An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

  “I … I’ll sit here, please,” she said, starting to lower herself into an armchair. “Oh, my,” she said softly, “but it does be very, very good to be home.”

  He could tell by the way her voice and her lip both trembled that Kinky was having to fight back her tears.

  “And I do so love tulips. Did yourself do the card, sir?”

  “You’ve seen my handwriting, Kinky Kincaid,” said O’Reilly with a smile. “No, it was Barry who did the lettering, but it was Kitty’s idea. So were the tulips.” She’d told him when they’d last spoken on the phone, although rather than specifically mentioning tulips she had suggested “Kinky’s favourite flowers.” O’Reilly had known of the Corkwoman’s fondness for their bright colours.

  “Well,” she said, “Miss O’Hallorhan is a thoughtful woman, so.”

  O’Reilly was disappointed at the formality, but he knew that it was going to take more than a hand-lettered placard and a bunch of flowers to restore Kitty to Kinky’s good graces.

  “Please thank her for me, sir. In fact, I’ll thank her myself when next I see her, which I hope will be soon if we’re to get this wedding planned.”

  That was promising, he thought, but said, “Kinky, I am delighted you’re going to work on that, but you’ve to get your feet under you first.” He put her bag on the floor and tucked the rug over her knees. “Are you warm enough? I could light the fire.”

  “I’m toasty, sir, thank you.” She frowned. “And planning can be done without getting out of a chair. I am not as strong as I was, not yet, but I’m not an invalid, sir.”

  “Kinky, you’re wonderful.” O’Reilly then laughed before he said, “No one thinks you’re an invalid, but, and I’m speaking as a doctor, people who overdo things after an illness can have relapses. I’m delighted to have you home and I want to keep you here so I’ll be the judge of when you can start work.” He nodded at her TV. “And it won’t be until after you’ve had a chance to see your favourites on Saturday night.”

  Kinky’s frown fled. “I’ve missed two whole episodes of Z-Cars,” she said, “and I want to know what’s happening to that nice policeman from Belfast, Bert Lynch.”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” Kinky said.

  Helen Hewitt entered, carrying a steaming mug, and set it on a mat on the wine table with the bell.

  “That,” said O’Reilly, “is something I believe you told Doctor Laverty you’d like.”

  “I’ve just made it fresh, so I have,” Helen said.

  O’Reilly chuckled. “Helen was warming it on the stove when we arrived. We wanted it to be a little surprise.”

  Kinky inhaled. “By the good Lord,” she said, “beef tea.” She lifted the mug.

  “Careful,” said Helen. “It’s very hot.”

  “And shouldn’t it be drunk hot if a body’s to get the goodness of it?” Kinky sipped. Her face creased into a massive smile. “Helen, I couldn’t have done better myself. Thank you.” She sipped again. “I can feel the power of it, so.”

  O’Reilly hid a smile. He’d looked out Kinky’s own recipe for Helen to try, but given Kinky’s fierce possessiveness about her kitchen and everything in it he’d felt it best not to tell her. “Right.” He gestured to Kinky’s bag. “Helen, would you please take that through to Mrs. Kincaid’s bedroom?”

  “I’ll see to unpacking it in a shmall-little minute, Helen,” Kinky said.

  Helen returned and said, “It is good to see you home, Mrs. Kincaid.”

  Before Kinky could answer, O’Reilly heard the ring of the front doorbell. “I’ll see to it.” Helen left at a trot.

  O’Reilly frowned. “Wonder who that could be? When surgery’s open the customers are meant to come in through the waiting-room door.”

  Helen soon returned with a huge bunch of lilacs and the room was filled with their perfume. She handed Kinky a card. “Mister Auchinleck brought the flowers and the card.”

  “Well,” said Kinky, “that did be very thoughtful.” A small smile played on her lips. “Be a good girl, now, and take them into the kitchen. There’s a Waterford vase in the cupboard to the left of the sink.”

  “I’ll see to it,” Helen said, and left.

  Kinky opened the envelope, removed the card, read, then slid the card back in the envelope. “I must write Mister Auchinleck a thank-you letter.” Her smile was vast. “He does be quite the gentleman, so.”

