An Irish Country Wedding (41 page)

A waitress greeted O’Reilly. “Hello, Doctor O’Reilly, sir. Nice til see yiz back.”

“Good to be back, Peggy.” He nodded to Barry and said, “This is my friend, Doctor Laverty.”

Barry liked that, “my friend.” It mirrored what he had thought about O’Reilly only a few hours ago.

“Pleased til meet yiz, sir.”

“Peggy.” Barry heard bursts of raindrops rattling off the windows.

She shook her head. “It’s a dirty night outside, so it is. The wires is shaking.”

“They are that, but it’s snug enough in here,” O’Reilly said, shrugging out of his damp raincoat.

She took his and Barry’s. “I’ve pints on the pour for your other friends.”

“Barry?”

“Please.” A year ago it would have been a small dry sherry.

“Two more, and start one for my brother when he arrives, please.”

“Right, sir.” She left.

“Sure, ‘A pint of plain’s your only man,’” Barry said.

“From
The Working Man’s Friend
by Brian Nolan, also known as Flann O’Brien and Myles na gCopaleen,” O’Reilly said. “I’m going to miss playing the quotes game with you, Barry. Come on, let’s see how that pair of old reprobates are doing.”

“You two know Barry,” O’Reilly said when he reached the table. “One of the best young GPs in Ulster.”

“Och,” said Sir Donald, “as the old cock crows so the young cock learns.”

“I’d a very good teacher, sir.” Barry glowed at O’Reilly’s compliment.

“And it’s not ‘sir.’ Just Cromie, Barry,” Sir Donald said, “just like this broken-down old rugby player is Charlie to his friends, aren’t you?”

Charlie Greer said, “And any friend of yours, Fingal O’Reilly, you great bollix, is a friend of mine.”

“When it comes to bollixes, it takes one to know one, Charlie Greer,” O’Reilly said with a grin.

“More lip out of you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, and I’ll remodel your nose again.”

The three older men chortled.

It was, because of their seniority, going to take a little time to get used to, but Barry recognised in these three men the same comfortable, irreverent leg pulling that was universal among friends in Ireland.

“Charlie and I used to box
—
” said O’Reilly.

“And the sudden juxtaposition of my glove with Fingal’s schnozzle in ’36
—
” He laughed.

“I understand.” And Barry had a sudden picture of his first meeting with O’Reilly a year ago and surmising back then that the big man’s bent nose and cauliflower ears must speak of a history in the ring.

“Now quickly,” O’Reilly said, “if you’ll excuse us for a minute, Barry, we’ve a little business to transact. What’s the state of play for the reunion?”

Charlie answered. “Since we met back in June we’ve had a great response from the class. They want a meeting in September ’66 in Dublin. Burrows Wellcome, M&B, and Ortho Pharmaceuticals have agreed to pay for the lunches and a couple of banquets. You said you’d look after the hotel, Fingal. And I think we should have one function in Trinity itself.”

“Agreed. I’ll arrange the Shelbourne when I get back from Rhodes. Speak to the Trinity folks.”

“I’ve spoken to Professor Micks and Professor Synge,” Cromie said. “They’d both love to come
—
”

Barry let the conversation flow round him and speculated about
whether twenty years or so from now he and Jack Mills, by then an
eminent surgeon, and Barry, a—he shook his head, time would tell—and a couple of others from the class of ’63 would be sitting discussing a reunion.

“Here yiz are, sir.” Peggy started setting five pints on the table. “There’s one for Mister Lars too. He’s gone to shed a tear for the old country
—
”

That was one way of expressing that he’d gone to the toilet, Barry thought, and more polite than remarking, “He’d gone to shake the dew off the lily.”

“When he comes back, I’ll bring the menus.” She left.

Cromie raised his pint. “Even before your brother gets here, Fingal, a toast. To Fingal, and Kitty. There never was an old slipper but there was a stocking to match. Good health and good luck to you both.”

Barry raised his glass and drank. “To Fingal and Kitty.”

“Thank you all,” Fingal said, “and while I’m at it, I have to thank you, Charlie. You were right about that scholarship and we found out today it’s going to a great lass from Ballybucklebo.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Charlie said.

“Not entirely for certain,” Barry said. “The bursar was pretty sure this afternoon, but he has to have it ratified by the dean of the faculty.”

“I’d not worry,” Charlie said, “John Henry’s fair when it comes to scholarships.”

