An Irish Country Wedding (18 page)

Barry interrupted. “If you’re going to say I could have a word with her boss, see if he’ll change his mind, I’ve already thought of that.”

“I was.” Good for you, Barry, O’Reilly thought, and I like the way you said “I,” not “we.” He lifted his drink. “But, I tell you, Barry,” he said, “I know about Belfast factory owners. They’re all tough as nails. McCluggage would probably tell you to run away off and feel your head, if he was feeling polite.”

At least that made Barry smile. “I’m not going to bother.”

“Who said, ‘Give me a lever and, with a place to stand, I will move the whole world’?” O’Reilly asked, and drank again.

“Archimedes. But that might have worked in ancient Greece, and it certainly works here in Ballybucklebo where you know everybody and can usually find the fulcrum, something to help you force them to do what you want. But we don’t know this McCluggage or his partner. How can we find something to put pressure on them?”

O’Reilly puffed again. Lord, but Barry Laverty learnt fast. “Search me, but I do have contacts in Belfast. Give me a bit of time. You never know what I might discover.” He ambled to the sideboard. “Ready for another?”

Barry shook his head.

“I’ve often told you about birds not being able to fly on only one wing,” O’Reilly said, and poured for himself. “And talking about Belfast and birds
—
” He stopped when he saw Barry’s look of irritation. “No, I am
not
changing the subject, as it happens. I want to go up there tomorrow. I’ve two birds I want to kill with one stone.”

“Did you know the Chinese say one arrow, two vultures?” Barry said, his expression softening.

O’Reilly laughed. “I didn’t know that. I’m not sure Kinky would like to be called a vulture,” his voice lost its bantering tone, “but I want to go and see her. Make sure she’s on the mend.” Try to reassure her about her place here, he thought. “I’ve had a notion about trying to set her mind at rest.”

“Oh?”

“What do you know about planning weddings?”

Barry laughed. “About as much as I know about the local sports in Ulan Bator, Mongolia. I thought you said you weren’t changing the subject.”

“Horse racing, archery, and Mongolian wrestling,” O’Reilly
said. “Read about the place in the
Times
just last week. I’m not changing the subject. I’m going to ask Kinky to take charge once she’s back here and more on her feet.”

Barry whistled. “You mean plan your wedding? Make her feel indispensable, is that it? That’s brilliant.”

“It’s worth a try, so that’s job one in the city.”

“And job two?”

O’Reilly puffed hugely. “You are not going to believe this.”

Barry chuckled. “With you, Fingal, if you said the earth was flat I’d probably believe it.”

“Helen wants to go to medical school.”

“Helen Hewitt?” Barry asked, sounding surprised.

“No, you goat, Helen of Troy. Of course Helen Hewitt.”

Barry frowned, started to say something, and then shut his mouth. O’Reilly could imagine what was going through the young
lad’s mind. In Ulster, very few working-class kids went to university, never mind to professional schools. The rest went to technical school if they went at all. Helen Hewitt’s dream of medical school was a huge leap any way you looked at it, and Barry Laverty clearly needed time to digest the information. But then he said with a smile, “And we’re going to help her, aren’t we? What can I do?”

“Good man-ma-da,” O’Reilly said. “I knew you’d agree she should. Thank you, but actually there’s not much you can do. We already know she’s qualified for admission. The problem is, how can she afford it?”

“It cost my dad seventy pounds in fees every year for six years,”
Barry said, “but he was making three thousand a year. Helen’s
father’s a builder’s labourer
 
… Lord, I only get one thousand eight hundred a year before deductions
 
… and I’m not complaining.”

“I know you’re not. I’ve been on the phone while you were out. I’m meeting two old friends. You know them. Charlie Greer and Donald Cromie. We’re going to start planning a reunion for our Trinity medical class of ’36 next year. Do you know we’ll be thirty years qualified then? Where the hell has the time gone?”

“You don’t look a day over forty, Fingal,” Barry said, and laughed, “but what’s that got to do with Helen?”

“Less of your lip, young Laverty,” O’Reilly said, laughed mightily, and thought, You’d not have teased me six months ago, boy. Well done. “I’ll bet senior consultants will know of any scholarships. Helen’s hard up right now. Keeping Kinky busy as our wedding planner’ll let me keep Helen Hewitt on to answer the phone
and help with the heavy housework. Someone needs to do the
hoovering, although I’ll bet Kinky’s back cooking before the
week’s out. That’ll get Helen a few bob for a while and if we can find a scholarship for her, well
—
”

“Brilliant,” Barry said. “Bloody brilliant. I really hope your friends can help. Now what about Aggie?”

