An Irish Country Wedding (34 page)

“Hmmmm,” said O’Reilly. “Colin must be heartbroken. I suppose he’ll get over it in time, at least I hope so. Kids seem to recover from all sorts of disappointments.” O’Reilly scratched his head. He frowned deeply, and nodded at Barry’s bag. “At least you
were thinking on your feet to whisk Butch out from under Bish
op’s
nose.” He tapped the stem of his pipe against his front teeth. “We
can’t keep the beast here, though. Her Ladyship
—
” O’Reilly pointed to the cat, who was staring fixedly at the bag and thrashing her tail. “
—
won’t stand for it. Not even for one night.”

“I don’t think Arthur will either,” Barry said.

O’Reilly’s face split into a huge grin. “Arthur. Ferrets,” he said. “Got it.”

Barry wondered if O’Reilly was about to wander off on another of his apparent non sequiturs.

“My brother Lars in Portaferry has a handyman, chap called Jimmy Caulwell. He runs ferrets. Arthur tried to help Jimmy dig one out of a rabbit burrow when I was there ten days ago.” O’Reilly looked at his watch. “Could you see a patient at six?”

“I suppose.” Barry was meant to be picking Sue up at six.

“Good. It’s Tom MacKelvey. You’ve seen him before.”

Barry frowned. “Lawyer. With piles?”

“That’s him. Seems they’re troubling him again. I told him I’d see him if he popped in at six on his way home from work in Belfast. It won’t take long. Have a look. Make sure they’re not strangulated. Give him some Proctosedyl oint
—
”

“Fingal, I have treated piles.”

“Sorry. Of course you have. Meanwhile, if I get my skates on, it’s five now. Forty minutes from here down to Portaferry. Find Jimmy. Shouldn’t be hard in such a wee place, and if I can’t I’m sure Lars will look after Butch overnight and give him to Jimmy in the morning. Fifty minutes to Harberton Park in Belfast to meet Cromie and the Greers. Noreen Greer’s making dinner for seven, but if I’m a little late, Noreen’s a doctor’s wife, she’ll understand. This is an emergency, Ballybucklebo style.”

“Sue’s not my wife,” Barry said, “not by a long chalk, but I hope she understands when I have to tell her I’m going to be late. That patients always come first.”

“She’s bound to.”

Barry smiled. “I hope so.” He shoved his bag closer to O’Reilly. “There’s one thing,” Barry said. “Could you get a box from Kinky? I might need that bag tonight.”

O’Reilly laughed. “Course.” He cast a disdainful eye at the invitations. “They’ll have to wait
 
… and I’m not one bit sorry. Right, I’m off.” He lifted the bag and headed for the door.

Barry said, “Fingal, Colin doesn’t seem to have any trouble handling Butch, but he’s bound to be a bit upset right now. He’s been stuffed in there, jiggled about
—
”

O’Reilly laughed. “Never worry. I’m good with animals. I’ll give you your bag back in a jiffy.”

As Fingal left, Barry heard scratching coming from inside the bag. He went to the hall and dialled Sue’s number.

It was answered on the first ring. “Hello? Peter?” She sounded excited.

Barry tensed. Peter? Peter who? “Sue, it’s Barry.” He wanted to ask about this Peter, but not now, and not on the phone. “Look, I’m going to have to pick you up a bit later, say seven? A patient’s
—
”

“Oh, Barry. I’m sorry. I was expecting Peter Gormley to call or pick me up.”

“The CSJ committee bloke?” Barry relaxed. Peter Gormley was a surgeon whom Barry had met and was far too old for Sue. It would have to be business. He’d been too quick off the mark suspecting a competitor, but perhaps that should be telling him something about how he felt about Sue Nolan?

“That’s right, I was going to phone
—
”

Barry heard a bellow from the direction of the kitchen. What on earth was that?

“You still there?” she asked.

He’d missed the sound of her voice. “Yes, Sue. Sorry. Go on.”

“Something’s come up. I’m going to have to cry off tonight and go to Belfast.”

“What? Why?”

“It’s to do with my civil rights work. They’ve moved up next week’s meeting to tonight. Barry, I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

Kinky went charging past and disappeared into the surgery.

He took a deep breath. “Pity,” he said, “I was really looking forward
 
… look, Sue, I know you’re secretary, but surely someone else could take notes? Just for one night.”

“I can’t. I’m sorry. Please try to understand.”

