An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

“I will, sir. In soul, I will.”

  “And Donal? Julie? Keep this all to yourselves. I don’t want to spoil your day, but buying a house is a complicated business. It’s not guaranteed until contracts are exchanged and a deposit’s paid. Before that someone else might bid more.”

  “I’d not like that,” Julie said.

  “On principle then, the less anyone knows the better, and you know how the word gets out around here,” O’Reilly said. “Now come on. Lock up. I have to fetch Arthur from the back garden. I want to get you two home and then get to Number One Main and sort out what Barry and I are going to have for our tea.”

  “I don’t know what you’re having for yiz tea, Doctor, but I do know what you’re having for pudding. Cissie Sloan said Aggie baked one of her cherry cakes this morning for the doctors. She’s quare nor clever with preserved fruit,” Julie said.

  “Did she, by God? That’s very kind of her. In that case I’ll nip down to Bangor before going home. I’ve a notion that Doctor Laverty and I’d appreciate ice cream with Aggie’s cherry cake.” The Mencarellis’, Capronis’, and Togneris’ sweetie shops all made wonderful ice cream, but no one, in O’Reilly’s opinion, made it quite like Paola Lucchi and her sister Ada.

  19

  The Time Has Come to Talk of Other Things

  O’Reilly was sipping his pre-dinner Jameson and listening to Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony when Barry walked into the upstairs lounge. “So, what’s the word on Aggie?” O’Reilly said, then, pointing at the sideboard, “Help yourself. He was delighted how things were going for Donal and Julie Donnelly and his mood was light.

  “Aggie’s on her way to the Royal,” Barry said, pouring himself a whiskey. “Deep venous thrombosis. I gave her heparin.” He sat in the other armchair. “Sláinte.”

  “Prost,” said O’Reilly. “Did you know prosit is the third-person singular present active subjunctive of the Latin verb Prosum, or the Maltese prosit, meaning bravo.”

  “No, Fingal, I can say with an absolute degree of certainty that I did not know that. How do you?”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “I learnt the Latin grammar at school, and a good thing too, because when I was a student at Trinity some lectures were delivered in Latin. I picked up the Maltese word when I was in the local equivalent of a pub in Grand Harbour in the war.” O’Reilly raised his glass. “Aggie’ll be all right once they get her stabilised on warfarin.”

  Barry shook his head. “Your eruditon, Fingal, is astounding.” He put his glass on the coffee table, scratched his chin, and said, “And medically you’re probably right about Aggie, but damn it, Fingal, it’s not fair.”

  Was Barry going to object to having to refer all interesting cases? O’Reilly hoped not.

  Barry said, “Half the reason the woman has varicose veins is because she’s had a job for years where she never got a chance to sit down. I wrote a letter to her employer asking if she could be switched to something sedentary and do you know what he’s done?” Barry’s face had reddened. One hand was clenching and unclenching and O’Reilly was sure the lad was unaware he was doing it. “He’s given her notice. He’s laying her off. That’s not bloody well fair.” Barry lifted his whiskey.

  “No,” said O’Reilly, “it’s not.” He waited. Six months ago Barry’d probably have thought that people losing jobs was no concern of their physician. Nor would he have sworn. Now?

  Barry stood, paced, and turned back. “Something’ll have to be done about it, that’s all.”

  O’Reilly set his drink aside, rose, clapped Barry on the shoulder, and said, “Good lad. I hoped you’d say that. And you’re right.” He fished out his pipe. “Any suggestions what that ‘something’ might be?”

  Barry shook his head. “At this moment? No. Apparently her employer is quite within his rights legally.” He swallowed whiskey. “All I know is that the shirt factory is owned by a Mister Ivan McCluggage and a partner.”

  O’Reilly frowned. He lit up and puffed out a cloud of blue smoke. His pipe always gave him time to think. “Seems to me there’s a couple of options—”

  Barry interrupted. “If you’re going to say I could have a word with her boss, see if he’ll change his mind, I’ve already thought of that.”

  “I was.” Good for you, Barry, O’Reilly thought, and I like the way you said “I,” not “we.” He lifted his drink. “But, I tell you, Barry,” he said, “I know about Belfast factory owners. They’re all tough as nails. McCluggage would probably tell you to run away off and feel your head, if he was feeling polite.”

