An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

  “Thank you, Fingal.” And he’s right. I could have panicked, Barry thought. Seeing Kinky so sick and feeling helpless was scary, and I didn’t let it beat me. Being scared by illness in others wasn’t an emotion allowed to doctors.

  O’Reilly continued, “I’m fit to be tied because she’s sick. Poor woman. Kinky’s had her share of grief.”

  “I know.” Barry swallowed. “She asked me to pack a bag for her and put a stuffed toy bunny in it. I never knew she had one. She called it her gorria mór.”

  “Irish for ‘big hare,’” said O’Reilly. “I suppose it’s a comfort to her for some reason. None of our business.”

  But Barry knew the reason. He’d gone to her tidy room and seen her gallery of faded photographs—family, friends, a farmhouse. On her bedside table a book lay open to where a rosebud had been pressed between the pages, and done so long ago, judging by its dryness. Next to it, two sepia-coloured pictures shared a silver frame. In one, a grinning young man with long dark hair parted to one side sat in a small boat, holding two salmon. In the other, coatless, shirtsleeves rolled up, he stood on a road between blackthorn hedges, right arm hanging low, ready to loft a “bullet”—a road bowling cannonball. The inscription was fading, but Barry could read it. To Maureen from your gorria mór, with all my love. It must have been the man’s pet name. The lump in Barry’s throat had nearly choked him. Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid, née O’Hanlon, had indeed had her “share of grief.” He understood now why she’d wanted the toy, but decided O’Reilly was right. It was Kinky’s business alone. No need to explain even to him. “She should be at the Royal by now,” Barry said. “I wish we knew what’s happening. My pal Jack Mills is going to admit her.”

  “The rugby player?”

  “That’s him. He promised to phone after he’d assessed her. Said he’d get an opinion from your friend Sir Donald Cromie too.”

  “In which case you and I must bide contented until we hear. I know you’re concerned for her, Barry, damn it all so am I, but worrying never changed the price of turnips.” O’Reilly turned. “Come on up to the lounge. I want to put my feet up.” He headed for the stairs and Barry followed.

  O’Reilly dropped heavily into an armchair by the fire and lit his pipe. Barry took the other comfortable chair. “You’re right about being patient, but it’s hard not to worry. I’d really like to hear what the surgeons think.” Did he, he wondered, want to hear purely from concern for Kinky or was there an element of needing to know if his diagnosis had been right? He said, “I saw her into the ambulance, gave her her things. She looked me straight in the eye and told me, ‘I’m going to be grand, so, never fear. Don’t you worry your head about me, but I do worry about you, sir, and himself. What will you both eat, at all?’ I told her she mustn’t worry, we’d manage, and she grabbed my hand and said, ‘There does be a steak-and-kidney pie in the fridge. Pop it in a medium oven and leave it for twenty-five minutes. It’ll do for your tea tonight, but you’ll have to do without the potatoes.’” Barry shook his head. “She’d dropped the pan and was still upset.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Bless her. If she’d been on the Titanic she’d have been fussing about other folks before she’d get into a lifeboat.”

  “I know,” Barry said. “Kinky Kinkaid’s a remarkable woman.”

  “She’s that, all right. She’s been mothering me for nineteen years, since 1946 when I bought the practice from old Doctor Flanagan’s estate. Begod, I’d hate to lose her.”

  “Lose her?” Barry shook his head. “She’s pretty sick now, Fingal, but if it is a strangulated hernia, once she’s been operated on, I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

  “Oh, no, I don’t mean ‘lose her’ in that sense,” O’Reilly said. “It’s just that … you know I’m marrying Kitty in July and—”

  “I know. I’m delighted for you both, Fingal. And I’m sure Kinky is too.”

  “Well, I thought Kinky was pretty chuffed. And she seemed genuinely excited about us buying the ring today. There was that bit of friction between them when Kitty first started coming down here—”

  “But Kinky seemed happy for you both on Saturday. I’m sure she’s over whatever bothered her. And one thing about being sick, it has a way of putting things into perspective very quickly.”

  “You’re likely right.” O’Reilly puffed his pipe. “But I remember an old saw about two women in one kitchen. Kinky’s going to be a bit wobbly before she gets completely better and she may start to feel vulnerable again.”

