An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  She did not need to say any more, and anyway, they both needed to save their breath for the business of climbing.

  Arthur crashed through the undergrowth, but the going was getting tougher as the incline increased. O’Reilly stopped to disentangle clinging bramble thorns from Kitty’s coat. “You walk behind me,” he said, and forced a way upward for them both using the stick like a machete.

  They were coming to a clearing when directly ahead of the big dog a bird with brown and black plumage, liquid brown eyes on either side of its head, and a long straight bill broke cover and flew jinking away among the tree trunks ahead.

  “Woodcock,” O’Reilly said, and watched it disappear. He stopped and put a hand on his hip. “Let’s take a breather for a minute. I’m not as young as I used to be.” He ached all over as his stretched muscles groaned and complained.

  “I don’t like the look of the sky,” Kitty said.

  He looked up to where billows of heavy clouds, like murky seafoam driven by a rushing tide, were blowing in from the west. “I don’t like the look of it either. Let’s hope we find Jasper before it starts to rain.”

  “Poor old thing,” Kitty said.

  “And poor old us too if it does. I’d hoped for a decent day out for you on your day off. Get your mind off your work.”

  “Och, Fingal,” she said, “I’m having a lovely time and I’ll be damned if a bit of rain’s going to spoil it.” She looked ahead. “I can see Arthur waiting for us. Let’s catch up to him.”

  * * *

  Donal Donnelly clutched a steaming mug of tomato soup. “I gotta say I’m disappointed, sir. I’d’a thought somebody would have found the poor ould dog by now. There’s a brave wheen of good hidey-holes in the ground we’ve covered, but not a sausage. Neither hide nor hair of him. He’s vanished intil thick air, so he has.”

  O’Reilly managed to hide his grin. “We’ve still a fair bit of the hills to cover after lunch, Donal.”

  “And all the lads is still hopeful,” Donal said. “They’re a good bunch. I’ll nip over til their table now, and I’ll see you, sir, on the Comber Road at the end of the day. Get you and the missus a lift back til your motor.” He finished his soup and headed off to have a word with the rest of his group.

  Lunch had helped to keep up the search party’s spirits, O’Reilly thought, but there was a lot more ground to cover. With a bit of luck …

  “I know you’re all disappointed about Jasper,” said the marquis, “but I think the ladies of the Women’s Union who provided the repast deserve a vote of confidence.” He sat on his own folding stool at a temporary table set up with four others in the shallow snow on the hill’s crest.

  O’Reilly knew Kinky had joined her friends at the Bishops’ early that morning to help prepare the lunch. It was a tribute to how this village worked and he was happy to be a part of it.

  “And of course Mister Bishop for providing the food and making the arrangements,” John MacNeill added. “There he is, doing the rounds of the other tables.”

  “Ballybucklebo Borough Council elections coming soon,” O’Reilly said. “Bertie never misses a chance to look for a few more votes. Laying on this lunch won’t hurt his chances.”

  The meal had been served in a wide, grassy area that had been cleared round the old Martello tower. Fifty of the stout, two-storey, circular fortresses were built at the entrances to Ireland’s harbours during the French Revolutionary wars of 1792 to 1802. They had been inspired by a circular tower that was part of a Genoese defence system at Mortella Point in Corsica.

  “Do you know I’ve a distant connection with a tower like this in Dublin?” O’Reilly said.

  “Don’t tell us you helped build it, Fingal,” Kitty said, and grinned at him.

  Dear God, but that woman was a tease and he loved it and was quite able to tease right back. He shook his head at her and continued. “And you, I suppose, were the tea girl on the building site? Hardly, my lovely young Kitty. No, James Joyce was said to have written in one in Sandycove near Dun Laoghaire in County Dublin. He was accompanied there for several days by his friend Oliver St. John Gogarty, who was included in Ulysses as Buck Mulligan. Gogarty went on to become an ENT surgeon. He’d been a friend of my mother and father in Dublin in the ’30s. He advised them that I should specialise.” He looked around at the crowd of people all there trying to help a neighbour. “I’m very glad I didn’t take that route.”

