An Irish Country Wedding (43 page)

“I’ll let you tell her,” Kitty said. “She’ll appreciate it.”

“I already have done,” he said, “and she did.”

As they neared the house, he pointed to several sets that were close to a trestle table beside the house. Its tablecloth and those of the front row were pristine damask Irish linen. Along the top-table’s side nearest the house were place settings, and at intervals on it and on the other tables were vases of orchids, bright-coloured floral gems. “Having special cloths, place names, and centrepieces for the invited guests was her idea too. It’s free-for-all at the red-topped tables.”

He walked round the end of the top table. “I’ve been to Lord knows how many weddings. I know what I like.”

She smiled. “And you’ve told me what you
don’t
like and I agree. I think it’s a lovely idea to have a small head table and guest tables. Gives everyone a chance to blether with their neighbours.”

Fingal glanced to the last and most peripheral group in the front row; Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick, Bertie and Flo Bishop, and Cissie Sloan and her husband Hughie and their son Callum. It surprised Fingal not at all that Cissie, who was well known for her ability to talk inconsequentially on just about any topic, was in full cry and that Fitzpatrick was having difficulty stifling a yawn. “I see what you mean,” he said, pulling out a chair. “Kitty?”

She sat, and he sat to her left. The rest were already taking their seats. Sue Nolan then Barry were to Fingal’s left, Jane Hoey to Kitty’s right beside Mrs. O’Hallorhan and the marquis.

Fingal had first met Irene O’Hallorhan and her now late accountant husband in the ’30s. She sat erectly, a smile from time to time
crossing her lined face. She wore a neat maroon suit with a roll la
pel jacket and fur-trimmed cuffs. A string of pearls hung beneath the wattles of her thin neck. Her silver hair was done in a tight bun and her eyes, grey with amber flecks, held the same depths as Kitty’s. For a moment he wondered if Kitty would look as well in her eighties, but shrugged. She’d always be young to Fingal.

“Here yiz are, Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly,” Willie said, depositing their drinks.

By God, but that “Mrs. O’Reilly” sounded good, Fingal
thought. “Thanks, Willie,” he said. “Look after everybody else up here and those other tables at the front with flowers on them. And when you get a chance, bring a bowl for Arthur.” Fingal turned, lifted his glass to Kitty, looked into her eyes and said, “To you, my love.”

“Thank you, Fingal,” she said. “Thank you very much.” She touched his hand and sipped.

This was their day and the best way to celebrate it was to make sure everybody had a hell of a good time. It was going to be a ta-ta-ta-ra that would be remembered for years to come. And not because some eejit had made a fool of himself in public. “You don’t
mind we’re cutting down on the speeches?” he asked her. Speeches?
Jasus, he thought, a pox on them.

“Of course not, Fingal,” she said.

“I’ve lost track of the interminable ramblings I’ve had to sit through; coy innuendoes, shaggy dog stories that fell flat, a proud father full as a goat and embarrassing everyone by going on about his daughter’s potty training.” Fingal cringed. “The worst had
been a best man with a stutter who had wanted to ‘Tell the bride to
fuh-fuh-fuh-fuh-
focus
her attention on her husband.’”

Kitty spluttered then said, “Fingal. That’s rude.” She laughed.

“Not a bit,” he said. “
Honi soit qui mal y pense
.” He laughed with her. “And I can’t believe you’d think evil thoughts.”

He felt a quick kick to his shin under the table. “Eejit,” she said.

“Never mind blue speeches.” Fingal chuckled. “I’ve even been to country weddings where sufficient offence had been caused that in the immortal words of the old folk song, ‘Finnegan’s Wake,’

… Shillelagh law was all the rage

And a row and a ruction soon began.

“But we’ll be having none of that today. I’ll have to say a word or two, but I’ll be brief, and I’ve given the other two speakers strict instructions, ‘Stand up, speak up
 
… then shut up.’”

“I have no doubt you have, Surgeon Commander O’Reilly,” she said as she touched the three broad gold rings on his cuff and chuckled. She lowered her voice. “I know how much you want today to be perfect for us. Thank you, Fingal.”

“I do.” He glowed inside, swallowed a third of the remaining pint in one go, and said, “By Jasus, I can feel life returning.” He drank again. To the tune of “A Nation Once Again” he sang, “Rehydration once again,” and took another pull.

