An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  The man in the pinstriped suit rose and set a briefcase on the table to a muted round of polite applause.

  “This evening, Mister Murtagh will begin by outlining proposals his department have prepared describing the pros and cons of the alternative routes. Then council members will be allocated five minutes to give a prepared statement or question Mister Murtagh. When they have finished I will entertain a limited number of questions from the floor before asking the audience to leave so council can deliberate in camera.”

  Another buzz of conversation as neighbour commented to neighbour.

  “Makes sense,” said O’Reilly. “The councillors, particularly the ones from Ballybucklebo, are going to have to live with their fellow villagers long after the decision has been taken.”

  “The recommendation to be relayed to the ministry will be reported in the County Down Spectator on Friday.”

  “And everybody in the borough will know by tomorrow morning,” O’Reilly said to Kitty, “but I suppose form must be observed.”

  Mister Baxter banged his gavel and the room grew silent. “If you please, Mister Murtagh?” he said, and sat.

  The surveyor opened his briefcase, extracted a sheaf of papers, consulted his notes, and began in a high-pitched voice, “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen. My department has carried out a full feasibility study and cost analysis of the two options, A and B. Option A involves the compulsory purchase of property at the corner in front of the Presbyterian church, clearing the existing structure, and laying one quarter of a mile of road. The purely mechanical aspects of this option are simple. The ability to purchase is complex. Church property may be exempt. Our lawyers are presently examining the deeds and statutes.”

  O’Reilly glanced at Mister Robinson. The man’s sudden smile was soon followed by a frown, leaving O’Reilly feeling very uneasy.

  “Number One Main Street.” O’Reilly sat rigidly as Mister Murtagh riffled through his papers. “Under the Town and Country Planning Act of 1947, the building, having been erected within the time frame of 1700 to 1840, is a listed Grade Two structure and as such cannot be modified … ahem,” he permitted himself a little smile, “although the act is unclear on how to restrict remodelling by runaway lorries.”

  There was general laughter, but O’Reilly, who was feeling the first stirrings of hope, glanced around to see nothing but sympathetic looks coming his way.

  “As I was saying, it cannot be modified except by the granting of planning permission by the borough council.” He looked up. “As you can see, if council picks option A, there will be legal work and a great deal more paperwork to be done.”

  O’Reilly smiled. For the first time in his life, he wholeheartedly approved of paperwork.

  Mister Murtagh looked straight at Mister Robinson. “I gather the minister of the church,” then his gaze fixed on O’Reilly, “and the owner of Number One are here. I have no doubt appeals would be launched.”

  “Damn right,” O’Reilly growled in a voice that filled the hall.

  “You tell them they’ll be in for a fight,” whispered Kitty. “I love Number One as much as you do.”

  “All of this,” continued Mister Murtagh, “will require more extraordinary council meetings.”

  O’Reilly scanned the nine faces behind the table. Apart from Hubert Doran, who was still scowling in O’Reilly’s direction, he saw no signs of unrestrained enthusiasm for yet more meetings. All the councillors were busy people. Another negative against option A. He looked at Mister Robinson, who was now successfully keeping a straight face.

  The county surveyor continued. “Option B, on the other hand, will involve building a bypass to the south of the village on flat land before the Ballybucklebo Hills start to rise. Approximately one and one half miles of road, starting just before the Catholic chapel at the west end of the village, skirting south of the housing estate, and rejoining the Belfast to Bangor Road three hundred yards past the currently dangerous corner.”

  Donal Donnelly could be heard saying, “Boys-a-dear, there’ll be a brave wheen of ass felt.”

  “Yes, Mister Donnelly,” said the chairman, once the wave of laughter had passed. “It would be a good deal of asphalt, although I would ask you to restrict your remarks to the public portion of the evening.”

  “Sorry, Your Honour, sir.”

  When quiet returned, the surveyor continued, “Fortunately, the land in question is under the Agricultural Land Classification Act and rated Grade 5, the poorest quality of nonagricultural land. It is of low economic value, compulsory purchase will cost little, and will be unopposed by the owners. A consortium have submitted a tender. Granting road-building planning permission is likely to be a rubber-stamping exercise.”