O’Reilly inclined his head. “You know how tight a community Ulster is. While I’m at it, I’ll ask if by any chance either one of them knows this Ivan—?”

“McCluggage.” Barry chuckled. “You said something about killing two birds. That’s three.”

“Och sure, who’s counting,” O’Reilly said. “But it’s all worth trying, so it’s me for Belfast tomorrow. You’ll be on your own, but don’t worry about having someone to answer the phone if you get called out
—
”

“Fingal, would you mind if I brought a girl here?” Barry asked.

“Not at all. Who is she?”

“Sue Nolan. I took her for dinner last week and I want to see her
again, but reckoned I couldn’t until next weekend when it was my
turn to be off. I could phone her and ask her to come down. There’s plenty of grub in the fridge. BBC telly’s showing
Our Man in Havana
with Alex Guinness that evening so she’ll not be bored if I have to go out. If she can come, she could field phone calls.”

“Barry, I’m delighted, and you’re right. She could do just what Kitty did last weekend.” O’Reilly moved to where Barry stood.
“Give me that glass. You’ve time for another before tea. It’s
Mairead Shanks’s Irish stew tonight. I have it in the oven.”

Barry released his glass and O’Reilly poured. “And Aggie Arbuthnot’s cherry cake to follow,” Barry said. “It’s in the dining room.”

“I know about Aggie’s cherry cake. Julie saw Cissy in the village. We’ll have it a la mode with some ice cream I bought.”

Barry said, quietly, “The neighbours, and how they’ve all wanted to help?” He shook his head. “You know—thanks, Fingal.” Barry accepted the glass. “I’m going to miss this place—a lot.”

“I do understand, Barry.” He hesitated then said, “I may have
mentioned to you that when I was at your stage in my career
I flirted with obstetrics, but decided that I preferred GP work.”

“You did say something. About the Rotunda Hospital in Dublin.”

“I was there for a while, but I’ve been here for nineteen years.” O’Reilly took his chair. “Sit you down,” he said. “Cheers.”

Barry sat and sipped.

“We all have to find our way,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll find yours, and I’ve already told you if you want to come back
—
”

“Thank you, Fingal.”

“I’m not trying to influence you, Barry. Honestly.” Liar, O’Reilly thought. He’d grown fond of the lad, who was turning into a first-class GP. “I’d welcome you as a partner if you find specialising’s not all it’s cracked up to be and that you’re missing this place, the people, things like helping the Donnellys buy a house.”

“How did it go this afternoon?” Barry said.

“Very well. It’s a sound cottage, dry, well-built, good plumbing, indoor toilet. It’s got two bedrooms. Julie has one picked out for a nursery already.”

“Sounds ideal.”

“It is. And they can afford it.” O’Reilly sipped his whiskey. “Donal didn’t have a clue about things like mortgages, conveyancing, house insurance, but I’ve pointed him in the right direction. I’ve phoned Mike Canning of the Bank of Ireland. He’ll talk to
Donal on Monday about a mortgage. The estate agent, Dapper
Frew, will take care of them. He’s a good skin. Used to play on the wing for the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts rugby team. I’d love to see the Donnellys get the place. Julie has her heart so set on it.”

Barry sipped his drink. “Fingal, can I ask you a question?”

“Fire away.”

“Does it never get you down? It’s one thing, ministering to individual patients’ medical needs, but from what I’ve seen since I came here you’ve taken the whole damn village under your wing.
Don’t you find that tiring? I know you don’t show it.” Barry
laughed. “You hardly ever show that you’re tired, but not showing and being aren’t the same thing.”

O’Reilly set his glass on a table. Folding his hands like a praying supplicant, he rested his elbows on the arms of the chair and his chin on his fingertips. “I think it was the war,” he said, his pipe still clenched between his teeth. “Often when my old battleship
Warspite
had been in action or had picked up survivors, the medical department worked round the clock. You came to accept it as normal. Learned to take catnaps.” He let go a cloud like old
Warspite
did when she was cleaning her boilers, and wondered why he found it so easy to be open with Barry.

