An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

  O’Reilly glanced at Julie, who was shaking her head, but clearly deciding not to correct her husband even though her lips framed the word “subjects.”

  “Ould Dapper, he says he’s sorry, but unless we can top the two thousand pounds we’ll not get the wee house.” He squeezed Julie’s hand. “Julie here’s all upset and I’m not too happy myself, but Dapper says, and he knows these things, that it’s not worth more than two thousand at most and we’d be daft to offer any more.”

  “I’m sorry, Julie,” O’Reilly said, “but I have to agree with Mister Frew.”

  She nodded her head, dashed the back of a hand across her eyes, hicupped, and said, “I do understand, sir. I shouldn’t have got my heart so set on it.” She patted her swollen tummy and took a deep breath. “I’d the nursery all planned and I could see the wane in her pram in the back garden under them lime trees.”

  “It’s all right, love.” Donal leant across and kissed her forehead. “I’ll find us another place. Never you worry.” He forced a smile. “At least I’ll not have to level that big mound in the back garden.”

  Barry said quietly, “That’s only the half of it, Doctor O’Reilly. Go on please, Donal.”

  Donal’s face reddened and an artery throbbed at his temple. “I asked Dapper if there was any chance the other fellah, whoever he is, might change his mind.” Donal clenched his teeth before saying, “There’s about as much chance of that as there is of Rathlin Island floating over to Scotland for a weekend.”

  O’Reilly sat forward in his chair. “Why?”

  Donal looked at Barry and back to O’Reilly. “You and Doctor Laverty’ll keep it to yourselves. I know that, but Dapper’s not supposed to give away names. I told youse he’s a right good head. He told me, on the QT like, the other is a fellah from Belfast. He owns a shirt factory. He’s got pots of money. His name’s Mister Ivan McCluggage.”

  O’Reilly stiffened. This shirt factory owner suddenly seemed to be intruding into life in Ballybucklebo. Why? And who was his silent partner? Cromie’d said Charlie hadn’t been able to answer that question, but had gleaned a hint that he was a North Down man.

  Donal straightened his narrow shoulders and looked O’Reilly in the eye. “Doctor, sir, it’s only about a month since youse sorted things for me and my mates over that there horse. Now me and Julie don’t want to be any trouble, you know, but youse two being learnèd men, is there any way youse could help Julie and me?”

  O’Reilly looked at Barry, who held up his hands palms up and hoisted his shoulders.

  “It’s all right, sir,” Julie said. “We know you can’t fix everything.”

  Donal patted her belly. “I’d do anything for you and the wee fellah in there.”

  “And all I can do is make some enquiries,” O’Reilly said, “but honestly I’m none too hopeful.”

  “We understand,” Julie said, rising to her feet. “Come on, Donal. We’ve taken too much of the doctors’ time, so we have.” She smiled at Barry. “I’ll be back in to see you in two weeks for my next antenatal visit. Not long to wait now.”

  “Not long at all,” Barry said, slipping off the couch and opening the door for the couple.

  Donal crammed a woolly toque on his head and pulled it down over the tops of both ears. “I’d not want nobody to think I’d met a Sioux on the warpath, so I’d not.” He closed the door.

  “Bugger,” said O’Reilly. “Hellfire and damnation. What are we going to do?”

  “Sorry,” Barry said. “I’ve no ideas.”

  O’Reilly scratched his chin. “All right,” he said, “what do we know? For sure only that a man called Ivan McCluggage wants the house. He has a silent partner in his shirt factory and he’s suddenly getting interested in property in Ballybucklebo. I’ve just heard from Cromie, from a man who knows a man, that McCluggage’s partner comes from near here.” O’Reilly scratched the nape of his neck. “I can only think of one man here who knows a great deal about property and always has an eye out for the main chance when it comes to making a fast few quid.”

  “Bishop?” Barry pursed his lips and exhaled through his nose. “I suppose—”

  “I know, Barry. There’s not a scrap of evidence to connect the two, but … but, damn it, I can feel it.”

  Barry laughed. “Don’t tell me you’re getting like Kinky?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Not me, but humour me, Barry, let’s assume for a minute I’m right. What would a shirt factory owner want with a house here that he’s willing to pay probably more than it’s worth to get it? Who told him about it?”

