An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  “Actually I do. It’s a Rothschild ’61, but we’ll be starting with a Bâtard Montrachet.”

  “Yum,” said O’Reilly. “Sounds perfect. Your cook’s a patient of mine and a bosom pal of Kinky’s. A little bird told me, John, that you’re kicking off with mulligitawny, then smoked trout, plaice, squab, beef Bourguignon, a baked Alaska, and finishing with fruit and nuts.”

  “Well, yes,” said the marquis, somewhat apologetically. “One does still like to entertain properly.”

  “And here,” said O’Reilly, “was me thinking, seeing you’re going to be such a poor man, it would be gruel, bangers, and mash.”

  And John MacNeill, Marquis of Ballybucklebo, slapped his knee, nearly choked on his whiskey, and laughed like a drain.

  18

  Hunting and Shooting

  O’Reilly opened the front door of Number One. “Jack Sinton. What in the blue blazes are you doing on my doorstep? Come in. Come in.” O’Reilly had finished the Friday-morning surgery and was on his way upstairs for lunch in the lounge, which now doubled as a dining room. “Good to see you, Jack.”

  “And you, Fingal.” Jack Sinton took off his cap with a flourish and stepped over the wide wood threshold. “I was down in Bangor doing a favour for a pal of mine, Jamsey Bowman. He has the flu and because he has, now I need a favour and thought you might be able to help. So I nipped in to ask.”

  Doctor Jack Sinton, a Trinity graduate though not a classmate, was an old shooting friend who had a general practice on the Stranmillis Road. It was the one Jenny Bradley had thought of working at when she was considering moving back to Belfast last year. Jack, his brother Victor, and two Bangor men, all doctors, owned the Long and Round Islands on Strangford Lough, about a mile southwest of the Blackstaff where O’Reilly usually shot. O’Reilly had several times been Jack’s guest gun on the islands. “Come into the surgery,” O’Reilly said. “I’m afraid a lorry remodelled my dining room.” His grin was rueful. “But don’t worry about it. No one got hurt.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it. I hope you get it fixed soon, but let’s chat here. I’m in a bit of a rush. Maybe I can cheer you up. Fancy a day with me on the Long Island tomorrow?”

  O’Reilly frowned. A day on Long Island. The shooting was good out there. Very good. But he was on call.

  “The greylag geese are in,” Jack said.

  “The geese, by God?” O’Reilly knew that the greylag, which bred in Norway and Spitzbergen in the summer, was one of the last species of waterfowl to migrate south for the winter. When they arrived, they preferred the grassy islands of Strangford to the shore. He’d never shot one.

  “Victor and Jimmy Taylor aren’t free tomorrow and like I said, Jamsey Bowman’s got flu, poor divil, and he’s the only one of us with a retriever now. If I have to make a water retrieve without a dog…” He grimaced. “How would you like to join me and bring your Arthur Guinness? I’ll need a hand to launch the inflatable too, and I’d enjoy the craic.”

  “Arthur and I’d love to come,” O’Reilly said, “but I am on call.” Surely either Barry or Nonie would be willing to swap. How often did O’Reilly get an invitation like this? “I’ve two juniors in the practice, so hang on. I’ll nip up and ask.”

  “Can’t wait,” Jack said. “I’ve a woman in labour on Riverview Street. She’s in the first stage, the midwife says, but it’s her second. Ring me later or leave a message with my wife, and if you can make it tomorrow, I’ll meet you and Arthur in Greyabbey an hour before dawn. Say quarter past seven?”

  “You’re on, Jack,” said O’Reilly with a massive grin. He opened the door. “I’ll ring,” he said, and waved as Jack Sinton headed for a slate blue Morris Minor parked in front of the house. What a great invitation, O’Reilly thought as he closed the door. He took the stairs two at a time. The wildfowling season ended next Tuesday. This Saturday would be his last chance until September. And he might get his first goose.

  Nonie was speaking as O’Reilly entered the lounge. She and Barry were sitting round a collapsible card table.

  “I’m off this weekend, thank the Lord. I’m knackered.”

  “Come on, Nonie,” Barry said. “One in three’s not bad, and Doctor Fitzpatrick’ll be in the rota in a week. Then it’ll be one in four.”

