Kinky reappeared. She was accompanied by Flo Bishop, secretary of the ladies committee, and committee members Aggie Arbuthnot and Cissie Sloan.

He wound down his window. "Do you need another pair of hands?"

"Not at all, thank you, sir," Kinky said.

"Is it yourself, Doctor O'Reilly? Fit and well you're looking." He got no chance to answer as Cissie charged on. "You'll be Santa again this year. Well . . ." He heard how righteously indignant she sounded. "I hope you've only a lump of coal for that wee gurrier Colin Brown, because-"

"Cissie Sloan," Flo Bishop said, in a voice that could have come from a regimental sergeant major of the Irish Guards. "Give over your colloguing, and grab those pots."

He closed his window.

When they had finished emptying the boot, O'Reilly drove around the back and parked. Then carrying his bag, he rushed back to the pavilion and in through the back door to transform himself into Santa Claus-or Father Christmas, as he was known in Ulster.

He opened the carryall, half undressed, and laid his tweed jacket and suit pants on a bench. " 'Vesti la giubba,' " he sang. "On with the motley." He took out the red trousers, recently enlarged by Miss Moloney, and pulled them on. "Ho, ho, ho." He took his wallet from his tweed suit and, along with his pipe and tobacco pouch, shoved it into the pocket of his red trousers. Then he sat and hauled his black knee-boots on. Kinky really had worked on them.

Barry came in. "I'm starting to get used to these Ballybucklebo hooleys," he said, "and this one has the makings of what you'd call a fine ta-ta-ta-ra."

"Getting going, are they?"

Barry parked himself on a bench. "When I came in, the noise was deafening. A gramophone was playing Bing Crosby singing 'White Christmas.' People had to shout to be heard over the music. Children were running about like dervishes, screaming, laughing, and yelling. You can hear it in here."

O'Reilly had no trouble agreeing with Barry. "And how's Kinky making out?"

"She was in her element behind a couple of trestle tables. I've never seen grub like it."

"I," said O'Reilly, "like the sound of that."

Barry had a tinge of wonderment in his voice. "I counted eight cold roast hams, four cold roast turkeys that must weigh at least twenty pounds apiece, three topside roasts of beef, two cold joints of mutton . . . I can't remember everything."

"And how about 'Three French hens, two turtle doves . . . '"

" 'And a partridge in a pear tree'?" Barry laughed. " 'I didn't see any of those, but I saw hills of dried dates stuffed with marizpan, dunes of dried figs, and a small mountain of chocolate-covered cherries." Barry smiled. "n.o.body's going to die of starvation. People are filling their faces. And"-Barry handed O'Reilly his red fur-trimmed coat-"all the kiddies keep charging over to a Christmas tree and staring at a bulging sack, so come on, Santa. Everybody's waiting."

"Right." O'Reilly put on the coat. He lifted his suit pants and jacket, rummaged through all the pockets, and laid his valuables on the bench. He handed Barry his tweed suit. "Shove that in a locker."

O'Reilly cinched the black patent-leather belt with its silver buckle round his waist. "How do I look?"

"You need your beard."

O'Reilly bent and pulled a huge white beard from the bag, and with two curved wires he clipped it around his ears.

"You're him to a tee," Barry said. "At least you're the version made popular by Coca-Cola advertis.e.m.e.nts since nineteen thirty-one. The jolly old elf."

O'Reilly adjusted his beard. "But there was a real Saint Nick. He is the patron saint of children, bankers, p.a.w.nbrokers and mariners . . . I always had a soft spot for him when I was at sea." O'Reilly lifted his valuables from the bench and stuffed them in his red pocket. "I'd not want to leave those unattended in here," he said. "Saint Nick was the patron saint of murderers and thieves too."

"Busy chap," Barry said. "After today's two surgeries I can sympathise."

"But you enjoyed being busy, didn't you?"

"I did, Fingal." Barry was looking into O'Reilly's eyes. "Just like you."

"I'll not deny it." O'Reilly adjusted the hang of his coat and said something he had believed for a long time. "There's not much point practicing medicine if you don't enjoy it. You might as well be a . . . I don't know . . . a civil servant stuck in some dreary office."

"I know."

"And I'm having no truck with anything dreary tonight." He headed for the door. " 'Kiddies' gifts first, then the raffle, and then by G.o.d, a large Jameson for me. I'll have earned it by then." Which he had to admit to himself wasn't entirely true. He enjoyed playing Santa so much he'd have paid for the privilege.

Surprised by Joy.

