An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

“One, four times a day. It will ease the pain and help the inflammation to heal. You’re going to need time off, so I’ll give you a line and a letter. Are they pretty decent about sick leave at your work?”

  She snorted. “Them buggers probably had jobs as Pharaoh’s overseers when the pyramids was getting built. It’s lucky the union won’t let them use whips nowadays.”

  Barry nodded. He’d heard about conditions in some of the Belfast factories. He leant forward. “What exactly do you do, Aggie?”

  “Fold shirts. You know when you buy one it’s all buttoned up and folded over cardboard with the sleeves pinned to it and packed in cellophane?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s my job to stand at a board and do all that by hand on every shirt that the button-holers give us off their machines.”

  “You stand and do that all day?” No wonder she had varicose veins.

  “Och aye. Five and a half days a week. I have done since I left school. I’m thirty-two now so that’s sixteen years ago.”

  “That’s nearly as long as Doctor O’Reilly’s been practising here,” Barry said, and pursed his lips. He recognised how ignorant he was of how the other half lived. He may be dissatisfied with the routine of his work, but to spend your whole working life folding shirts? “It’s little wonder you’ve got varicose veins,” he said, “with all that standing. Don’t you get bored?”

  “Not at all,” she said. “Sure the craic’s powerful with the other girls, and after a while you could fold shirts with your eyes shut, so you could. It’s wee buns.”

  “I wish you could sit down,” Barry said.

  She sighed. “I’ve kept asking for a job as a stitcher. Youse get to sit down to do that, but och, there’s always some excuse. Mind you,” she scratched her cheek, “at least I still have a job. Poor Helen Hewitt. Her mill closed down.”

  “I know,” Barry said. Fingal was going to interview her at twelve thirty. Barry decided to get a move on. There were other patients waiting. “What’s your boss’s name?” he asked.

  Her lip curled. “Mister Ivan McCluggage. He owns the place along with some fellah he calls a ‘silent partner.’” She lowered her voice. “Us workies call your man McCluggage ‘Ivan the Terrible.’”

  Barry didn’t bother to hide his grin.

  “Aye, I thought you’d like that,” chuckled Aggie, “you being a learnèd man and all.”

  “I’ll write to Mister McCluggage and tell him you need three weeks off, and I’ll ask him to reassign you to a sitting job—you called it stitching?”

  “I did.” She smiled. “That’s quare nor decent of you, sir, but I’ll not hold my breath. You don’t know our Tzar of all the Russias.”

  “It won’t hurt to try, Aggie. We have to get you off your feet. And you’ll need to stay off even after you’ve had your operation. We’ll not want the veins coming back.” Barry started to write.

  He handed Aggie the sick line and letter. “Here you are.” Barry stood. “Can you get home all right?”

  “Aye, certainly. Archie Auchinleck, him what delivers the milk, lives fornenst me, you know. He has a wee motorcar. He give me a lift here and he’s not working in the afternoons so he’s in the waiting room ready to take me home.”

  “Good. I’ll pop in to see you in a day or two, but if you get any pain in your calf or you’re short of breath, no more of this ‘tholing it.’ You phone here at once.” Barry wasn’t overly concerned about the possibility of complications, but you never could be sure with veins.

  Usually patients left by the front door, but he walked with her to the packed waiting room. Archie, who was standing because all the chairs were taken, said, “’Bout ye, Doc.” He offered his arm. “Come on, Aggie. Let’s be getting you home.” He turned back to Barry. “How’s Mrs. Kincaid, by the way?”

  “She should be on the mend,” Barry said.

  “I’m main glad to hear that,” Archie said. “Main glad, so I am. I’ve been dead worried.” There was no doubting the man’s sincerity.

  Barry surveyed the waiting room. A heavyset man wearing a duncher was snorting into a pocket handkerchief. A recently born baby in its pram mewled gently. The God-awful roses on the wallpaper glared at him. “Safe home, Aggie,” he said. “Right. Who’s next?”

