An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  O’Reilly said, “Go on.”

  “I couldn’t say this in front of Kitty, that’s why I wanted to speak to you privately. I don’t know much about the really intimate side of love. Jeannie and I never … well, you know. A lot of us when we were students went to Monto once or twice…”

  “Dublin’s red-light district. Rumour has it that when he was Prince of Wales, Edward VII lost his virginity there. You were in good company.”

  “I suppose so, although wasn’t he something of a ladies’ man? I have to say I didn’t much like it.”

  “I imagine a lot of men feel that way about prostitutes and find it’s different when they fall in love with the right woman.”

  Lars nodded. “I did meet an English widow in Villefranche about ten years ago. We were both a bit lonely, attracted to each other, and she and I…” He hung his head.

  “Um,” said O’Reilly, “it’s our very Victorian upbringing showing. I don’t think sensible people give a tinker’s damn now what two unmarried adults get up to in private.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly.”

  “Beatrice stopped coming to France six years ago. I did miss her and miss it, the sex, for a while, but…” He sighed. “Somehow it didn’t seem very important to me. But now Myrna arouses feelings in me, she’s been married, knows what to do … and I feel … I feel … damn it, I feel so bloody inadequate.” He spat out the last words.

  “Hmm,” said O’Reilly, aching for his brother. “Listen.” For an experienced physician, no body function was embarrassing. “You already know what to do; you say Myrna gets you excited, she’s certainly experienced. I reckon the pair of you won’t have any difficulties in that respect.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “I don’t really know what to say about the social differences. They are there. I’ll admit barriers are breaking down, but old habits die hard. Even if John is my friend, there will always be that gap. But I’ll also tell you that we get round it. Myrna might be willing to try. From a few things she’s said to Kitty and me, I do believe she has feelings for you. Yes, she’s animated and very friendly. But truly, brother, I think you’ve brought that out in her.”

  Lars managed a weak smile. “Really?”

  “Of course really.”

  “Gosh. Thanks, Finn,” Lars said. “Thanks a lot.” He lowered his head again. “So you think I should take a chance?”

  There’s the rub, O’Reilly thought. He’d been taught in medical school that the first tenet of offering counsel is do not make others’ decisions for them. Still, Lars clearly wanted direction, and his sister-in-law, as it happened, wasn’t so squeamish when the truth was staring her in the face. “Tell you what,” he said, “I fully understand why you’d not want to mention sex in front of Kitty, but why don’t we get a woman’s perspective on the social side of things. She already suspects, just like me. Would you feel comfortable talking to her about how you feel?”

  “Yes, Finn. Yes, I would.”

  “Right,” said O’Reilly, “my belly thinks my throat’s cut and she’s making scrambled eggs on toast. When Kinky’s off we use the kitchen for a dining room. Saves traipsing up and down stairs. Shall we?”

  A smiling Lars nodded and followed his brother. “Suddenly I feel extremely hungry.”

  * * *

  “Help yourselves to tea,” Kitty said. “I’ve the eggs, butter, and milk beaten and the chopped chives and grated cheese ready to drop in.” She poured the scramble into a saucepan, put it on the range top, and with her back to them, began to stir. “So,” she said, “have the brothers O’Reilly solved the riddle of the universe?”

  “Not quite,” said O’Reilly, “but Lars has confided something in me and asked me what to do and I’m not quite sure how to answer. We’d like your help. I’ll let Lars explain.”

  “Fair enough. If I can.”

  Lars swallowed and said, “Kitty, I’m becoming very fond of Myrna.”

  Kitty’s voice was level when she said, “Fingal and I’ve suspected that and we think your feelings are returned. And we are very happy for you both.” She kept on stirring.

  “I really wasn’t sure if she cared for me, but you and Fingal have helped me to hope. The other trouble though is she’s noble and I’m a commoner. I haven’t dared to speak to her about it.”

  Kitty turned from the stove, nodded, then said, “I know what you mean. The first time Fingal took me to Ballybucklebo House I confess I was overawed, but both John and Myrna have a happy knack of putting folk at their ease. Tallagh in Dublin, where I was reared, is not Belgravia in London. My dad was a scholarship boy. Pulled himself up by his bootstraps.” Kitty went back to her stirring, mixing in the cheese and chives. “Sorry. Can’t have it burn,” she said, then turned back. “I’m a bit of a socialist at heart. I had a discussion three weeks ago with John MacNeill about how, as my dad says, ‘It’s ill divid,’ meaning there is quite a distance between the rich and the poor. You were there, Lars. Remember how charming John was? Didn’t rear up one bit.”

