An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry grunted. PUO? He’d made that diagnosis often enough himself. It was doctor talk for “the patient has a fever, but we don’t know what the hell is going on.”

  “You know we treat doctors and nurses with a bit of extra care.”

  It was true.

  “Doctor Swanson thinks it’s flu, except it’s August and we don’t see too much flu this time of year. He wants to be on the safe side, so he’s taken some blood samples and a throat swab. We’ll have the results in the morning.”

  “Fair enough.” Probably was flu. He’d be discharged as soon as the results were in. Get back to his own bed. Lots of fluids. Rest and a few days to shake it. Nothing to worry about. “Thanks, Jan.” Barry sank more deeply into his pillow. “Thank you.” And thought he heard her say, “What you need is sleep, and lots of TLC, and you’ll get that from me, I promise.”

  Tender loving care. She was a lovely girl, was Jan Peters. Lovely. Barry’s last thoughts as he drifted off were that he hoped someone had let Virginia know how he was, and that he must be quite ill if he couldn’t be bothered to recall what ailments, other than infections, could give someone the symptoms that afflicted him.

  13

  More Business After Dinner

  April 21, 1969

  “Please come in, Commander and Mrs. O’Reilly.” Thompson, Lord John MacNeill’s butler/valet, stood in the doorway at the top of a low flight of broad sandstone steps leading to the front door of Ballybucklebo House. Thompson, once gunnery chief petty officer aboard HMS Warspite and a shipmate of O’Reilly’s, was a true gentlemen’s gentleman, insisting on using Fingal’s old rank while he and John, lately lieutenant-colonel in the Irish Guards, had dropped theirs years ago when they’d left the forces. “Would you like me to take your stole, Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  “Thank you, Thompson,” she said as he folded it over his left arm.

  O’Reilly admired the way she filled her simple black knee-length long-sleeved evening dress over sheer black hose and patent leather heels. Her dark hair with its silver tips was neatly coiffed, avoiding the multilayered extravagances favoured by younger women these days.

  “His lordship, Lady Myrna, and Colonel Mullan are in the study,” said Thompson. “If you’ll follow me?”

  O’Reilly was looking forward to seeing how the marquis was going to try to dissuade Colonel Mullan from interfering with the sporting club’s plans to hold functions. “You look very smart, dear, in your dinner suit,” she said to O’Reilly as he offered his arm. “I think it’s so civilized to dress for dinner once in a while.”

  At least, O’Reilly thought, John had been informal enough to stipulate “black tie without decorations.” Fingal’s medals only came out on Remembrance Day. “And you, my love, look stunning.” And by God she did. He patted her bottom and she stifled a giggle.

  The parquet floor rang under her heels as the three walked beneath the high ceiling of the oak-panelled hall adorned with portraits of the incumbent Marquis of Ballybucklebo’s predecessors, stern-looking gentlemen all, some alone, others surrounded by their families. O’Reilly stopped to admire a more recent watercolour, Dying Storm, by the Grey Abbey artist Bob Milliken. “Not often you see mallard and widgeon flying together, but it does happen in heavy weather down on Strangford Lough.”

  “I like the seascape behind the birds,” Kitty said. “It can be tricky to render in watercolours.”

  “His lordship,” said Thompson, “greatly admires Mister Milliken’s work. That was a birthday present from Lady Myrna.” He took two more paces, opened a door to his left, stood aside to let O’Reilly and Kitty enter, and announced, “My lord, Commander and Mrs. O’Reilly,” then, as a good butler should, closed the door behind them and vanished.

  The spacious room with its three walls of floor-to-ceiling bookshelves smelled of old books, leather, and the peat that burned in a huge fireplace. Lord John MacNeill stood in front of it, glass in hand and ramrod straight, his iron-grey hair neatly trimmed. He may have enjoyed Bob Milliken’s watercolours, but behind him, hanging on the wall above the mantel, was a family portrait done in oils of a younger John, his late wife, Laura, and John’s only son, his heir and successor, Sean. The family’s old red setter Oisin, who had been succeeded by Finn MacCool, lay in the foreground. O’Reilly had always found the picture striking, but tonight it had given him half an idea about another matter that had been puzzling him. He’d think on it later, because now the formalities must be observed.

