An Irish Country Wedding (38 page)

Barry’s moment of joy was pricked. Poor Aggie. For all Barry’s good intentions he still hadn’t helped her find work. There was some comfort in the “Big Doctor” being an old friend of O’Reilly’s and having agreed to bend the rules and give Aggie another fortnight on “the sick,” but then what? And Barry had precious little time now to do anything before he left.

“Come in. Come in,” Sonny said, ushering them into the kitchen. “And if you give me your rose, Sue, I’ll just be a tick popping it in water with Maggie’s.” Sonny smiled. “I give her one a day as long as the bushes are flowering.”

A red rose for true love. One a day. What a beautiful idea, Barry thought, and wished it had been him who had given one to
Sue.

“Done,” said Sonny. “Now to business.”

He took them to the dining room where a large map was spread on the table. “I’ll not bother you with my primary sources, but suffice it to say I have confirmed that Sanctum Lignum was founded by Saint Lairseran, son of Nasca. Your tip was most helpful, Sue.”

She smiled. “I’m delighted. So it
is
modern Holywood and you already know your site is three miles east?”

Sonny nodded furiously. “And it’s getting even better. In the papers of Bangor Abbey I unearthed two more references to the structure I’m looking for and its distance west of Bangor Abbey. And they both refer to it by name. Dun Bwee. The yellow fort, so it must be a
lios
or a
ráth
. I’ve plotted them on this half-inch-to-the-mile, Sheet Four, Ordnance Survey map. Look.”

Barry and Sue craned forward. Taking their centres from the site of the abbeys in Bangor and Holywood, two circles, each the distances to scale that Sonny had gleaned from his references, had been pencilled on the map with a geometry compass. He’d drawn a cross at the spot where the arcs briefly touched.

“X,” said Sue, “marks the spot.”

“I believe it does,” said Sonny. “I did try statute miles and the arcs overlapped, but when I took 153 yards off both measurements the circles just kissed.”

“How exciting.” Sue’s eyes shone. “You must be feeling very proud.”

Sonny shook his head. “Not yet, my dear.”

“Why not?” Barry asked.

“So far, it’s all supposition until a properly conducted archaelogical dig can be arranged.” He smiled. “I’ve got an appointment with the people at the Ulster Museum next Tuesday. I must say the chap I talked to on the phone sounded very enthusiastic.”

“I really do hope you’re right, Sonny,” Sue said.

“Me too,” Barry said. He leant forward. “And as a matter of interest, where exactly does ‘X’ mark in today’s County Down?”

“There,” Sonny said, pointing. “Between the limbs of that awful hairpin bend on the main Bangor to Belfast Road. I’ve been
there. It’s an old cottage with a thatched roof and a sold sticker on the for-sale sign. There’s a mound in the back garden. I’m sure that’s what I’m looking for.”

“And you said it was called Dun Bwee?” Barry said, taking another look at Sonny’s map. There it was, a large X directly over the centre of the land bordered by the hairpin bend. “Sonny
 
… you just may have given Doctor O’Reilly a very timely wedding present.”

40

Who Reads Incessantly

“So that’s the setup, Doctor Bradley,” O’Reilly said to the young woman sitting beside him in the car. “Barry showed you how the surgery works, and you’ve had the grand tour of the village and the townland this afternoon, seen a couple of the customers in their homes. Grand mal epilepsy and pyelonephritis
 
… not the most common things we’re called out to see.”

“But interesting cases,” she said and smiled, “and, the second one? I’ve never been inside such a lovely cottage.”

“It was there before the 1845 potato famine,” O’Reilly said, “but by local standards it’s one of the newer developments. The townland was apparently inhabited in the Stone Age.”

“Amazing,” she said, “and your patients and their families were delightful people.” Her accent was definitely from the Upper Malone Road where the better-off Belfast people lived. O’Reilly knew her father, Norman Bradley, a retired GP himself. He’d practiced on the Stranmillis Road. “It’s been most interesting,” she said, “and I’m sure I’ll be able to find my way about soon. I do enjoy country practice. I spent the last six months in Ardglass, Doctor O’Reilly.”

“You’ll find Ballybucklebo much the same, and if you’re not sure about anything ask Kinky. And except in front of the customers it’s Fingal, Jennifer. We’re not terribly formal here.”

“Actually,” she said, “I prefer Jenny.”