  He paused and drank from a glass of water.

  Sounds like no contest to me, O’Reilly thought, fumbling for Kitty’s hand beside him and squeezing it.

  “My accountants and quantity surveyors have calculated the costs independently,” Mister Murtagh continued. “If anyone wishes,” he held up his sheaf of papers, “I can provide a detailed breakdown, but if you’ll take my word for it?” He paused.

  No one dissented.

  “Very well, we believe that on a purely fiscal basis, the cumulative prices of property acquisition, planning permission permit fees, and construction costs, allowing in each instance for ten percent cost overruns, option A would be only two thousand pounds cheaper than option B. With apologies to Doctor O’Reilly, some demolition has already been carried out at Number One.” The surveyor started to put his papers away.

  Despite his worry, O’Reilly managed a grin at the man’s little joke.

  “That’s all I have to say, Mister Chairman.”

  “Thank you, Mister Murtagh,” the chairman said as a polite round of applause echoed around the chamber.

  “Could I ask those councillors who have questions to raise their hands?”

  Only three hands went up, all from the Ballybucklebo contingent.

  Doran sat with arms folded and head cocked to one side. Biding his time like a cat outside a mouse hole, O’Reilly surmised. There’d be some poison from that man before the evening was out, but he’d want to hear what other people had to say first so he could tailor his remarks for maximum effect.

  “Very well.” Mister Baxter turned to John MacNeill. “My lord?”

  The marquis rose. “Mister Chairman, I have no question, but a short statement. We here in Ballybucklebo pride ourselves in taking care of our neighbours. Had my family still owned the land, we would have fought tooth and nail to protect one of our churches and the home”—he nodded at O’Reilly—“of one of our most eminent citizens. We would have sold the wasteland at fair market value, but regrettably we cannot. I ask council to consider the human aspects of this case. And that the land under Doctor O’Reilly’s house is leasehold, originally granted by my family. I am not aware at the moment of any conditions or codicils, but tearing down Number One may be more difficult than it now appears. Thank you.”

  O’Reilly mouthed, “Thank you, John.”

  The marquis sat, to loud applause.

  “Councillor Moloney?”

  “Mister Chairman, does the surveyor have any information on the effect on High Street businesses of bypassing a village?”

  “I do,” he said. “Purely structurally, there is less damage to foundations from vibrations when heavy lorries are diverted from main streets.”

  “You can say that again,” said O’Reilly.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” said the chairman as the hall erupted into laughter again. “I’ll caution you as I did Mister Donnelly.”

  O’Reilly bowed his head as the surveyor continued. “There’s also less traffic congestion. There can be a drop-off in casual trade, but in a place like Ballybucklebo most custom is local anyway.”

  “Thank you,” she said, then frowned and sat.

  Oh-oh, O’Reilly thought. She’ll not want option B. There was ragged applause led by Willie Dunleavy
. The other supporters were all shopkeepers.

  Oh well, O’Reilly thought, so much for enlightened self-interest.

  “Councillor Bishop?”

  Councillor Bishop rose and tucked his thumbs under his lapels. Reflected light flashed from his gold fob chain looped over his waistcoat. “Mister Chairman, may I, in the interests of shortening the proceedings, make a very short statement?”

  “Please.”

  “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, youse all know I’m a builder. My company couldn’t handle a job the size of plan B by itself, so I am chairman of a syndicate that will be bidding to construct the road. We’ve submitted the quote that Mister Murtagh just referred to. That might seem to put me in conflict of interest.”

  There was muttering from the crowd.

  O’Reilly’s heart sank. If Bertie had to withdraw from the in-camera discussion, that would be one less vote for plan B.

