“I don’t see anything different about that.”
“Two inches above the crown of her head?”
“What? Are you serious?”
“Absolutely. Come on, let’s go and have a word.”
Patricia rose and together they moved along the table.
“Excuse me,” Barry said. “Maggie, Sonny, may I present Miss Patricia Spence?”
Sonny stood, and bowed. He took Patricia’s hand in his and bent over it, planting a kiss one inch above it. “Charmed, Miss Spence.”
He’d have been right at home at the court of Louis XIV of France, Barry thought.
“So you’re the one I’ve been hearing about,” Maggie said, head cocked to one side, eyes narrowed, as she regarded Patricia with a frankly appraising gaze. She grinned. “You’re even prettier than I heard tell. You’ve been the talk of the village, you know.”
Barry had never seen Patricia discomfited before. She blushed and stuttered as she said, “Th . . . thank you, Maggie.”
“Aye,” said Maggie, “but beauty’s only skin deep and it’ll fade.” She pursed her lips. “If he’s in love with you, he must have fallen for your eyes. They’re lovely, and they’ll last, so they will.” And her own eyes sparkled.
It was Barry’s turn to blush.
“I think, Doctor Laverty, this young lady’s too good for you,” Maggie said.
“I’m sure you’re right, Maggie,” Barry said, as he looked at Patricia. He didn’t have time to say more.
O’Reilly was back and on his feet, ringling-dingling his fork on a glass. “Pay attention. I know some of you are still eating, but it’s time to let the dog see the rabbit and get things moving along. Those of you on your feet, take your seats.”
Barry led Patricia back. As he sat, he noticed a slurping noise coming from beneath the table. A quick glance beneath let him see a contented Arthur Guinness with his tongue darting in and out of a bowl of dark liquid that Barry knew was Smithwick’s beer. So O’Reilly had pardoned the wellie-napper.
The glass was jangling again. Barry sat up and heard O’Reilly say, “Right then. It’s time to get on with the proceedings, but before we do, I want to say on behalf of everyone here a huge thank-you to the marquis of Ballybucklebo for allowing us to use his grounds.”
The roar from the crowd was deafening.
“I agree,” said O’Reilly, “but now with no further ado I call on His Lordship to propose the toast to the happy couple.”
O’Reilly sat, and the marquis rose. “My lord . . .” He pretended to frown. “Hold on a minute, that’s me I’m talking to, and you all know what talking to oneself is a sign of.”
Loud laughter.
“I’ll start again. Ladies and gentlemen, we have all known Maggie MacCorkle and our friend Sonny for many years. Sonny: chess player, expert on Middle Eastern pottery, and . . .”—he looked straight at Bertie Bishop—“Norman land titles.”
Barry looked over, saw the councillor scowl, and saw Mrs. Bishop fetch him a ferocious dig in the ribs with her elbow.
“Maggie: cat fancier; mistress of Ulster’s most belligerent feline, General Sir Bernard Law Montgomery; window-box gardener extraordinaire; and—some of you may not know this—winner of the silver medal in the All-Ireland springboard diving championship in nineteen twenty-two.”
Barry certainly hadn’t. Neither by the look of amazement on his face had O’Reilly. Nor judging by the gasps of amazement had many of the villagers.
“And here she is, once again taking the plunge, but this time . . .”—he inclined his head toward Sonny—“I think she’s won the gold.”
No one laughed. No one cheered. Instead the sound of hands clapping in sincere agreement was loud and prolonged.
“Now, I want to take Doctor O’Reilly’s advice and be short. Congratulations to you, Sonny, and every happiness to you, Maggie.” He raised his glass. “I’ll ask you all to charge your glasses and rise with me and drink a toast. Long may they be happy together and the sun shine every day on their marriage. To the bride and groom.”
“To the bride and groom,” roared the chorus.
O’Reilly called, “Sonny will now reply on behalf of the happy couple.” He tapped Sonny on the shoulder. “On your hind legs, Sonny.”
Sonny rose. O’Reilly sat.
Barry looked at the older man, pulling with one finger inside his one-size-too-big collar. Sonny stood with an erectness that belied his years and exuded the sort of bearing that came naturally to a reigning monarch.