“Jenny it is.” He eased the Rover into the garage across the back lane. He got out and appraised the young woman while she walked round the car. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, five foot six, blonde hair cut with bangs, or what the locals called a donkey fringe, low on a smooth forehead and sweeping inward to curve under her jaw. Blue eyes with a hint of mischief, small nose, curved lips.

Her navy blue suit exuded a no-nonsense, businesslike look. He noticed that she wore no jewellery and very little makeup. Her stethoscope stuck out of one jacket pocket and she carried a battered-looking doctor’s bag in one hand. It had probably belonged to her father.

“Let me take your bag,” O’Reilly said. Gentlemen were expected to carry loads for ladies.

“I can manage,” she said and smiled, “but thanks for offering.”

O’Reilly opened the back gate. Arthur Guinness yelped happily and trotted over to welcome the boss home and greet the new
comer. “Meet Arthur Guinness,” O’Reilly said. “Be careful he
doesn’t beat you to death with his tail.”

“He’s very friendly,” she said, patting Arthur’s head. “I like dogs.”

“So do I,” said O’Reilly, “especially that great lummox.” He opened the kitchen door and stood aside to let her go in.

Kinky was lifting a tray of sausage rolls from the oven. As ever her kitchen smelled delicious. “Doctors,” she said, putting her burden on the counter. “I’m starting to get organised for Saturday afternoon, so, and Doctor Bradley, dear, I have your room made up and your things taken up. It’ll be yours until Sunday and then, so as you can have the landing bathroom to yourself, we’ll be moving you to the attic bedroom after Doctor Laverty leaves.” She shook her head. “It does not seem like a whole year, at all, since he moved into it, so.”

O’Reilly detected a wistful tone and knew how fond Kinky had become of the young man.

“I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable. Thank you, Mrs. Kincaid,” said Jennifer Bradley.

“And where’s Barry?” O’Reilly asked.

“Upstairs,” said Kinky, “champing at the bit for yourself to get home, sir. I know you’ve important visitors coming.”

“We have,” said O’Reilly. He spoke to Jenny. “Barry and I have a meeting with a man from Belfast and, I think, a local councillor.” That’s what McCluggage had agreed to when O’Reilly had phoned the man on Monday with an offer to save him money—provided he brought any partners along. “We’ll be meeting in the lounge, so I’m going to have to ask you to wait in your room or the dining room until it’s over, and if there are any calls deal with them. We’re pitching you in at the deep end, I’m afraid, seeing you’ve only been here since this morning.”

She smiled, laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. “Deep end? I’m quite a good swimmer, Fingal,” she said. “I’ve been doing locums for two years. I’ll be fine.”

It was simply a statement of fact, not a boast, and it impressed O’Reilly. “Fair enough,” he said, “now come on up to the lounge where you can take the weight off your feet. No need for you to leave there until my guests arrive.” He led the way.

They met Helen in the hall. She had her coat on, and his copy of Dickens’s
Our Mutual Friend
tucked under one arm. “Helen Hewitt,” O’Reilly said, “this is Doctor Bradley. She’ll be moving in today and getting to know the place. Taking over from Doctor Laverty.”

“Doctor Bradley, pleased til meet you,” Helen said.

“How do you do, Helen?”

“Helen’s been working as our receptionist,” he said, and, he thought, almost certainly following in your footsteps, Jenny Bradley, when medical school starts in September. He’d know for sure by tomorrow. “She’ll be leaving us on Friday,” he said. “We’re going to miss her.”

“And I’m going to miss Number One,” Helen said. “And I don’t want to make no fuss about going, but thank you very much for the work since May, sir.” She grinned. “It’ll not be as much fun behind the counter in a sweetie shop, but the wages aren’t bad.”

“I’m sure something better will show up soon,” O’Reilly said, and kept his voice level and his face expressionless.

Helen smiled.

“I just wish it was Kinky’d said that.” She lowered her voice and said seriously to Jenny, “Mrs. Kincaid has the sight, you know.”

“Really?” said Jenny. “How unusual.”

O’Reilly detected no hint of Jenny being patronising. Good. “She is a most unusual woman,” he said. “You’ll come to see that in the months ahead.”

“I’ll be running on,” Helen said. “Doctor O’Reilly, I’ll be sure to get this here book read before I leave on Friday.” She showed it to Jenny. “It belongs to the doctor. He’s been very generous with his library, but I don’t want to take advantage.”