  “I’m sure everything’ll be fine,” Barry said. “First we’ve to worry about getting Kinky back on her feet, and cross other bridges when we come to them.”

  O’Reilly raised an eyebrow. “Bridges? That’s my line. Getting philosophical, Barry?”

  “Well, I—”

  “You’re right,” said O’Reilly. “When we come to them.” He let go a blue cloud of pipe smoke. “There are a few practical matters which are more pressing though.”

  “Such as?”

  “One. Once Kinky gets better and out of hospital she’ll need to convalesce. Are you much of a nurse?”

  “Me?”

  “Nor me,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll have to let her sisters Fidelma and Sinead in Cork know about things as soon as we hear from Jack. They’ll want to come up and see her, and when she’s discharged they might want to have Kinky recuperate with them.”

  “That makes sense.”

  O’Reilly tamped the tobacco into the bowl of his pipe. “If not, we’ll need to find someone here. Sonny and Maggie Houston have a big house and Maggie loves looking after folks.”

  Barry smiled. “If Kinky could put up with Maggie’s stewed tea.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Or her plum cake, but let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Number two,” said O’Reilly. “How’s your cooking? The magical thing Kinky usually does in the kitchen.”

  Barry laughed. “I lived at home, then went to a boarding school, student residence’s refectory, houseman’s mess, and now Number One, Main. I never learned how. I’d burn water boiling an egg.” Nor, he thought, had boys been expected to master the culinary arts. That’s why only girls were taught “domestic science” at school. “Jack Mills showed me how to make a fried egg sandwich once when we were living in Royal Maternity if that helps.”

  “Hardly Cordon Bleu.” O’Reilly smiled. “I learnt a bit when I was at sea, but it’s pretty primitive. Spam fritters, corned beef hash, corned beef curry. I can fry up well enough and I can boil and mash, and fry potatoes. Make champ.” He poked his pipe stem at Barry. “I thought being able to cook potatoes was in our Irish genes. I’m surprised Kinky was worried we’d have to do without them tonight.”

  Barry shook his head. “I’ve never trusted potatoes since An Gortas Mor, the Great Hunger of 1845.” In truth he really didn’t like spuds, unless they were roasted.

  “Did you read the book?”

  “Which one?”

  “The Great Hunger by Cecil Woodham Smith.”

  “Never heard of him.”

  “Her,” O’Reilly said. “This Cecil is a woman. She wrote about Florence Nightingale too, and the charge of the Light Brigade. She’s a brilliant historian.” He waved at the bookshelves. “Help yourself if you want to read the books.”

  “I will, and never mind famines. With your expertise, the magic tin-opener, and the humble sandwich,” Barry said, “we’ll not starve.”

  “True,” O’Reilly said, “but it might mean you doing a bit more call if I’m going to be in the kitchen. At least when I am, I can field phone calls too.”

  “I’d be happy to do the visits,” Barry said, and meant it. He enjoyed that aspect of rural practice, taking care of people in their own homes. He’d miss doing it when he left Ballybucklebo in July to take training in obstetrics and gynaecology in the Waveney Hospital in Ballymena.

  “Good.” O’Reilly tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe against his teeth.
“Kitty’s a great cook,” he said. “She’s coming down at the weekend to show you the ring I bought her today. I’ll ask her if she’d mind making a few easy-to-heat dishes while she’s here, or do some at her home and bring them down for us.”

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble,” Barry said.

  “I did say I’d ask,” O’Reilly said, “not order, but I’m sure she will. Kitty O’Hallorhan’s a lovely woman.”

  Barry heard the deep affection in O’Reilly’s voice. He could be envious of his senior’s happiness, but even though Barry’s own love life was in tatters he was delighted that Fingal had found Kitty.

  The hall telephone rang. Barry flinched then rose. “That might be Jack Mills,” he said, and raced for the stairs.

  “I’m coming too,” said O’Reilly.

  4

  Bones Are Smitten Asunder

  He beat Barry to the receiver. “O’Reilly?”

  Barry waited, tapping one foot.

  O’Reilly listened. “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I see. Uh-huh.”

  What did that mean? Barry held his breath. Was it Jack or Sir Donald Cromie calling about Kinky?

