An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  “It’s not so long ago that couples wouldn’t get married until the lad’s father died and left him the farm. Some of those ‘lads’ were in their forties and fifties,” Barry said. “Times have changed, Fingal.”

  “Huh,” said O’Reilly. “Don’t I know it?” He didn’t look very happy. He belched smoke, scratched his chin, and said, “About retribution . . . you said, ‘in the first place.’ Was there a second place?”

  “Donal reckons he’s being punished for gypping Captain O’Brien-Kelly with the Arkle medallions.”

  “Punished? Donal should get a medal of his own.” O’Reilly’s laughter rumbled.

  “Why?” Barry leant across the table and started spooning trifle into a bowl. He was famished. It was hours since he’d eaten chicken sandwiches with Patricia on Gransha Point.

  Before O’Reilly could answer, Mrs. Kincaid interrupted. Barry hadn’t heard her come in carrying an empty tray. “Leave that trifle alone, Doctor Laverty dear. You shouldn’t eat your pudding before your dinner, so.” He saw her glance at the remains of the duck. “Pity greedy-guts here has eaten it all to himself and not even left you the pickings.”

  Barry expected O’Reilly to remonstrate. Despite Mrs. Kincaid’s position as housekeeper, she was, after all, O’Reilly’s employee.

  “It was too bloody ‘moreish,’ Kinky,” he muttered. “And it wasn’t a very big duck.”

  “There’s days, Doctor O’Reilly sir, a whole roast elephant wouldn’t fill you, and now I’ve still Doctor Laverty to feed.” She glanced at a clock on the sideboard. “I’ve time to make you an omelette,” she said to Barry. “Would that do?”

  “Lovely, Kinky. Thank you.”

  “Right.” She loaded the tray with the dirty dishes and left. “I’ll be back in a little minute.”

  “Jesus,” said O’Reilly, rising and going to the sideboard to pour himself a large Bushmills, “they say a she-bear gets protective of her cubs. The way Kinky’s looking after you, Barry, I think she’s adopted you.”

  Barry smiled. He knew O’Reilly, for all his ability to understand the devious workings of human nature, had a blind spot about himself. If anyone in this house had adopted Barry, it was the big man. “I could do worse,” he said. “You know my folks are in Australia for a year, and I’m kind of an orphan until they get back?”

  “I do.” O’Reilly took a pull of his Irish. “The Great South Land, Terra Australis Incognita. It’s a country I’d not mind seeing myself.” He looked over his whiskey glass and raised a bushy eyebrow. “I hear there are grand opportunities there for young doctors.”

  “There are, so Dad says.” Ever since they’d first discussed the question of Barry’s leaving or staying, O’Reilly hadn’t mentioned the matter. “There’re opportunities in Ulster too.” Barry wished he could reassure the senior man that he’d made up his mind to stay, and if he was honest with himself he pretty much had—if it wasn’t for Patricia.

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  Barry waited for what he assumed would be the next question—“So you’ve decided to stay on?”—but O’Reilly merely struck another match and relit his pipe.

  If he didn’t want to pursue matters, neither did Barry. “Fingal, you just said Donal should get a medal. Why?”

  “God,” said O’Reilly, “ ‘moves in a mysterious way . . .’ ”

  “ ‘His wonders to perform . . .’ ”

  “William Cowper,” said O’Reilly. “Light Shining Out of Darkness.” He refilled his glass. “You know we’ve not been much use trying to find digs for Sonny until his place is ready or until after he and Maggie are wed?”

  “Kinky hasn’t come up with anything?”

  “Not a sausage. It was just a shot in the dark when I asked His Lordship for help. I didn’t expect much then. Now I’d like to take the credit for what’s happened since, but it has nothing to do with me.”

  “What has happened?”

  “You remember when the captain tried to touch me up yesterday? He’d some minor financial obligations to Honest Sammy Dolan?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you remember the gentleman from the tattooed fraternity who was heading our way? He looked like he was going to pull out O’Brien-Kelly’s arm and beat him to death with the soggy end. At least that’s what the good captain must have thought.”

  Barry could picture Sammy Dolan’s enforcer. No forehead and almost trailing knuckles. “He was a big, angry-looking fellah, right enough.” He said.