  Conversation ebbed and flowed. O’Reilly looked at the old structure again. Ballybucklebo’s tower had been in poor repair for as long as he could remember, its second storey crumbling, the stones scattered at its base. Still, it held on to an air of history and romance and O’Reilly imagined a single officer in his cocked hat inspecting his garrison of fifteen redcoats, drilling them on the grass beneath the tower.

  O’Reilly and Kitty were sitting with the marquis, and Myrna and Lars were engaged in an animated conversation of their own. O’Reilly’s pipe sent up smoke signals like those made by an Indian brave in a western movie. Great heaps of ham, chicken, and fish-paste sandwiches accompanied by steaming mugs of Kinky’s tomato or mushroom soup had vanished and only a few dejected crumbs littered the plates.

  “I believe, Fingal, that thanks are in order for stopping Ruby,” the marquis said.

  O’Reilly shrugged.

  “I should have felt dreadfully to blame if Lars had been hurt,” Myrna said.

  “Fingal was very brave,” Kitty said. “I’m proud of him.”

  O’Reilly muttered in imitation of his hero Captain Horatio Hornblower, “Ha-hmm,” and took refuge in tamping the tobacco into his pipe more firmly.

  “You know you have my thanks, Finn. I was very lucky you were there,” Lars said. “I’ve been trying to explain to Myrna that I just don’t see the point of tearing off after a fox who’s simply minding his own business and trying to trot across an open field. It simply doesn’t make sense to me. And you all already know how I feel about shooting birds.”

  Oh-oh, O’Reilly thought. I hope he’s not going to get into another wildlife preservation spat with Myrna.

  Myrna drew herself up to her full seated height. “There is a long and respected history of fox hunting in this country. Foxes have killed more chickens in our coops at Ballybucklebo House than I can begin to count. And the wretched animals are bloodthirsty little creatures. They’ll kill every hen in the coop by slitting their throats with those razor-sharp little teeth of theirs, and then eat only one. They’re little demons, I tell you. So if you like birds as much as you say you do, my dear Lars, I should think you’d be quite in favour of the hunt. Now I think,” she inhaled deeply, “on that subject we must simply agree to differ.” She rose, keeping her back stiff. “I’m going to check Ruby’s saddle girth. Can’t have you falling off because it’s loose.” She strode off to where the horses were tethered to a tree, munching oats from their nosebags.

  Lars looked at Fingal. The elder brother pursed his lips and raised his shoulders, arms outstretched, palms up.

  O’Reilly shook his head and busied himself relighting his pipe.

  After some silence John MacNeill said, “It’s been a while, Fingal, since we’ve had the pleasure of your and the lovely Kitty’s company. I’ve a rare week free of meetings, so pick a night next week when you’re not on duty and the pair of you come for dinner.”

  “I will,” O’Reilly said. He looked at Lars. “And I’ll try to make it on one of the nights you’re there.” O’Reilly wanted to see how things might or might not develop between his brother and the marquis’s sister. At the moment they did not look promising.

  “Thank you, John,” Kitty said as she glanced at Myrna’s retreating back, to Lars and back to Myrna.

  “Now,” said the marquis, rising, “I must go and thank Bertie and then, I suppose, Fingal, you’re going to have us search the downslope. I do hope we have better luck there.”

  “That I am, John, that I am, but I’ll need to send a couple of men to bring the
cars round to the Comber Road. Nobody’s going to want to trudge all the way back. It’s a tough struggle through the undergrowth and”—he nodded up—“I don’t like the look of the sky either.”

  * * *

  “I am beginning to lose faith,” said Kitty. “I don’t think we’re going to find the poor old thing.”

  “I think you’re right,” he said. The going downhill had been easier, but still no yells of triumph had been passed along the line from either side. “I know this coppice. I shoot woodpigeons here. It’s the last cover before the road.”

  The wind was rising and a few heavy drops had rattled through the branches.

  “And while I’m disappointed that we’ve not found Jasper, I’ll be glad to get you back undercover. I think we’re in for another gale.”

  She laughed. “You’re very sweet worrying about me, pet, but a bit of rain never hurt anyone. My mother used to say, ‘You’re not made of sugar. You won’t melt.’”

