An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  “I am absolutely delighted,” Barry said, “and congratulations about the fags. I quit four years ago. It was bloody murder.”

  “Thank you,” she said, “I can believe that. The first couple of weeks were hellish.” She looked from man to man and said, “I want to celebrate my cure now … well, not actually a cure. The narcolepsy will never go away, but it’s under control. It’s under control, and I want to celebrate that in a special way.”

  “Go on,” said O’Reilly.

  “Now don’t laugh, but I’m still feeling guilty about having been difficult about swapping call. I promised not to let that happen again, and it won’t.”

  “We know that, Nonie,” O’Reilly said, his voice level.

  She lowered her head. “Thank you. It is comforting to be trusted.”

  Barry nodded.

  Nonie said, “And I can never repay you, Fingal, for keeping me on with limited duties until I recovered—”

  “That, Doctor Stevenson, is a load of bollocks,” he said with a broad smile. “Any decent person would have done the same. You were ill and the last thing you needed was to lose your job at the same time.”

  “Well, you and Barry have been more than decent about it, and so I want to start paying back right now.” She lifted her bag. “I’ve got my toothbrush, my jammies, and the book Doctor Fitzpatrick so kindly gave me, John Millington Synge and the Irish Theatre.” She giggled and held up the overnight bag.

  O’Reilly glanced at Barry and saw a look of amazement cross his young friend’s face.

  Nonie’s tones brooked no argument. “Whoever is on call tonight isn’t anymore. I am, and I will be every fourth night and weekend from now on, and I’ll take my share of home visits too.”

  Barry laughed. “Good for you, Nonie. I was on tonight, but I’ll be perfectly happy to have the night off. I’m only a few hours away from finishing my model ship, and I had planned to work on it this evening while I was waiting for any emergency calls.”

  “Your model that, but for the grace of God, I nearly completely finished off for you in January.”

  “Water under the bridge,” Barry said with a smile. “We didn’t know you were sick then.”

  “Thanks, Barry.” Her smile was open and beautiful.

  Barry turned to O’Reilly. “I’d like to come to the meeting with you and Kitty. I’m as anxious as you are, Fingal, to find out what’s going to happen.”

  “‘Anxious’ is the right word,” O’Reilly said, “but it’ll be over soon, and there’s a pressing practical matter. If you two would like to go on up, I’ll join you in a minute for that predinner tot, but I’ll need to ask Kinky to ‘throw another spud in the pot.’” He turned back to the kitchen as Barry and Nonie climbed the stairs.

  “I have a favour to ask please, Kinky,” he said, inhaling the scents of beef, onions, and carrots stewing. “But I also have some great news for you about Doctor Stevenson.”

  “Oh?” Kinky said, turning from where she was making suet dumplings.

  “Doctor Stevenson has been cleared by her specialist to come back to work full time.”

  “Now that does be grand news altogether,” Kinky said. “I am very pleased, for I think her a nice young cailín, so.”

  “And she’s going to—”

  “Take call tonight, sir?”

  “Well, yes, how did you … Never mind. Kinky, she’ll need—”

  “Feeding, sir. There will not be any difficulties. I’ve made plenty of stew.” She began to grate the suet for another dumpling. “Kitty will know when to put the dumplings in. I’ll set another place upstairs. And it will not stop me getting home to feed Archie and myself and still have plenty of time to get to the March council meeting on time. We’d not miss that for love nor money. I’ve a notion you’ll be pleased, sir.”

  He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck rise again. Kinky Auchinleck, lately Kincaid, née O’Hanlon, had inherited the gift from her mother. And she’d said he’d be pleased. There was still good reason to hope.

  * * *

  O’Reilly’s, Kitty’s, and Barry’s heels clacked across the parquet flooring of the packed town hall. Old councillors, some with muttonchop whiskers, others bearded or wearing high wing collars and cravats, still looked down with dignity from a few ancient daguerreotypes. Their dour looks matched O’Reilly’s mood.

  Conversation was muted and O’Reilly felt the intensity of the sympathetic stares directed at him and Kitty. In contrast to the lighthearted air of the church hall meeting—at least before Bertie had had his say—the atmosphere was subdued.