  “Roll on with the change in the rota,” she said. “I really don’t like night work.” She pursed her lips. “But I’m looking forward to the weekend. My boyfriend and I are going to a theatre matinée tomorrow. A revival of Sam Thompson’s play Over the Bridge at the Empire.”

  That’s one possible cover gone west, O’Reilly thought, reluctant to barge into the conversation.

  She looked up. “Hello, Fingal. Surgery over?”

  “It is,” he said, sitting. “Over the Bridge? I seem to remember some fuss in 1959 when the Group Theatre agreed to stage it.”

  “Their board of directors refused to produce it,” said Nonie, picking up her napkin and spreading it on her lap. “They wanted to avoid the controversy. There were mass resignations by the director, James Ellis, and the cast and it was eventually put on at the Empire.”

  “Not my cup of tea,” said Barry, “a play about sectarianism in the Belfast shipyards. To each his own, I suppose, but there’s enough of that rubbish under the surface of real life in the Wee North.”

  “I hear you, Barry. Still, it’s a part of life here. I saw the play then and I thought Thompson was right on about bigotry,” said Fingal, “and Ellis and company were gutsy to stage it. As I recall, it was pretty good stuff.”

  “And there does be good stuff for your lunches, Doctors,” Kinky said as she came in accompanied by clouds of fragrant steam escaping through the lids covering three hefty casseroles. “Stuffed beef olives, champ, and Yorkshire puddings.” She set the tray on the sideboard and whipped off the lids. “Nice and hot.”

  “Smells heavenly, Kinky. Thank you,” said Nonie. “I’m famished.”

  “You’re welcome. And there’s some of my coffee cake for dessert, and a pot of coffee to go with it.” The plate and pot went onto the sideboard. “I know you’re partial to that, Doctor Stevenson.” Kinky put a hand to the small of her back. “I think you’ve added an extension to the stairs, sir. They do seem to get higher every day,” she said, and puffed before serving. “I was wondering, and there’s lots of room, so, I was wondering, until the dining room’s fixed if you’d all like to take your meals in my kitchen?”

  Kitty came in. She had a half day today. “Hello, everybody. Don’t mind me. I’ll just get some coffee. They gave us sandwiches at the committee meeting before I left the Royal.” She helped herself. There was a chorus of “Hi, Kitty” as she sat at the last empty chair opposite O’Reilly and said, “I heard that, Kinky, and I think that would be a great idea, at least for breakfast and lunch. Doctor O’Reilly and I can worry about dinner. It’s been thoughtless of us not considering all the traipsing up and downstairs you’ve had to do since the crash.”

  “Thank you, Kitty. It would be greatly appreciated. I’ll leave the tray now.”

  “And don’t worry about the dirty dishes,” Barry said as Kinky left. “One of us will bring them down.”

  * * *

  O’Reilly took his last mouthful. Delicious. Conversation had been desultory during the meal and he’d been in no rush to make his request. Now that everyone was silent, it seemed like an opportunity. “Actually, there’s something I really want to do tomorrow, Kitty. Jack Sinton’s invited me down to shoot on the Long Island. I’d love to go.”

  He saw Nonie frown and open her mouth, but before she could speak, Kitty said, “Go right ahead. I’d planned to go shopping in Belfast, because I thought you were on call this weekend and I know how much you love shopping.” She smiled. “I’m meeting Jane Hoey for lunch.”

  “I’m supposed to be on call, but I was wondering if someone…” and he meant Barry, “could cover—”

  “You can count me out,” Nonie said with emphasis. “I’m off duty as of righ
t now.”

  “I shouldn’t have put it that way,” O’Reilly said. “I’m sorry. I know you have plans.”

  “I certainly do,” she said. “I often have. Medicine’s not all of my life. I like the theatre and the cinema and I always need two nights’ sleep in a row to get over my last on call. I’d be grateful if you’d both remember that.” She rose, lit a cigarette, and grabbed her handbag from a nearby armchair. “I think I’ll have to take a miss on Kinky’s dessert. Have a lovely time. I’ll see you on Monday.” And with that she swept out of the room.

  O’Reilly glanced at Kitty, who was frowning and raising an eyebrow.

