An Irish Country Christmas by PATRICK TAYLOR

Author:PATRICK TAYLOR
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2008-01-13T22:00:00+00:00

It Is Best Not To Swap Horses

While Crossing the River

Judging by his scowl, O’Reilly was in one of his bear-with-a-sore-head moods. He barely thanked Mrs. Kincaid when she set a serving plate bearing a large omelet in front of him and silently left. He helped himself to two-thirds and told Barry to pass his plate.

Barry accepted his one third, decided that discretion was the better part of valour, and kept his counsel. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat at the breakfast table sipping it. He glanced out the bow window, past the church steeple, to a sky so bright blue that it looked as if God had fashioned it from enamel. He listened to the Sunday pealing of the chapel bells, loud in the clear and no doubt frosty air.

He tried the first mouthful of his omelet. It was light, fluffy, and filled with melted Cheddar cheese. He tasted a subtle hint of onion. The omelet was liberally studded with mushrooms and melted in his mouth. Delicious.

He tried to ignore O’Reilly where he sat in his customary place, hunched over his plate, filling his face. There was no doubt, thought Barry, the keen game fisherman, that in angling circles his mentor would be referred to as a coarse feeder. Still, if O’Reilly behaved in his usual fashion, the food should go directly from his stomach to whatever brain centre affected his mood and change it for the better.

“That was powerful,” said O’Reilly, swallowing the last morsel of his lion’s share. He grinned, then belched happily. “Good morning to you, young Barry.” He stretched and picked up his coffee cup.

Barry smiled. The transit time from gut to brain had been very rapid this morning.

“Good morning, Fingal,” he said.

“And how were things in your particular Glocca Morra last night, lad?”

Barry finished his mouthful before answering. “Well,” he said, quite happy to play the quotations game, “the willow tree was certainly weeping there, and Finian’s rainbow was as bright as ever. It was good to see Jack, and the nurses’ dance was fun.” He filled another forkful. “How was your night, Fingal? I got home early, and I heard you and Kitty in the dining room. But I didn’t want to disturb you, so I went on up to bed.” He’d wondered why they were in the dining room and not the upstairs lounge.

O’Reilly grunted and reached for the toast rack. “We were in the dining room because Kitty’d rustled up a bloody great fry. She’s a grand hand with the pan.” There was a dreamy look in O’Reilly’s eyes.

If the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach, Barry thought, Kitty O’Hallorhan must be well along the road. But it still didn’t answer the question. Had O’Reilly still been hungry after a meal at the Craw-fordsburn? “I thought you were taking her out for dinner,” Barry said.

“Bloody Fitzpatrick. He damn nearly made me starve to death.”

Barry hesitated, his fork halfway to his mouth. There were venial sins and mortal sins.

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