An Irish Country Wedding (39 page)

“Right. Youse phoned Ivan and told him youse could save him a brave wheen of money. Let’s hear what you’se’ve to say.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And it had better be bloody good, so it had.”

O’Reilly made a show of lighting his briar.

“Och, Jasus, would youse get on with it, O’Reilly?” Bertie hunched forward in his chair.

“It’s true,” O’Reilly said. “There’s a lot at stake. Mister Mc
Cluggage, may I first ask you a few questions?”

“Aye, certainly.” The man’s voice was a pleasing tenor. “Fire away.”

“Are you trying to purchase a cottage I once thought was Dawn Bwee but now know is called Dun Bwee?”

McCluggage glanced at Bishop before saying slowly, “Aye.”

“Have you put down a deposit?”

“Aye. Three hundred pounds.”

This man is not going to win any competitions for loquacity, Barry thought. Typical Ulster businessman.

“And will you be completing the deal soon?”

“The morrow.”

“I’m glad we’ve got to you in time. I’d strongly advise you not to.”

“And lose my deposit?” McCluggage half-turned his head away and regarded O’Reilly sideways.

“Pay you no heed to him,” Bishop snarled. “He’s only trying to get youse to back off so a local layabout can buy it. If you back out we’ll lose a profit of seven hundred pounds
—
”

“I know
exactly
what we’ll lose, Bertie. I’m not stupid,” Mc
Cluggage said, “but if we go ahead there’s another one thousand seven hundred to pay. I’d like to hear what the doctor has to say.”

Barry thought the man sounded quite calm, but that “
we’ll
lose,” and “if
we
go ahead” was interesting.

“Buy it and you’ll be throwing good money after bad,” O’Reilly said quietly.

“For God’s sake, O’Reilly
—
”

It was as far as Bishop got. McCluggage held up one hand. His voice was measured with a touch of steel. “Wheest, Bertie,” he said. “Go ahead, please, Doctor.”

Barry recognised that not only was Bertie a silent partner, for all his bluster, he was the junior partner too.

“Have you ever seen the property?”

McCluggage shook his head. “It was just a business deal.” He looked across at Bishop. “Bertie thought it would be a good buy for a quick resale. I wasn’t going to live in it.”

More pieces are starting to fall into place, Barry thought.

“I’ve been there,” O’Reilly said. “There’s a big mound in the back garden.”

“And what the hell does that have to do with the price of turnips?” Bishop demanded.

“Nothing,” O’Reilly said, “but it has a very great deal to do with road straightening.”

Bishop sneered, “I doubt you’ve ever seen a bulldozer at its work. It’ll go through your mound like a hot knife through butter.” Barry had a sudden urge to grin. Bertie was probably right that
Fingal hadn’t seen a working bulldozer, but the councillor was go
ing to meet the equivalent of one head on. Right now.

“Correct.” O’Reilly took a long count before continuing, “But it’s common knowledge that the council wants to straighten the road
—
”

“And that was brung forward
after
Mister McCluggage put in his bid,” Bertie rushed to add.

“I know that, Bertie,” O’Reilly said, “but to come back to bulldozers, you’re quite right, I’ve never seen one at work, but I
have
seen compulsory purchase orders stayed.”

Bertie went scarlet. “What? Stayed? How? Why? What in the name of the sainted Jasus
and
all the saints are you talking about?”

“I’d like an explanation too,” McCluggage said, “and Bertie, houl’ your wheest and try to listen.”

Bishop spluttered.

O’Reilly said levelly, “A local archaeologist has good reason to believe the mound contains important Stone Age artefacts. The Ulster Museum will be organising a dig.”

Bishop leapt to his feet. “What? I don’t believe a fecking word. Your head’s a marley, O’Reilly. There’s no feckin’ Stone Age rubbish within fifty miles of here, so there’s not.”

“’Fraid there is,” O’Reilly said, and inclined his head to Barry, “and you don’t have to take my word for it.”

Barry took his cue. “That’s right. I’ve seen the evidence,
it’s pretty convincing, and I know the folks at the Museum are considering excavating the site right between the arms of the hairpin.”

McCluggage pursed his lips. “That’s a turn up for the books.” He stared at the councillor. “Bertie, I’m inclined to believe the doctors.”

O’Reilly faced Bishop and said, apparently ignoring McCluggage, “Does the expression ‘cease and desist’ ring a bell, Bertie? There’ll be no compulsory purchase, no big profit for the owner of the house. The house and property’ll be made a historic site, which means very little can be done to it, besides changes for maintenance.”