The pride of the Ballybucklebo Highlanders roared into “The Miller’s Daughter,” a strathspey that by tradition would be followed by a reel. Children’s happy cries punctuated the piping.

Fingal looked over his garden. “Filling up well,” he said to Kitty. He glanced at the marquee. Mary was helping her dad and so were Gerry Shanks and Charlie Gorman. Lines of men were queuing to buy drinks. “By the time the next pipe tune’s over I think we might
get the meal started and the formal part of the afternoon under way and over.” He gasped and wiped sweat from his brow and said,
“And then as soon as that’s over I can nip inside, get out of this
bloody monkey suit, and come back and enjoy the hooley.” Sue, who must have overheard, said, “It is warm, but I think you’re going to have a lovely party.”

“Glad you could come, Sue,” O’Reilly said. “He’s a good lad, young Barry.”

“I know,” she said. “I do know.” And she smiled.

“I’ll miss him,” O’Reilly said, “but he’ll be a damn fine doctor whatever choice of career he makes.”

She half-turned to Barry, who was saying something to her. “Excuse me, Fingal,” she said.

He felt a pushing against his shin. “Lie down, lummox,” he said. Arthur’s pink tongue lolled as he panted and flopped to the grass. “I know it’s hot. Your Smithwick’s coming.” Fingal looked up. The tune was now “The Walls of Limerick,” a rousing reel and, as he’d predicted, nearly everyone who was coming had arrived. It was harder to hear the pipes over the steadily rising noise of conversation.

He picked out some faces from among the invitees at the front tables. Helen Hewitt was sitting with Doctor Jenny Bradley. Other folks he didn’t recognise, Kitty’s family and friends from the south, kept them company and overflowed to other places. Father O’Toole was deep in conversation with Sonny Houston and Maggie. O’Reilly grinned. From Maggie’s hat, two fresh red roses and a large ox-eye daisy waved from the hatband of what must be a special creation for the day.

The rest of the garden was packed with friends and well-wishers. Laughter, voices, even a shout rising above the hubbub. “Jimmy, make it three pints, aye three, and a brandy and Benedictine for the missus.”

Willie was heading toward the head table with a tray of Moët Chandon bottles and a bowl of Smithwick’s for Arthur. Ice buckets were stategically placed.

“Good man-ma-da,” Fingal said to Willie, who had given Arthur his beer and was popping champagne corks. He finished his pint, listened to a happy slurping from under the table, and said to Willie, “When you get that done, nip back with another pint for me and when you notice Arthur’s bowl’s empty?”

“Right, Doc,” Willie said.

“And give you and your staff a jar on me.”

“I will, so I will.” Willie left.

The pipe music stopped. Fingal heard the ringing of a spoon on a glass. Mister Robinson was on his feet at one of the front tables. As silence fell over the garden, Fingal heard the far-away lowing of cattle, the distant notes of a cuckoo up in the Ballybucklebo hills, a ship’s siren out in the lough, and Mister Robinson saying, “I have been asked to compère. We intend to keep things simple.” He pointed to the marquee. “There will be three courses, starters or soup, main, and pudding. And there’ll be only three speeches
—
”

Fingal thought it might be Constable Malcolm Mulligan who yelled, “And keep them short.” A man after my own heart, he thought.

“We will. Two between the courses and the last after the dessert. After that, feel free to wander around, greet your friends and neighbours, and have a good time.”

“We’ll do that all right, your reverence,” a voice called from the crowd.

“I’m sure you will, Alan Hewitt. We’ll maybe get you to give us a song later, and anyone else who wants to do a party piece, but for now I’ll ask the head and first tables in sequence to go to the marquee for their starters and then each table in order of the numbers on your tabletop.”

Fingal’s stomach growled and he began to rise. The thought of the feast awaiting was making his mouth water. Then he remembered and sat quickly in time to hear Mister Robinson say, “But before we put our trotters in the trough,” he gave O’Reilly a sideways glance and was rewarded by chuckles, “I call upon Father O’Toole to say grace.”

The tall priest rose, bowed his head, and said in his soft Cork brogue, “On this wedding day of our dear friends, Fingal and
Kitty O’Reilly, may this food restore our strength, giving new energy to our limbs, new thought to our minds. May this drink restore our souls, giving new vision to our spirits, greater warmth to hearts already warmed by the love here today. And once refreshed may we give new pleasure to Thee who gives us everything. Amen.”