  O’Reilly nodded, covered the mouthpiece with one hand, and shook his head. “It’s Colin Brown’s mother. He’s done it again. Sounds like he’s broken his arm this time.”

  “Oh.” Barry stopped tapping and exhaled. He’d so hoped it was Jack with good or at least promising news. But other patients did need care too and Colin Brown had to be the most unlucky boy in Ballybucklebo. Last year Barry had stitched up the lad’s hand. This year the boy had caught ringworm.

  “Hang on, Connie,” O’Reilly said. “I need to talk to Doctor Laverty.” He looked at Barry. “If you’ll nip round and see Colin, I’ll wait to hear from the Royal, and start getting tea ready.”

  So, Barry thought, he’d not hear about Kinky for a while, damn it. “Fair enough. I know where they live. I’ll get my bag, and splints.” He took his coat off a peg, shrugged it on, and went to collect his gear. He heard O’Reilly say, “Don’t worry, Connie. Doctor Laverty’ll be round in ten minutes. Just keep Colin still and warm and try not to let him move the arm. If you have them, give him a couple of aspirin.” The receiver tinged in its cradle.

  Barry, packed doctor’s bag in one hand, opened the front door. “I’ll walk. It’ll be quicker than getting my car.”

  “I’ll see you when you get home. I’m sure I’ll have heard from the Royal by then.”

  The pavements were drying in the late-afternoon spring sun. The April shower that earlier had drenched O’Reilly had passed and the air was crisp and felt freshly scrubbed. The Browns lived nearby in a thatched cottage next door to the tobacconist’s, which was beside the Black Swan Pub, known to the natives as the Mucky Duck.

  He paused at the traffic light beside the Maypole and waited for the light to change. Traffic was light on the Bangor to Belfast Road. The sign of the Duck creaked as it swung in a gentle breeze. A diesel lorry went by, belching black exhaust smoke, the stink of which smothered the usual mild attar of cow clap that always hung on from one weekly cattle market until the next.

  “How’s about ye, Doctor Laverty?” a man also waiting to cross said, raising his duncher. “Grand day for the time of year it’s in, so it is.”

  The lights changed. “Afternoon, Gerry. Can’t stop for a blether. Sorry, but I’m in a rush.”

  “You charge away on, sir.”

  Barry strode past Gerry Shanks, whose daughter Siobhan had recently recovered from bacterial meningitis. It was pleasant knowing your patients, their families, by name, not just as cases, and being greeted by them on the street. He’d miss that when he left in July, but Barry was looking forward to becoming a trainee obstetrician. And if he didn’t like it, he had the option to return as a full partner here. It would be gratifying finally to answer the question, Where am I going? The question he’d first asked himself last July on his way to an interview with a certain Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.

  He stopped outside the red-painted door to the Browns’ cottage, lifted the ring of a brass knocker cast as a lion’s head, and rapped.

  Connie Brown answered. “Come on on on in, Doctor,” she said, and stood aside. She pointed to a towel wrapped round her head like a turban. “I must look a right mess. I was washing my hair, so I was.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Connie. Where’s your Colin?”

  “I have him in the parlour. Poor wee mite, he must’ve took a ferocious purler.”

  It didn’t surprise Barry that the boy had fallen down with a thump. Although he had just turned ten, Colin Brown attacked life with all the vigour of a terrier after a rat. Barry smelled boiled cabbage and fried bacon. Perhaps the Browns were going to have colcannon for their tea, a traditional Irish dish of spuds, cabbage, bacon, and butter.

  “It’s the doorway on your right,” Connie said.

  Barry went into a small room. Three plaster ducks climbed the whitewashed wall over a wood mantel above a coal fire. The room was warm and the light dim. Barry heard Colin’s sobs before he made him out propped up on pillows, wrapped in a tartan shawl, sitting in a velvet-covered armchair several sizes too big for him. His legs didn’t reach the linoleum-covered floor and his toes were turned in. He clutched his left forearm with his right hand.

  “Nice Doctor Laverty’s come to see youse, so he has,” Connie said, and bent over her son.

  Barry moved closer to the red-haired boy.

  “Don’t want him,” Colin said, and sobbed. “Go away.”

  “What exactly happened, Connie?” Barry asked.