  O’Reilly’s laugh was cut off by Arthur, who had run ahead with his nose to the ground and stopped in his tracks, legs rigid, tail stuck out behind him as stiff as a wrought-iron poker.

  “Hang on.” O’Reilly’s spirits rose. “Arthur’s onto something. Birds or rabbits or hares would have burst from cover. Push him out, boy, push him out,” O’Reilly said. “Maybe luck is on our side. Just maybe.”

  Arthur glanced over his shoulder then made a beeline for the base of an oak where two thick, twisted roots lay half exposed above the ground. O’Reilly saw a dark opening between where the roots left the trunk and patches of freshly dug earth at the burrow’s mouth.

  “I hope Jasper’s found a wild animal’s den and holed up in it. You wait here, Kitty.”

  Arthur was digging frantically with his forepaws, hurling sandy soil out in a continuous stream.

  A rank stink assailed O’Reilly’s nose. Damn it. No. Jasper wasn’t down that hole. Something else was. He grabbed Arthur’s collar, hauled, and yelled, “Leave it.”

  Arthur, obedient as ever, stopped digging, but turned and looked with eyes full of reproach at his master as if to say, “Och, boss, I’ve almost got it,” which was the last thing O’Reilly wanted. “Come on,” he said, backing off several paces. As he did, a snout appeared.

  Arthur gave a small bark.

  A pointed muzzle and blunt ears emerged from the hole. Then the white head and face, save for two black stripes running from behind its ears, past its eyes, and down onto its muzzle. It bared needle-sharp teeth and hissed at the man and the dog before hauling the rest of its short, stocky body covered in grey, bristly fur out of the hole. It darted at Arthur and O’Reilly lifted his stick ready to strike, but at the last minute the badger turned aside and trotted off on stumpy legs and with a rolling gait disappeared more deeply into the wood.

  O’Reilly heaved a grateful sigh that he’d been able to act quickly enough. “That’s a badger. They usually only come out at night,” he said, “and if one’s cornered it can give a dog a nasty bite. I reckon that old Brock’s making a beeline for a safer sett.”

  “So that’s a real-life version of Kenneth Grahame’s Mister Badger. What a comical creature.”

  “If you remember your Wind in the Willows, Badger lived in the Wild Wood and was indeed a shy, retiring animal—until one of his friends was attacked.”

  “Mister Toad,” said Kitty. “When Toad Hall was invaded by the weasels.”

  “Then Badger became a warrior. It’s the same in real life. If one’s threatened he’ll fight like bejasus.”

  “Dear old Arthur. He still looks disappointed.” The big dog had flopped down on the ground and laid his head on his paws. “I believe he would have taken on the badger to protect us.” She stooped and with both hands began petting the dog, who thumped his tail.

  “Now, don’t forget. Arthur Guinness is a working dog, and he’s still working. You’ll spoil him.” O’Reilly had tried to sound serious but Kitty looked up and smiled her brilliant smile.

  “Away off and chase yourself, Fingal O’Reilly. We all deserve some time off, and thank you for arranging mine today. I know we didn’t find Jasper and I’m sorry for it, but I enjoyed every exciting minute. Woodcocks and badgers, fairy rings and a fox hunt. And of course your company. I’ve had a lovely day. It certainly made up for all yesterday’s aggro on the ward.”

  “It was a pleasure, pet,” he said, and it was. He’d make damn sure she had more lovely days until the time was ripe to suggest they both slow down at work. That would be then, but now it was time to go. The few earlier drops had turned into a steady rain that pattered through the branches and was beginning to soak his tweed jacket. Good thing Kitty had her Barbour.

  She put its hood up and held his hand as they trudged the last few hundred yards to reach the grassy verge onto the tarmac of the Comber Road where the marquis waited and the foxhounds milled about. Only one car was in evidence, a Ford Cortina, with Donal Donnelly in front and Dapper Frew waiting behind the wheel.

  “No luck, Fingal?” John MacNeill asked.

  O’Reilly shook his head and drops of water sprayed from the soft brim of his paddy hat. “None. We thought we might have found him, but it was just a bad-tempered badger.” The wind had an edge. The sooner he and Kitty got home the better.

  “Nor did anyone here,” the marquis said. “I’ve sent Myrna ahead to guide poor Lars home. He was more shaken up by his adventure than he’d admitted at lunch.”