“I see. Thank you, Doctor.” McCluggage turned on Bishop and said coldly, “You told me it was a sure thing.”

“It was,” Bertie blustered. “I knew it was. I’d arranged
—
” There was a pleading tone.

“If I were you, Mister McCluggage,” O’Reilly announced, and Barry knew he was stirring the pot, “I’d wave good-bye to your deposit. It’ll be cheaper in the long run.”

“It’ll not cost me a penny, Doctor,” McCluggage said calmly.

Barry frowned. How could that possibly be?

“You got me into this, Bertie, you and your ‘It’s a sure thing as long as we keep our traps shut. Don’t let people know we’re partners. We’ll split the cost of purchase and split the profit after the council buys the place to straighten the road.’ When I put
our
money down I made sure that half that deposit’s refundable. Guess whose half that’s going to be?” He turned to O’Reilly. “I’m not sure
why
you’ve done it, Doctor O’Reilly, but you’ve surely done me a big favour, so you have.”

O’Reilly inclined his head.

Barry grinned, and not only at Bishop’s discomfort. Two days ago O’Reilly had spoken to Dapper Frew, who had cleared things with the vendors, all hush-hush of course until after this meeting. They’d agreed that as they would be keeping the nonreturnable £150 from the deposit, they’d accept £1,550 from Donal and Julie instead of the £1,700 they’d originally offered.

Bertie said sulkily, “But half of that refund’s mine. I should get seventy-five pounds.”

“You can go and whistle for it, Bertie. Whose name’s on the offer? Who’s the refund cheque going to be made out to?”

“But
 
… but
—
”

“And I’ll tell you one thing more, Bertie Bishop. You told me before council met that you’d slipped Councillor Wilson fifty quid for proposing the roadworks so you could play the innocent and I could put in the offer on a sure thing.”

Bertie was squirming in his chair like a fresh lugworm that had been impaled on a fisherman’s hook.

“You can foot the bill for that too.”

So Bertie had set the whole thing up. Knew in advance it was a
shoo-in for him and McCluggage to make a quick substantial profit. “But that means I’m going to lose two hundred pounds,” Bertie said.

Barry thought he sounded like a man on the verge of losing his firstborn child.

“Bertie,” O’Reilly said, not unkindly, “if I were you, I’d swallow your loss gracefully.” He nodded at Barry. “I have a witness to your scheme. I’ve no idea what the penalties are for breach of public trust, failure of fiduciary duty, bribing councillors for profit.
Could be jail. And it wouldn’t do Councillor Wilson any good ei
ther.” He tutted. “I don’t think making it common knowledge would help your next election campaign much, but perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

Bishop stuttered, “B-b-b-b-but you said at the very start today that not a word of this would get out.”

“Sorry,” said O’Reilly, “but did anybody hear me say that?”

All Barry remembered was a small inclination of O’Reilly’s head.

After a suitable silence, Bertie seemed to rally. “Now, hang about, O’Reilly, youse doctors can’t give out confidential information about your patients, so youse can’t. I know that for a fact and I’m your patient, so I am.” He held up the finger from which O’Reilly had drained pus last July. A smile started.

“True,” O’Reilly said. “Very true.”

“So,” Bertie said smugly, “youse can’t say nothing about me. I’ve got you, so I have.”

It was as if this partial triumph over his nemesis almost made up for Bishop’s impending financial loss. Bertie’s expression was that of a small boy about to stick out his tongue and say “So there. Nyah, nyah, nyuh, nyah, nyah.”

“Indeed, Bertie,” said O’Reilly, “you are our patient and doctors must keep all
medical
information in confidence. But we’re not Catholic priests after confession. We have no obligation not to divulge your worldly sins.”

“Och, no,” Bertie said, jerking an arm in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. “Och, no, youse wouldn’t. Would youse?” His smile had vanished.

“Doctor Laverty?” O’Reilly asked.

“We could be persuaded to say nothing,” Barry said.

“I hope so,” McCluggage said. He scowled at Bertie. “I’ve my reputation to think of too, you know. I should never have let you talk me into this swindle.”

Barry said, “You two are partners in the shirt factory?”

“Aye,” McCluggage said, clearly ignoring Bertie’s scowl. “Bad cess to it.”