  “But,” said O’Reilly, “you, dear Kitty, do have a habit of speaking your mind and then regretting it later.”

  “Ooh,” said Kitty, “you mean like when I said yes when you asked me to marry you?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Nice one. See, Lars, how a happily married couple can enjoy slagging each other?”

  Lars laughed. “I’ve got to admit she did get you with that one.”

  “It’s all right. I still love her.”

  Kitty laughed. “I’m not worried about Fingal taking offence, but I was worried about John,” she said. “And now with this lease situation. Well, I just want to be sure the friendship is unharmed. So we’re going to treat the MacNeills and you to a special dinner on Tuesday.” She pushed the bread into the toaster and pulled three hot plates from the oven. “But that doesn’t answer your question, does it, boys?”

  “’Fraid not,” said O’Reilly, “and we’d like a woman’s perspective.”

  Kitty kept stirring. “I truly don’t think the divide will matter that much. It’s not as if you were not a professional man, respected in Ulster. The nobility don’t always have to marry their literal peers. Princess Margaret married a commoner.”

  “But if it all pans out, Lars, I don’t think Her Majesty will make you an earl like she did Lord Snowdon,” O’Reilly said.

  “Good thing too,” Lars said. “I’d always be feeling sorry for the poor ermine that was used to trim my robes.”

  The toaster popped and Kitty put the toast on three plates and buttered it. “I’ll not tell you what to do, but I’ll say this…” She started spooning the scrambled eggs onto the toast. “Fingal and I came to love late in life and it’s wonderful.” She set plates of lunch before each man, went and brought back her own, and sat. “I’ve no regrets.” She leaned over and kissed Fingal. “And I know very well neither does your brother.” She picked up her knife and fork and said, “I know I said I’d not tell you what to do, but I do think it’s worth the risk, Lars. Now let’s tuck in before it gets cold.”

  * * *

  “Just what the doctor ordered,” O’Reilly said, still savouring the tang of the old Cheddar cheese.

  The back door swung open and Kinky, propelled by the stiff northeasterly, was blown into the kitchen, her best hat askew. “Whew, that’s a ferocious capful of wind out there. I believe the geese will be flying backward. Good afternoon,” she said, “and hello, Mister Lars. I’ll not disturb you. I’ve just popped in after church. I want to collect some pots of strawberry jam I made last summer, so.”

  “Help yourself,” O’Reilly said, “and while you’re at it, Kitty and I have a great favour to ask. Will you sit for a minute?”

  “I will,” she said, and shook her head when Kitty gestured to the teapot.

  “We’ve invited the marquis, his sister, and Lars for dinner on Tuesday. Drinks at six thirty, sit down at seven fifteen. I’m sorry about the short notice, but we’d like you to cater it for
us.”

  Kinky sat back, frowned, and put a fist on one of her not inconsiderable hips. “I don’t know at all, not at all, so, but I suppose if it’s what you truly want, sir, I will stay and cook.” By her tone she’d rather have faced the Spanish Inquisition, but loyalty even in the face of the perceived idiocy of her employer had always been her long suit. She tutted and said, “But a real lord and lady should not be taking their tea with yourself and Kitty and your brother Lars crammed round a couple of collapsible card tables in the upstairs lounge. It won’t do, sir. It will not do at all, so.”

  “I’m inclined to agree, Fingal,” Kitty said. “I wasn’t thinking when I invited them. I forgot we’ve no dining room. Should we perhaps not postpone?”

  “I’d rather not,” O’Reilly said. “I’ve already been after John about finding that old lease and I know he’s feeling responsible. I don’t want to rub his nose in the situation by having to cancel because we have no dining room.” He turned to Kinky. “Come on, Kinky. I know you are the very divil for the social niceties and we all admire you for that, but it is our turn to have his lordship round, the dining room is still out of commission, and we certainly can’t entertain in your kitchen and expect you to cook and serve…”

  “Saving your presence, sir,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “but I do hear that the Culloden has a fine kitchen and private function rooms, so.”