  At least that made Barry smile. “I’m not going to bother.”

  “Who said, ‘Give me a lever and, with a place to stand, I will move the whole world’?” O’Reilly asked, and drank again.

  “Archimedes. But that might have worked in ancient Greece, and it certainly works here in Ballybucklebo where you know everybody and can usually find the fulcrum, something to help you force them to do what you want. But we don’t know this McCluggage or his partner. How can we find something to put pressure on them?”

  O’Reilly puffed again. Lord, but Barry Laverty learnt fast. “Search me, but I do have contacts in Belfast. Give me a bit of time. You never know what I might discover.” He ambled to the sideboard. “Ready for another?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “I’ve often told you about birds not being able to fly on only one wing,” O’Reilly said, and poured for himself. “And talking about Belfast and birds—” He stopped when he saw Barry’s look of irritation. “No, I am not changing the subject, as it happens. I want to go up there tomorrow. I’ve two birds I want to kill with one stone.”

  “Did you know the Chinese say one arrow, two vultures?” Barry said, his expression softening.

  O’Reilly laughed. “I didn’t know that. I’m not sure Kinky would like to be called a vulture,” his voice lost its bantering tone, “but I want to go and see her. Make sure she’s on the mend.” Try to reassure her about her place here, he thought. “I’ve had a notion about trying to set her mind at rest.”

  “Oh?”

  “What do you know about planning weddings?”

  Barry laughed. “About as much as I know about the local sports in Ulan Bator, Mongolia. I thought you said you weren’t changing the subject.”

  “Horse racing, archery, and Mongolian wrestling,” O’Reilly said. “Read about the place in the Times just last week. I’m not changing the subject. I’m going to ask Kinky to take charge once she’s back here and more on her feet.”

  Barry whistled. “You mean plan your wedding? Make her feel indispensable, is that it? That’s brilliant.”

  “It’s worth a try, so that’s job one in the city.”

  “And job two?”

  O’Reilly puffed hugely. “You are not going to believe this.”

  Barry chuckled. “With you, Fingal, if you said the earth was flat I’d probably believe it.”

  “Helen wants to go to medical school.”

  “Helen Hewitt?” Barry asked, sounding surprised.

  “No, you goat, Helen of Troy. Of course Helen Hewitt.”

  Barry frowned, started to say something, and then shut his mouth. O’Reilly could imagine what was going through the young lad’s mind. In Ulster, very few working-class kids went to university, never mind to professional schools. The rest went to technical school if they went at all. Helen Hewitt’s dream of medical school was a huge leap any way you looked at it, and Barry Laverty clearly needed time to digest the information. But then he said with a smile, “And we’re going to help her, aren’t we? What can I do?”

  “Good man-ma-da,” O’Reilly said. “I knew you’d agree she should. Thank you, but actually there’s not much you can do. We already know she’s qualified for admission. The problem is, how can she afford it?”

  “It cost my dad seventy pounds in fees every year for six years,” Barry said, “but he was making three thousand a year. Helen’s father’s a builder’s labourer … Lord, I only get o
ne thousand eight hundred a year before deductions … and I’m not complaining.”

  “I know you’re not. I’ve been on the phone while you were out. I’m meeting two old friends. You know them. Charlie Greer and Donald Cromie. We’re going to start planning a reunion for our Trinity medical class of ’36 next year. Do you know we’ll be thirty years qualified then? Where the hell has the time gone?”

  “You don’t look a day over forty, Fingal,” Barry said, and laughed, “but what’s that got to do with Helen?”

  “Less of your lip, young Laverty,” O’Reilly said, laughed mightily, and thought, You’d not have teased me six months ago, boy. Well done. “I’ll bet senior consultants will know of any scholarships. Helen’s hard up right now. Keeping Kinky busy as our wedding planner’ll let me keep Helen Hewitt on to answer the phone and help with the heavy housework. Someone needs to do the hoovering, although I’ll bet Kinky’s back cooking before the week’s out. That’ll get Helen a few bob for a while and if we can find a scholarship for her, well—”

  “Brilliant,” Barry said. “Bloody brilliant. I really hope your friends can help. Now what about Aggie?”