With Barry following, O'Reilly strode along the corridor. He opened one of the doors leading to the main hall. The noise was palpable. Raised voices all but drowned out the lyrics of "All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth" coming from a loudspeaker system. O'Reilly could hear childish squeals and the clatter of running feet. Barry was right. The hooley was getting going nicely, and O'Reilly was pleased-he really enjoyed a good party.

Barry said, "See? Didn't I tell you?"

"It's warming up all right."

O'Reilly looked around the room. Colourful streamers hung from the ceiling, and the Christmas tree stood glittering in one corner. Beside it an empty armchair awaited Santa. Donal Donnelly was bending over the bulging sack by the chair, tucking something inside. Presents for some chiseler. Father O'Toole, who usually looked after receiving the gifts, must have asked Donal to help out. Was there anything in this village that didn't involve Donal?

"There's the marquis chatting with Sonny and Maggie," O'Reilly remarked to Barry.

"That's a sprig of yellow gorse in her hatband. It was two wilted geraniums the first time I met her."

"And you thought she was craiceailte. Crazy."

"A woman who said she'd headaches two inches above her head? Don't you think I'd every reason to?"

O'Reilly laughed. "But you learned better." You've learnt a lot of things, Barry Laverty, in five months. I'm proud of you, son, O'Reilly thought.

The music changed to Bing Crosby's "Christmas in Killarney." "The holly green, the ivy green . . ."

"And sure isn't that a pretty picture too, all those folks standing around in groups? Do you know, Barry, it makes me think they look like islands in the sea, and from time to time one or two folks, like canoes on a voyage of exploration, cast off from their own sh.o.r.es, make a short voyage, and land on another atoll to see if the natives are friendly."

"That's poetic, Fingal."

"You mean I'm a poet . . . and I don't know it?"

Barry groaned. "I heard that in kindergarten."

O'Reilly laughed. "I'm glad you learnt something there, son." He saw the marquis detach himself and head for the doorway in which the two were standing. "Now I've about five minutes before I have to go on because here comes His Lordship looking for Santa." O'Reilly stepped back and opened the door more widely.

"Fingal. Laverty." The marquis offered O'Reilly his hand.

"John." O'Reilly shook the hand and noted that Barry kept a respectful silence.

"All set at your end, Fingal?"

"I think so, as long as Donal has the sack ready."

"He has. So give me a couple of minutes to arrange your grand entry, and you're on." The marquis vanished into the hall.

O'Reilly took one last look before letting the door close. Gerry and Mairead Shanks were listening to Cissie Sloan, and the two little Shanks were playing tag with Colin Brown and Micky Corry. There was more to this Rugby Club party than having a good time, he thought. It was serving tonight to introduce the Shanks to Ballybucklebo, and if the way they were giggling and laughing was anything to go by, it had been a place for Colin and Micky to bury the hatchet with each other. BeG.o.d, Fingal, he told himself, if Fitzpatrick were here I'd offer to buy the man a drink.

He was letting the door close when he saw Gerry Shanks again. This time O'Reilly frowned. He tried to remember exactly what he'd said when he'd suggested Gerry and his family come to the party. It came back to him. "Mother of Jesus."

"What's up?"

"I've just had an awful thought. You remember the Shankses?"

Barry smiled. "The gunpowder man?"

"Aye. They're out there with their kids. They're new here. I told them to come to the party."

"What's wrong with that?"

"I forgot to tell them to bring presents for their own kids."

"Jesus, Fingal. It would be a disaster if Santa had nothing for them."

"Don't I know it. To be ignored by Santa in front of the entire village? They'd be devastated." Think, O'Reilly. You made the mess, you fix it.

"What'll we do, Fingal?"

O'Reilly looked at Barry. "We?"

"Of course, we. I'll help however I can."

"Good man ma da." O'Reilly was still trying to find a solution when Barry asked, "Could I maybe drive to Ballybucklebo and buy something?"

"No, the shops will be shut. Everybody's here." And Bangor and Holywood were too far away. Think, O'Reilly. Think. Got it. "Have a word with Phyllis Cadogan."

"Billy-the-asthmatic's mother?"

"The Cadogans run the newsagent's, and they stock d.i.n.ky Toy cars, little dollies, and stuffed puppy dogs. Maybe she could get there, open up, and get back here in time with some things."

"Right. I'm sure I saw her."

The door opened. Bing Crosby's velvety voice, made harsh by the loudspeakers, crooned, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas . . ."

Donal shut the door. "The marquis sent me to switch off the music. Gramophone's in the committee room, and he says once the music stops, Santa's on."