  She fluffed her son’s pillows and straightened up. “You mind his mouse, Maurice, died a wee while back?”

  “I do.”

  “We were going to get a tortoise, but there weren’t any at the pet store so his daddy got Colin a ferret instead, for a pet, like. He come home from school today, you know, done his homework, and went out into the yard for to play with Butch.”

  “Butch?”

  “The ferret. Anyway, I heard a ferocious guldering and I rushed out and there was wee Colin, God love him, sitting up bawling his eyes out. He’s yellin’, ‘Mammy. Mammy, it’s me arm, Mammy. It’s me arm.’” She swallowed. “I didn’t have the heart in me to look at it. I gathered him up, brung him in here, and got the fire going, so I did.” She pulled in another deep breath. “And then I phoned. Thank God youse come so quick.”

  Barry’s eyes had adjusted to the light. He could see no blood on Colin’s shirtsleeve so there were probably no abrasions. More important, it was unlikely there was a compound fracture, where the jagged end of bone had torn through the skin. Such breaks were uncommon in children. The pain would be from a strain or a simple broken bone. It wouldn’t be difficult to decide. “Let’s have a look, Colin,” Barry said, moving closer.

  “You leave me be,” Colin said. “It hurts.” His voice was quavery and tears ran down his cheeks. Snot glistened on his upper lip.

  “What hurts?” Barry asked.

  “Me arm.” He sniffed. “It hurts like buggery, so it does.”

  “Colin,” Connie Brown shouted and wagged a finger. “I’ll wash your mouth out with soap.”

  Colin’s father, Lenny, was a notoriously foul-mouthed man, one who locally would be called a slubbergub. Barry ignored the little mother-son spat and asked, “What happened, Colin?”

  Colin’s lip trembled. The words tumbled out, punctuated by gasps of indrawn breath. “I was running to see Butch, and I tripped, and I fell down, and I put out my hand, like, and I got this ferocious stoon in my arm, and it still hurts, and Mammy brought me into the parlor, so she did. She said she wanted me by the fire, and then youse come.”

  “Can you wiggle your fingers?” Barry asked.

  “No. It’s too sore.”

  Pain. Loss of function. Two signs of a break. “Sure I can’t take a look?” Barry was fairly certain he was dealing with a greenstick fracture of one or both of the forearm bones, the radius and u
lna.

  “My mammy won’t let you,” Colin said, inching back from Barry and turning piteous eyes on his mother.

  “I think she might,” Barry said.

  As he had hoped, Connie came closer. “Come on, Colin, be a good boy. A big brave boy like a soldier. Doctor Laverty wants to make youse better, so he does. Mind when he fixed your wee hand?”

  “No.” Colin pouted. “Don’t want to.”

  Poor little lad, Barry thought. Even if I’m unsure about choosing between GP and specialising, I know one thing. Whatever I do, it won’t involve specialist paediatrics. He hated to see the wee ones in pain and terrified.

  Connie moved closer, put her arms around her son, and adjusted the tartan shawl around his shoulders. “Doctor Laverty won’t hurt you, son. Honest to God.”

  “No.” Colin snuggled even closer against his mother.

  Barry cast back to his hospital training. When persuasion failed, the child was pinoned by an orderly and examined while the nipper’s screams and tears were ignored. That would not work here. He knew what O’Reilly would have done. Talked to the child. Tried to calm him. “So, Colin,” Barry said, and he squatted so he didn’t tower over the boy, “you’ve got a new pet.”

  Colin sniffed, but made no reply.

  “Your mammy says you called him Witch.” The mistake was deliberate.

  “Butch,” Colin said, peeping round past his mother. “Not Witch, you daft git. Butch. He’s a boy ferret, so he is.”

  Barry saw Connie start to bristle again, but shook his head and smiled. “If you’ve got the energy to slag your doctor, you can’t be feeling too badly, Colin Brown.” Barry had no doubt the arm was broken, but there was no sign of shock if Colin could be so feisty. “What colour is Butch?”

  “White,” Colin said, “and he’s ever so funny.”

  Barry waited.

  “When he gets excited he goes lepping about all over the place hissing and making faces and hopping sideways. My daddy … he says … he knows about ferrets … he says that’s called a weasel war dance, so it is.”