  The marquis beamed. “Fingal. Kitty, how lovely to see you both.” The sombreness of his barathea dinner suit was relieved by an immaculately starched white shirt, maroon bow tie, and maroon cummerbund. He shook Fingal’s hand.

  Lady Myrna Ferguson, the marquis’s sister, holding a sherry, sat on a Chippendale-style mahogany love seat probably made in Dublin, and said, “Lovely to see you both.”

  Kitty inclined her head.

  Mullan had already risen as befitted a gentleman when a lady entered. He set his glass on a nearby wine table.

  “And Colonel Oliver Mullan, late of the Royal Ulster Rifles. Oliver—”

  Interesting, O’Reilly thought. Typical of John MacNeill to be on Christian name terms with the man already.

  “I believe you have met Doctor Fingal O’Reilly, but may I present Mrs. Kitty O’Reilly?”

  Kitty offered her hand, which Mullan took and in the continental manner raised to within an inch of his lips. “Enchanted,” he said, a smile lifting his pencil moustache as he spoke, but somehow, O’Reilly thought, the smile avoided the man’s deep-set blue eyes.

  “How do you do, Colonel?” Kitty said as he released her hand. “And please, it’s Kitty, and do sit down.”

  “Oliver,” he said. “Thank you.” He sat on the love seat beside Myrna and picked up his drink.

  O’Reilly hid a smile. In Alexandria during the war they used to laugh at the formal politeness of the Arab nobility, but it appeared that civility was alive and well in this Ulster drawing room. Yet he also knew John MacNeill was the courteous master of setting folks at their ease.

  “The usual, Fingal, Kitty?” John MacNeill had already turned to a sideboard laden with decanters and glasses. “And do please have seats.”

  “Yes, please,” Kitty said, taking an armchair beside Myrna, who, looking a little severe in a silk mustard-coloured trouser suit, immediately admired Kitty’s outfit before John MacNeill gave her a gin and tonic.

  O’Reilly nodded and sat himself down on the upholstered seat of a simple, rectangular-backed chair. “Thank you, John,” he said, accepting a neat Jameson in a Waterford whiskey glass. “Sláinte,” said John, raising his glass.

  The company returned the toast.

  “So, Oliver,” the marquis said, “you were in the middle of telling us how you’re enjoying your new home here among us in Ballybucklebo?”

  “Very much,” Oliver said. “I’m settling in well. As a bachelor I’ve always enjoyed the simplicity of rural life. The peace and quiet.” His smile was self-deprecating. “When I’ve had the chance.”

  O’Reilly waited to see if anyone was going to pursue that hint about details of the man’s as yet undiscovered background or whether the reference to peace and quiet might give John the cue to enquire about Mullan’s noise complaint.

  “It is pleasant in the country,” Myrna said, “especially after the bustle of Belfast. I find riding a great relaxation. Do you ride, Oliver?”

  “I’m afraid not,” he said.

  “Pity,” she said.

  O’Reilly knew that Lady Myrna regarded anyone who did not ride, particularly to hounds, as odd. Many of the landed gentry did. She’d even tried to interest O’Reilly’s older brother, Lars, during their brief affair some years ago.

  “Do you get up to town often, Oliver?” John asked.

  “Not if I can avoid it,” Mullan said.

  O’Reilly felt he should contribute to the conversation. “I agree,” he said, “too many crowds and smells. Much prefer the
country.” He was impressed by how John and Myrna were keeping on neutral ground, neither discussing the topic that had led to his invitation here in the first place, nor prying into the newcomer’s background. Nor had anyone—yet—alluded to the recent upsurge in sectarian violence that had been the prime topic of conversation for several days. Perhaps it was time, but obliquely, to test the waters a bit. O’Reilly said, “Are you originally from Ulster, Oliver?” He sat back and sipped his Irish. “A lot of the Rifles were.”

  “I am,” said Oliver, “and proud of it. My folks were from Cookstown. My family was in linen.”

  O’Reilly saw a little moue cross Myrna’s brow. He’d bet his boots she was thinking: Linen. The family was in trade. No wonder the man doesn’t ride.

  John was nodding. The town in County Tyrone was the largest linen centre west of the River Bann, and considerable fortunes had been made in the past century.