  Barry said, “Bishop’s a builder. Perhaps he wants to fix the place up and sell it for a profit and doesn’t want folks to know he’s interested?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “I doubt it. He’d know to the penny what the place should fetch. The estate agent’ll have disclosed what Donal had offered. They have to. And why involve his partner? Bishop would make a damn sight more money if he bought it himself. So McCluggage’s upped the ante to be sure Donal’s out, no one else offers, and he gets it, but by the time a couple of hundred’s spent into really doing it up…? It doesn’t make sense, so why, damn it, why in the name of the wee man do they want the place? Why?”

  Barry said, “It’s just a thought, but the cottage is in the hollow of that God-awful hairpin bend. I wonder if council has any plans to straighten it? I nearly went off the road there driving Sue to the restaurant last week. I was … a little distracted.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “And you reckon that because he’s on council, he might be planning to get them to do just that and then he’d make a lot of money when the place came under a compulsory purchase order?”

  “I hadn’t thought it through, and you know Bertie better than I do. But he could be using McCluggage as a front so he can’t be accused of using inside information.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Yes, I do know Bertie, by God,” he said. “Indeed I bloody well do. I’ve seen him at the rugby club committee. If he wants something done he’s like a flaming juggernaut—”

  “Unstoppable,” Barry said.

  “Exactly. If Bertie sees a chance to make a few pounds he’ll have the council eating out of his hand. They’ll be begging to be allowed to straighten the bloody road. Jasus, Barry.” O’Reilly wagged a finger. “I think you’re dead on the money. Councils that buy property have to pay the assessed value, that’s two thousand five hundred pounds, and add a hundred or two to compensate the owners for the inconvenience of buying another house or renting while they’re house hunting. It would certainly be worth his while. Hell, Bertie may even get the contract to demolish the very house he’s bought and do the road straightening.”

  “Do you really think the councillor would?” Barry stopped and turned to stare at the Snellen’s eye chart on the wall as if trying to decipher hieroglyphics. “Good Lord, Fingal. It does make perfect sense.”

  “This is just the kind of swindle Bertie Bishop loves. Do you know, he’d not even have to pay any tax if the council buys the house? And he’s smart enough to have covered his tracks. Using McCluggage as a front is a stroke of genius even if he’s going to have to split the profits.” O’Reilly took a deep breath and blew it out. “But I’m buggered if I can see what we can do about it. It’s pure supposition that Bishop’s even involved, and if we accuse him all he has to do is deny it … and he would.”

  26

  In the Neolithic Age

  “Are you sure you don’t mind me bringing Max?” Sue Nolan was peering into Barry’s Volkswagen and eyeing the backseat. “I’d feel awful if I had to leave him at home all day on a Saturday again. He’ll be no bother.”

  “Of course I’m sure. Pop him in the back.”

  “Just be a tick.” She ran back into her flat, reappearing with the mad spaniel bounding behind her. She tipped the front passenger seat forward and the animal charged in. “Stay put, Max.” Readjusting the seat, she climbed in herself and leant across to kiss Barry. “I’ve be
en looking forward to today,” she said. “How was your week?”

  Barry savoured the kiss, smiled, and headed to the Belfast to Bangor Road. “Medically it was pretty routine. Most of the work in general practice is. I did deliver a baby on Thursday night though. Nice wee boy.”

  “Heavens,” she said, “that must be satisfying.”

  “It is. At least I think so. That’s why I’m going to give specialising a try.”

  “Starting in July.” She squeezed his arm. “And I’ll be home in Broughshane then, just down the road. Two whole months of summer holidays. Wonderful.”

  “It’s all right for some,” he said with a grin, “but most of us have to work. I don’t know what my on-call schedule will be yet, but when I do get time off, you promised to show me the Glens of Antrim.” Still tingling from her kiss and memories of her soft body against his last Saturday after lunch, he thought about taking long walks in those rugged valleys with Sue. He hoped there were lots of secluded places there. “Yacht Club today though, and we’ve a detour first. Then on to Ballyholme for lunch and your sailing course and last-minute boat work for me.”