  He ushered Kitty and Barry into a seat in the front row beside Kinky and Archie and noted that his housekeeper was again wearing her prized green hat that O’Reilly had given her two years ago. O’Reilly bent and said to Kinky, “I have to tell you, Kinky, that beef stew with dumplings beat Bannagher. Thank you.”

  She smiled. “You’re welcome, Doctor. And I hope it’ll not be the last one I do cook at Number One. My wish is for many years to come in my kitchen, so.”

  “We all wish for that,” O’Reilly said.

  “We certainly do,” Barry agreed.

  O’Reilly sat, and looked up to the dais where the nine-member council sat at the table. John MacNeill nodded to O’Reilly and Kitty from his seat beside the chairman, Mister Robert Baxter. John, at least, was one staunch ally. So were Bertie Bishop and Alice Moloney, but that was only three votes. O’Reilly sighed.

  And there, scowling at O’Reilly like a gargoyle on a cathedral, was Hubert Doran. No question about how he’d vote. Could he bring four councillors with him? Five would make the majority. The man’s gaze shifted from O’Reilly to a small woman sitting near Kinky. Mrs. Hubert Doran. Brought her along to savour his triumph? O’Reilly wondered. She had a careworn face, deep crow’s-feet at the corners of her pale eyes, and frown lines scored on her forehead. She wore a headscarf over lank, untidy hair, was wrapped in a grey overcoat, and clutched a handbag on her lap.

  Mister Baxter rose, used his gavel. He did not need to call for quiet. The room was hushed immediately. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, it is time to call this meeting of the Ballybucklebo Borough Council to order. Tonight our agenda is very straightforward. We must first approve the minutes of the last meeting. These have been circulated to council. Are there any additions or corrections?”

  No one spoke until the other woman councillor, Sinead Monaghan, a rosy-cheeked market gardener, said, “I move acceptance.”

  “Seconded.” This was from Wilson Grahame, a farmer whose lands marched with Reggie and Lorna Kearney’s. O’Reilly had diagnosed his inguinal hernia four years ago and arranged for its surgical correction.

  “All in favour?”

  Eight hands were raised.

  “Motion carried.”

  Mister Hare, the potato-faced secretary, licked his pencil and made notes.

  The chairman continued, “Tonight we will confine the agenda to a single item.” Mister Baxter paused and looked down to O’Reilly. There was sympathy in the chairman’s brown eyes.

  O’Reilly did not like the look of that. A smile would have been preferable.

  “The question of alleviating traffic congestion on the bend outside Number One Main Street. At the last meeting it was proposed to recommend the compulsory purchase of Doctor O’Reilly’s property and straightening of the road. In view of very strong representation by three council members, that as the land had originally been leased by the MacNeill family to the Presbyterian church there may have been codicils protecting buildings on the property, the council voted to postpone the final decision until tonight to allow sufficient time for a search for that lease. It has not been presented to council.”

  “Nor will it be, I’m afraid, Mister Chairman.” The marquis shook his head. “And I believe Mister Robinson has not found the church’s copy either.”

  O’Reilly saw the minister in the audience nodding his agreement.

  Doran grinned and twitched his
head at O’Reilly in an “I told you so” gesture.

  “In that case,” Mister Baxter said, “under ordinary circumstances, in light of the previous decision, we would have no choice but to proceed with our recommendation. However, notice has been duly filed two weeks ago of fresh information for council’s consideration tonight. A petition was presented at the town hall office at one P.M. today, the minute we reopened after lunch.” He held aloft a sheaf of papers. “It asks that council reverse its earlier decision and pick the option to bypass the village to the south.

  “I wish to make it clear that unlike the last meeting, where we took questions from the floor, tonight if necessary we will permit only a closing statement from the party directly involved, Doctor O’Reilly. General questions and comments from the floor will not be entertained.”

  Quiet murmuring, but no challenge.