“My lord . . . and I’m not talking to myself, ladies and gentlemen. I’ve very little to say on behalf of . . . my wife and I . . .” He smiled down at Maggie.
Barry saw both of them blush.
“But there are a number of people I should like to thank. First, like Doctor O’Reilly thanked him, I want to thank His Lordship for his generosity to me in so very many ways.”
There was polite applause.
“Next I want to thank Councillor Bishop . . .”
Barry heard a communal in-drawing of breath. Everyone present knew of the long running feud between the two men, the dispute over Sonny’s roof that had caused Maggie to refuse to marry him until the roof was repaired.
“No. No,” Sonny said. “The councillor is repairing my roof, for which I am very grateful, and I trust that from now on he and I can let bygones be bygones.” He looked straight across to Bertie Bishop.
“Finally,” Sonny said, “I want to thank Maggie MacCorkle for waiting for me for all these years and finally consenting to be my wife . . .”
Maggie certainly had waited. Barry knew that. It could happen. He looked at Patricia and wondered what she was thinking.
“And for bringing with her such a wonderful dowry.”
Barry frowned. Surely that old custom had died out years ago?
“I am, of course, referring to the donkey and the pig. Maggie and I were driven here on one half of the dowry . . .” He paused and surveyed the crowd; then his leathery, usually serious face split into an enormous grin. “And you greedy buggers have eaten the other half.”
The cheers and laughter were deafening as Sonny sat.
Before O’Reilly could speak, Maggie had risen. Barry could see some of the older attendees frowning. In Ulster the bride was meant to sit demurely by her new husband’s side and say nothing. But then Maggie, at least as much as Barry knew her, had always seemed to make her own rules. “I know, I know, I’m meant to keep my trap shut, but His Lordship proposed a toast to both of us, and don’t I have a mouth too?”
“And sure don’t we know that, Maggie?” a heckler called. “Isn’t it usually going up and down between your ears like a skipping rope?”
General laughter.
“Be that as it may, I want my turn to thank His Lordship and . . .” She gritted her false teeth, and Barry could see her hands clenching by her sides. “And Councillor Bishop. If he hadn’t fixed Sonny’s roof, I’d still be alone with my cat.” Then she grinned. “I’ve advice for some of youse.” She let her gaze fall on Barry and then turned to O’Reilly and Kitty. “Sonny and me are a pair of stubborn ’oul goats to have fallen out over a stupid roof. We waited far too long. Don’t you young folks be as daft as us.”
Barry glanced at Patricia, who was looking, with one eyebrow raised, at Maggie. He saw O’Reilly frown and stare at the back of Kitty’s head, and he would have given a day’s wages to know exactly what Patricia and Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly were thinking at that moment.
Maggie bent and planted a wet kiss on Sonny’s forehead. “I still love you, husband,” she said. Then she sat down to a round of applause that made the previous bout of clapping sound as faint as tiny ripples on a shingle beach.
O’Reilly was on his feet, waiting for silence. “Well done, Maggie.” He held up his hand. “I promised you this would be short, but a little bird has told me that one or two among us could use a moment’s respite.” He paused and looked at Archie Auchinleck and his son, who both had s
everal empty Guinness glasses on the table in front of them, “And I confess that includes myself. His Lordship says to use the facilities on the ground floor. Go on off all those that need to, ladies first, and we’ll reconvene in ten minutes.”
O’Reilly left. Arthur Guinness stuck his muzzle out from under the table and put one paw on Barry’s thigh.
“Don’t you bloody well dare, dog,” Barry said sternly.
Arthur heaved a sigh and trotted off after O’Reilly.
Barry was aware of someone standing behind him. Turning, he saw Donal Donnelly, bareheaded and with the top three buttons of his uniform tunic undone. Julie MacAteer, looking pale but happy, stood by his side.
Barry rose. “How are you, Julie?”
She smiled at him. “Well on the mend, thanks, Doctor.”
“Good.”
“I just wanted to say thanks . . .”
“No need.”