“And eight weeks ago you fired a woman called Aggie Arbuthnot?”

McCluggage nodded and said, “And you’re the doctor who wrote her a line, asking if she could have a job sitting down?”

“I am, and I’m going to ask again.” Barry watched McCluggage’s face as he must be digesting the deeper implications of what Barry was suggesting.

“And if I say yes, you two’ll keep your mouths shut about—?”

“Naturally,” Barry said. “As long as there are no reprisals and you promise to treat her properly.”

“I’ll do that.” McCluggage hadn’t hesitated for a second.

Bertie snarled, “How can you, Ivan, you eejit? Where’s the
money coming from, for God’s sake?”

McCluggage’s pencil moustache went up at one side as his lip curled. “That’s not a problem, Bertie.” His voice was a low hiss. “As managing director, I’ve just made an executive decision, and seeing the secretary’s my wife, you’re out-voted.” He turned to O’Reilly. “Doctor O’Reilly. You said you came to save me money. You have, and you’ve made me see what a greedy, unprincipled skiver I’ve been. I’m sorry. I owe you one, sir. Doctor Laverty, you needn’t worry about Aggie. She’s a bloody good worker. Been with the firm for years. I didn’t want to let her go, but money is tight. All those man-made fibre shirts coming from overseas, you know.” He scowled at Bertie and Barry understood who had made the decision to fire Aggie. “She can have a job as a buttonholer. I’ll need to train her, but once she’s ready it’ll pay a bit more than a folder and she can work sitting down.”

“Jesus, Ivan, where the hell are we going to get another hundred and eighty pounds a year? Use your loaf, for God’s sake,” Bertie said.

“I have,” McCluggage said. “I told you I’d made a decision.” His voice became pontifical. “Due to falling revenue, but the pressing need for a buttonholer, the junior director
 
… that’s you, Bertie, is reluctantly going to offer to take a pay cut of two hundred pounds a year, and the rest of the board, that’s me and the missus, is going to accept his offer
 
… or we’ll vote him off the board. You and your bloody ‘It’s a sure thing as long as we keep our traps shut.’ You’re a right regal bollix, Bertie Bishop, so y’are. I’m only letting you stay on at all because I don’t want to spend months feeling guilty about firing you. And we do need your capital in the company.”

Barry watched Bertie turn puce, but keep his counsel. There was nothing more he could say.

“Now,” said Ivan McCluggage, offering his hand first to O’Reilly and then to Barry, “we’ve a deal. Can one of you tell Aggie to come in on Monday?”

Barry nodded.

“And you’ll say nothing about the house that we’re not buying anymore?”

“You have our word,” O’Reilly said. “As long as you withdraw your offer first thing tomorrow.”

“I’ll speak to your man Frew.”

“Which’ll save us the trouble, Doctor Laverty. Dapper’ll know what to do.” O’Reilly smiled.

“The vendors can keep half the deposit
 
… one hundred and fifty pounds,” McCluggage said, and looked at Bertie. “No skin off my nose.”

O’Reilly turned to Barry. “Thank you for your help too,” he said. “Now Bertie, Mister McCluggage, if you’ll excuse us, Doctor Laverty and I were going to pop over to the Duck, but we’ll not be offended if you don’t join us. I’m sure you’ll have other matters to discuss.”

“Come on, Bertie,” McCluggage said. “It’s time we were going,
and thank you both again, Doctors.” McCluggage bowed to
O’Reilly and Barry in turn, then strode from the room, Bertie
scuttling behind like a chastened hound at its master’s heels.

O’Reilly collapsed into an armchair beside Barry and took a huge puff from his pipe, said, “Thanks be, but that all worked out very agreeably. And Donal and Julie won’t even need to know who fixed it. I prefer it that way.”

“The Lord,” said Barry, “and Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly both move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.”

“More or less by William Cowper, 1731 to 1800,” O’Reilly said as he led the way to the stairs. “When are you going to tell Aggie? She’ll be coming to the do on Saturday. You could speak to her then.”

“If you don’t mind. It’s your big day after all.” He went downstairs at Fingal’s shoulder.

“Och,” said O’Reilly, “wait ’til then, Barry. Probably not a bad idea to get things confirmed from Dapper that McCluggage is a man of his word before we tell her. Wouldn’t want to get her hopes up before we’re absolutely sure. Tell her at the wedding. There’ll be enough happiness to go round.” He waited then said, “How do you feel?”