  O’Reilly inclined his head. “You know how tight a community Ulster is. While I’m at it, I’ll ask if by any chance either one of them knows this Ivan—?”

  “McCluggage.” Barry chuckled. “You said something about killing two birds. That’s three.”

  “Och sure, who’s counting,” O’Reilly said. “But it’s all worth trying, so it’s me for Belfast tomorrow. You’ll be on your own, but don’t worry about having someone to answer the phone if you get called out—”

  “Fingal, would you mind if I brought a girl here?” Barry asked.

  “Not at all. Who is she?”

  “Sue Nolan. I took her for dinner last week and I want to see her again, but reckoned I couldn’t until next weekend when it was my turn to be off. I could phone her and ask her to come down. There’s plenty of grub in the fridge. BBC telly’s showing Our Man in Havana with Alex Guinness that evening so she’ll not be bored if I have to go out. If she can come, she could field phone calls.”

  “Barry, I’m delighted, and you’re right. She could do just what Kitty did last weekend.” O’Reilly moved to where Barry stood. “Give me that glass. You’ve time for another before tea. It’s Mairead Shanks’s Irish stew tonight. I have it in the oven.”

  Barry released his glass and O’Reilly poured. “And Aggie Arbuthnot’s cherry cake to follow,” Barry said. “It’s in the dining room.”

  “I know about Aggie’s cherry cake. Julie saw Cissy in the village. We’ll have it a la mode with some ice cream I bought.”

  Barry said, quietly, “The neighbours, and how they’ve all wanted to help?” He shook his head. “You know—thanks, Fingal.” Barry accepted the glass. “I’m going to miss this place—a lot.”

  “I do understand, Barry.” He hesitated then said, “I may have mentioned to you that when I was at your stage in my career I flirted with obstetrics, but decided that I preferred GP work.”

  “You did say something. About the Rotunda Hospital in Dublin.”

  “I was there for a while, but I’ve been here for nineteen years.” O’Reilly took his chair. “Sit you down,” he said. “Cheers.”

  Barry sat and sipped.

  “We all have to find our way,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll find yours, and I’ve already told you if you want to come back—”

  “Thank you, Fingal.”

  “I’m not trying to influence you, Barry. Honestly.” Liar, O’Reilly thought. He’d grown fond of the lad, who was turning into a first-class GP. “I’d welcome you as a partner if you find specialising’s not all it’s cracked up to be and that you’re missing this place, the people, things like helping the Donnellys buy a house.”

  “How did it go this afternoon?” Barry said.

  “Very well. It’s a sound cottage, dry, well-built, good plumbing, indoor toilet. It’s got two bedrooms. Julie has one picked out for a nursery already.”

  “Sounds ideal.”

  “It is. And they can afford it.” O’Reilly sipped his whiskey. “Donal didn’t have a clue about things like mortgages, conveyancing, house insurance, but I’ve pointed him in the right direction. I’ve phoned Mike Canning of the Bank of Ireland. He’ll talk to Donal on Monday about a mortgage. The estate agent, Dapper Frew, will take care of them. He’s a good skin. Used to play on the wing for the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts rugby team. I’d love to see the Donnellys get the place. Julie has her heart so set on it.”

  Barry sipped his drink. “Fingal, can I ask you a question?”

  “Fire away.”

  “Does it never get you down? It’s one thing, ministering to individual patients’ medical needs, but from what I’ve seen since I came here you’ve taken the whole damn village under your wing. Don’t you find that tiring? I know you don’t show it.” Barry laughed. “You hardly ever show that you’re tired, but not showing and being aren’t the same thing.”

  O’Reilly set his glass on a table. Folding his hands like a praying supplicant, he rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and his chin on his fingertips. “I think it was the war,” he said, his pipe still clenched between his teeth. “Often when my old battleship Warspite had been in action or had picked up survivors, the medical department worked round the clock. You came to accept it as normal. Learned to take catnaps.” He let go a cloud like old Warspite did when she was cleaning her boilers, and wondered why he found it so easy to be open with Barry.

  “My dad—”

  “And my friend, Tom Laverty,” O’Reilly said, picturing Warspite’s navigating officer.