“And cheerio for a wee while. I’m going down to Rasharkin for a couple of weeks to see my folks.” She looked at Donal. “And when I get back him and me have to make our plans.”
“Good for you,” Barry said, thinking that Kinky’s song had been right, even if the particular wedding had already been arranged.
“I hope I’ll be seeing you when I get back, Doctor?”
“So do I,” he said, knowing she’d take the remark as simple politeness and not a reflection of his uncertainty about following Patricia to Cambridge, or his worry about the postmortem findings. “Just don’t get wed too soon after this one.” He picked up his whiskey. “What with the ta-ta-ta-ra two weeks ago and now today, my liver’s going to need a while to recover.”
Donal laughed, then asked, “Can I introduce Julie to Miss Spence?”
“Of course, Donal.”
“We met this morning, Miss,” he said. “This here’s Julie MacAteer, so it is.”
“Pleased to meet you, Julie,” Patricia said.
“Likewise,” said Julie, and then she bobbed. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Miss,” she said shyly, “I think your man Percy French must have had you in mind when he wrote that wee song, ‘The Star of the County Down.’ ”
Patricia laughed. “I’m very flattered you’d think that, Julie, but I don’t have ‘nut brown hair,’ and I’m certainly not in ‘my two bare feet.’ ”
Barry knew the song well. He supposed everyone in County Down did.
“From Galway to Dublin town,
No maid I’ve seen like the fair cailín,
that I met in the County Down.”
He looked at Patricia, and for him every word rang true.
“We’d best be running along, Doctor,” Donal said.
Barry was so intent on admiring Patricia that he barely noticed them go, nor did he see O’Reilly return.
“Barry?” O’Reilly asked, “have you seen Arthur?”
“What?”
“Arthur?”
“He trotted off after you.”
As if to answer O’Reilly’s question, there was a frenzied cackling from the brushwood beneath the elm trees, and a single cock pheasant rocketed into the sky, its short wings blurred in the speed of their beating, its green head flashing emerald in the sun. The pheasant curled away in the swooping flight of its kind to disappear over the topiary animals.
“Huh,” said O’Reilly. “That’s where the damn dog is. In that covert.”
O’Reilly moved to stand behind the table, lifted his fork, and began belabouring the glass. “Welcome back. Now shut up and pay attention. Next on the agenda,” he roared, “I’ll ask Councillor Bishop to come up here.”
There was a muted muttering while the councillor stumped to the head table. A voice called, “What about the Duck then?”
The councillor stood with his legs braced apart, hands gripping the lapels of his black suit jacket. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen,” he intoned, as if addressing the county council. “Unaccustomed as I am to public speaking . . .” He paused as if waiting for laughter, but it failed to materialize. “One of youse asked a very important question . . .”
“Aye. What about the Duck?”
“I have,” said Bishop, stealing a glance at O’Reilly, “been giving this matter serious consideration, so I have. I have listened to your concerns, and I’m going to take the sound advice of Doctors O’Reilly and Laverty, so I am.”
“To run away off and chase yourself?”
Barry had to admire Bishop’s aplomb.
“No,” he said, smiling. “I’m a bit on the heavy side for running.”
That did provoke a few chuckles.
“So I’ve made up my mind, and I’ve told Willy Dunleavy he and his family can have the lease for another ninety-nine years.”
There was absolute silence.
“Did youse hear what I said? I’m going to—”
The cheering drowned out Bishop’s next words.
Barry saw the little man puff out his chest like a pouter pigeon. “So there,” he said, “and if Sonny’s ready to bury the hatchet, then so am I.”
The cheering increased.
Bishop bent down, and he and Sonny shook hands. “And that’s all I have to say, except that my toasts will be to friendship, so . . .”
“Bertie. Bertie.” Barry turned to see Flo Bishop on her feet waving at her husband. “Bertie, it is not all you’ve to say. You promised, and I know you promised, you did so, when we was down in Bangor on Thursday, and it was at the hat shop, and . . .”
Barry distinctly heard the councillor whisper, “God, will that woman never shut up?” He raised his voice. “Right. Right, Flo. I did near forget. I’m sorry.” He pointed at Barry. “My Flo’s been awful sick, and it’s a very rare thing she’s got. I know because Doctor O’Reilly said he’d never seen a case, and we all know he’s a very learnéd man . . .”