Barry well remembered the students’ belief that in a reversal of the usual hierarchy God sat on the right hand of Professor John Henry Biggart, always known colloquially as “John Henry.” Helen
had left the bursar’s office discouraged this afternoon and, as
Jenny had said, nothing was certain until an applicant was able to clutch their letter of acceptance.

“Gentlemen,” said a tall, moustached man who now stood beside the table.

“Lars, good to see you. Have a seat. Our table is complete, gentlemen. Good drive down from Portaferry?”

“Thank you, Fingal, yes, very pleasant.”

“You know everybody except Barry.”

“But I’ve heard a lot from my brother about you, Doctor
La
verty, and I’m very grateful that you are going to be his best man. I hate making speeches.” Lars sat and offered a hand, which Barry shook.

“I’m happy to stand up for Fingal,” Barry said and, emboldened by his ready acceptance by his senior colleagues, continued, “and when it comes to hearing about me, wait until you hear
my
side.”

Everyone laughed.

“I assure you, it was nothing but good,” Lars said. He lifted his glass and drank. “And you’ll be glad to know that my friend Jimmy says Butch is getting on well in his new home
 
… and his new occupation.”

Barry was pleased and sat and listened while Fingal gave Cromie and Charlie the saga of Colin Brown’s ferret. Colin was in for a surprise on Saturday afternoon.

“Excuse me, Doctors, but here youse are.” Peggy placed menus on the table. “And will youse be having wine?”

“I think,” said O’Reilly, “we’ll stick to the pints for the moment until we see what everybody’s going to eat.”

“Fair enough, sir,” she said, “so I’ll give yiz a wee while til pick.”

Barry studied the menu. Good straightforward Irish cooking. He made his choices and looked up to see O’Reilly waving at Peggy and holding up five fingers. What the hell? Why not have another pint? Barry Laverty was going to sit back, enjoy the company; the honeydew melon slice with ginger; filet steak medium rare, with champ, carrots, and corn on the cob, and profiteroles
and coffee to follow; another pint; and all the rest of whatever
came to pass on what he had once heard referred to as his “antepenultimate” evening as assistant to the redoubtable Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, the ogre with the heart of corn who in one short year had gone from being Barry Laverty’s terrifying mentor to his friend.

Barry lifted his glass. “If I may?”

Heads nodded. Glasses were lifted.

“To you, Fingal. To you.”

43

Let’s Have a Wedding

A perspiring Fingal O’Reilly ran a finger under his starched white collar. Was it the warmth in the little church or his anticipation of the step he was about to take—was happy to be taking? He could feel a frown creasing his forehead and tried to relax. Still, it was understandable after all those years as a widower.
This
—he looked around at the church—was quite the leap. He smiled and stared ahead from his place to the left of Barry to where Mister Robinson, the black-robed Presbyterian minister, prayerbook open in both hands, stood in front of the choir in their stalls. The man’s benificent smile was directed at the men to Barry’s right, where Lars O’Reilly was flanked by Charlie and Cromie, all four in tail coats and pin-stripe trousers, sombre as penguins.

Jane Hoey, Kinky, and Virginia Currie sat across the aisle. Robinson and Cleaver’s had done a remarkable job of softening Kinky’s contours with a beautifully cut outfit. She, Jane, and Virginia wore hats of the same colour as their straight, below-knee
dresses and collarless, three-quarter-length-sleeved jackets in a
pale turquoise embossed silk. Each woman carried a bouquet of cream roses in her kid-gloved hands.

O’Reilly listened to soft harmonium music. Cissie Sloan was playing “
Prélude à l’après-midi d’une faune
.” Her hat, looking like something designed by Cecil Beaton for the Ascot scene in
My Fair Lady
, fluttered in time with her pumping of the bellows.

O’Reilly, with Kitty’s approval, had picked the music and she’d been quite happy with some other changes he wanted to make. He chuckled. Mister Robinson had initially balked at the suggestion for the bride’s entrance march, but had eventually come to see the reason O’Reilly asked for it.

“My wedding is going to be a ferociously happy day from the minute Kitty comes into the church and I’m not having any old dirge set the wrong tone. It’s going to be something fresh, jubilant, and never heard at an Ulster wedding before.”

“How about ‘The Prince of Denmark’s March’ or something from Handel’s Water Music?” the minister had suggested.