  “They educated me locally until I was thirteen, then off to Dulwich in London.”

  “A very fine school, I believe,” Kitty said.

  That, O’Reilly thought, would certainly account for the man’s upper-class accent, and also confirmed that the family had been moneyed. Fees were high at public schools of that calibre.

  “Thank you. I was in Drake House.”

  O’Reilly sat back when he saw the slightest suggestion of a frown flit across John MacNeill’s face. Something wasn’t right.

  “And if I’m not prying, Oliver,” Myrna said, “I know you were a military man.” She smiled at her brother. “John was Irish Guards and Fingal the Royal Navy. So, you were with the Royal Ulster Rifles.”

  “That’s right. First battalion.”

  Myrna said, “John told me the first served in India before the war. We should introduce you to Miss Alice Moloney. She grew up there during the Raj. You and she will have a lot in common.”

  O’Reilly wondered what Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick would think about that. Might be good for him to have a potential rival for Alice’s attention.

  “I should enjoy that very much,” Oliver said. “I do want to fit in here.”

  “I’m sure you will,” Kitty said.

  Not if you keep interfering with the sporting club, O’Reilly thought.

  John, now clearly wanting to pursue Oliver’s military background, said, “Your battalion was converted to glider-borne light infantry during the war, I believe. Horsa gliders. Landed in Normandy on the afternoon of D-Day, 1944. Operation Mallard.”

  Nice segue, O’Reilly thought. John knows his British Army history, and that simple observation on the surface doesn’t seem like a probe, but I’ll be interested to see how the Colonel responds.

  “’Fraid I missed that party. Detached duties, don’tcha know? Bit hush-hush still. Official Secrets Act?”

  That had been twenty-five years ago, O’Reilly thought. The act would be in effect—just—but would expire by next year in its application to events of the early ’40s.

  “Quite,” John said, “we’ll say no more.” He sipped his drink. “Except to say that I once attended when your regimental pipes and drums were on parade. I’ll never forget them, saffron kilts, a most stirring march past. They were playing ‘The South Down Militia,’ as I recall. I still remember a line or two of the lyrics …

  From Greenland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strand

  The South Down Militia is the terror of the land.”

  “Will you listen to that lovely tenor?” said Myrna, smiling at her brother.

  “That’s a tune I’ll not forget in a hurry,” Oliver said. “And not one you’d soon be hearing on the Falls Road.”

  O’Reilly was probably the only one to notice that puzzled frown reappear on John’s face, a tightening of his shoulders. “Ah, quite. But,” John said, “enough old soldiers’ memories.” He sighed. Smiled. “Once in a while though I do get a bit sentimental about my old regiment. My son Sean’s just got his majority with them. Funny thing, your Rifles and my Guards have the same regimental motto, Quis Separabit?”

  “True, ‘Who shall separate us?’”

  O’Reilly thought he saw the tenseness leave John.

  “And my congratulations to your son,” Oliver said. “I believe, sir, the MacNeills have a distinguished history of serving their monarchs, but to be honest I’ve not gone to any regimental reunion dinners or kept up since I retired.” He sipped his drink. “I have, however, kept up with the news. I’m worried about the recent outbreaks of violence.”

  Oh-oh, O’Reilly thought. Was the man not going to heed this morning’s advice to keep his Loyalist leanings to himself?

  “It is troubling,” John said. “I heard on the six o’clock news tonight that, after this recent rash of bombings of water and power installations, British troops on garrison duty here at Palace Barracks are going to be used to guard such places from now on.” He set his empty glass on the sideboard. “And you are right to be concerned, Oliver. We all are, and there are no taboo subjects in this house, but I think we should probably drink up now and go in to dinner.”

  “Quite,” Oliver said, finishing his drink. He smiled. “And I agree, sir. No more politics tonight.”

  The door opened. Thompson coughed as if sensing the tension in the room. “My lord, ladies, gentlemen, Cook has asked me to tell you that dinner will be served in ten minutes.”

  “Thank you, Thompson,” John said as the butler withdrew. “No need to rush your drinks, everybody, but we’d better be on time. Cook will not be pleased if we let her mock turtle soup go cold.”