  “But he’s all right?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Nothing that a hot bath and a stiff brandy won’t cure,” the marquis said. “Myrna’s very good at looking after lame ducks. I think she’s feeling contrite. She knows she shouldn’t have brought a novice along and then taken off after that fox. Damn fool thing to do and I don’t blame your brother one bit for objecting to fox hunting after what he’s been through today.”

  O’Reilly knew that Lars’s objection was less because he’d had a scare and more based on his ideas of animal conservation, but he reckoned this was neither the time nor the place to prolong that discussion. He said, “I’m glad to hear that.” He looked around. “Have all the rest gone home already?”

  “’Fraid so, and I mean home. The men were too tired, wet, and disappointed even to agree to popping into the Duck for a hot half.”

  “I know how they feel,” Kitty said. “All that effort and no good news for the Houstons. And Jasper out in the elements for another night, if he’s still—”

  “Ah, now, Mrs. O’Reilly, never say die. And to quote Sir Winston, ‘Never, never, never give up.’” The marquis touched his crop to the peak of his hard hat in salute. “It’s home for me and the hounds now. Don’t forget about next week.” Then, followed by the pack, he cantered off into the sheeting rain.

  11

  Examine Well Your Blood

  “January brings the snow—”

  The voices of Flanders and Swann came from the radio in Barry’s Volkswagen as he parked outside the Houstons’ garden gate.

  “—makes your feet and fingers glow.”

  He switched off. The month might bring snow in comic verse, but here in County Down on the morning of Thursday the 19th there was none. Instead a northeaster was howling, rocking the car on its springs and driving rattling rain against the roof and windows as if a regiment of vindictive children armed with peashooters was firing a continuous barrage against the metal and glass. Across the road, tall trees bowed and thrashed, whirling their bare branches. Even the Houstons’ neatly clipped evergreen privet hedge swayed and rustled. What a day, and this was only the first of seven home visits Barry had to make. More than usual, but the number always went up when the weather was foul and folks would rather be seen at home than brave the elements. All part of the job.

  He grabbed his bag, turned up his raincoat collar, and forced the door to open against the blast. As soon as he was outside, a gust ripped his cap off and tossed it whirling over the trees. “Blue bloody…” he snapped, and thought, Carefu
l, boy, you may admire Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, but you don’t have to ape everything he does or says. Barry didn’t even wait to watch the duncher go, but hurried through the gate and along the path to ring the front doorbell and wait for the now-familiar routine of a voice, this time a woman’s calling, “Hang on,” and barking dogs. Maggie would be herding their unruly mob, minus Jasper, of course, into the kitchen.

  A trickle of water found its way past his collars and ran an icy finger down his back. Barry shuddered and muttered, “Get a move on, Maggie.”

  “Come in, Doctor, dear,” she said as she opened the door.

  Barry hurried inside.

  “Boys-a-boys,” she said, closing it behind him, “no harm til you, but you look like a drowned rat.”

  Barry ran a hand over his sodden hair, which was plastered to his head. “It’s blowing a gale out there,” he said. As if, he thought, that wasn’t pretty obvious.

  “Get you out of that coat and I’ll dry it by the kitchen range and bring you a towel. Go on on into the living room. Sonny’s expecting you, so he is. We’re both anxious to hear about his tests.”

  “I have his results here.” Barry held up his bag before taking off his coat.

  She took his coat and gave it a violent shake. She hesitated then asked, “I don’t suppose there’s any word of Jasper? All kinds of folks have been phoning to say they’d keep an eye out, and they’re sorry for our troubles. Jeannie Jingles’s cousin Brian Weir works as a printer’s apprentice up in Belfast and he made up some posters and they’re everywhere. He come to the house two days ago and got a picture of Jasper. Nice young man. Said he lost a dog when he was a young lad and wanted to help. We was so sorry the search party didn’t find ours.”

  “I’m sorry too,” he said, “but we mustn’t give up hope.” God help the creature, Barry thought, if he’s still alive and out in that lot. I hope he’s found somewhere dry.

  “Poor ould thing,” she said. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have let him out of the car, and when he bolted, I should have gone after him.”