  “Thank you. Now, I apologise to council that the figures have not been circulated among them. Some staff stayed late to complete the independent scrutiny and verification of numbers. Counting one thousand, five hundred and ninety-one signatures and matching them to our electoral rolls, a total of one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-six names, takes time, and I was handed those numbers moments before coming in here.”

  A chorus of in-drawings of breath, “Oohs,” “Ahs,” and a lone man’s voice saying, “Boys-a-boys, thon’s a brave wheen of yea votes, so it is.”

  O’Reilly thought he recognised the speaker’s tones, and it was confirmed when Baxter said, “It is, Donal Donnelly. It is, and the ‘yeas’ represent eighty-five percent of eligible voters living in the villages and townlands that constitute the borough.”

  O’Reilly whistled. Eighty-five percent. Amazing. He looked at council. Bertie and Alice and John were smiling, as well they might. Four of the other five members had looks of frank amazement. Doran folded his arms across his chest, his face expressionless.

  Kitty whispered, “We might just be in luck.”

  O’Reilly hoped so.

  “In order to open this for discussion by council,” Baxter continued, “I am prepared to entertain a motion either pro or con the petitioners’ request,” the chairman said. “Yes, my lord?”

  John MacNeill stood. “It is my belief that every one of us here was elected to represent the views of our constituents. I strongly suggest that these overwhelming numbers must be heard. I therefore propose a motion that ‘This council rescind the vote to recommend expropriation of Doctor O’Reilly’s house and instead advise the ministry to bypass the village to the south.’”

  Both Bertie and Alice Moloney rushed to second the motion.

  “Proposed by the Marquis of Ballybucklebo, seconded by…?”

  “Miss Moloney,” Bertie said.

  She acknowledged with a smile.

  “Have you got that, Mister Hare?”

  The secretary nodded.

  “The motion is now open for discussion.”

  “Thank you, Mister Chairman.” The marquis took his seat again.

  “That petition,” said Sinead Monaghan, “says a great deal of the esteem in which our doctor is held, but I’m sorry, I can’t be persuaded by sentiment. Councillor Doran has advanced cogent arguments in favour of the cheaper option. These are hard times economically, and I for one do not want my rates raised. Unemployment, inflation, slowdowns in the shipyards, linen mills closing … I think we must do what is most economically sound.”

  O’Reilly watched Mister Hare, Wilson Grahame, and Mister Warnock, a tall, angular, hook-nosed man with close-set eyes who ran the Ballybucklebo ironmonger’s, all nodding. Not good.

  By the way Bertie was scrutinising the faces of his colleagues, he was drawing the same conclusion.

  “Mister Chairman?” Hubert Doran asked.

  “Yes, Councillor.”

  “The numbers on that there petition is very persuasive,” he said, his tones level and reasoned, “but with all due deference to our doctor and his family, we was also elected for til be fiscally responsible. Two-thousand-quid difference is not til be sneezed at. It’s a brave clatter of money, so it is. At the heels of the hunt, it all boils down to pounds, shillings, and pence. Now youse all know me. I’m a simple farmer—”

  “Simple my ar—” Donal yelled from the floor. “You could buy and sell half of us here. Why the hell have you taken a right scunner at our doctor?”

  “He’s right,” “Dead on, Donal,” were two remarks O’Reilly heard over the general hubbub.

  Bertie smiled broadly at Donal.

  “Mister Donnelly,” Baxter said, and pounded with his gavel. “Mister Donnelly. Silence. Silence or I’ll clear the hall.”

  The muttering slowly subsided.

  “Please continue, Councillor Doran.”

  “I’ve no axe to grind against O’Reilly,” Doran said.

  O’Reilly noted the omission of his title.

  “Why would I have?” His smile at Donal and then at O’Reilly had all the sincerity of a crooked bookie rooking a punter and relishing it. “But I will vote against, and urge my fellow councillors to do the same.”

  Low mutterings from the audience began.

  Sinead Monaghan looked at Wilson Grahame and both of them looked at O’Reilly and shook their heads. He could not determine if what he took for sympathy in their gaze was because they intended to vote for the motion or they were sad because they felt they must vote against.

