of her lips on his own, and for a moment he had an almost overwhelming urge to lean across and kiss her cheek. But she was indicating for a left turn into the Inn's car park, and he didn't want to distract her.

After she parked, they stepped into the Inn and hung their coats in the hall cloakroom; then he held her elbow as he steered her to the front desk. The entrance to the Inn was decorated for Christmas with sprigs of holly placed on top of the gilt frames of Irish landscapes. Two multicoloured paper chains looped diagonally from corner to corner under the ceiling beams. A mirror on one wall was half sprayed with artificial frost.

O'Reilly paused at the desk. "Evening, John. This is Miss O'Hallorhan."

"Evening, Doctor O'Reilly. Pleased to meet you, miss."

Kitty smiled at him. "John."

"Will you do me a wee favour?" O'Reilly asked.

"Same as always, Doctor?"

"Aye. Miss O'Hallorhan and I will be in your dining room. If Mrs. Kincaid phones, will you come and get me?"

"Like at the wedding?"

O'Reilly nodded.

"My pleasure, sir, but I hope I won't have to."

"So do I," O'Reilly said. He looked at the grandfather clock against one wall. "We're a bit early so we'll wait in the bar until our table's ready." Still holding Kitty by the elbow, he guided her to the Parlour Bar where the turf fire burned beneath a mantel hung with a holly wreath. Patrons, many of them the same men who'd been in on Monday, the regulars, occupied the same booths. He'd no need to come here very often, but the Duck had no restaurant, and if he were honest, taking Kitty there would set tongues wagging in Ballybucklebo.

Colette was behind the bar. She greeted them with a huge grin, moved along the bar, and said, "How's about ye, Doctor O'Reilly? You're in for your dinner, I hear. Table for two? It'll be ready in a wee minute, so it will. Would you both like a wee drink while you're waiting?" She was already picking up a bottle of Jameson. She'd been serving O'Reilly on his infrequent visits for as long as he could remember, and Colette, he knew, was a superb barmaid with an encyclopaedic memory for what her customers favoured. She knew her wines too. She had to in a place that was too small to have a sommelier. He smiled and nodded his a.s.sent.

"No, thanks," Kitty said firmly. "We'll be having a bottle of wine with our dinner, and I'm driving, and Fingal's on call."

Colette's eyes widened, but she kept her counsel and replaced the bottle. "You have a wee seat then and I'll get you the menus, so I will." She headed off along the bar.

O'Reilly glanced at Kitty, shrugged, and reminded himself that he had promised to have only one or two more drinks. He waited for Kitty to sit at a small table, fished out his briar, and asked, "Mind if I smoke?"

"Not at all. My father used to smoke a pipe. The smell of the tobacco reminds me of him." When O'Reilly had the pipe well lit, she leant across the table, put both hands palm down on top, and looked into his eyes. "Thank you for taking me to the game today, Fingal. I really enjoyed it. It took me back."

O'Reilly smiled at her, and he knew she was alluding to the times she'd come to watch him play. Hearing her words, he too remembered those days, and the memories were bittersweet. His hand covered one of hers. "Me too," he said.

He heard a cough. Colette had returned. "Here youse are," she said, handing each a menu. "And here's the wine list." She offered it to O'Reilly, but he shook his head. "Give it to the lady, Colette." He saw the barmaid's eyes widen for the second time in as many minutes. Men always selected the wines. "Kitty's the wine expert. I'd not know a merlot from a marron glace."

Colette shrugged and handed the list to Kitty. "I'll give youse both a couple of wee minutes." She left.

O'Reilly opened the menu, scanned it quickly, and made up his mind. Scampi for a starter and then the lobster thermidor. He was particularly fond of the way the chef here prepared the scampi, deep-frying Dublin Bay prawns in a delicious batter. His tummy gurgled in antic.i.p.ation. "Pardon me," he said, putting the menu on the table.

Kitty ignored him as she read. He watched her shaking her head over many of the offerings, nodding at others. Finally she gave one emphatic nod and closed the menu.

"What would you like?" he asked.

"Escargots," she said, "and then . . . do they do the filet steaks well here, Fingal?"

He nodded.

"Fine," she said. "I'll have mine medium rare."

O'Reilly sat back in his chair and took his pipe from his mouth. He shook his head rapidly, then blinked twice, but the vivid mental image remained. A small restaurant in Dublin, low lights, a candle guttering on the table, a medical student wondering if he would be able to afford the meal they had just ordered to celebrate his date's having qualified as a nurse. "That's exactly what you had the very first time I took you out for dinner," he said softly. "I remember because I'd never seen anybody eat snails before. We thought only the French did that."

"The restaurant was owned by a Frenchman." She smiled, and he saw her colour heighten, her smile widen. She covered the back of his hand with her palm. "I didn't think you'd remember," she said, and there was huskiness in her voice.

"I do, Kitty," he said, "and you wore a green dress, and I leant over to tell you I thought you looked stunning . . . and I spilled a gla.s.s of red wine over your lap." He felt her hand squeeze his and heard her throaty chuckles.

"You've a very good memory, Fingal," she said.

"For some things. Important things." He looked into her eyes and said, "Before you order the wine, so I can't possibly spill it tonight, I'm going to lean over"-he leant so close that he was practically whispering in her ear-"and tell you you still look stunning." He turned his hand and took hers in his. "Positively stunning."

"Thank you, Fingal."

He saw Colette approaching, guiltily released Kitty's hand, leant back, stuck his pipe back in his mouth, and released a cloud of smoke that might have hidden the old Warspite from enemy eyes.

"Ready?" Colette asked, pencil and notebook poised.

O'Reilly gave the food order.

Colette turned to Kitty. "And for the wine?"

"I think we'd like the Batard-Montrachet," Kitty said. "But is that all right, Fingal? It's a bit pricey."

Typical Kitty, he thought. Great taste but a good eye for economics too. "For you, Kitty, on a day the Bonnaughts won, I think the O'Reilly exchequer can stand it."

"Thank you," she said, smiling. "The Montrachet's worth a few extra pounds, and it's not hugely expensive, not like a Lafite Rothschild '61."

Colette's eyebrows shot up, and there was a tone of respect in her voice when she said, "We've a . . . we've a '52 Montrachet; I know that for a fact, so I do."

"That would be lovely," Kitty said. "Perhaps we could have a gla.s.s now?"

"I'll bring it right away." Colette left.

O'Reilly laughed. "And I suppose you like your martinis shaken not stirred, and you carry a Beretta 418 automatic or a Walther PPK?"

"What ever do you mean, Fingal?" Her brows knit.

"I mean like your man James Bond . . . he sure as h.e.l.l knows his wines."

"I see." She laughed. "Have you seen the films?"

"No," O'Reilly said, "but I've read every one of Ian Fleming's books."

"Do you not go to the movies?"

"I haven't had the time," he said, "but now I've Barry to share the load . . ."-he remembered kissing her in the back row of a cinema in Dublin-"we could go together."

"I'd like that very much."

"And I hope you'll like this, miss," Colette said, setting two gla.s.ses on the table and showing Kitty the bottle's label.

Their table in the Crawfordsburn dining room was in a small horseshoe-shaped alcove tucked in a corner. There was a semicircular banquette instead of chairs, and O'Reilly sat comfortably close on Kitty's left side, with his back to the red velvet curtains he'd noticed as they were being shown to the table. He knew they were drawn over windows in the outside wall.

Cotton-wool snow was stuck to the top of the half part.i.tions separating the niche from other booths. The room was full of other diners and hummed to their conversations. O'Reilly was pleased that there was none of the tinny piped music now becoming a fixture in most Ulster restaurants.