Read Online An Irish Country Christmas by Patrick Taylor - Free Book Online
Authors: Patrick Taylor
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feeling a bit better, sir?”
“A little, thanks.”
“Huh.” Mrs. Kincaid shrugged. O’Reilly thought she looked as believing as a mother who, having just caught a child out in some minor peccadillo, asks, “What are you doing?” and gets the sheepish reply, “Nothing.”
“Well, my granny used to say, ‘Feed a cold and starve a fever,’ so I’ve made you some beef tea.” She set the mug on the coffee table, stood back with arms folded, and glowered down at O’Reilly. “Here.”
He knew he had no choice but to drink from the mug. He lifted it,and the tangy, meaty smell of the bouillon filled his nostrils. He sipped. “By God, that’s powerful stuff, Kinky.” He was relieved to see her expression soften. “Made it with Oxo, did you? Bovril maybe?” He knew at once that that had been a stupid thing to say. Kinky would
never
use a proprietary brand of anything if she could make her own.
“I did not.” She frowned. “Indeed not, sir. It’s made from the grade A beef, and—”
“Sorry, Kinky. I should have known, but I’m not altogether myself today.” He took a deeper swallow.
“I’ll forgive you,” she said. “Thousands wouldn’t”—she looked at his mug—“but get that down you, and get the good of it into you.”
He thought she was going to add “like a good little boy.”
“And I’ve a great big bowl of chicken broth for your lunch, so.”
O’Reilly smiled weakly. “And I thought it was the Jews who believed in chicken soup?”
“Well, maybe they do and maybe they don’t, but the Cork people do, so.” She moved closer. “Sit forward.”
He did as he was bid, and she grabbed the cushion, pulled it free, fluffed it up, and stuck it behind his back. “Now lean you back against that,” she said.
O’Reilly leaned back and handed her the now empty mug. “Thanks, Kinky.” He coughed, shook his head like an irritated stallion trying to dismiss an annoying cleg-fly, and said, “Who was on the phone?”
“The new doctor from the Kinnegar; he says his name’s Fitzpatrick. He wants to come calling. He said it would be a courtesy visit.”
“I hope you told him not today. I don’t feel much up to having visitors.”
“Of course I did.” Kinky bent and arranged O’Reilly’s blanket more tidily. “We’ve to get you back on your feet, so.” She frowned. “I hope I convinced him for he seemed bound and determined to come today. If he does, I’ll see to him.”
O’Reilly smiled. This new Doctor Fitzpatrick might
sound
bound and determined. However, if anyone ever produced an illustrated dictionary, a photo of Kinky, arms folded on chest, multiple chins thrustout, would accompany the entry for “determined.” Doctor Fitzpatrick would have his work cut out if he imagined he could get by Kinky.
She snorted but smiled back. “Now is there anything else you’d be needing?”
“Just one wee favour?”
“What?”
He pointed to the big wall-mounted bookshelf. “Fourth shelf up, halfway along. The book in the orange cover.”
She went to the bookshelf. “This one?
The Happy Return
by C. S. Forester?”
“That’s it.”
She brought the book and handed it to him. “About birthdays, is it? Like ‘many happy returns’?”
He took the slim volume and managed a little laugh. “No. It’s a story about a sea captain in Lord Nelson’s navy.”
“Nelson? And him the fellah with one eye and one arm on top of the column in Dublin City?”
“Right. They have one of him in London too. In Trafalgar Square.”
She shrugged and said, with a tinge of disapproval, “Huh. No doubt he keeps the London pigeons as happy as the ones in Dublin.”
O’Reilly knew Mrs. Kincaid was no respecter of English heroes. He pointed at the book. “This is a great read.”
“Well, I’m sure if it’s a story about the navy it’ll do grand to keep your mind occupied, an old sailor man like yourself.”
O’Reilly coughed. “Sure that was more than twenty years ago,
“A little, thanks.”
“Huh.” Mrs. Kincaid shrugged. O’Reilly thought she looked as believing as a mother who, having just caught a child out in some minor peccadillo, asks, “What are you doing?” and gets the sheepish reply, “Nothing.”
“Well, my granny used to say, ‘Feed a cold and starve a fever,’ so I’ve made you some beef tea.” She set the mug on the coffee table, stood back with arms folded, and glowered down at O’Reilly. “Here.”
He knew he had no choice but to drink from the mug. He lifted it,and the tangy, meaty smell of the bouillon filled his nostrils. He sipped. “By God, that’s powerful stuff, Kinky.” He was relieved to see her expression soften. “Made it with Oxo, did you? Bovril maybe?” He knew at once that that had been a stupid thing to say. Kinky would
never
use a proprietary brand of anything if she could make her own.
“I did not.” She frowned. “Indeed not, sir. It’s made from the grade A beef, and—”
“Sorry, Kinky. I should have known, but I’m not altogether myself today.” He took a deeper swallow.
“I’ll forgive you,” she said. “Thousands wouldn’t”—she looked at his mug—“but get that down you, and get the good of it into you.”
He thought she was going to add “like a good little boy.”
“And I’ve a great big bowl of chicken broth for your lunch, so.”
O’Reilly smiled weakly. “And I thought it was the Jews who believed in chicken soup?”
“Well, maybe they do and maybe they don’t, but the Cork people do, so.” She moved closer. “Sit forward.”
He did as he was bid, and she grabbed the cushion, pulled it free, fluffed it up, and stuck it behind his back. “Now lean you back against that,” she said.
O’Reilly leaned back and handed her the now empty mug. “Thanks, Kinky.” He coughed, shook his head like an irritated stallion trying to dismiss an annoying cleg-fly, and said, “Who was on the phone?”
“The new doctor from the Kinnegar; he says his name’s Fitzpatrick. He wants to come calling. He said it would be a courtesy visit.”
“I hope you told him not today. I don’t feel much up to having visitors.”
“Of course I did.” Kinky bent and arranged O’Reilly’s blanket more tidily. “We’ve to get you back on your feet, so.” She frowned. “I hope I convinced him for he seemed bound and determined to come today. If he does, I’ll see to him.”
O’Reilly smiled. This new Doctor Fitzpatrick might
sound
bound and determined. However, if anyone ever produced an illustrated dictionary, a photo of Kinky, arms folded on chest, multiple chins thrustout, would accompany the entry for “determined.” Doctor Fitzpatrick would have his work cut out if he imagined he could get by Kinky.
She snorted but smiled back. “Now is there anything else you’d be needing?”
“Just one wee favour?”
“What?”
He pointed to the big wall-mounted bookshelf. “Fourth shelf up, halfway along. The book in the orange cover.”
She went to the bookshelf. “This one?
The Happy Return
by C. S. Forester?”
“That’s it.”
She brought the book and handed it to him. “About birthdays, is it? Like ‘many happy returns’?”
He took the slim volume and managed a little laugh. “No. It’s a story about a sea captain in Lord Nelson’s navy.”
“Nelson? And him the fellah with one eye and one arm on top of the column in Dublin City?”
“Right. They have one of him in London too. In Trafalgar Square.”
She shrugged and said, with a tinge of disapproval, “Huh. No doubt he keeps the London pigeons as happy as the ones in Dublin.”
O’Reilly knew Mrs. Kincaid was no respecter of English heroes. He pointed at the book. “This is a great read.”
“Well, I’m sure if it’s a story about the navy it’ll do grand to keep your mind occupied, an old sailor man like yourself.”
O’Reilly coughed. “Sure that was more than twenty years ago,
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