  Bertie held up one hand, and when silence reigned, said, “But—but, I’ve worked out what plan A would cost, what with demolition and road building. I agree with the county surveyor about the cost. If it is chosen, I will submit an independent tender. That’s a job my company can handle alone, so it is. As plan B’s more extensive, I’d be a subcontractor to the syndicate, but I’d likely make the same amount no matter which job I do. I’ve the figures here and I’ll ask council to rule later if I’m eligible to vote. I want no talk about me being swayed by money because I’ll say it here and now, I’m with his lordship. People is more important than a few quid.”

  O’Reilly smiled as applause started.

  “I’ve no qualms about stating this publicly. I’m for a new road in the south, so I am.” Bertie sat down.

  “Can you believe the change in that man?” O’Reilly whispered to Kitty.

  “That heart attack last Halloween must have been a road to Damascus conversion, or else he’s becoming even more politically astute than we suspected.”

  “Cynic,” said O’Reilly with a smile.

  Mister Baxter rose. “If that’s all of the council’s public remarks—”

  “Hould your horses, Mister Chairman,” Hubert Doran said.

  I knew this was coming, O’Reilly thought.

  “I’ve something til say, so I have.” His voice was harsh. Grating. “All this talk about people’s feelings. Very touching. My heart bleeds. That there’s Doctor O’Reilly.” He pointed. “He’s a man just like any other man, not a saint. If it was my house or,” he scanned the audience, “Donal Donnelly’s house we’d all be sympathetic, but—but there’s a small matter of a difference of two thousand pounds. Two thousand pounds.” His voice rose. “That’s not pocket money and it’ll have for til come out of the rates. They’ll have til go up. I oppose plan B and I urge you, fellow councillors, til do the financially right thing. O’Reilly’ll get compensation. He’ll be all right. I’ve said my piece. Pay heed.”

  Damn him, O’Reilly thought. It’s true, but money doesn’t make up for the loss of the memories, the hurt to Kitty and me, and Doran’s astute enough to know that.

  “Thank you, Councillor Doran,” the chairman said. “No more comments from council? Then I’ll take questions from the floor now. Kindly raise your hands. Councillor Hare is our honorary secretary.” He nodded to a middle-aged man wearing a Donegal tweed hacking jacket and what in Ulster was referred to as a potato face—craggy and lumpy. “I’ll ask him to note the order in which hands are put up so we can take questions in order.”

  This, O’Reilly thought, will be interesting.

  There was muted muttering and shuffling of feet but no raised hands.

  “Very well,” Mister Baxter said. “In a meeting like this it’s often difficult to ask the first question—so I’ll take the second.”

  Universal laughter and it hadn’t subsided when O’Reilly got to his feet.

  “Yes, Doctor?”

  “Mister Chairman, you and everyone here know me. And of everyone here, Mrs. O’Reilly and I are the ones with the most vested interest.”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Kinky was on her feet, “but pardon me, sir, I think mebbe I’ve some of that vested interest myself, so.”

  The chairman banged his gavel. “Point of order, Mrs. Auchinleck. Remarks must be addressed to the chair, and Doctor O’Reilly has the floor.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Mister Chairman,” O’Reilly said, “Mrs. Auchinleck is right. It was remiss of me not to include her. I apologise. I yield the floor, but ask the chair’s permission to continue when she has finished.” He sat.

  “Gracious of you, Fingal,” Kitty said quietly.

  “You may continue, Mrs. Auchinleck.”

  Kinky nodded her acceptance. “I’ve worked all my adult life at Number One Main Street, ever since I came here in 1928. That’s nearly forty years, so. I only want to say that his lordship and Mister Bishop are right. People are more important than money.” Her voice broke. “If you tear down Number One, you’ll break the heart of this Corkwoman who came to live among you and loves you all.” She sniffed. “That’s all I have to say.” Kinky collapsed into her chair and pulled an embroidered handkerchief from her pocket.

  Sympathetic murmurings erupted all over the room as Archie bent his head to whisper into his wife’s ear.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Auchinleck. Doctor?”