  O’Reilly shook his shaggy head. He pursed his lips. “I’ve not seen that side of her before, Barry. She seemed to be fitting in well, but of course it’s only been four weeks.”

  Barry shrugged. “I did mention before we hired her that as a student she could be a bit tricky when it came to swapping call.”

  “I remember.”

  “But we agreed that with three of us, four when Fitzpatrick joins the evening and weekend rota next week, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “True, but I thought she was a bit…” He looked for the right word. “Bloody rude” came to mind, but, least said, soonest mended. “… brusque in the way she left.”

  “She was,” Kitty said.

  O’Reilly, who was considering what should be done, guessed that by the way Barry was frowning and repeatedly using his hand to smooth the tuft of hair at his crown that always refused to lie down, the lad was trying to decide what he should do too.

  “Some of the girls in my year did get a bit, as you said, brusque after six years of having to fight their corners. It’s not so long ago that the Debating Society entertained a motion—I remember the words clearly: ‘This house does not consider that women possess the necessary emotional stamina to study medicine.’ Quite a few of the lads felt that way.”

  “It was the same in my day, but not all the girls were so prickly. I’ll never forget wee Hilda Manwell. And Jenny Bradley, your contemporary, certainly wasn’t.” He exhaled through his nose. “We can’t just let it pass.”

  “No, you can’t, Fingal,” Kitty said. “I know she’s perfectly within her rights, but I’d not have said brusque. I’d have called her downright rude.” She cocked her head. “You’re a doctor, Barry, and a friend, so you’ll not be embarrassed by what I’m going to say. I’m well past it, but there is a time of the month for younger women…” She let it hang.

  Barry smiled and said, “Fortunes were made in Victorian times selling patent medicines, and I quote, ‘to control the tyrannous processes of the menstrual cycle.’”

  O’Reilly paused and considered before he said, “Women were told to ignore their physiology when they were needed to do men’s work during the war, and then told their cycles made them unfit for work when the men came home and needed their jobs back and there was a move to get women out of the workforce.” He shrugged. “I’ll take that into consideration, Kitty, but you’re right about one thing. She was rude and I don’t want any repetitions. Something’s got to be done.” He paused before saying, “It was a custom in the navy that the most junior officer at a court-martial gave his verdict first so he could not be intimidated by the opinions of his seniors. I’m not suggesting this is anything like as serious as a trial, but we may have to work with her for a lot of years. What do you make of our Doctor Nonie Stevenson so far, Barry?”

  Barry gave his cowlick a pat before saying, “She’s a good doctor and she has extra obstetrics and gynaecology training and the skills we need for the well-woman clinic. The patients like her. I had one leave a couple of weeks ago because ‘The lady doctor wasn’t going to be there.’ I think we’re going to see more of that. There aren’t that many female physicians to choose from in Ulster. There were only half a dozen in my year.”

  Barry Laverty has a well-honed sense of justice, O’Reilly thought, starting by giving her credit for her good points. And a sense of the practical. A female physician was a plus for the practice.

  “If anything,” Barry said, “I’d be more worried about her habit of needing so many naps, but she hasn’t let it interfere with her work. Not yet, anyhow.”

  “So you’re saying we should keep her?”

  Barry nodded. “But you’re the senior partner. One of my surgical teachers used to say when he put a double suture round an important artery before he divided it, ‘A stitch in time can save more than nine.’ A word in her ear from you on Monday’s probably all that it’ll take to get her to understand.”

  “I think Barry’s right, Fingal,” Kitty said.

  “Fair enough,” O’Reilly said. “I’ll see to it.”

  “And, oh wise and learnèd senior partner,” Barry said with a grin, “I’d hate to deprive you of an opportunity tomorrow to commit murder and mayhem among multitudes of misfortunate mallard, so I’ll take call.”

  Kitty laughed. “You’re quite the alliterationist … if there is such a word.”

  “More to the point,” O’Reilly said, “you, Doctor Barry Laverty, are a gentleman and a scholar.”

  Barry laughed. “You may change your tune when I tell you what it’s going to cost.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You take my call next Saturday and a pint in the Duck when my afternoon’s work is done today—if Kitty doesn’t mind.”

  “You run along and play, boys,” Kitty said, and chuckled. “And if you’ve no plans tonight, Barry, have dinner with us.”

