An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  “It’s always been a pleasure having you, Fingal, and old Arthur. He’s a good-natured animal. He really got on well with Jamsey Bowman’s Rex and my old spaniel, Tara, God rest her. Gone two years now and I haven’t had the heart to replace her.”

  O’Reilly looked over at Arthur Guinness. He knew how Jack felt. Old Arthur would be hard to replace too. “I hope Jamsey’s flu isn’t too bad,” he said.

  “He was feeling rotten yesterday. He should be on the mend today, but it’ll be harder for him to throw it off. None of us are getting any younger.” He rubbed his hands. “Och,” he said, “it’s been a brave wheen of years since four fellahs got together after the war to buy the islands.”

  “The war does seem long ago now,” O’Reilly said, not wanting to dwell on that subject and happy to be warmed by the hot coffee.

  “D’you know years ago Jimmy Taylor was here by himself? He had no dog, and he shot a goose that fell in the sea. Jimmy used to be a champion swimmer. Didn’t he strip off, swim out, and get the bird?”

  “Aye,” said O’Reilly, inwardly shuddering at the thought of how cold the winter sea was. “The joys of youth.”

  “When we were young, we used to row out from the Blackstaff in a punt,” Jack said.

  O’Reilly whistled. “That’s some row.”

  Jack laughed. “At least a mile, and heavy going in a sea. I really like outboard motors, and,” he said, a serious tone creeping into his voice, “I love Strangford.”

  “Me too,” said O’Reilly. “Just look at that.”

  The sky was lighter now. Little whitecaps punctuated a sea that earlier had been a monochromatic darkness, at one with the sky and the land. Low seaweed-covered reefs called pladdies between the island and the mainland shore started to turn from grey to brown. Above the spiny ridge of the Ards—Irish for “high”—Peninsula, the undersurfaces of dove-grey clouds were being dyed a delicate cerise that, as he watched, turned deeper red shot through by yellows and scarlets. And over the left shoulder of the Castle Hill the upper limb of the sun’s circle crept slowly up, bathing everything in soft greens and grey—the hill, the ruins of Saint Mary’s Church, and the remains of the castle built in the thirteenth century by the Norman Baron Le Sauvage.

  “It is a very special place for me,” Jack Sinton said.

  In the daylight, O’Reilly could see the man who before the dawn had been but an indistinct blur. Five foot nine, slight build, greying hair peeping out from under a duncher. A neatly clipped grey moustache under a sharp nose set between pale eyes with deep laugh lines at the corners.

  “I know what you mean,” O’Reilly said, not a bit concerned about letting his feelings about the place show. “I love it here too, and when everyday life intrudes, it’s a very safe haven. No phones, no tough clinical decisions, no forms to fill in.” And no bloody great hole in my house that may not be mine much longer. No tetchy juniors to reprimand. He glanced at Arthur and felt the familiar worry about Sonny Houston’s lost Jasper creep into his mind.

  “Get down,” Jack said.

  O’Reilly watched as Jack put two fat cartridges into the twin breeches of his ten bore. It would be the man’s goose gun, firing a heavier load than O’Reilly’s twelve. Jack’s brother, Victor, had for several years used an eight bore, a veritable shoulder cannon that fired black powder, not smokeless powder shells. Jack cocked two hammers and whispered, “Ball of five birds coming down from Gransha Point direction in the north. Low. Out there.” He moved to the far wall and crouched, eyes barely over the coping stones, gun held across his body, muzzles up.

  O’Reilly, feeling the adrenaline run, grabbed his gun and crouched to Jack Sinton’s left. The man was an experienced wildfowler. He’d track the birds’ progress, call when they were in range, then take birds to the right and leave those on the left for O’Reilly. He heard a faint repeated whistling, a psweeoo, psweewoo, then the sound of wind on pinions, and Jack’s curt “Now.”

  O’Reilly stood but did not raise his gun.

  Ahead, beating into the wind, was a line of five widgeon, the chestnut heads of two drakes with creamy crowns and white bellies in contrast to the grey heads of the females.

  To O’Reilly’s surprise, Jack Sinton hadn’t fired a shot either.

  The five ducks flared, turned, and sped off downwind.

  Both men turned, looked at each other, and started to laugh. Each made his gun safe and propped it up.