“All right. I understand. It’s important to you,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’d not want to stand in your way.” He knew his voice had become formal, despite his attempt to sound natural.

The sound of her doorbell ringing came over the line.

“Barry, that must be Peter.”

“Fine,” Barry said. “Off you go.”

“Please don’t be like that, Barry.” The bell rang in the distance. “Barry, when can I see you again?”

“Honestly, Sue, at the moment I’m not quite sure. Work
—
” He didn’t want to speak. “I’ll give you a ring. Maybe see you at the Yacht Club next time I’m racing.” And that was nine days away. He sighed. Just like the advice Jack Mills had once given Barry about Patricia. Leave her be for a while. See if she makes the first move. He hoped Sue would.

As Barry turned from the phone O’Reilly appeared in the hall carrying a box sealed with Sellotape. Airholes had been punched in the cardboard. The sounds of scrabbling came from inside. O’Reilly held up a finger with a brand-new elastoplast. “Bloody thing bit me,” he said, looking aggrieved.

I did warn you, thought Barry, but instead said sympathetically, “I hope it’s not too sore.”

“Nah,” said O’Reilly. “Hurts like bedamned at the moment, but it’s not that deep. I’ll get over it in time.” He went out and closed the door.

Not that deep, Barry thought, feeling hurt himself. Patricia Spence’s career had been too important for her to make time for romance. She’d told him so when they’d only been going out for a few weeks. They had made up, but she’d eventually dropped him for another man. Perhaps he should have seen the writing on the wall much earlier.

And maybe Sue’s remark about the banjo bolt hadn’t been as simple as he and O’Reilly had thought. Sometimes a seemingly trivial symptom could be the clue to a serious underlying disease. Maybe he wasn’t as important in her life as he’d like to be. If this dinner he’d arranged this evening could be so easily brushed off in favour of another committee meeting— Barry bit his lower lip, grimaced, and headed upstairs. Well, he thought, I’ve been get
ting over Patricia. He only hoped that in time he’d get over this
too.

36

That Reconciles Discordant Elements

“Any more for anyone?” O’Reilly asked. Then, as if daring Barry or Kitty to say yes, he nonchalantly encircled the pie dish with his left arm, a pie dish containing the remnants of Kinky’s orange dessert soufflé.

Barry said, “Not for me, thanks.”

He’d only toyed with his food and O’Reilly knew why. Earlier this week the lad had confided that it looked as if things between him and Sue Nolan had gone bust on Tuesday night. It seemed unfair to O’Reilly, in light of his own happiness, but he was wise enough in the ways of the world to realise that all might not yet be lost and that Barry’s best tactic was to let the hare sit for a while. Which is what he’d been doing for the past three days.

O’Reilly turned to Kitty. “What about you, dear?”

She shook her head.

“Shame to waste it,” O’Reilly said with a grin and helped himself. Kitty was a good cook, but Kinky was definitely in a class by herself, particularly when it came to pandering to his sweet tooth. And despite her ongoing attempts to cut down his calories, she’d been doing more desserts recently, in part, he was sure, to demonstrate just how indispensible she was. While she did seem to be more comfortable with the notion of having Kitty around, the Corkwoman still kept things formal between them.

“Who said, ‘Moderation in all things’?” Kitty asked, staring at O’Reilly’s tummy.

“Haven’t the foggiest,” O’Reilly mumbled, his mouth full of the last morsels.

“I believe it was that Roman dramatist, Publius something or other. Terence for short,” Barry said. “He’s also the bloke who said, ‘Charity begins at home.’”

“So let’s have a bit of charity in this home about my appetite. It’s been a long time since lunch,” O’Reilly said, and stifled a burp.

“I’ll grant you, Fingal, that soufflé was out of this world, but
—
”

“Thank you, Miss O’Hallorhan,” Kinky said, coming in with her tray. “And yourself, sir, should go easy on the seconds. Your fiancée is right, so.”

Lord preserve me, O’Reilly thought, from the “monstrous regiment of women.” Not for the first time he realised that it was entirely possible Kitty and Kinky might gang up on him once Kitty moved in. Oh well, it would be good for him to lose a bit of weight, and it had forever been a good tactic to get Irish people to forget their differences and form alliances against a common foe, in this case his waistline. A small price to pay for harmony between the women in Number One.

“It was wonderful,” Kitty said. “Mine always collapse.”

“If you wish, Miss O’Hallorhan, I’ll be happy to show you how I make them, so.”

