An Irish Country Christmas Read Free Page A

gracefully kissed the very crown of her head. “I wish,” he said, and his words were solemn, “for both of you,long life, good health, prosperity, an always stocked larder, a full crib, and may your praties never know the blight.”
    “Thank you, Doctor O’Reilly,” Julie said, blushing. She stood on tiptoe and whispered something in his ear.
    “Well, I’ll be damned,” said O’Reilly, glancing sideways at Donal. “Well, Mrs. Donnelly, you pop in and see Doctor Laverty or me when you get back from your honeymoon.”
    “I will.”
    “Now,” said O’Reilly, inclining his head toward the door, “Doctor Laverty and I have some business to attend to.” He strode off, Barry at his heels. As soon as they were in the hall, he said, “Julie’s up the spout again. I’ll say that much for Donal. He doesn’t let the grass grow under his feet.”
    Barry frowned. “Fingal, is it not a bit soon after her miscarriage for her to be pregnant?”
    O’Reilly shrugged. “Hard to say, but I think it’s great news, so great in fact that if you’d like to join me in the bar we could drink to it.”
    “I thought, Fingal, you’d said, seeing you are on call . . . you wouldn’t be having anymore.” Barry couldn’t resist having a dig at his senior colleague.
    “Did I say that?” O’Reilly asked. “Boys-a-dear, whatever was I thinking of?” He headed toward the bar and was just about to open the door when John, the manager, rushed along the hall.
    “Doctor O’Reilly, there’s a Mrs. Kincaid on the phone. She’d like to speak to you.”
    “Bugger,” said O’Reilly.
    “This way, please, sir.”
    “What’s up?”
    “I’ll tell you when I get back.” He vanished into the lounge, leaving Barry alone. Well, Barry thought, Fingal was right about one thing. Julie’s news did call for another drink. He’d pop into the Parlour Bar, get himself a small whiskey, drink it, and go back to the party for half an hour or so to be polite. Then he’d head back to Ballybucklebo.
    He opened the bar door. Just another half hour here at the Old Inn, then home to Number 1 Main Street with its big bow windows and grey pebble-dashed walls. Home to Kinky and her superb cooking. Home to Lady Macbeth, and home even to Arthur Guinness, O’Reilly’s daft dog.
    Barry let the door close behind him and yawned. It had been a long night last night. He was looking forward to one other thing at home: his bed in the attic bedroom, snug under the eaves, warm and protected from the gale that raged outside.
    “Another one, Barry?” Colette asked.
    “Just a small John Jameson, please.”
    “Right.”
    As he waited for his drink, Barry wondered what kind of case had sent O’Reilly rushing off into the night. None of his business. He wasn’t on call, and as O’Reilly was fond of saying about others, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, M.B., B.Ch., B.A.O., Physician and Surgeon, was big enough and ugly enough to look after himself.

A Little Snow, Tumbled About
    The Rover shuddered as it was broadsided by a gust that came funneling through a gap between the houses. O’Reilly gripped the steering wheel more tightly and swore at the gale. “Bloody weather!” With nightfall the sleet had turned to snow.
    He wondered what the trouble might be at the Gillespie farm. All Kinky had been able to tell him was that the call had come from Mrs. Gillespie, she was hysterical, and she wanted the doctor to come at once. There was something wrong with her husband.
    He had to slow down because the windscreen wipers of his elderly vehicle could barely cope with the accumulation on the glass and he had difficulty seeing. O’Reilly felt the arse end of the vehicle slide sideways as he nudged her out of a turn, had to steer into the skid, and nearly went into the ditch. He wrenched the car back on course. “Bloody weather!” But it would take more than a bit of snow to stop him getting to the Gillespies’ place. Molly Gillespie was usually an