“My dad
—
”

“And my friend, Tom Laverty,” O’Reilly said, picturing
Warspite
’s navigating officer.

“He never talks about the war, but once, when I was a student, I was complaining about all the night work.” Barry looked down.

“Go on,” O’Reilly said, quietly thinking about what Tom might have told his son. O’Reilly didn’t mention the war often, nor did most of the ex-servicemen he knew. Like John MacNeill, the marquis of Ballybucklebo, or his butler, Thompson, who’d both been decorated for gallantry.

“Dad said during one battle when he had to keep the navigational plot updated constantly for thirty-eight hours he learned that you only were permitted the luxury of being tired when you didn’t have other people’s lives in your hands.”

“That must have been the Battle of Matapan in 1941. A lot of that fighting was at night.” Four Italian cruisers had been sunk, O’Reilly remembered, and half the officers on his ship had been kept going with liberal doses of the amphetamine stimulants he’d handed out. “Said that, did he, by God? Smart man, your dad.” O’Reilly straightened up and took his pipe out of his mouth. “I think, Barry,” he said, “you’ve answered your own question.”

“But what about this business of looking after the whole village? Do you see it in the same way?”

O’Reilly grunted and stroked his chin with the web between thumb and forefinger.

“Well?” Barry said.

“I’ve never really thought of it like that, but now you come to mention it, I suppose I do, don’t I?”

“Too true.”

O’Reilly grinned. “But it’s fun too,” he said, thinking about Donal and Julie again. “I know you aren’t happy having to send Colin Brown to hospital. You can set a greenstick fracture. You know how to establish a dose of warfarin for a patient like Aggie. I used to feel that way myself, years ago, but now? Instead of getting satisfaction from doing a, I don’t know, a Caesarean section for a stranger, I get to help with the lives of my friends. Make a difference sometimes. It’s very, very good for the soul.”

“And you don’t feel a bit Godlike when you do?”

O’Reilly could tell from Barry’s tone he was curious, not critical. “Me?” he said. “Me? Godlike?” He laughed until he felt tears start. “I couldn’t possibly. Oh dear.” He controlled his laughter
and said, “If I did, I’d be taking my own name in vain far too beJeezusly frequently and
—
” He finished his whiskey. “
—
if you be
lieve what certain parsons round Ulster preach, the Almighty wouldn’t go within a beagle’s gowl of a drop of the hard stuff.” O’Reilly rose. “Come on, Barry. Let’s get stuck into that Irish stew and between the pair of us get next week organised.”

20

We Will Pardon Thy Mistake

“It’s decent of you to come down from Holywood at short notice, Sue,” Barry said as he let her into Number One half an hour after Fingal had left for Belfast. “Not everyone would reckon answering the phone was an exciting way of spending a Saturday.”

“Happy to help out,” she said, taking off her coat and hanging it on the coatstand.

The cashmere sweater she wore fitted her perfectly and Barry admired the swell of her breasts beneath. “You really don’t mind missing your sail-and-learn class at the Yacht Club?”

She shook her head. “I told you on the phone, silly, today’s part
two of diesel engine maintenance for beginners.” She laughed.
“I’ve done pretty well on the theory of sailing, coastal pilotage, anchoring, chart reading, buoyage, all the boating stuff, but I don’t think I’m cut out to footer about with fuel injectors, piston rings, oil filters, oil changes. Far too messy and you always end up stinking of diesel. Anyway I enjoyed our dinner last week.” She looked him right in the eye and smiled. “A lot. And I was thinking having to wait until next weekend when you were off duty again was quite a while. Seemed to me a trip here beat skinning my knuckles footering about with a torque wrench on a banjo bolt, and it gives me a chance to see you too.”

Nice to know how you’re rated, Barry thought, second to avoiding skinned knuckles, and he smiled. “Um
 
… I did
 
… enjoy our dinner last week too. Very much.” And the moonlit drive home, he thought, remembering their kisses when he’d parked on a farm lane near Holywood to say goodnight. He was delighted she felt as he did—that waiting until next weekend was far too long. “It’s great you’ve come today. I just hope I don’t get many calls.”

“If you do,” she waved a leather briefcase, “I brought my reading and I’ll not mind catching up with some work and answering the phone if I have to.” She moved closer.