  “Dead on,” said O’Reilly, and he thought, even if Nonie Stevenson may not be the absolutely ideal colleague, he’d have a long road to travel before he’d get a better one than the son of Tom Laverty, his old shipmate.

  .

  19

  Wild Geese Spread the Grey Wing

  “One more heave.”

  Jack Sinton stood beside the inflatable boat’s starboard bow up to the knees of his hip-waders in the tide. O’Reilly and Arthur had met the middle-aged doctor in Greyabbey an hour before dawn. They’d left the Rover there, driving down in Jack’s Morris Minor, a Humber inflatable held with straps and bungee cords to the roof rack. Together they’d launched the craft in the still waters of the Dorn, a sheltered inlet of the lough south of the Castle Hill, as Arthur Guinness danced his excitement at being on the water.

  “All right,” said O’Reilly from the port side, “but give me a minute to catch my breath.” He hauled in a couple of lungfuls and took a tight hold of a rope running round the pontoon. “Go.” He put his back into hauling. The shingle crunched under the soles of boots and the boat’s bottom. His nose was filled with the tang of seaweed and salt, and the distinctive petrol/oil niff of the Johnson Seahorse outboard clamped to the dinghy’s stern.

  On the run out to the Long Island minutes before, only the puttering of the engine, the slap, slap of the boat’s flat bottom on small waves, and occasional throaty mumblings from Arthur had broken the deep silence. There had been no need for chatter. Although they were not close friends, O’Reilly had got to know Jack Sinton well enough since they’d met at an Ulster Medical Association dinner years ago to discover a mutual interest in “fowling” and the works of Mozart, especially The Magic Flute. Instead of shouting over the engine’s noise, O’Reilly had stared up, savouring the high anthracite canopy, where a waxing gibbous moon looked down and myriad icy stars shone and sparkled, waiting for the first fingers of the dawn to dim them one by one. One heavenly body, more impatient than the rest, had flashed its meteor’s silver tail as it streaked to a fiery death.

  “That’ll do,” Jack said now. “Give me a minute to set the anchor well above the tide line, then we’ll head for the hide. Bring Arthur and we’ll get settled in.” He strode off.

  O’Reilly reached into the boat and picked up his twelve bore and game bag. He slung the bag over his shoulder and cradled the unloaded gun in the crook of his left arm. The wind from the south that ruffled the sea and cut thro
ugh his waterproof coat was chilling, but God, it was good to be back on the lough, and with a prospect of even better sport than he might anticipate in his usual spot on the banks of the Blackstaff Stream. He turned up his coat collar, pulled his paddy hat well down.

  “That’s done,” Jack said. “Come on.”

  “Heel.” Arthur tucked in and the two men strode along the springy turf at the shingle’s edge. O’Reilly glanced inshore and saw that the lights of Davy McMaster’s farmhouse were lit. It would be cosy there with the great kitchen range burning and hot tea for everyone.

  The sky was beginning to lighten and O’Reilly could make out a solid object ahead, bulking more darkly at the grass’s edge about the height of a man’s shoulders and perhaps twelve feet long.

  “You know we call this the ‘house,’” Jack said as they passed a corner of the structure.

  “Aye. The old farmer who owned the island before your syndicate bought it dried seaweed for fertiliser in here. It still smells salty.” O’Reilly passed through the gap in the dry stone wall. “It’s not as draughty in here and it makes a great hide.”

  The wind made lonely sighing noises as it found its way through chinks between the stones. He unslung his game bag and set it against a wall, pulling two cartridges from his pocket. Then he loaded his shotgun, set the safety catch, and propped it beside the game bag. O’Reilly pointed to a sheltered corner and said, “Lie down.”

  Arthur, well used to conditions on the lough, tucked in, curled up, sighed, and put his nose on his forepaws.

  “Not long to dawn now,” Jack Sinton said. “Sunrise is at eight nineteen.” He hauled a thermos from his game bag. “Fancy a cup of coffee?”

  “Please.” O’Reilly accepted the mug. “Hits the spot,” he said as he took his first sip of the hot, sweet liquid. “And thanks for asking me along, Jack. I’ve had some great days out here with you and your friends.”