  “It does,” Kitty said, “but it doesn’t have Kinky Auchinleck working the ovens and stove. I know Fingal’s told you before how very much the marquis looks forward to your cooking.”

  Kinky blushed and smiled. “Welllll,” she said, “maybe a slap-up feast would make up for the utterly throughother seating arrangements.”

  O’Reilly chuckled. He’d have said “plebian,” but the Ulster “throughother” gave a much better sense of careless untidiness.

  “Indeed,” she said, “I’ve had an idea. My dining room table seats six. It’s not heavy bog oak like the one under wraps here, and a couple of men like Donal Donnelly and Dapper Frew could bring it round on Tuesday afternoon if Donal could get the loan of Mister Bishop’s little lorry.”

  “We couldn’t possibly, Kinky,” said Kitty, “but it’s a very generous offer.”

  It was clear to O’Reilly that Kinky’s mind was made up. He decided that discretion was the better part of valour and kept his mouth shut.

  Kinky harrumphed. “It does not be the place of a part-time housekeeper to tell the mistress of the house her business, but, Kitty—”

  At least she hadn’t reverted to the formal “Mrs. O’Reilly,” for which he was thankful.

  “I’d die of shame. My doctor and his family crammed round…?” She shook her head. “No. Archie and I can manage on a couple of shmall tables until ours is brought back on Wednesday.”

  “Thank you, Kinky. I think it’s a splendid idea,” O’Reilly said.

  “It is, so,” Kinky said, clearly still not entirely mollified.

  “And what would you suggest, Kinky, for the menu?” Kitty asked.

  Kitty, you may like to speak your mind, but you can also be the soul of tact, O’Reilly thought.

  “Well,” Kinky said, “let’s see. I’d start with melon balls and ginger. Easy to prepare and have ready. Fish?” She tapped a crooked finger against her lips. “I do think fresh plaice—and Hall Campbell’s the fisherman for them—lightly bread-crumbed and grilled. Main course?” She beamed and her dark eyes sparkled. “I’ve not done one for a while, but my friend, Emer Cullen, God rest her, who’d worked in the Café de Paris in London before she took service with the marquis’s father, taught me to make beef Wellington. I’ll have Mister Mawhinney get me a well-aged fillet steak, but he’ll have to get the pâté de fois sent down from Belfast. I’ll see him on my way in tomorrow. I’ll make the duxelles and puff pastry myself. Roast potatoes, champ, and seasonal vegetables. And for dessert? Sure, that’s wee buns. A good sherry trifle. I know for a fact the marquis loves my sherry trifle. It’s not fancy, like crèpe suzette or crème brûlée, but when it comes to his puddings, the marquis is a simple man. I’ll make that on Monday, and I’d want a few plates of After Eight chocolate mint thins to go with the coffee.”

  “I’ll buy some,” O’Reilly said, “and I’ll look after the drinks.” He realised he was salivating.

  “Kinky, how on earth can you manage all this by yourself?” Kitty asked.

  O’Reilly knew Kinky could handle the cooking; he was more concerned about all the traipsing up and down stairs.

  Kinky’s snort was almost derisive. “I cannot, but I’ll have a grand helper, so. I’ll cook, but Archie will serve. I’ll just come up once when the main course is ready. It does please me to examine the slices of beef to make sure I got them just right.”

  “Kinky, you are a gem beyond price,” Kitty said. “I don’t know what we’d do without you. Thank you.”

  Kinky, all smiles, double chins quivering, could only say, “Och, get on with you, Kitty, flattering a poor Corkwoman,” but O’Reilly knew she was glowing with the compliment.

  34

  A Feast of Wine on the Lees, of Fat Things Full of Marrow

  O’Reilly, his scuffed brown boots as highly polished as they could be, was dressed in his Sunday-best tweed three-piece suit. Two bottom buttons of the waistcoat were undone. He had decided to wait for their guests in the surgery and steal a few moments of peace after the excitement of the preparations. Last night Kitty, freshly coiffed and manicured, had sat him in a chair in the kitchen and done her best to trim his shaggy mop. And this evening he’d shaved for the second time today. Friends they may be, but there was still that lingering sense of a class gap, and Fingal O’Reilly wanted to make John and Myrna feel they were being treated with respect.