“You can’t go at Dickens like a bull in a china shop. Take all the time you need. Away off now and we’ll see you tomorrow, Helen,” O’Reilly said. “Come on, Jenny.” He headed upstairs, remarking
as they climbed, “Kinky’s not the only unusual woman here.
Helen has been fielding phone calls, doing housework, job hunting, and systematically going through my entire collection of Dickens novels since she started with us in the spring.” He chuckled. “She’s even made a few side trips into the vagaries of X-ray crystallography. She’s not one to let the grass grow under her feet.”

“I’m impressed,” Jenny said.

“So,” said O’Reilly, “am I.” He stood aside at the doorway.

Barry, cozily ensconsed in an armchair,
Times
cryptic crossword on his lap, rose immediately she entered.

“Sit down please, Barry,” she said.

“Thank you.” He returned to the chair, taking a quick glance at the crossword.

“Actually, Fingal,” Jenny said, “if you don’t mind, I’ll head on up to my room. I’ve some letters I want to write. Good luck with your meeting.”

“I think, Doctor Bradley,” O’Reilly said, “you are going to fit in at Number One; fit in very well indeed.”

“I hope so. I’m soon going to be looking for a partnership,” she said, regarding O’Reilly levelly.

She’s certainly not backward in coming forward, O’Reilly thought, and admired the way she’d got to the point. He saw Bar
ry’s eyes widen, his forehead crease. It’s a bit Machiavellian, O’Reilly thought, but it won’t hurt to let Barry know there could be competition. “And I’ve got used to having help.” He smiled at Barry, whose frown deepened, and said, “So I might be looking for a partner a year from now, but I have to be honest, Jenny. I’m not sure how the country patients are going to take to a woman. Usually they mistrust what they call ‘lady doctors.’ We’ll have to see how you are accepted here.” And I’ll have to see how I get on as the only man in a household of three women, he thought.

She laughed and said, “I’ve lived through nine years of that mistrust since I started medical school. It doesn’t bother me, and you’d be amazed how quickly most of the patients realise that us ‘lady doctors’ don’t have horns.”

“Good for you,” O’Reilly said, “but that’s not the only constraint, and so there’s no misunderstanding, I’ve promised Barry the job in January if he finds he doesn’t like being a specialist.”

“I understand,” she said. “I’ll still do the best I can.”

Barry’s frown faded.

O’Reilly, warming to this self-sufficient young woman, said, “I know you will, but at least for this evening I hope the phone is quiet and you can get to your letters.”

From below, the front doorbell rang.

“Thanks, Fingal. I’ll be off,” Jenny said, and left.

Kinky’s footsteps, then a familiar voice roaring, “Where the hell’s O’Reilly?”

“Please go upstairs, Councillor,” Kinky said. “He’s expecting you.”

Perhaps not expecting, more like hoping, although he couldn’t remember a time when he’d truly been hoping to see Bertie Bishop. This was a first. Still, his presence was as good as a signed and sealed confession that their tenuous suspicions were right. Given the way the man bellowed, though, how he was ever a “silent” partner was beyond O’Reilly.

41

They Lose It That Do Buy It

Barry stood with O’Reilly to greet their guests. Bertie led the way, and he did not offer to shake hands. He was accompanied by a stranger. The man of about forty was as skinny as Bertie was rotund, had a bowler hat perched on what looked to Barry to be a completely bald head, small ash-coloured eyes, and a dark, pencil-thin moustache on a narrow upper lip. He whipped off his hat.

“I’m Doctor O’Reilly and this is Doctor Laverty,” O’Reilly said by way of introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Mister McCluggage. Won’t you both please have a seat?” He indicated the two armchairs.

For the first time in the year he’d been here, Barry noticed, invited guests had not been offered a drink.

McCluggage smiled, it was an open smile, and replied amiably, “Likewise,” and sat.

Bertie scowled and dumped himself into the other armchair.

As previously arranged, Barry took a third chair facing the two men. O’Reilly stood leaning against the fireplace.

“You let me do the talking, Ivan,” Bertie said. “I’ve had dealings with these two before.”

McCluggage narrowed his eyes. “All right.” He crossed his legs and set his bowler on his lap.

“First things first, O’Reilly,” Bishop said. “I want this on the table here and now. Youse told Ivan you’d not say nothing unless he brought his partner. That’s me, but we want no word of that getting out, do you hear? Not a whisper.”

Barry noted that O’Reilly inclined his head but didn’t speak.