a flourish O’Reilly waved his left hand above his head, wrist cocked, and with his right set a plate bearing the pie dish in front of Barry. “ Voila . Note the brown beauty of the crust.”
Barry thought perhaps the pastry should be a golden brown rather than deep mahogany.
O’Reilly sat at the head of the table. He handed Barry a large knife and a silver triangular server. “Do the honours, lad, and get a move on. As an old Dublin patient of mine used to say, ‘I’m so hungry I could eat a farmer’s arse through a tennis racquet.’ I can taste those spuds soaked in the gravy from the pie.”
Barry laughed as he sank the knife into the crust. A plume of steam escaped with the scent of cooked meat. Very well-cooked meat. He carved a wedge and placed it on Fingal’s plate, already half full of potatoes. He started to serve himself when he heard a strangled noise followed by a loud “Bloody hell.”
“What’s up?”
“Look in your pie,” O’Reilly roared. “Look in the bloody thing.”
Barry peeled back the upper crust. Where there should have been tender steak and firm kidney surrounded by a rich gravy, only a few shrivelled pieces of meat sat beside black desiccated kidney slices. The gravy had congealed into lumps. “Oh dear,” he said, and recalled that P. G. Wodehouse had famously remarked, “It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.” Much the same could be said about a hungry Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and a well-fed one.
“It’s all Helen Hewitt’s fault.”
Barry shook his head. Sometimes O’Reilly’s logic still lost Barry. “Helen Hewitt?” He remembered the young woman: pretty, green eyes, eczema—
“If she hadn’t kept me on the phone so long. Still,” O’Reilly said, “she’s manna from heaven. We have a need and Providence has provided. You remember when Helen quit as Alice Moloney’s shop assistant and got a job in a linen mill?”
“I do.”
“The mill closed down last week. Helen’s out of work. She heard about Kinky from Mary Dunleavy, the publican’s daughter. Helen put two and two together and guessed we need someone to answer the phone — ”
“Brilliant,” Barry said, “and she was bloody quick off the mark. That shows initiative.”
“I thought so too. She’ll start tomorrow at lunchtime. Now, speaking of manna,” said O’Reilly, “and in the culinary sense. Kinky makes her own Branston pickle.” He rose. “I’ll go and get some and we can eat up the pork pies. Starvation won’t be on our agenda and I’m sure Arthur will enjoy the burnt steak and kidney.” He took the remains of the pie and left.
The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Barry said, sprang to his feet, and ran.
“Hello, Barry, just wanted to let you know the boss is starting to scrub. We’ll be operating a bit earlier than anticipated,” Jack Mills said.
Barry swallowed. “Has she got worse?”
“No. Sir Donald, and God knows how many of these things he’s seen, feels we’re on a hiding to nothing waiting for this to cure itself. We might as well get on with it.”
“But at least she’s no worse. Is she awake?”
“Anaesthetised, and I’d better trot. I’m assisting.”
“Will you see her postop after she wakes up?”
“Sure.”
“Tell her O’Reilly and I wish her — ”
“Done, and I’ll give you a ring once we’ve finished. Let you know what we found.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll go and tell O’Reilly.” He hung up.
“No need to go. I’m here. I heard you and can work it out.” Barry hadn’t been aware of the big man’s approach. “She’s no worse, but they’re operating,” O’Reilly said.
“Right.”
O’Reilly nodded. Pursed his lips. “I don’t know if you’re a praying man, Barry. I’m not, but if you are, say one for Kinky, and if you’re not, close your eyes and think hard about her for a little while and I’ll do the same.”
Barry bowed his head. When he looked
Barry thought perhaps the pastry should be a golden brown rather than deep mahogany.
O’Reilly sat at the head of the table. He handed Barry a large knife and a silver triangular server. “Do the honours, lad, and get a move on. As an old Dublin patient of mine used to say, ‘I’m so hungry I could eat a farmer’s arse through a tennis racquet.’ I can taste those spuds soaked in the gravy from the pie.”
Barry laughed as he sank the knife into the crust. A plume of steam escaped with the scent of cooked meat. Very well-cooked meat. He carved a wedge and placed it on Fingal’s plate, already half full of potatoes. He started to serve himself when he heard a strangled noise followed by a loud “Bloody hell.”
“What’s up?”
“Look in your pie,” O’Reilly roared. “Look in the bloody thing.”
Barry peeled back the upper crust. Where there should have been tender steak and firm kidney surrounded by a rich gravy, only a few shrivelled pieces of meat sat beside black desiccated kidney slices. The gravy had congealed into lumps. “Oh dear,” he said, and recalled that P. G. Wodehouse had famously remarked, “It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.” Much the same could be said about a hungry Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and a well-fed one.
“It’s all Helen Hewitt’s fault.”
Barry shook his head. Sometimes O’Reilly’s logic still lost Barry. “Helen Hewitt?” He remembered the young woman: pretty, green eyes, eczema—
“If she hadn’t kept me on the phone so long. Still,” O’Reilly said, “she’s manna from heaven. We have a need and Providence has provided. You remember when Helen quit as Alice Moloney’s shop assistant and got a job in a linen mill?”
“I do.”
“The mill closed down last week. Helen’s out of work. She heard about Kinky from Mary Dunleavy, the publican’s daughter. Helen put two and two together and guessed we need someone to answer the phone — ”
“Brilliant,” Barry said, “and she was bloody quick off the mark. That shows initiative.”
“I thought so too. She’ll start tomorrow at lunchtime. Now, speaking of manna,” said O’Reilly, “and in the culinary sense. Kinky makes her own Branston pickle.” He rose. “I’ll go and get some and we can eat up the pork pies. Starvation won’t be on our agenda and I’m sure Arthur will enjoy the burnt steak and kidney.” He took the remains of the pie and left.
The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Barry said, sprang to his feet, and ran.
“Hello, Barry, just wanted to let you know the boss is starting to scrub. We’ll be operating a bit earlier than anticipated,” Jack Mills said.
Barry swallowed. “Has she got worse?”
“No. Sir Donald, and God knows how many of these things he’s seen, feels we’re on a hiding to nothing waiting for this to cure itself. We might as well get on with it.”
“But at least she’s no worse. Is she awake?”
“Anaesthetised, and I’d better trot. I’m assisting.”
“Will you see her postop after she wakes up?”
“Sure.”
“Tell her O’Reilly and I wish her — ”
“Done, and I’ll give you a ring once we’ve finished. Let you know what we found.”
“Thanks, Jack. I’ll go and tell O’Reilly.” He hung up.
“No need to go. I’m here. I heard you and can work it out.” Barry hadn’t been aware of the big man’s approach. “She’s no worse, but they’re operating,” O’Reilly said.
“Right.”
O’Reilly nodded. Pursed his lips. “I don’t know if you’re a praying man, Barry. I’m not, but if you are, say one for Kinky, and if you’re not, close your eyes and think hard about her for a little while and I’ll do the same.”
Barry bowed his head. When he looked
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