  Kinky, God bless her, had run round like a bee on a hot brick vacuuming, polishing, and doing her cookery preparations. At the last minute she had changed into what must be her best dress, a string of pearls and a brand-new spotless white starched apron under her old pinafore. The apron was for her appearance later upstairs.

  She’d been busy for the past two days preparing the feast, and in slightly more than forty-five minutes, Archie would be serving the first course on the Auchinlecks’ dining table, which Donal and Dapper had lugged upstairs and set up in the lounge two hours ago.

  He took a quick look at his watch, then bounced out of his chair and strode across the hall. The dining room door was resolutely closed and he pushed it open and peered inside.

  The plywood and canvas patch still plugged the jagged hole in the brickwork where the lorry had come through, tearing up several floorboards in its passage. Dust sheets covered the old bog oak dining room table and the sideboard, both of which had escaped damage. The five undamaged chairs had been taken upstairs. The lorry had smashed chair number six to matchwood. The sheets, the carpeted floor, and the crystal chandelier were covered in a patina of brick dust and the smell reminded O’Reilly of the bombed streets of Portsmouth in 1940 after a Nazi air raid.

  Would it stay like that until wrecking balls and diggers came and knocked the whole house over like a pile of children’s wooden blocks? He hoped not.

  The front doorbell rang and O’Reilly shook off the image of the house disappearing in a cloud of dust, backed out of the room, closed the door, and opened the front door to usher John MacNeill, Myrna, and Lars into the hall.

  “Fingal,” John said, “grand to see you.” The marquis looked behind him, performed a nimble sidestep and, to O’Reilly’s dismay, allowed Arthur Guinness, only recently banished to the backyard, to charge past and race upstairs.

  “Damn that dog. I told him to stay in his kennel,” O’Reilly said.

  “Don’t be silly, Fingal,” Myrna said with a laugh. “It’s cold out there. We’ve got our animals all over the big house. Please, we’re all friends here. Don’t concern yourself about Arthur. And that includes you too, your ladyship.” She bent and picked up Lady Macbeth, who had just appeared fro
m the kitchen. The little white cat purred and immediately deposited a fine layer of snow-white fur on Myrna’s black Persian lamb coat. “You’ll not object, Fingal, if I bring her up? She’s such a darling and there’s something homey about having a cat in the room.”

  O’Reilly felt himself relax. “No objections at all.”

  As he took off his camel hair overcoat, John MacNeill nodded at the shut dining room door. “I hope we’re not putting you to a great deal of trouble. I know the dining room is still, ahem, nonoperational.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Not at all. I’ll have to ask you to excuse us for feeding you upstairs, but I think you’ll find Kinky’s meal to your liking.”

  “Anything Kinky has cooked,” said Myrna, who was being helped out of her coat by Lars, “I would eat from paper plates on my lap sitting on a chair in your waiting room, Fingal.”

  Lars, shy, humourless Lars, laughed so hard he might have just heard a Bob Hope one-liner.

  O’Reilly wondered if his brother had spoken to Myrna. Judging by the look that passed between them, he had his hopes. “Let’s go upstairs.” He had promised Kitty earlier not to ask about the original lease, but John said, “And I must apologise, Fingal. Still no luck on your behalf.”

  “I understand,” Fingal said, “and let’s call that subject closed for tonight.” Disappointed as he was, there was no point raking over cold coals. He collected the three coats and hung them on the coatstand. “After you, Myrna. Kitty’s waiting for us.”

  Kitty stood by the sideboard, a gin and tonic in her hand, his Jameson on the sideboard’s top beside a row of decanters and a Waterford cut-glass water jug. O’Reilly again admired the knee-length black sheath dress he’d zipped her into only half an hour ago, sheer dark tights, black patent leather pumps. Sexiest woman in the six counties, he thought as she and the guests exchanged greetings and he took their drinks orders; dry sherry for Myrna, whiskey and water for both Lars and John.

  “Come and sit down,” Kitty said, inclining her head to a semicircle of chairs arranged around the fireplace. Arthur Guinness had made himself at home in front of the fire. “And please excuse Arthur, but I hadn’t the heart to chase him.”