Free An Irish Country Christmas by Patrick Taylor Page A

perch on his nose the way O’Reilly did when faced with a tough problem. He also regretted that unlike O’Reilly he did not possess the kind of wisdom King Solomon was reputed to own. O’Reilly would find a way to cheer up the little lad.
    “Have you a half-notion you might like to be an actor when you grow up?” Barry asked.
    “Mebbe.” The little lad brightened a bit. “I’d not mind being like your man Joseph Tomelty.”
    Barry knew of the Belfast actor with the great shock of grey hair who had moved from regional theatre and portraying Bobby Greer on the BBC series
The McCooeys
to more important roles in the British cinema. “Perhaps you will be one day.”
    “I’m not fussed about ‘one day.’ I want to be Joseph this year, so I do.”
    Barry turned to the mother, shrugged, and shook his head.
    “Aye,” she said. “Me too.” And he knew she meant she was as at a loss for an answer as he was.
    He cleared his throat, looked seriously at Colin—and had a flash of inspiration. “Tell me, Colin, isn’t the play all about the birth of Baby Jesus?”
    “Aye.”
    “And when he grew up, didn’t Jesus teach us to forgive our enemies?” He mentally blessed the boring Sunday afternoons that he, like every Protestant child of his generation, had spent at Sunday school. “So what do you think Jesus would have done about . . . what’s his name?”
    “Micky Corry.”
    “Right. Micky.”
    “I think Jesus would have done a miracle . . . and turned the wee gobshite into a pile of horseshite, so I do.”
    “Colin!”
Mrs. Brown delivered the promised clip. Colin howled.
    This time, Barry had to work very hard to stifle a grin; then he held an admonitory finger to Mrs. Brown. He had hoped the respect of the countryfolks for physicians would have been instilled in wee Colin Brown and would have given those words of wisdom the weight he sought. Clearly, though, Colin was not a turn-the-other-cheek kind of fellow. “Well, Colin, you might be right, but if you want my opinion, I’d try to forget about it, go back to school, and just get on with the play.”
    “Thank you, Doctor.” Mrs. Brown rose and made a little bow to Barry. “See, Colin, isn’t that what I told you he’d say?”
    “Aye.” Colin scowled at Barry. “Youse grown-ups all stick together, so you do.”
    Mrs. Brown lifted her hand again, and Colin quickly said, “All right. I’ll go back to school.”
    “Excellent,” Barry said, rising. “Will that be all?” He moved to the door. As he showed the two out through the front door, he said to Colin, “And I’m sure you’ll be a great innkeeper.” Barry caught the glint in the little boy’s eyes. God, Barry thought, he’d seen gleams like that in the eyes of demons in mediaeval illustrations. He wondered for a moment what it might presage.
    His thoughts were interrupted by the sight of a lugubrious, middle-aged man standing on the front doorstep. He looked to be six feet tall and sported a black bowler hat and grey doeskin gloves. A pair of narrow, muddy, patent-leather shoes escaped from the pin-striped trouser legs that emerged from under a mid-calf–length raincoat. Barry could see a polka-dotted bow tie nesting between the white starched triangles of a wingtip collar. And above that was the largest, most angular Adam’s apple Barry had ever seen. He watched it bob up and down as the man swallowed. “I’m sorry,” Barry began, “but patients have to use the waiting room door—”
    The stranger interrupted in a harsh, high-pitched voice, “I’m not a patient, sonny. I’m Doctor Fitzpatrick, and I’m here to see Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.”
    “Oh. In that case—”
    It was as far as Barry got. Doctor Fitzpatrick forced his way into the hall. Barry pulled the front door shut, turned, and regarded the new arrival removing his hat and gloves. He had turned to face Barry, who saw a thin-lipped mouth, turned down at twenty past eight, set between a clean-shaven