"All right." O'Reilly made sure his beard was properly attached. "And Donal"-O'Reilly pulled out his wallet-"here's the stub you wanted." He handed over the stub of Eileen Lindsay's raffle ticket.

Donal palmed it, winked, and started back along the corridor.

"I'm off, Fingal." Barry let himself into the hall and left the door ajar.

Bing Crosby was wishing "May your days be merry and bright," but he didn't get any further. Donal had done his job.

O'Reilly took a deep breath, flung the door wide, and strode into the hall.

The cheers that greeted him were, if anything, louder than the earlier racket. He bowed and began his progress, as slowly as he could. The more time he gave Barry, the better. b.u.g.g.e.r. He'd lost Barry in the crowd, and could only hope he would find Phyllis Cadogan quickly.

O'Reilly climbed onto his chair and roared, "Ho, ho, ho!"-sentiments he did not exactly share. "It's good to be back in Ballybucklebo with presents for the children." All of them, please G.o.d, if Barry gets a move on. "Let me see who's first." He opened the sack, pulled out a parcel, and read the label. "Callum Sloan, get you up here this very instant." There was applause, and O'Reilly's "Ho, ho, ho!" rang out over the noise.

"Ho, ho, ho! Come on, Colin Brown. Your turn. There's room in my sack for your prezzy, even if there didn't seem to be much room at your inn." The laughter was subdued. No one, it seemed, wished to embarra.s.s the boy. As Colin walked forward, he blushed until his face was almost as red as Santa's tunic. O'Reilly enveloped the boy in an enormous bear hug, hoisted him onto his knee, and handed him a gift-wrapped parcel. "Try to be a good boy next year."

"Yes, Santa. I promise."

O'Reilly solemnly shook the boy's hand to seal the agreement.

Colin walked away. The applause was deafening. Maybe that's put the wee lad's stock up a bit, O'Reilly hoped.

He scanned the room. Phyllis was heading purposefully for the door. O'Reilly noticed her husband surrounded by their five children waiting their turns. Get a move on, Phyllis. Please. Fingal O'Reilly had to get on with things here.

"Jeannie Kennedy, where are you?" he roared. Crisis notwithstanding, he really enjoyed being Santa, and he had room to regret he'd never been able to play it for children of his own.

Up she came, shining in her frilly party dress. Hair was neatly brushed and held in place with a green Alice band.

"Ho, ho." He lifted her onto his knee. "Have you been naughty or nice this year, Jeannie?"

"Nice, Santa. And my pet pig has too."

O'Reilly remembered running from the sow last July when he and Barry had visited her parents' farm. He'd thought the animal was chasing him, but in reality she had only wanted her snout scratched.

"Good, but she's not getting a present. You are." He handed her a parcel. "Off you trot." He set her back on the floor and put his hand into the sack, which was a great deal emptier than it had been fifteen minutes ago.

O'Reilly glanced to the Shanks. Gerry had his arm around Mairead's shoulder. Their two children stared at Santa with obviously eager antic.i.p.ation. Angus was grinning widely and turning to say something to his younger sister. She clapped her hands and jumped up and down. It wasn't difficult to infer that he'd been rea.s.suring her that their turn would come soon.

It was still far too early to expect to see Phyllis returning. "Lucy MacVeigh." O'Reilly called.

A little girl was brought forward by her mother. She was sucking her thumb and resisting her mother's efforts. As she neared O'Reilly, she started to cry. He towered over her from his seat, and to the child he must have seemed huge.

O'Reilly immediately slipped from his perch and knelt before little Lucy, bringing his face down to her level. He whispered to her. She stopped crying, slowly fingered his Santa's beard, and started to giggle. O'Reilly did not stand up until Lucy had shyly accepted her gift and she and her mother had moved away.

Ten minutes later O'Reilly thrust his hand deeply into a sack that seemed to have collapsed for lack of contents. He looked over to the still-closed hall door. What the h.e.l.l was he going to do?

He stuck his hands deeply into the pockets of his jacket and felt something. Saved by the bell. He grinned and didn't hesitate to decide what to do. "Are the Shanks children here?" O'Reilly boomed. "Angus? Siobhan?"

He could see Siobhan clinging to her mother. "I know you're here. I saw you," Santa called. "Come out, come out, wherever you are."

Gerry took each of his little ones by a hand and led them forward. The silence in the hall was so deep O'Reilly could feel it. Gerry stopped in front of O'Reilly. "Here they are, Santa."

"Come here, the pair of you," O'Reilly said. He held out his arms and then embraced Siobhan in the crook of one and Angus in the other. "Welcome to Ballybucklebo."