  Kitty smiled. “Your cook and Mrs. Auchinleck—she was Fingal’s full-time housekeeper for years and still works part time with us,” she explained to Oliver, “that pair are friends and sisters under the skin. Hell hath no fury like a good cook who thinks her efforts are not appreciated.”

  As they all laughed, Oliver Mullan muttered something about “fellow countrymen” that O’Reilly couldn’t hear. The man may have said no more about politics, but he appeared to be having the last word.

  * * *

  And so it had been throughout the meal. Conversation had ranged widely on nonsensitive subjects. It seemed Oliver had a particular interest in live theatre in London, something he shared with Myrna. They both had seen Agatha Christie’s The Mousetrap, which had been running since 1952. Neither thought much of Hair, which had opened at the Shaftesbury Theatre last September. Oliver’s interest went back a long way. As a pupil at Dulwich, he’d become very fond of the comedies of the Whitehall Theatre.

  O’Reilly had given up wondering when the topic of the noise bylaw was going to be broached. He had known John MacNeill for twenty-three years and had watched him play the long game often enough. O’Reilly had settled back and had, as always, enjoyed the delights of the marquis’s table.

  Now Cook and Thompson had been relieved of their responsibilities and had retired. O’Reilly was happy to have returned to the study for postprandial coffees and liqueurs. He was content with another Jameson, but had made a note of Oliver’s preference for a 1941 Taylor’s port. The man did have expensive tastes.

  And the excellent wines John had provided had had their expected effect as social lubricants. Oliver Mullan had revealed himself to be an accomplished raconteur. He was now saying, “I remember one visit from an E.N.S.A. troupe.”

  “Excuse me, Oliver,” Kitty said, “E.N.S.A.?”

  “Sorry. Entertainments National Service Association. It was an organisation set up in 1939 to provide entertainment for the troops. All kinds of performers would appear. Folks like Beatrice Lillie, Sir Harry Lauder, Sybil Thorndike, Al Bowlly.”

  “And much appreciated,” John said. “Let us, all ranks, get together, relax, and enjoy an evening’s fun. Bring the troops together. Foster regimental spirit, wouldn’t you say, Oliver?”

  Aha, O’Reilly thought. Here we go. Enjoy an evening’s fun together. Bring the troops together. I see where this is leading, but John said, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt. Pleas
e carry on.”

  Oliver warmed to his work. “We had a particularly overbearing sergeant major and he didn’t mean to be amusing but—I was there when he addressed the enlisted men.” Oliver’s Oxbridge tones vanished, and he sounded like a man from Belfast’s slums. “Right, youse lot. Right. Pay attention. Pay attention. The night youse is very lucky. A learnèd man is coming from Oxford University and he’s going for til give youse a talk about Kipling. Kipling.”

  O’Reilly admired the way Oliver timed his pause to perfection before saying, “And when he finishes. When he finishes youse will all applaud like billy-oh”—another pause—“even though I know not one of youse ignorant Bs has the faintest idea, not the foggiest notion, of how til kipple.”

  Myrna clapped her hand over her mouth, pulled it away. “How to kipple.” Her laughter rang to the rafters. Tears appeared at the corners of her eyes. “Oh my.” She subsided into a series of stifled throaty chuckles.

  Kitty too, was in stitches. “Oliver,” she said, “you missed your calling. That’s priceless.”

  He lowered his head in acknowledgement.

  O’Reilly too chuckled, and wondered how this seemingly cultured, well-educated, socially charming man could be the one who had lodged the sound bylaw complaint.

  John MacNeill smiled as he spoke. “Oliver,” he said, “it has been a pleasure having you come to dinner, and I know I can speak for Myrna when I say I hope we will be seeing more of you in the future.”

  “Thank you, both,” Oliver said. “It has been a wonderful evening, and a delight to meet you too, Kitty.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Kitty said.

  “There is one thing,” John said, “and I hope you won’t take it amiss, but…”

  Here we go, O’Reilly thought.

  “Fingal and I are much involved in the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts Sporting Club. You alluded earlier to the recent outbreak of sectarian tension. We don’t have any of that in Ballybucklebo, and we would like the club to start holding nonsectarian functions on Saturday nights.” He smiled. “I said E.N.S.A. brought the troops together. We’d like to think we could achieve something similar. Show the rest of Ulster that the communities can get along together.”