  “I think,” said O’Reilly, “I must be getting old. But if you want to know why I didn’t fire, it’s because I don’t really like the taste of widgeon. Too fishy for me. They feed off eel grass on the mud flats.”

  “And I didn’t because I simply have a soft spot for the breed. Anas penelope. Linnaeus called them that in 1758,” Jack said. “I started fowling, like you, because I really loved the thrill of the hunt and being here on the lough, but several years ago I began reading up on wildfowl and I keep a sighting diary. Birds really are interesting. Sometimes,” he said, “I bring an eight-millimetre ciné camera and shoot them on film instead of with a gun. It’s just as tricky. I haven’t given up shooting. I still love a day out here and I enjoy roast mallard or goose. I just don’t need to shoot everything in sight anymore.”

  “Jack, you know my brother, Lars.”

  Jack said, “From Portaferry. The solicitor. We both do work for the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.”

  “I know.”

  “Sound man, your brother. I saw him in Belfast on Thursday. He was having lunch in The Buttery near the law courts. It’s a favourite pub restaurant among the legal fraternity. I’d popped in for a quick one, passed his table. He introduced me to his guest. Handsome woman, Lady Myrna Ferguson. They seemed to be enjoying themselves.”

  “I’m sure they were,” said O’Reilly, and smiled. That would be something to tell Kitty tonight. Good for you, Lars. O’Reilly was delighted.

  The morning passed with the sun’s ascent bringing a weak warmth to the day. Several mallard and teal skirted the island, raising hopes, but none came within range.

  “Not much sport today,” O’Reilly said, “but it’s all right. Simply being here is enough—”

  “Der Vogelfänger bin ich ja,” sang Jack softly in a slightly off-key baritone.

  “I am the merry bird-catcher,” sang O’Reilly in response. “Papageno, Act 1 of Die Zauberflöte, The Magic Flute. One of my favourite arias.” He smiled at Jack. “But we’re not catching much today.” O’Reilly glanced down. Arthur was sitting bolt upright, head thrown back, staring into the sky. He made a tiny whimper and then O’Reilly heard, from upwind, a faint series of harsh cackling ho-oh-onks. Geese.

  And they were coming this way.

  He crouched and turned slowly. “Jack. Geese.” O’Reilly kept his voice low. The birds had acute hearing and eyesight. He lifted his gun, crept under the shelter of the wall, keeping his head only high enough to keep the birds in view. As he counted, ten, twelve, fifteen greylag came at him in a ragged vee limned against the bulk of the Castle Hill. They were flying low and could pass in range. He felt his pulse quicken.

  And all the while the big birds scolded and cackled and drew closer.

  Jack slipped in close by as O’Reilly took off his safety catch and heard the double click of the hammers as Jack’s ten bore was cocked.

  The geese were sixty yards out, coming straight for the “house,” flying at an altitude of about thirty yards. The lethal range of a shotgun was forty. As they neared, he saw in detail the leading bird’s yellow bill on an oval head thrust forward on a long, stiff neck. The words of Uncle Hedley to a thirteen-year-old Fingal came rushing back: “If you ever get a chance for a goose, aim for the head. It’s nearly as big as a teal and you’ll get a clean kill, not a wounded goose.” O’Reilly’s breath came in short gasps. After all these years he was going to get that chance.

  Now he could make out more details. As great wings slowly, powerfully beat he could hear the air being displaced by hundreds of
primary flight feathers. Each bird flew en echelon, riding on the slipstream of the goose ahead. He saw their grey brow plumage, their heads darker than their bodies and, on the mature adults, black spots scattered at random on their pale bellies, yellow paddles tucked in under white tails.

  The cackling was louder now, and in seconds the birds would be directly overhead. “Now,” O’Reilly said, and stood upright. The honking went up an octave as the birds scattered.

  In a fluid movement, he slammed the butt into his right shoulder, the gun’s metal barrels cold on his left hand. With both eyes open, he sighted along the rib between the double barrels, swung the bead foresight through the body of a goose that was clawing for height and trying to break to its left. More swing, past the head for sufficient lead-off, then he squeezed the trigger of the left barrel. Its bore was full choke, deliberately made narrower so the shot pattern would be denser than that from the unchoked right barrel. His aim must be more accurate, but if it were, more pellets would be delivered on target.

  The gun roared and the butt slammed into his shoulder.

  Simultaneously, he heard the deeper boom of Jack’s heavier weapon.