  9

  And a Good Job, Too

  O’Reilly answered the door to a radiant Helen Hewitt. “Come in, Helen.” He’d forgotten the sheen in her hair, the openess of her face. “Go on into the dining room.” He inclined his head and followed, admiring the sway of her hips under what must be her Sunday-best skirt. By God, he may be past fifty and soon to marry the love of his middle-aged life, but he could still appreciate the sight of a pretty woman. “Have a pew.” He pulled out a dining room chair, waited until she was seated, then sat opposite.

  “How’s Mrs. Kincaid doing?” she asked. “I’m desperate sorry to hear she’s poorly, so I am.”

  “I’m just back from the Royal. She’s doing well.” He fished out his briar. “Mind if I smoke?” It was the accepted polite question, particularly in mixed company.

  “I don’t mind one wee bit. And I’m dead pleased to hear about Mrs. Kincaid getting better, so I am.” She rummaged in her handbag. “Can I smoke too?” A smile played across her lips and lit up her startling green eyes.

  Helen pulled out a packet of Wills Wild Woodbine. They were, along with Park Drive and Strand, the cheapest cigarettes available.

  O’Reilly laughed. Not one patient in ten would have had the temerity to ask permission to smoke in his house. He admired her self-possession. But then he and Barry had known all about how feisty Helen Hewitt was ever since her run-in with Alice Moloney over some new hats. “Go right ahead,” he said, “although I’m supposed to tell you that doctors think smoking’s bad for you. That’s what my research colleagues say.” He struck a match, lit her cigarette, and fired up his pipe. “Didn’t used to be a bad thing. Folks thought you were odd if you didn’t smoke. Och well, ‘Times they are a changin’.’ They’ll be picking on the drink next, or a good Ulster fry.” He grinned at her and she grinned back, taking a quick draw on the cigarette. “You’ll not remember, Helen, but years ago there was a song about life’s good things called ‘It’s Illegal, It’s Immoral, or It Makes You Fat.’ I think we’re getting there. Soon some eejit’s going to start saying kiddies shouldn’t have sweeties.”

  “Aye,” she said. “They told us when we were wee smoking would stunt our growth, so it would, but sure I couldn’t wear high heels if I was any taller. And I do remember the song, sir. Them Beverly Sisters sung it, so they did.”

  “Good for you, Helen, and you’re right about the song,” said O’Reilly, and rose. “I’ll get you an ashtray.”

  “I hope, sir, you didn’t mind me phoning up to see if you might need a bit of help, but I’d only just found out about my job as receptionist at the Belfast Mill. I’m used to answering phones and I know that’s one of the things Mrs. Kincaid did here, so I thought there might be a temporary vacancy. And the gentlemen buyers seemed to like talking to me when they called.” She frowned. “I suppose I’m easy to talk to.”

  O’Reilly put a cut-glass ashtray on the tabletop beside her, sat, and looked hard at the young woman. He was sure the gentlemen buyers enjoyed chatting with such a good-looking girl, and probably not entirely because of her riveting conversation. And yet Helen seemed surprised that it should be so. “We could use help,” he said, “at least until Kinky gets back on her feet, so it’s likely you could be here for a couple of months.”

  “I didn’t know she was that sick,” Helen said. “If I’d known—” She sighed. “God, I feel like a vulture, so I do.”

  O’Reilly said, “No need, Helen. Kinky’s fine. Honestly, but she’ll need time before she can get back to work, and I need someone to answer the phone. You couldn’t have come at a better time.”

  “Honest to God?”

  He nodded.

  “That would be great,” she said.
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  “Just a couple of quick questions.”

  “Fire away.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-two this August.”

  “Did you finish school?”

  “Aye. Three years ago. I got my Junior Certificate in eight subjects.” She screwed up her face. “I hated Latin, but it was compulsory. Anyroad I went on and got Senior Certificate, and three Advanced levels too, in physics, chemistry, and biology.”

  O’Reilly whistled. He knew her widowed father was a builder’s labourer with a big family. Helen was working class. Usually such girls left school at fifteen, but Helen had stayed long enough to complete university entrance requirements, and in science at that. “Did many girls do sciences at your school?” he asked.

  She laughed. “At Sullivan Upper Grammar School in Holywood? Not at all. Most finished after Junior Certificate, one or two stayed on and did arts. Girls don’t do science.”

  “Sooo?” He let the question hang. This was fascinating.