  “You do that, Kinky,” O’Reilly said, smiling himself, certain that Kinky had a suitor and was going to accept his overtures. He was delighted for her. He said, “By all means write a letter, but for right now, Mrs. Maureen ‘Kinky’ Kincaid, you sit there at your ease, drink up your beef tea while it’s still hot, and if you need anything, give that little bell a shake and Helen or Barry or myself will come. Helen collected some books from the lounge that she thought you might enjoy reading. You concentrate on getting better. We’ve missed you, and we’re delighted to have you back where you belong. At home.”

  He saw her eyes mist. Not wishing to embarrass her by seeing her tears, O’Reilly didn’t wait for a reply but left her to savour her homecoming—and no doubt ready to issue a string of orders to Helen about what needed doing as soon as she returned with Archie’s flowers in the vase. And O’Reilly knew the first direction would be for Helen to polish the brass plate on the door of Number One, Main Street, Ballybucklebo.

  25

  I Am Disappointed by That Stroke

  “It does,” said Kinky, “seem different, sir, me sitting up here taking tea with yourself, so.” She and O’Reilly were both on their second cup yet she continued to look round as if she had never set foot in a room she must have dusted and vacuumed thousands of times.

  O’Reilly, in the other upstairs armchair, laughed. “We should have started doing this years ago, Kinky. We need to plan, and doing it over a cup of tea makes it that bit more pleasant.” And it’s a none-too-subtle reinforcement of how important you are to me, Mrs. Kinky Kincaid, he thought. He handed her a piece of paper. “I’ve started my list for my half of the guests. Please take a look.”

  She scanned his handwriting, tutting and muttering about inky spiders. “I can see why you’d have your two surgeon friends as ushers,” Kinky said, but then frowned. “I am surprised, though, that your brother, Mister Lars, is an usher too and won’t be your best man.”

  “Lars Porsena O’Reilly is absolutely terrified of public speaking,” O’Reilly said, leaning back in his chair. “I’d go as far as to call it a phobia, Kinky. Our father may have been a professor of classics and English literature and a recognised orator, but Lars did not inherit that talent.”

  “And the best man has to make a speech.” Kinky nodded. “I do think sparing him that is a great kindness, so.”

  O’Reilly pursed his lips. “It was the only way to be sure he’d actually come. Lars would normally be going to his place in Villefranche for the summer, but he was so tickled when I told him back in April that I was getting married again he’s delayed going until after the wedding. But I had to promise him he wouldn’t have to get up on his hind legs and make a speech. I’ve known Cromie and Charlie for more than thirty years. Which one could I have picked without possibly upsetting the other? But Barry’s like family. He’ll do a great job.” O’Reilly poured himself another cup.

  “You haven’t seen Mister Lars since March, have you, sir?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Between the practice here and his legal work and his hobbies we haven’t been able to make time.”

  “I think the pair of you should make time. If I may say, it seems a lonely life for your brother in that wee town on Strangford Lough.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “I don’t think Lars is happier than when he’s in his greenhouse with only his orchids for company or tramping around Strangford bird-watching, but your point’s taken, Kinky. I will be taking a trip down the Saturday after next.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” she said. “Family is t
he most important thing of all, so.”

  “And you’re family too,” O’Reilly said.

  She made no acknowledgement. “And Miss O’Hallorhan, will she be arranging the bride’s side soon?”

  “She’s working on her list. Her father died three years ago and she’s been worrying over who to ask to give her away. There aren’t any close male relatives. Only a distant cousin, Brendan. I thought I’d ask the marquis. He’d be coming anyway as my guest and he and Kitty hit it off so well at his pheasant shoot. Of course we’ll invite Myrna, his sister, too.”

  “Grand, so, Doctor. And I’ll make a note,” Kinky said, picking up her fountain pen. “Now. I don’t see Councillor and Flo Bishop’s names.”

  From below came the double rings of the telephone. Helen, whom O’Reilly had last seen working in the dining room, would answer it.

  “You’re right.” O’Reilly grimaced, but said, “The bloody man’s a councillor. Can’t avoid it. Put ’em on there.” He watched Kinky inscribe “Mr. and Mrs. Albert Bishop” in her neat copperplate.