  O’Reilly watched as the remaining geese each sought their own salvation. His bird’s head had snapped back across its body as the great wings folded in death. On the left side of the flock, a second bird was tumbling down. They were still in range of the right barrel, but O’Reilly shook his head as his goose hit the ground with an audible thump. He watched as Jack’s bird splashed into the sea ten yards off shore. “Good shot,” O’Reilly said, and grinned.

  “You too.” Jack smiled back.

  “I’ll send Arthur for your bird.” He put the safety catch on and propped his gun against the wall.

  “And I’ll pick up yours.”

  “Come on, pup.”

  Arthur needed no more bidding. He trotted at O’Reilly’s heel as he walked down to the edge of the tide, pointed at the goose, which was bobbing up and down on the small waves, and said, “Hi lost.”

  Arthur hurled himself in, front and hind legs stretched out fore and aft, landing with a crashing splash, spray flying. Powerful strokes carried him, head high, out to the bird. This was going to be the biggest object Arthur had ever retrieved. The dog sniffed at the goose, then took its neck in his jaws and, snuffling and snorting through his nose, swam ashore with the goose’s body bobbing alongside his.

  Once ashore, he ran straight to O’Reilly, sat, and presented the bird. O’Reilly took it, guessing it probably weighed six to eight pounds. “Good boy,” he said, and patted Arthur’s head. Arthur grinned and shook himself. Together they went back to the hide where Jack was waiting with O’Reilly’s bird.

  “Thanks,” they both said at the same time, exchanging their trophies.

  O’Reilly towelled Arthur off. That water was bloody cold. Jimmy Taylor must have had the constitution of an ox to go swimming in it. O’Reilly pointed to the sheltered corner. “Lie down.”

  The dog obeyed and O’Reilly gave him a Bonio dog biscuit. Good behaviour must always be rewarded.

  “Well,” said Jack, “you’ve shot your first goose. How does it feel?”

  O’Reilly looked at the bird. He smiled. “It was the biggest thrill I’ve ever had wildfowling,” he said. Then his smile fled. He inhaled. “This big boy’s going to be tasty when Kinky has stuffed and roasted him.” He smiled at the thought of the potato stuffing the Corkwoman made for goose. “But at the heels of the hunt, although I had a great thrill, the goose didn’t.” And there was a sadness in the heart of the big man.

  “I didn’t take a second bird either,” Jack said, and left it at that. He had no need to explain. He looked at his watch. “The day’s half over. Not much is likely to come on a dropping tide until the four o’clock flight from the Quoile River. What would you like to do?”

  O’Reilly thought for a moment. “Let’s have lunch here. Enjoy the day for a bit longer. You’ll not get back until next year.”

  “And I’ll get you and Arthur down for a day or two. We’re permitted to bring three guests each a season.”

  “That’s very civil. I might take you up on it, but I can see how much fun Lars is having working in conservation. I might just put the musket away. Either way, let’s keep in touch.”

  “Fair enough,” Jack said. “Leisurely lunch now, then we’ll head ashore.”

  “And let’s stop in the Mermaid in Kircubbin on our way home,” O’Reilly said, rubbing his cold hands together. “I owe you a hot half-un and Arthur never turns down a Smithwick’s, do you, lummox?”

  And the big dog, content to be doing what he’d been bred for, thrashed his tail and grinned at O’Reilly.

  20

  He Was Lost and Is Found

  “Have you seen my stethoscope, Fingal?” Barry said, letting himself into the otherwise empty surgery. O’Reilly, muttering profanities under his breath, was sitting at the rolltop desk, half-moon spectacles perched on his nose, filling in a form.

  “What?” O’Reilly turned. “Stethoscope? Yes. It’s hanging up near the couch.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks.” Barry stuffed it into his jacket pocket and turned to go.

  “Had a word with Nonie this morning when she popped in to get her list of home visits,” O’Reilly said.

  Barry stopped. “And?”

  “I’ll not go into details, I’ve got patients waiting, but between the jigs and reels of it she now understands that it is expected that we all, including her, will collaborate on granting requests for cover, and that there will be a generally more collegial atmosphere.” O’Reilly smiled. “I must say I’d been expecting some resistance, but she agreed, apologised, and promised to do better in future.”