  “I think we can surmise how his lordship, Miss Moloney, and Mister Bishop feel,” the chairman said. “But do any of the rest of you have statements to make?”

  Heads shook.

  O’Reilly tensed.

  “Mister Chairman?” Bertie said, rising.

  “Yes, Councillor.”

  “I greatly respect Councillors Monaghan and Doran’s respect for the taxpayers’ money.”

  O’Reilly tensed. He felt Kitty take his hand.

  “Youse all know that I’m no slouch when it comes til protecting my own do-re-mi.”

  Universal laughter.

  “My record of protecting the taxpayers is clear too.” He paused and his gaze swept council. “I agree with most of what Mister Doran said, but I’d like to challenge one wee remark he made. I asked him after the last meeting why he hadn’t opposed the decision to give the doctor time to produce the lease, seeing as how he supported the motion that would mean the doctor’s house would be acquired and demolished.” Bertie glared at Councillor Doran. “Did you or did you not, sir, say,” he raised his voice, “‘Sure won’t a month give the good doctor a bit longer to stew in his own juice’?”

  A wave of gasps and “No” ran through the room. Bertie pointed a finger at Doran.

  Doran’s face was reddening and a vein throbbed at his temple.

  “‘Sure won’t a month give the good…’” This time the sarcasm was even heavier than in the first telling. “‘… doctor a bit longer to stew in his own juice?’” Bertie repeated. “And that’s from a man with no axe to grind? Rubbish.”

  “I never said no such thing. Prove it, you great glipe.” Doran sneered at Bertie. “You’re on his side so you’re just making that up.”

  “Order. Order,” the chairman yelled. “Remarks will be addressed through the chair, and language will be parliamentary.”

  O’Reilly saw the very deep frowns on the faces of the four councillors who had seemed ready to vote with Doran. Ulsterfolk have a deeply ingrained dislike of liars.

  “Mister Chairman,” John MacNeill said, “if I may?”

  “Please.”

  “I was present. I overheard that conversation. Mister Bishop is repeating it verbatim. Mister Doran is guilty, in parliamentary language, of a terminological inexactitude.”

  Winston Churchill, 1906, O’Reilly thought. It took a moment for the members of the audience to realise that John MacNeill was calling Doran a liar. But now the racket of catcalls and stamping feet was deafening. It took several minutes for quiet to return.

  Mister Baxter said levelly, �
�Have you anything to say, Councillor Doran?”

  The man hung his head.

  O’Reilly stole a look at Mrs. Doran. He saw the slightest suggestion of a smile beginning. This was probably the first time she’d seen anybody stand up to the little gobshite.

  “Very well,” said Baxter, “I will ask council to take into consideration that Mister Doran’s motives in opposing the motion are less pure than he has led us to believe. If no one has anything more to say?” He waited. “Then I call the question on the motion to be indicated by a show of hands, reminding you that as chairman I will not be voting except in the event of a tied vote.”

  O’Reilly squeezed Kitty’s hand, held his breath. He noticed that Barry had both fists tightly clenched.

  “Those in favour?”

  Up went seven hands.

  “Begod, we’ve done it,” O’Reilly said, once he had exhaled.

  “Against?”

  Councillor Doran did not move.

  “The motion is carried by seven votes to one abstention, and the ministry will be so notified tomorrow.”

  The hall erupted into applause and shouting.

  Mrs. Doran rose, came to where O’Reilly was sitting, and said, “It’s about time my husband got his comeuppances.” She smiled shyly at O’Reilly. “If it’s all right with you, sir, would you take me back as a patient?”

  “Of course, Hester,” O’Reilly said.

  “Thank you, sir.” She turned and, with shoulders braced, walked away.

  I’ll be damned, O’Reilly thought. Good for you. Then he leant over and kissed Kitty, and Kinky Auchinleck said just loudly enough for O’Reilly to hear, “I was not concerned, but I will say, I am very pleased for you and Mrs. O’Reilly, sir. Indeed I would go as far as to say, I do be over the moon, so.” Still the hall buzzed as excited people exchanged their views with their neighbours.