“That,” said Kitty, “would be wonderful, and there is another thing, a favour I’d like to ask you too.”

O’Reilly saw Barry looking quizzically at Kitty and watched the expression change on Kinky’s face from a puzzled frown to—“Welllll
—
” and the beginnings of a smile. “If I can be of assistance, Miss O’Hallorhan,” Kinky said, putting her tray on the sideboard.

Go on, Kitty, Fingal thought, and slid his foot under the table to nudge hers for encouragement. When Kitty had put the suggestion to him yesterday, he’d said it was bloody brilliant. Now it was time to see how it was going to work.

“Doctor O’Reilly has arranged who will be his best man and who will make up the groom’s party. He’s enough men, five including himself, to form the first two rows of a rugby scrum.”

“And rightly so,” O’Reilly said. “After all, Charlie Greer and I
were the second row for Ireland once.”

“Indeed, but you outnumber my side, Fingal.” She faced Kinky. “My best friend Jane Hoey’s going to be my maid of honour, and an old nursing school friend, Virginia Currie née Treanor, is coming up from Dublin.” Kitty looked Kinky in the eye and smiled. “Mrs. Kincaid, I’d be truly honoured if you’d consent to be one of my bridal party too.”

O’Reilly watched.

Barry’s jaw dropped then he smiled. Kinky frowned, crossed her arms, pursed her lips, and looked down. Clearly she was making up her mind, and not without difficulty. O’Reilly shuddered to think of the implications if she said no.

“Please, Kinky,” Kitty said in a voice that would have melted Pharaoh’s hard heart.

“Miss O’Hallor
 
… Miss Kitty, it would be a great pleasure to me to stand with you on your big day, so.”

Barry surprised O’Reilly by applauding and O’Reilly joined in. He laughed then roared, “Good for you, Kinky Kincaid. Wonderful.”

Kinky frowned. “But I do see a shmall-little difficulty, so.”

Oh, Lord, O’Reilly thought. Now what?

“Perhaps I’m being too literal, but I’m wondering what you’ll be calling Mrs. Currie and myself?” Kinky said with a shy smile.

“Goodness. I’m pretty new at this wedding business,” Kitty said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Well, a bride,” said Kinky, “can have as many attendants as she wishes. The bride’s ‘best woman’ is the maid or matron of honour. The other attendants are the bride’s
maids
. But we’re a little old to be bride’s
maids
, aren’t we?”

Whoops, O’Reilly thought, and saw Kitty looking at him. “I knew getting married late in life would be an adventure, but I didn’t appreciate how truly tricky it could be until this moment,” O’Reilly said with a laugh. “But it’s only a name, Kinky,” he said, “and I think I might have a solution.”

“Please go ahead, sir, for I would like to do this for Miss Kitty, so,” Kinky said.

“For starters, we’re not having a completely traditional wedding so I don’t think we have to stick exactly to protocol and use all the old titles. I’ve always been partial to the early nineteenth-century expression ‘my particular friend.’ I see no reason why Virginia
Currie and you, Kinky, couldn’t be referred to as ‘particular
friends’ of the bride.” He waited.

Kinky’s smile was vast. “Oh, I do like that. I do like that very much, so.”

“So do I,” said Kitty.

“Then that’s taken care of,” O’Reilly said, and felt himself relax.

“And now that it is, Fingal,” Kitty said, “seeing Helen’s still answering the phone on weekdays, could Kinky have Monday off? I really could use help picking my wedding outfit and some of my trousseau. Jane is working that day and it’s much too far for my old mum to come from Dublin. I would so appreciate Kinky’s help. There’s the outfits for the maid of honour,” she grinned and nodded to Kinky, “and for
my particular friends
. Brands and Norman’s have some beautiful stuff.” She turned to Kinky. “I’d love to have your advice.”

Kinky nodded. “If that would be all right, sir, I could get the train to Belfast.”

“Of course,” O’Reilly said. Better and better. He must stop worrying about whether the two women were going to get on.
Kitty and Kinky were very much alike, really. Capable, intelligent, and for once, when there was a problem to be solved in Ballybucklebo, he hadn’t had to come up with the answer. Kitty herself had put things to rights with Kinky.

O’Reilly leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his full stomach, and sighed with contentment. It was going to be very pleasant having someone else to share the load when it came to sorting out nonmedical things in the village.

“And I don’t want to contradict you, Miss Kitty,” Kinky said, “but I do believe the very best shop for wedding outfits is Robinson and Cleaver’s.”