  “Detour?”

  “You know our housekeeper was in hospital. She came home on Wednesday and is meant to be resting, but try to get Mrs. Kincaid to rest? The best of British luck.” He shook his head. “While she was sick the villagers made sure Doctor O’Reilly and I were well fed. We haven’t been altogether efficient about returning things like pie dishes, which she wasn’t slow to point out once she started sniffing about in her kitchen. I’ve taken most of them back, but I’ve one more to drop off.”

  “Fine by me.”

  “I think you’ll enjoy Sonny and Maggie Houston,” Barry said. He steered the car wide of a man trundling along on a woman’s bicycle. Barry might be taking on some of O’Reilly’s traits, but forcing cyclists into the ditch wasn’t one of them.

  He waited until a stream of cars being led by a slow-moving rust-pocked Massey-Harris tractor had passed, then made his turn and parked a short distance along the narrow country road near a two-storey Georgian house, grey with green window trim. Sonny Houston’s Sunbeam-Talbot was parked to one side. Unusually for somewhere as damp as Ulster, there was no moss on the clean roof slates, and Barry knew why. Although the building dated back to the early nineteenth century, the slates had been installed less than a year ago. “Come on,” Barry said, “but leave Max. The folks here have five dogs and a cat.” He chuckled. “The cat’s called General Sir Bernard Law Montgomery because he’s from Ulster and likes a good fight.”

  Sue laughed. “Quite the town for noble cats. Doctor O’Reilly has her ladyship and now Sir Bernard. The real Monty’s a lord too, you know.”

  “Viscount Montgomery of Alamein.” Barry lifted a paper bag containing the pie dish, got out, and took her hand. “Maybe we should ask Maggie to elevate the General to the peerage.”

  “Eejit.”

  He led her through a cast-iron gate in a low stone wall and along a path of flagstones between two small manicured lawns.Window boxes on the lower sills were ablaze with geranium blooms, pink and orange and red. Between two stems, the dew-spangled filigree of an orb-weaver’s web caught and reflected the sunlight.

  Barry knocked on the door. A chorus of barks rang out and over it a man’s voice. “Quiet, dogs. Into the kitchen.” The barking stopped and the front door was opened. “Doctor Laverty. How are you?” There was a genuine warmth in Sonny Houston’s voice that Barry always appreciated. Sonny’s silver hair was neatly combed and Barry was pleased to see that the man’s cheeks showed none of the duskiness of his chronic heart failure, so the drugs O’Reilly had prescribed were still controlling it.

  “Sonny Houston,” Barry said to Sue. And turning to Sonny, “I believe you know Miss Nolan.”

  “One of our schoolteachers. We’ve never actually been introduced so I’m delighted to meet you properly.” He inclined his head.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Houston.”

  “Please,” he said, “call me Sonny.”

  “And it’s Sue.”

  “Thank you, Sue,” he said. “Do come in. Maggie’s in the lounge.” He opened the door completely and ushered them into a wide hall. Barry noticed the familiar blue oar with gilt lettering hanging in the hall. Sonny had been a Cambridge University rowing blue. For a second Barry’s thoughts drifted to a more recent Cambridge student, one Patricia Spence, but the memory was driven away by the happy enthusiasm in Sue’s voice. “Those pictures, Sonny. That’s Petra in Jordan, isn’t it? Wherever did you get them?”

  “I was there in the ’30s,” Sonny said.

  “Sonny’s the archaeologist I was telling you about, Sue.” He said to Sonny, “Sue’s interested in the Stone Age.”

  “Are you, my dear? How wonderful. I may have something very exciting to show you in a minute, but…” He opened a door and said, “Maggie, Doctor Laverty’s here and he’s brought Miss Sue Nolan.”

  Maggie Houston née MacCorkle was in a wing-backed armchair with the one-eyed, one-eared General on her lap. A rotund dog of indiscernible breed lay at her feet. Maggie put down a copy of the Belfast Newsletter and smiled her toothless grin. “Nice to see you both. Would you like a cup of tea in your hand and a biccy? I’ve no plum cake the day.”

  “That would be lovely, Mrs. Houston,” Sue said before Barry could stop her.