  It was coming clearer, and Barry wasn’t surprised when O’Reilly continued. “It seems that our yeoman of the guard eventually found the Marquis, who, and I’m sure this’ll break your heart, didn’t have more than a few quid on him.”

  “Are you saying the captain suddenly discovered he’d urgent business back in England?”

  “In this part of the world there are venial sins, mortal sins . . . and welshing on a bet . . . and that’s in ascending order of severity. He could have paid off the bookie himself if he hadn’t blown his cash on Donal’s Arkle medallions.” O’Reilly’s smile was broad, with a hint of satisfaction. “Apparently he was on the Belfast-to-Liverpool ferry last night. Purely a preventative measure you understand.”

  Barry laughed. “An ounce of prevention is worth a hundred pounds of cure.”

  “That captain was a living example of the old oxymoron ‘military intelligence.’ He was thick as two short planks,” said O’Reilly. “Normally he would have been quite immune anyway.”

  “Immune?”

  “Oh, aye. The Marquis would usually have settled any guest’s gambling debts at once. Sorted it out with the offender later. The Chinese aren’t the only ones who worry about loss of face. The old boy has a very finely tuned sense of honour.”

  “Then why didn’t he do it?”

  “Oh, he did, but not until after the captain had left. O’Brien-Kelly’ll get a bill in the post from His Lordship,” said O’Reilly, “but as the Marquis told me on the phone this afternoon, he couldn’t stand the little squirt and was happy to see the back of him. And he would be delighted to let Sonny have the gate lodge. He’ll even send down Sonny’s meals from the Big House.”

  “Wonderful, Fingal.” Barry stared at his senior colleague, then said, “I have a half-notion that the Lord’s not the only one round here to work in a mysterious way. If you hadn’t encouraged Donal to go ahead with his crackpot scheme, and if you hadn’t taken the trouble to ask the Marquis if he could help, Sonny would still be in the home.”

  O’Reilly grunted, let go a blast of smoke from his briar and smiled shyly. “Well . . .”

  “No ‘well’ about it.”

  “Och, say no more, and anyway all’s well that ends well. Sonny’s pleased as Punch, and Maggie’s like a cat with ten kittens.”

  “Did you drop in to tell her?”

  “Not at all. I stopped and took Maggie down with me when I went to collect him.”

  “Decent of you.”

  “Rubbish. It was worth the price of admission just to eavesdrop on them when I had them in the back of the Rover. Maggie’s been planning the wedding. She may call her cat the General, but the way she has things organized for next Saturday she could be Montgomery himself. She’s arranged the battle as meticulously as he did before El Alamein.”

  “I hope,” said Barry, who had read extensively about the campaign in the Western Desert, “she’s not planning an artillery barrage for the kick off.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “I don’t think so, but she was worried about where to hold the reception after. Half the village will be there on Saturday.”

  “You haven’t offered your garden again like you did for Seamus Galvin?”

  “No. The Marquis came down to the gate lodge to see Sonny settled in. He’s taken a great shine to the old boy already. When I left to run Maggie home, the pair of them were blethering away about some new Nabataean dig in Jordan, early Egyptian papyri, and land titles in Ireland under the Normans. I tell you,
for once I was completely out of my depth.”

  “Not like you, Fingal.”

  “Jesus Christ, I’m not infallible,” said O’Reilly. “I leave that up to the big fellah in the pointy hat in Vatican City.”

  Barry laughed. He wondered how often he’d seen Doctor Fingal Flaherty O’Reilly speak to his patients with all the sonorous authority of a pronouncement made ex cathedra by the pope. “I’m sure His Holiness will be relieved to hear it.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Never mind that. The important thing is that His Lordship promised they can have the hooley in his grounds.”

  “That’s great.”

  “It’s just a pity there won’t be the two weddings. I don’t see Julie MacAteer being well enough to tie the knot with Donal for a week or two yet.”

  “I agree.” Something occurred to Barry. “Poor Helen.”

  “Poor Helen?”

  “Aye. If one of the weddings is delayed, her Miss Moloney could find herself overstocked with hats. I doubt if it’ll improve her temper.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “We all have our crosses to bear. I’m sure Miss Moloney will survive until Julie and Donal do finally tie the knot.”