O’Reilly would not be swayed and Mister Robinson had agreed—and with a smile that had put the often dour minister well up in O’Reilly’s estimation.

Cissie, when told, had laughed like a drain and said, “Boys-a-dear, thon’s a quare powerful number, so it is, but I’ll have it down pat by the day, sir, never you worry.”

O’Reilly took a surreptitious glance at his watch. It was about time for Cissie to be swinging into the music for the bride’s procession, but he realised she was starting the Debussy for a second time. He wished Kitty would get here, but then, pursing his lips, he thought, Eejit, wasn’t she entitled to be a little tardy? Hadn’t he
kept her waiting for more than thirty years? Good God, why such a wonderful woman hadn’t been married off to any one of what must have been a swarm of suitors was unbelievable, but the only time he’d asked her that question, all she’d said was, “Because I was in love with
you
, Fingal.” Humbling, he thought, humbling and somewhat bewildering. Not for the first time he wondered why, this time around, it had taken him so many months to recognise how deeply he loved her.

But he still wished she’d get a move on now.

O’Reilly fidgeted then inclined his head to Barry and whispered, “Got the ring?” Silly question. Of course he had. Hadn’t he showed it to O’Reilly just before they’d left Number One?

Barry grinned and fished it half out of a pocket of his black waistcoat so O’Reilly could see the flash of gold that, more than the diamond with the slight flaw that he’d bought her in April, would symbolise and cement the love he felt for Caitlin O’Hallorhan,
Kitty to her friends. And wasn’t she his best friend too? Course she
was.

He took a deep breath and was soothed by the scents of mixed cerise and cream orchids from Lars’s greenhouse decorating the first six rows of mahogany pews. Their aromas masked the usual fustiness of the centuries-old building. The late-morning sun streaming through stained-glass windows above the chancel had glanced from dust motes and cast, as if from a kaleidoscope with a missing mirror, irregular lakes of soft colours over the aisle and the pews where a small invited congregation sat, all the gentlemen in their best suits, the ladies gloved and hatted as befitted one of Ballybucklebo’s grandest occasions.

He glanced down to where the light accentuated the blue of his Royal Navy dress uniform, all gold braid, brass buttons, and a plain silver cross hanging on his left breast to the right of a number
of campaign medals. Its ribbon had one white and two blue vertical stripes. It was regulation that when dress blues were worn, decorations must be displayed, but Queen’s Regulations be damned, he was
not
wearing a bloody sword. He vividly recalled a friend from his navy days tripping over his at a wedding. O’Reilly could
hear the clattering yet. Robert might have recovered his poise if he hadn’t grabbed at the chaplain and brought him down too. Most unfortunate that the man of the cloth as he tumbled had yelled, “Oh shite.”

There were going to be no slipups today.

O’Reilly dusted his lapel with the back of his hand and remembered the last time he’d worn this rig. Nineteen forty-six at Buckingham Palace, where King George VI had decorated Ma with the Order of the British Empire for her war work and her support of a charity for unmarried mothers—gone seventeen years now, God rest her.

His reverie was interrupted by rapid crashing chords. Good for you, Cissie. O’Reilly knew everybody, except those in on the secret, would be expecting the stodgy
dum-dum-di-dum
of Wagner’s “Bridal Chorus.” It was traditional at Ulster weddings for the bride’s entrance, but he was having none of this “Here comes the bride, short, fat, and wide” rubbish. Instead, the rousing theme from the 1958 Western
The Big Country
rang out triumphantly. Cissie was swaying like a rock-and-roll player in time with the music. Let her rip, Cissie Sloan. Let her rip. He winked at Mister Robinson, who smiled and nodded.

And none of this “the groom will face the front until the bride arrives.” O’Reilly had waited long enough. He spun to peer down the nave.

The congregation was rising with a rustling of women’s dresses as the notes soared to echo in the ceiling’s barrel vaults. He saw surprised looks turn to grins. Helen Hewitt gave him a thumbs-up and a beaming smile. He briefly wondered if she’d got her acceptance letter yet.

He glimpsed Kitty’s eighty-two-year-old mother leaning on the arm of Kitty’s distant cousin Brendan in the first pew to the left. Behind her in the second pew on the bride’s side, Archie Auchinleck gazed fondly at Kinky, who smiled back, dimples deepening, before Archie turned to face the rear of the little church, looking past two more pews of Kitty’s family and friends.