  “And we’ll have to have my old classmate and colleague, Doctor Fitzpatrick from the Kinnegar.”

  Kinky sniffed. Fitzpatrick had made the mistake of crossing her—once.

  “Two classic cases of ‘trapped by courtesy,’” O’Reilly said, “but, noblesse oblige.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor O’Reilly,” Helen said as she came through the door. One of Kinky’s aprons and a pair of yellow rubber gloves could not hide how attractive she looked in a rollneck sweater and blue jeans. Her hair was up in a fashionable beehive hairdo. “Excuse me, it’s a Sir Donald Cromie’s secretary on the phone.” There was a hushed tone to her voice. “She’s getting her boss and asked me to fetch you.”

  O’Reilly stood. “Thanks, Helen. Excuse me, Kinky.” He took the stairs two at a time.

  A woman’s voice came over the phone. “Sir Donald will be with you in a moment.”

  “Fingal?” Cromie said.

  “Cromie? What the hell are you on about? Is Sir Donald Cromie too bloody important to pick up the phone and dial?”

  “Not at all, but you should see the stack of calls I’ve to make and you know as well as I do how much time you can waste waiting to be answered. My Joyce is a good lass. She calls ahead.” He chuckled. “I think she’s more impressed with my knighthood than I am and loves to use it when she calls.”

  “My Helen is in a state of shock. I think she reckons a knight of the realm is next to royalty.”

  “Far from it,” Cromie said. “Look. I finally got hold of Mister Burland, the bursar. I was right. There are two scholarships available to working-class kids from Ireland to go to medical school. But I’m afraid they both may be nonstarters. They’re like the Rhodes, specifically for young men.”

  “Damnation.” O’Reilly pursed his lips and glanced up to see that Helen had followed him down the stairs. What a waste of those extra years of study. What a bloody awful waste.

  “One’s watertight. Only an act of Parliament can change the terms of the bequest, but there may be a glimmer of hope in the other.”

  O’Reilly brightened. “Go on.”

  “There’s been a MacNeill Bursary since Queen’s was opened in 1849.”

  “MacNeill?”

  “The Lords of Ballybucklebo,” Cromie said.

  “My marquis?” O’Reilly’s eyes narrowed.

  “Apparently.”

  “Good Lord, I’ve never even heard of it.” He frowned. Surely the winning of such a prize would be instantly the only topic of proud conversation in the village. Of course, few if any children here completed the university entrance requirements. Most went to work at fifteen, on the family farm or in Belfast’s shipyards and linen mills.

  “Mister Burland says that it is in the gift of the head of the family, and it’s only for potential students from County Down. It hasn’t been awarded for some time, and it’s presently open.”

  Helen grinned at him as she went into the dining room and closed the door. He heard the Hoover start up. There had to be more in life for such a bright young woman than low-paying jobs, then marriage to a workingman and years of motherhood.

  O’Reilly pursed his lips, then said, “But it’s only for boys, isn’t it?”

  “Burland thinks that is in the original will, yes. But he also thinks there might have been a codicil. He’s not sure.”

  “Go on.” O’Reilly nodded to a patient who had come from the surgery and was leaving by the front door. The older man knuckled his forehead.

  “Unfortunately, Burland doesn’t possess the original documents.”

  “Who the hell does?”

  “The marquis.”

  “Thanks, Cromie. I’ll follow up on that.” O’Reilly decided it would be worth a visit to Lord John MacNeill at Ballybucklebo House. He noticed Barry coming from the waiting room, heading for the surgery, and being followed by Donal and Julie Donnelly.

  “Still there, Fingal?” Cromie asked.

  “Sorry. Mind was wandering.”

  He heard a chuckle, then, “Be sure to be nice to it if it ever comes back.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Bugger off, Cromie, and thanks for the gen.”

  “One other thing. I bumped into Charlie this morning. Told him I’d be phoning you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Aye. He asked me to tell you that he’s had a word with the surgeon, Robin McCluggage. His brother Ivan does own a shirt factory. Robin used to be in it too, old family business, but he sold out his share.”