  “If they ever do.” Barry mused aloud, “Do you think the pair of them will go ahead at all now that they don’t ‘have to’?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve wondered what a pretty girl like Julie sees in a bucktoothed, eejit like Donal, but then there’s no accounting for love.”

  Barry could see the quizzical way O’Reilly was looking at him. “You’re right, Fingal. There’s not. I know that.”

  “Aha.” O’Reilly walked around the table and dropped a hand on Barry’s shoulder. “Bloody marvellous. She’s a gem that Patricia Spence of yours. I’m delighted.”

  “Thanks, Fingal.” Barry waited. Now was the time for O’Reilly to ask what Barry intended to do, but instead he went to the sideboard, topped up his own glass, poured a second whiskey, and handing the glass to Barry, said, “That news calls for a drink. Slainte.”

  Barry stood and raised his glass. “Slainte mHath.” As he sipped the spirits he heard the door open.

  Mrs. Kincaid wore her coat and an old hat, not the new confection—Barry guessed she was saving it to dazzle her friends at Maggie’s wedding—and she carried her handbag slung over her right forearm. “Now,” she said, setting a plate in front of Barry, “there’s your omelette. Eat it up while it’s warm.” She glanced at his bloodstained pants. “Lord Jesus, not again. Leave them in the kitchen. I’ll see to them later. I need to run on now or I’ll be late for the Women’s Union meeting at the church.”

  “Don’t worry about them, Kinky—”

  O’Reilly interrupted. “Will you be seeing Mrs. Bishop, Kinky?”

  “Aye, so.”

  “I believe Doctor Laverty asked you to have a wee word with her?”

  Barry had mentioned his idea to Fingal.

  “I will, so, and I’ve not forgotten. I’ll see what she knows about Bertie and the lease for the Black Swan.”

  “Good.”

  “Get you sat down, Doctor Laverty, and tuck in like a good lad. And don’t forget to leave them corduroys.”

  Barry sat. “I told you, don’t worry about them, Kinky,” he said. “They’re going in the bin. I’ll be buying some new ones.”

  “About time. Now will you do as you’re bid? Eat up.” She left.

  “New pants? Have you fallen into a fortune?”

  “No. But I won a few bob at the races,” Barry said, through a mouthful of omelette so light and fluffy it was hardly there.

  “I’d forgotten,” said O’Reilly, “and I suppose it’s burning a hole in your pocket. Pity that. You’ll need to wait a day or two before you can spend it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because,” said O’Reilly, “in case you’ve forgotten tomorrow’s Monday, and I think we’re going to be busy as bejesus. I’ve a half-notion a few wee birds have been putting out the word you’re not such a quack after all.”

  Barry started to smile, but Kinky stuck her head back round the door. “Busy tomorrow, is it? You’ll be busy sooner than that, Doctor O’Reilly. Somebody’s left something for you on the front doorstep.”

  “Not another kitten?” Barry asked, remembering how Lady Macbeth had arrived.

  “It is not,” said Kinky. “It’s a single, solitary Wellington boot.”

  The Moving Finger Writes and,

  Having Writ, Moves On

  “If that bloody dog retrieves one more Wellie, I’ll get him a muzzle,” O’Reilly grumbled. “I was all over hell’s high acre last night looking for the other half of the pair. I didn’t find it until I was away up in the Ballybucklebo Hills.” He opened the surgery door, then hesitated. “Tell you what; I’m tired, so I’ll go and get the victims this morning. You do the work.”

  “Fine.” Barry went in and sat on the swivel chair, pleased that O’Reilly was letting him run the morning surgery. Damn it all, he’d done his job to the best of his ability last week, things were improving, and he was getting a good chance to become re-established.

  O’Reilly came in, pursued by Donal Donnelly. Donal wore moleskin trousers and an old jeans jacket darkened by the rain that Barry could hear rattling against the surgery windows. O’Reilly hopped up on the couch.

  “Morning, Donal,” Barry said.

  “Morning, sir.”

  Barry noticed how tired the man looked. He cradled his right hand in his left.

  “How’s Julie?”