  “There was this here science teacher—”

  He heard the softness in her voice, saw a hint of mistiness in those green eyes.

  “Mister Wilcoxson. I think I was a wee bit in love with him, so I was.” Helen looked up suddenly and must have caught something in O’Reilly’s expression.

  “Och, no, Doctor. Nothing like that,” Helen laughed. “He was the perfect gentleman. Just wanted to see me get on, you know. He give me no peace. I done science up to Junior Certificate. Got three distinctions, so I did. He kept after me until I said I’d do science for Senior. I was only sixteen,” she said, “but anyroad, he gave me extra classes, kept me at it for two whole years.” She shrugged. “He wanted me to go to university, but I never did.” She shrugged. “That’s for highheejins, so it is. I could have gone for a secretary’s course, but, och.” She shrugged again. “I’ve done all right as a shop assistant and I liked my work at the mill, you know.”

  O’Reilly leant across the table. “Would you have liked to go to Queen’s?”

  She sighed. “Honest to God?”

  He nodded.

  “Aye. I would, but I’m the oldest. My da wanted us all to get our Seniors at least. Said with that none of us would have to do the kind of work he does. Me ma, she was a shifter in the mill. Brought in good money—”

  And she died of ovarian cancer three years ago, O’Reilly thought. “I understand,” he said.

  “I know you do, sir. You were quare nor kind to her.” A tear dropped.

  He waited, sensing that Helen Hewitt would be offended if he tried to comfort her.

  She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, sniffed, looked him in the eye. “We could use a bit of the ould doh-ray-mi while I’m looking for a proper job, like.”

  “You can start right now, if you like,” O’Reilly said. “The pay’s not a king’s ransom, but the work’s light. I’ll give you two pounds a week. Today’s Wednesday so it would only be one quid this week. Cash. I can’t afford to pay your benefits. I’m sorry. I still have to give Kinky her wages.”

  “That’s right decent, sir,” she said. “And we all want Kinky back. The job’ll only be for a wee while anyway, but it’ll help. I know that. Now, what does youse want me to do?”

  “The phone’s in the hall,” O’Reilly said. “When it rings, you answer it, then you have to decide, as best you can, if the caller needs to talk to one of us doctors on the phone, whether they need to come here to the surgery at once, come to the next surgery, or wait a wee while until Doctor Laverty or myself can get to their house. If they sound really sick, then one of us doctors will need to rush out at once. You’ll do no harm if you lean on the side of caution.”

  She frowned. “It doesn’t sound too tricky.” She puffed her Woodbine.

  “It’s not. Mind you, Kinky’s had thirty years’ experience and she knows everybody in the village and the townland.” He shifted in his seat. “Most of the time one of us will be here, and if you’re uncertain you can always ask. If we’re both out, it’s up to you to decide if the customer can wait or if you’ll have to get an ambulance to take them to the Royal. The number of the ambulance is by the phone.”

  Her frown deepened. She crushed out her smoke. “I thought you’d have to be a doctor or a nurse to do that there stuff.”

  “Not at all.” O’Reilly let his pipe go out. “If we’re not here, anyone who’s bleeding, having trouble breathing, vomiting, having pains in their chest, or severe pain anywhere goes to hospital. Most of the rest, flus, backaches, rashes—”

  “Like my eczema?”

  “Exactly. They’ll have to wait.”

  She leant back in her chair. “Sure I can give it a try. Do you, Doctor O’Reilly, have any notion of how many calls you get in a day?”

  Fingal had to think. “I dunno. Half a dozen, maybe less, unless there’s a flu epidemic on, then it’s more, but this isn’t flu season. Just at the moment, the bloody thing’s hardly stopped ringing, but it’s folks asking after Kinky, wanting to know if we need anything. Why do you ask?”

  “I’m going to be bored stiff.”

  O’Reilly caught his breath. He’d been so sure she’d take the job.

  She cocked her head to one side. “Would it be all right if maybe I done a bit of dusting and hoovering too?” She pointed at the table’s mahogany top. “No harm to you, sir, but if you let all these here crumbs lie about,” she bent and looked under before straightening up, “and on the carpet it’ll be like sending the mice printed invitations.”