  “I’m delighted to hear it,” Barry said. “She’s not a bad head.” He was relieved that O’Reilly had done as he’d promised last week. Barry’d not have expected otherwise of the big man. No doubt O’Reilly handled matters tactfully, but being pulled up short by a senior colleague first thing on a Monday morning was never easy for any young doctor. Barry could find it in his own heart to feel sympathy for Doctor Nonie Stevenson.

  “As far as I’m concerned, Barry, the slate’s wiped clean and the girl gets a fresh start. Fair enough?”

  “Fair enough,” Barry said, and yawned. “Sorry, but it was a long weekend. Flu galore, two cases of croup, and a buck eejit at five A.M. on Sunday claiming his pounding headache must be because he got a bad bottle on Saturday night. Hangover is a self-inflicted injury.” He yawned again.

  “Lord,” said O’Reilly, “don’t tell me the ever-nap-needing Nonie’s starting an epidemic?”

  Barry laughed. “Not at all. I’m short of oxygen. Isn’t that why people yawn? That’s what I learned at—” He stopped, listening. “Sounds like there’s ructions going on in the waiting room.”

  O’Reilly cocked his head. “God only knows. Come on.” He rose and headed down the hall with Barry in hot pursuit. They met Kinky coming the other way from her kitchen, drying her hands on her apron and frowning.

  Barry took in the scene at once. Shooey Gamble was applauding—applauding, of all things. Cissie Sloan was in floods of joyful tears. Melanie Finnegan had brought her husband Dermot and he was waving clasped hands above his head like a prizefighter.

  Everyone was talking at once.

  And in the middle of the room stood a grinning Colin Brown, one sock round his ankle, his mongrel Murphy at his feet, and a bedraggled, skeletal, shuddering poodle-Labrador cross with droopy ears looking as gormless as ever.

  “Holy thundering Mother of—” O’Reilly said. “Colin Brown, now you’re better you’ve found Jasper.”

  “Murphy did,” Colin said, “so he did, and—”

  “Well, what are you doing standing there with both legs the same length. We’ve got to get this dog back to the Houstons. Doctor Laverty, I—”

  “No, Doctors, please, I don’t want them to see him like this. Can we not clean him up a bit first? An
d Jasper needs til get warm and dry right now, and something til eat. And he should see a vet, so he should, but Mister Porter has his surgery away far away in Conlig. My daddy’s at work and Mammy’s gone shopping and so, sure, where else could I come but here?”

  “Where indeed,” said Kinky, smiling.

  “Poor oul Jasper was having trouble walking the last wee ways round the sea path and I was trying til carry him. I was dead lucky because when I got onto the Shore Road, Mister Auchinleck was doing his milk rounds. He brung me and the dogs here on his electric float. He said til say ‘Hello,’ Mrs. Auchinleck, and he’ll see you at teatime. He couldn’t wait, for he’d his rounds to finish.”

  Kinky smiled and nodded.

  “You’re a very clever boy, Colin,” Cissie said, mopping her eyes with a spotted handkerchief. “I was just saying til Mister Gamble—wasn’t I, Shooey?—that it’s a powerful shame about the front of your house, Doctor O’Reilly, when in comes the wee lad and the doggies and he says, says he, ‘I have for til see Doctor O’Reilly at once. It’s an emergency.’ I was for telling him it wasn’t a vet’s and to run away off and chase himself, that the doctor had patients he needed to see, but the look on his face would have melted a stone and—”

  “I’m sure it would have, Cissie.” O’Reilly’s tones were kind, but firm.

  Barry smiled. Cissie Sloan was, in local parlance, a woman who could talk the hind leg off a donkey. O’Reilly was one of the few people who could shut her up.

  “I’ll ask you all to bide for a minute or two,” O’Reilly said. “We’ll see to Colin, then I’ll be back to take whoever’s first.”

  “You see to the little boy, Docteur,” said Melanie Ferguson. “It is all right. We wait.” Even after all the years since she’d come from France as Dermot’s war bride, her English was still accented.

  Barry looked round. Everyone was smiling. He felt a sharp pang of regret that Sue was in France and he wouldn’t be able to call her this evening and describe the scene. She had a particular soft spot for the impish Colin and had been instrumental in proposing he write the exam that would ensure a grammar school education for the lad. Colin’s rescue of Jasper and the bungalow he’d found and wanted to buy would be high on his list to chat about over a glass of vin blanc in some picturesque little café in Marseille.