  “Who to?”

  “Charlie’s sorry, Fingal, but Robin’s not at liberty to say. It’s a silent partnership. He did let slip it’s someone from your part of County Down.”

  Fingal sighed. “Be nice to know exactly who. I have a half notion, but I’d like to be sure. Thanks for letting me know.”

  “You’re welcome, and good luck with whoever you’re trying to get a scholarship for. I’m off. See you next month.” The connection went dead.

  O’Reilly rubbed his hands. “At least,” he said to himself, “I’ll bet John can help Helen. I just know he can. Pity there doesn’t seem to be any real information about McCluggage that Barry could use to help Aggie.”

  “It does be said,” he heard Kinky remark, “that grown men who talk to themselves—”

  He spun and saw her standing in the hall. “What are you doing here? I left you hard at work on that list upstairs. And sitting down.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, “the nurses at the Royal told me that I had to walk about every day so I’d not get clots in my legs, so.”

  “It’s twenty-three days since your operation. When folks get DVTs it’s usually within three weeks,” he said, knowing he was not going to persuade Kinky Kincaid to take it easy any longer.

  “I am glad for that. Now, sir, I finished your list and left it on the lounge table. I enjoyed our tea, but if you’ll excuse me I’m sure the silver needs polishing, so.”

  “If it does, ask Helen to take care of it.” He pretended not to notice her “don’t be silly” look.

  “Fingal.” Barry stood frowning outside the surgery door. “Something’s come up. I need your help.”

  “Sure.” O’Reilly crossed the hall and went into the surgery. Donal and Julie both half-turned in their chairs and stared at him. Julie was tearful. Was something wrong with her pregnancy? She was due on July fifth so she’d be—he did a quick calculation—thirty-four and a half weeks. “Doctor Laverty, is Julie all right?”

  “Julie’s fine and the pregnancy’s fine,” Barry said. “Donal, explain to Doctor O’Reilly what you told me.” Barry hopped up and sat on the examination couch, legs dangling, as he had on the very first surgery they’d taken together last July.

  O’Reilly walked past Donal to sit in the swivel chair. “I see your thatch is growing back nicely, Donal,” O’Reilly said.

  “But it’s still dead itchy,” Donal said, scratching the stubble over his recent surgical scar. Hi
s other hand held Julie’s. “But never mind a bit of irritation. It’s the wee house. It’s desperate, so it is, sir. I done everything like you told me, and thanks a million for putting in the word with Mister Canning at the bank, and all. He was dead on, so he was. We seen Dapper Frew first thing last Monday and made an offer of one thousand seven hundred … just like you said to, sir. It was contagious on us—”

  Julie, who’d stopped crying, managed a weak smile and said, “Contingent on us, love.”

  “Aye, right enough, contingent. Thank you, Julie.” He beamed at her. “Julie keeps me right, you know. Contingent on us getting a mortgage. We trotted over to the bank. Dapper’d phoned and give your man Mister Canning all the details. He explained a lot of stuff about monthy payments, insuring the mortgage, but at the heels of the hunt he said if we could put eight hundred pounds down, and we could manage nine at a pinch, you know, he’d give us up to nine hundred at three and a half percent over twenty-five years. I can pay that off every month, wee buns. Mister Canning was dead up front, so he was. He said seeing what I earn, and all, and Julie not going to be working after the wee lad comes, nine hundred was the very best he can do, but it was enough, we thought.”

  That would certainly buy the house, and if Donal and Julie could get it for £1,700 O’Reilly knew they’d enough in their nest egg to pay the incidental expenses and furnish it. Donal would have no trouble making the monthly payments from his wages. “So what went wrong?”

  “We seen a lawyer and he was for taking care of what he calls exchanging contracts, because we heard the estate was going to accept. Then, there now, about an hour ago … I’m still on ‘the sick,’ so I was at home … Dapper comes round, says he til me, ‘Youse two’s up the creek. There’s been an offer for the whole two thousand pounds, and cash too.’ Sellers, says Dapper, always prefer that to mortgages. Says I til him, ‘They can’t do that to Julie and me. We’re British objects. We’ve our rights, so we have.’”