  “I’ll only be a wee minute,” Maggie said, and stood. The General made a deep-throated growl as he was decanted onto the floor and Maggie headed, Barry presumed, for the kitchen.

  “Hang on, Maggie. I brought this back,” he said, and gave her the pie dish. “The cottage pie was wonderful.”

  She took the dish. “And we hear that Kinky’s home. We’re all very pleased, so we are. You give her our love, now.” She trotted off.

  Sonny bent to pat the dog. “Normally I don’t allow them in the sitting room, but Missy here was a naughty girl. She got out on her own when she was in heat. Silly of me. She’s the only one of my five who isn’t neutered. She’s due to whelp very soon and we like to keep an eye on her.” He straightened. “I don’t suppose either one of you would like a pup of indeterminate lineage?”

  Barry shook his head. “Arthur Guinness is enough dog for Number One.”

  “My Max is out in Barry’s car,” Sue said. “Sorry.”

  Sonny smiled. “Perfectly all right. Please sit down. Now, Sue, you’re interested in the Neolithic period, Doctor Laverty just said.”

  “I am. I had a wonderful teacher in Broughshane. She did her job teaching the English history that’s compulsory, but Miss Tipping always left a wee bit of time at the end of class to tell us about Irish mythology … the real people and the times that gave rise to the legends. I’ve never forgotten her, or the prehistory. It’s been a hobby ever since.”

  “The Neolithic peoples were the first ones here,” Sonny said. “Then they were subjugated by bronze users from the Mediterranean, the Firbolg. They were dark, small folks who were in turn displaced by the Picts.”

  “In Irish the Cruithne,” Sue said.

  “I never learned any of this at my school,” Barry said.

  “I wouldn’t have either if it hadn’t been for Miss Tipping, bless her,” said Sue. “It was those first people that really captured my imagination. In our Irish folk tales we call them the Tuatha dé Danaan, they’re the ones who built the lios and ráths, those are the forts, and also the crannógs, the man-made islands, and the underground passage graves called the sidthe.”

  “Isn’t there a big one in County Meath near the Boyne River?” asked Barry.

  “Indeed there is,” said Sonny. “Newgrange is one of the most important megalithic structures in Europe. It was built between 3,100 and 2,900 B.C. There’s evidence of the Stone Age culture all over Ireland.” Sonny leant forward. “I believe we’ve overlooked some interesting sites right on our own doorstep. Outside Newcastle on the southeast coast of County Down there’s Legananny Dolmen and in the southw
est corner of the county at Lough Island Reavy there’s a stone ring fort or ráth. We know about those ones, and some others,” he lowered his voice, “but I’m certain I’m on the track of one close to Ballybucklebo.”

  Sue whistled. “Honestly? How exciting. What makes you think so?”

  “The old Irish monks were wonderful cataloguers, and I have a friend, John McIlderry, who gets me photocopies of ancient manuscripts.” Sonny pointed to a folding card table covered in printed papers. “Come and see,” he said. He handed Sue a sheet. “That’s the first page of one that was illuminated by monks at Bangor Abbey about the time Saint Comgall founded the place in the sixth century A.D. It’s in Latin, of course, but perfectly legible.” Sonny’s tone was that of one who would have been surprised to learn that not everyone was a fluent Latin reader. “It’s not as old as the Stone Age, but it and documents like it are clues I’m following.”

  “Because the old monks may have described things they saw, but aren’t obvious today?” Sue said. “I’ve read about the technique. Piecing their evidence together, and using it to uncover actual structures. Real detective work.” Barry thought she looked wistful when she said, “Sometimes I think I missed my calling.”

  Sonny shook his head. “Most of the time it’s pretty dry, but the occasional discovery is what makes it exciting.”

  Sue smiled. “A bit like getting a pupil to understand something for the first time.”

  “I imagine that is exactly correct. Now,” he said, producing another paper, “this one is from another source.”

  Sue, eyes bright, bent to look at the ancient words.

  “It alludes to a lios, a ring fort, or a sidthe, a passage grave, three miles east of a monastery where a Brother Finnian wrote the description.” Sonny picked up a magnifying glass and bent over the photocopy. “Can you see, Sue?”