  O’Reilly guffawed then said, “No offence taken. I’d be more than happy to take you up on your offer.” He hesitated, did some mental arithmetic, after all Kinky would not be eating at Number One, and said, “You do that, Helen, and I’ll up your wages to two pound ten.”

  She shook her head. “I’d rather the two pounds and a wee favour, so I would.”

  “Go on.”

  “I’ll be looking for full-time work, you know, but if I’m here I can’t follow up on applications. I’d not tie up your phone, sir. I know it’s for the patients to call in on and all, but if mebbe I could enquire about jobs once in a while?”

  “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “If you land an interview, try to fix it for a morning when either Doctor Laverty or I are in the house and can answer the phone while you’re out.”

  “I could have the time off for to go for it?” She stood, beamed down on him, and said, “The whole village knows you pretend to be an ould targe—”

  He didn’t pretend, he thought. He never hid his temper.

  “But we’ve seen through youse. I have, anyroad, Doctor O’Reilly, you’re the kindest man in County Down.” She was grinning from ear to ear.

  O’Reilly cleared his throat, blew out his cheeks, made a hah-hming noise—and blushed bright red. When he finally collected himself, he said, “Last details. You’re on duty now until five. After that we can manage. I don’t get too many calls in the evening, and we’ll not need you at weekends.” Kindest man? My aunt Fanny Jane. The cheek of the girl, and yet he really couldn’t be angry with her.

  Helen had returned to looking demure. “Yes, sir,” she said, and bobbed her head.

  “Exactly. Tomorrow I’d like you to start at eight. Surgery starts at nine so you give me a list before that of patients needing home visits from Doctor Laverty and myself. And bring it up to date at lunch time.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “And now,” he said, “have you had your lunch?”

  She shook her head.

  O’Reilly’s stomach grumbled. Still, the ready-to-grill Welsh rarebits that the bachelor undertaker Mister Coffin had shyly brought round last night would feed three. “You’ll stay for lunch,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  With her mouth slightly open, she looked round at the dining room’s elegant bog oak table and chairs, the matching sideboard, and then up at the cut-glass chandelier. Her voice was hushed when she said, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly, sir,�
�� and he could practically hear her thinking, This is far too grand for the likes of me. It bloody well wasn’t and although he didn’t say it out loud, he was delighted by the chance of dining with a girl who had managed to rise above her station and qualify for university. The fact that she had worked so hard and wasn’t going struck O’Reilly as a waste. A bloody awful waste. “Rubbish, Helen Hewitt,” he said. “You’re staying, but I am going to make you sing for your supper … or lunch.”

  “How?”

  “Can you use a gas grill?”

  She gave him one of those looks that say “Is the pope Catholic?” “Would you ask a ship’s captain if he could tie a reef knot?” she said.

  “Grand,” said O’Reilly. “Now, I don’t usually put my guests to work but, under the circumstances, let me show you to the kitchen.”

  10

  And O’er and O’er the Sand

  “Sure you don’t mind staying a bit longer, Helen?” Barry asked.

  She looked up from a leather-bound book. “Away you go, Doctor Laverty. I’m happy here in your lounge.”

  Helen Hewitt had started work yesterday and taken to her duties like, well, like a retriever to water, Barry thought. “Doctor O’Reilly wasn’t sure what time he’d be home,” Barry said, “and Arthur needs his run.”

  “I’m sure Arthur’ll enjoy that, Doctor Laverty, but see this one here?” She nodded down to where Lady Macbeth had taken up residence on Helen’s lap and was purring mightily. “Never lets me be. I was washing dishes in the kitchen after lunch and she was weaving round my legs all the time. I hoovered the dining room and she got up on the sideboard, then she come straight up here with me and she’s barely moved a muscle since. Wee dote, so she is.”

  Barry smiled. “She is, until she’s not,” he said. “She can be a regular tartar when the mood’s on her.”

  “Och, sure, but can’t all us girls?”

  Helen’s grin and the dimple that appeared in her left cheek seemed happily wicked. No doubt she was referring to an episode with Alice Moloney’s hats. Barry coughed, remained noncommittal, but made a mental note never to irritate Helen Hewitt.