  O’Reilly was having difficulty controlling a lump in his throat. Once he had, he spoke softly. “Mister Chairman, my thanks to Mrs. Auchinleck, who has been a constant support to me since I came here. I hope you take her plea into consideration. I also want to thank his lordship and Mister Bishop for their kind words. I do not wish to see Mister Robinson evicted. His church is the spiritual home to half the citizens of the borough…” O’Reilly saw the minister bow his head in thanks, “but”—O’Reilly put a knife edge into his voice—“nor do Mrs. O’Reilly and I wish to lose our home. I do not believe council will be swayed by sentiment, nor as guardians of the ratepayers’ pounds should they be. But they might do well to consider what increasingly heavy traffic will do to the houses on Main Street and the safety of your children if they recommend plan A.”

  He paused and saw heads nodding among the councillors. Then, staring at each one in turn, but lingering longer on the face of Councillor Doran, he said, “And I now serve notice that Mrs. O’Reilly and I will fight plan A with every means in our power. I have every reason to believe”—the more accurate word was “hope,” but they didn’t need to know that—“the old lease on our property protects the house from demolition and I expect to be able to produce that document in the imminent future. Council and ultimately the ministry may find that both the church and Number One Main are impregnable. I urge you to adopt plan B without further ado. Thank you.” He sat, to more murmurs.

  “Thank you, Doctor. We will take your words under advisement,” the chairman said.

  “Dream on, Doctor,” Doran said.

  “Councillor, kindly address your remarks through the chair.”

  Doran shrugged and shook his head.

  The minister had his hand up.

  “Reverend Robinson?”

  “Mister Chairman, I’m sure Councillor Doran has a point, but I wish to thank Doctor O’Reilly for his support and add that as his lease was originally granted so my parish could build a manse on that property, I believe Doctor O’Reilly will have strong grounds…”

  O’Reilly felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up to see a woman he recognised as Willie John Andrews’s sister Ruth MacCauley, a slim, auburn-haired woman who wore tortoiseshell-rimmed spectacles.

  “Can you come quick, Doctor? My brother’s taken a turn. He’s much worser. All shivery like and awful sore in his lower chest, it hurts til breathe, he says, and he’s boked twice.”

  Oh, Lord, Willie John. The man almost certainly had pneumonia.

  “There was no one answering the phone at your house. Maybe your young doctors are both out, but I knew you’d be here. It’s only a wee doddle round
the corner to Willie John’s house so I left him on his own and come over on my bike.”

  “I’m coming,” O’Reilly said, starting to rise. “Do you want to stay and get a lift home, Kitty, see what more is said, or come with me?”

  “It could take quite a while before the vote,” Kitty said. “I’ll come with you. I might be able to help.”

  “I’ll run away on, Doctor.” Ruth headed for the door. “I’ll be home in no time, but if you get there first, go on on in. The door’s open.”

  “Come on then, Kitty,” he said, rising. “The recommendation will be reported in the County Down Spectator on Friday, but I’m sure we’ll hear on the grapevine by tomorrow.” He yelled, “Mister Chairman, I’d like to stay, but I’ve a patient to see,” and not waiting for a reply he followed the two women to the door and the waiting Rover.

  25

  He Is No Wise Man Who Will Quit a Certainty for an Uncertainty

  By the time O’Reilly had parked outside Willie John’s bungalow near the corner of Station and Shore roads and accompanied Kitty along the path, Ruth, only slightly short of breath, had pedalled up and leaned her bike against a pebble-dashed wall.

  “Come in,” she said, opening the front door. She called out, “It’s me with Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly, who’ve come for til see you, Willie John. He’s in here, Doctor,” she said, opening a door off the hall.

  O’Reilly, clutching his bag, preceded Kitty into a small bedroom. There was no need to explain that Kitty was a nurse. Everyone in the village knew. The room was well lit and smelled of the pungent friar’s balsam that O’Reilly had prescribed earlier. A coal-gas fire set in one wall was lit and bluish flames burbled and popped, making the room stiflingly warm. Willie John Andrews lay in a double bed, propped up on pillows, an eiderdown tucked under his chin. Like many Ulster working men, he was wearing his duncher in bed.