The chorus of amens sounded heartfelt.

Well said, Fingal thought.

“Now,” Mister Robinson said, “if the bride and groom will—?”

Fingal rose, helped Kitty to her feet, and headed for the marquee and the wedding feast, Ballybucklebo style.

45

In a High Style and Make a Speech

The first course of the feast was disappearing and the garden was noisy with
craic
, laughter, and kiddies’ shouts. Exactly as it ought to be, O’Reilly thought. That chilled homemade tomato soup had been refreshing. A grand wee sample of what was to come. He and the crowd had then sat respectfully through a succinct speech of welcome by the marquis to the bride’s family, wedding party, to all the women who had so generously provided the sumptuous repast, Willie Dunleavy and his helpers, and all the other attendees.

Then came the main course.

“Funny,” O’Reilly said, surveying the wreckage on his plate of the remains of cold salmon, roast ham, roast chicken, a lobster tail, potato and green salads, and two hard-boiled eggs, “I don’t think Alice Moloney let out my waistband far enough. These bloody trousers are still too tight.”

“Must be the heat,” Kitty said, and laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll be out of them soon.”

O’Reilly was going to say something risqué, thought better of it, and quaffed his second glass of champagne. Not a bad drop, but to be honest he’d have preferred another stout.

It would soon be his turn to get up on his hind legs. He felt Kitty’s hand, cool and smooth, creep into his. He squeezed and she squeezed back. Fingal, Fingal, he thought, you may be fifty-six going on fifty-seven, but Kitty makes you feel twenty all over again.

The minister jangled his spoon, stood, and was concluding, “…
and after that wonderful main course, our next speaker is the groom, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.”

Fingal rose to a respectful hush. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, it falls to me on behalf of the O’Reilly family to offer words of thanks, and to toast the gracious lady who is now my wife, Mrs. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.” He could barely bring himself to look at Kitty, so full of her was he.

“I would like to thank my father, Professor Connan O’Reilly,
and mother, Mrs. Mary O’Reilly O.B.E. Regrettably I cannot, but
they loved Kitty from the moment they met a young Caitlin O’Hallorhan in Dublin before the war.” And although I’ll not confess to it in public, he thought, I like to believe that wherever they
are, they are looking on today, hearing my thanks and smiling.
“My brother, Lars O’Reilly, orchid breeder—those are his flowers you see today—wildfowl conservationist, and my oldest friend, has delayed his annual departure to Villefranche to be here. Bless you,
Lars.” Fingal inclined his head to his brother, who smiled back.
“To the rest of my supporters, Sir Donal Cromie and Mister Charlie Greer, old friends, good friends, thank you. No groom could have
been more ably supported.” He hesitated, then continued, “And I
can only applaud the loveliness of the bride’s party, Mrs. Mau
reen Kincaid, Mrs. Virginia Currie, and Sister Jane Hoey.” He
beamed at the folks sitting at the head table and in the front row. “And finally, what groom could make it to the altar without a best
man? Doctor Laverty has performed his duties admirably, not
only today, but all through this year, as many of you can attest.”

The applause was even louder and longer lasting.

In the moment of silence that followed, a child, Fingal thought it might be Angus Shanks, yelled, “I want to go potty.”

There was a sympathetic outburst of laughter and while a blushing Mairead hustled her son to the house, O’Reilly scanned the crowd and found Alice Moloney: Barry had done a masterful job of diagnosing her obscure tropical disease. Two tables over was Colin Brown: Barry had sewn up his hand, understood his role in a ringworm outbreak, arranged to have his broken arm set, and rescued his ferret, Butch. Then there was Fergus Finnegan, the jockey: Barry had cured his eye infection. And Aggie Arbuthnot: Barry had dealt professionally with her deep vein thrombosis and would be telling her later that he’d helped get her job back. The young man had learnt that there was more to being a country GP than simply dealing with the aches and pains of the body.

The laughter died.

“And now,” said Fingal, “are your glasses charged?”

“They’re not charged to you, sir,” a voice said. “We’d for til pay for them ourselves, so we had.”

“Jasus, Jeremy Dunne, for a man who had an ulcer, you should be on orange juice,” O’Reilly countered.

“And the doctor’s not made of money,” Donal chipped in.