A rumbling of agreement could be heard.
“But our Doctor Laverty here, he sussed it out in no time flat, and he’s her fixed up right as rain, so he has. Flo and me’s very grateful, Doctor.”
The hush had descended again, and Barry could feel many eyes boring into the back of his neck.
“I know I said my toast was going to be to friendship, and of course to Sonny and Maggie,” Bishop said, “but I’ll ask youse all to rise . . . and drink to our two doctors as well.”
“Aye, to our doctors and to the Duck. God bless them and all who sail in them,” the heckler shouted.
Barry chuckled at the addition of the traditional blessing given to a ship as it was launched at the Belfast shipyard, but he was flattered to be mentioned in the same breath as the public house.
“Well done, Bertie,” O’Reilly said, as Bishop went back to his place to the sound of cheering. “And,” said O’Reilly, “that leaves one last speaker before we can get down to the serious business of the day. Will you welcome, please, Donal Donnelly?”
“Jesus,” the voice yelled, “after the lord mayor’s carriage comes the smell.”
Donal, kilt drooping more than usual, buckteeth splendid as he grinned, came forward and made the obligatory introduction. Then he said, “First of all, me and Julie want to thank Doctor Laverty too. Youse all know what he done for her . . .”
There was a muted round of applause.
“But most important, me and the Highlanders, and a brave clatter of the other lads, and a wheen of the wives here have a wee present for Sonny and Maggie. Would youse two stand up, please?”
Sonny gave Maggie a puzzled look, shrugged, stood, and then helped her to her feet.
“On behalf of the village of Ballybuckebo, it gives me great pleasure to give you the key to your new and fully furnished house that we managed to get finished this morning.” He handed a huge artificial key, crafted from cardboard or plywood and covered with silver aluminium foil, to Sonny.
Barry saw the look of sheer amazement on Sonny’s face, and if his eyes had been damp when he’d been reunited with his dogs, tears now ran freely down his cheeks. Barry felt a lum
p rising in his own throat, dashed the back of his hand across his eyes, and thought, How could any young doctor in his right mind think of leaving Ballybucklebo? He saw how Patricia was looking at him, forced a grin, and directed his attention to what Donal was now saying.
“Here you are, Maggie.” Donal gave her a real set of keys. “I’m giving these to you because as any of the married men here’ll tell you . . . they may be the legal heads of the household, but they all know who really wears the trousers, so they do.”
There was a moment’s silence. Barry saw Mrs. Bishop nudge the councillor in the ribs, and he could have sworn he heard Bertie Bishop saying, “Yes, dear.”
The wave of laughter started low, and grew and grew as a tidal wave gathers strength as it nears the shore. The racket engulfed the crowd. There were catcalls and piercing whistles. One of the pipers, unbidden, launched into an impossibly fast strathspey. Children yelled. Barry saw one little girl, obviously terrified by the pandemonium, burst into tears and bury her face in her mother’s skirt.
Sonny’s dogs burst out from under the table, yipping and barking. The old spaniel raced in tight, hurried circles chasing its own tail.
Barry’s earlier question about whether the wedding festivities would match up to those of the Galvins’ going-away party had been answered, very much in the affirmative.
He moved to tell Patricia what he thought, but a hand on his shoulder made him turn to find himself staring up into the open, country face of Jack Mills. “Sorry I’m late, mate, but better late than never.”
The End Is Where
We Start From
“Jack.” Barry stood up, his hands sweating, as he stared at Jack’s face for any hint of what the news might be. “Have you seen Harry?”
“Och, aye. You’d have to feel sorry for the poor bugger. He looks like the wreck of the Hesperus. That flu’s a nasty one.”
“I’m sorry about that. Did he have the report?”
“Aye.” Jack’s face was expressionless until he eyed the half-full wine bottle and grinned.
Patricia, who had been following the conversation, a puzzled look on her face, reached for a clean glass and handed it to Jack. “Here.”
An Irish Country Village Page 41