  “They were great at the Royal after you left, so they were. She had her operation, and she was sitting up with a wee cup of tea in her hand when I went home last night. They’re for letting her out on Thursday.”

  “I’m sorry about the baby.”

  “Aye, well. Can’t be helped. The lady doctor there told me you done everything right, sir, and likely the baby wasn’t forming properly. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe it’s better to have an empty house than a bad tenant?” He managed a small smile.

  Barry offered a silent thanks to Ruth, his classmate, who had taken care of Julie at the Royal. “Maybe it is, Donal.”

  “Aye, well,” Donal said, “it’s not Julie I’ve come about. I’ve buggered my finger.”

  “Sit down and let’s have a look.”

  Donal sat in one of the straight chairs and stuck his right hand under Barry’s nose. “I gave it a ferocious wrench lifting a load of slates working at Sonny’s. I’ve left Seamus all on his own, but I’m no use. I can do nothing.” He peered at his finger. “It’s bloody sore, so it is.”

  Barry could see how the right middle finger was acutely bent forward at the first joint, bruised and swollen. A half-moon of dirt shone through the nail. “Can you move it at all?”

  “No, sir.”

  Barry took hold of the tip and tried to extend it.

  Donal snatched his hand away. “Holy thundering mother of Jesus. That hurts.”

  “Sorry, Donal.” Barry glanced at O’Reilly, who seemed to have developed an abiding interest in his own fingernails. Barry was sure that the long tendon, which normally would pull the fingertip back, had been ripped right off its attachment to the bone. It had probably taken a small piece of the bone with it. An X-ray would tell, but bone chip or not, the treatment would be the same. “You’ve a mallet finger there, Donal.”

  Donal scowled at the digit. “Looks more like a bloody ball-peen hammer to me.”

  Barry smiled. “Some folks call it a baseball finger.”

  “Is that a fact? Baseball? Isn’t that rounders for grown-ups?”

  “Don’t let an American hear you say that, Donal. They take the game very seriously,” Barry said, “and I’m going to have to take your finger seriously. I’ll have to splint it.” He stood and went to fetch the instrument trolley.

  “I’ll get the water,” said O’Reilly, slipping from the couch and taking a stainless-steel basin to the sink.

  As Barry reached into a drawer in the trolley to
pull out a roll of plaster of paris, he could hear water plashing into the bowl.

  “How long’s it going to take to get better, Doctor?”

  “You’ll be in the splint for six weeks.” Barry pushed the trolley across to where Donal sat. “It could be quite a while after that before it recovers completely.”

  O’Reilly put the bowl of warm water on the trolley top.

  “Six weeks?” Donal whistled. “And I’ll not be able to work?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s going to hold up getting Sonny’s roof done.”

  “Don’t you fret about that, Donal,” O’Reilly said. “Seamus and Mary and baby Fingal are off to California next week, so it’ll get held up anyway.”

  Donal shook his head. “Poor ould Seamus. I tell you, that man doesn’t want to leave Ulster. Not one bit.”

  Barry could understand how Seamus must feel.

  “Don’t you worry your head about Seamus,” O’Reilly said. “He’ll be gone. What we have to do is get the councillor to hire more men to finish the job.”

  Donal sneered. “Bertie Bishop? He’s too bloody wrapped up making plans to get his hands on the Duck, so he is, to be bothered with a roof job.”

  Barry was busy fashioning a tube from the white plaster-of-paris bandage.

  “We,” said O’Reilly, “will see about that, and anyway, Sonny has a place to stay now, and then he can move in with Maggie after the wedding.”

  “Aye. But it’s still not going to get the roof done.” Barry watched Donal’s brows knit. Clearly the man was concentrating, something Barry was sure was an unaccustomed exercise for Donal Donnelly. “I think,” Donal said, “I’ll maybe have a word with a few of the lads. I seen an American movie once, and a whole bunch of country folks all got together and they had a fellah’s barn up in no time flat.”

  “You’d be saving Bishop money,” O’Reilly said.

  “Bugger Bertie Bishop. It’d be for Sonny and Maggie.” He wagged his injured digit. “And I can’t do nothing else to help, not with this thing wrecked.”