  “He never talks about the war, but once, when I was a student, I was complaining about all the night work.” Barry looked down.

  “Go on,” O’Reilly said, quietly thinking about what Tom might have told his son. O’Reilly didn’t mention the war often, nor did most of the ex-servicemen he knew. Like John MacNeill, the marquis of Ballybucklebo, or his butler, Thompson, who’d both been decorated for gallantry.

  “Dad said during one battle when he had to keep the navigational plot updated constantly for thirty-eight hours he learned that you only were permitted the luxury of being tired when you didn’t have other people’s lives in your hands.”

  “That must have been the Battle of Matapan in 1941. A lot of that fighting was at night.” Four Italian cruisers had been sunk, O’Reilly remembered, and half the officers on his ship had been kept going with liberal doses of the amphetamine stimulants he’d handed out. “Said that, did he, by God? Smart man, your dad.” O’Reilly straightened up and took his pipe out of his mouth. “I think, Barry,” he said, “you’ve answered your own question.”

  “But what about this business of looking after the whole village? Do you see it in the same way?”

  O’Reilly grunted and stroked his chin with the web between thumb and forefinger.

  “Well?” Barry said.

  “I’ve never really thought of it like that, but now you come to mention it, I suppose I do, don’t I?”

  “Too true.”

  O’Reilly grinned. “But it’s fun too,” he said, thinking about Donal and Julie again. “I know you aren’t happy having to send Colin Brown to hospital. You can set a greenstick fracture. You know how to establish a dose of warfarin for a patient like Aggie. I used to feel that way myself, years ago, but now? Instead of getting satisfaction from doing a, I don’t know, a Caesarean section for a stranger, I get to help with the lives of my friends. Make a difference sometimes. It’s very, very good for the soul.”

  “And you don’t feel a bit Godlike when you do?”

  O’Reilly could tell from Barry’s tone he was curious, not critical. “Me?” he said. “Me? Godlike?” He laughed until he felt tears start. “I couldn’t possibly. Oh dear.” He controlled his laughter and said, “If I did, I’d be taking my own name in vain far too beJeezusly frequently and—” He finished his whiske
y. “—if you believe what certain parsons round Ulster preach, the Almighty wouldn’t go within a beagle’s gowl of a drop of the hard stuff.” O’Reilly rose. “Come on, Barry. Let’s get stuck into that Irish stew and between the pair of us get next week organised.”

  20

  We Will Pardon Thy Mistake

  “It’s decent of you to come down from Holywood at short notice, Sue,” Barry said as he let her into Number One half an hour after Fingal had left for Belfast. “Not everyone would reckon answering the phone was an exciting way of spending a Saturday.”

  “Happy to help out,” she said, taking off her coat and hanging it on the coatstand.

  The cashmere sweater she wore fitted her perfectly and Barry admired the swell of her breasts beneath. “You really don’t mind missing your sail-and-learn class at the Yacht Club?”

  She shook her head. “I told you on the phone, silly, today’s part two of diesel engine maintenance for beginners.” She laughed. “I’ve done pretty well on the theory of sailing, coastal pilotage, anchoring, chart reading, buoyage, all the boating stuff, but I don’t think I’m cut out to footer about with fuel injectors, piston rings, oil filters, oil changes. Far too messy and you always end up stinking of diesel. Anyway I enjoyed our dinner last week.” She looked him right in the eye and smiled. “A lot. And I was thinking having to wait until next weekend when you were off duty again was quite a while. Seemed to me a trip here beat skinning my knuckles footering about with a torque wrench on a banjo bolt, and it gives me a chance to see you too.”

  Nice to know how you’re rated, Barry thought, second to avoiding skinned knuckles, and he smiled. “Um … I did … enjoy our dinner last week too. Very much.” And the moonlit drive home, he thought, remembering their kisses when he’d parked on a farm lane near Holywood to say goodnight. He was delighted she felt as he did—that waiting until next weekend was far too long. “It’s great you’ve come today. I just hope I don’t get many calls.”

  “If you do,” she waved a leather briefcase, “I brought my reading and I’ll not mind catching up with some work and answering the phone if I have to.” She moved closer.