An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

  “Fleebo … fleebo … I’d never get my tongue round the half of that,” she said. “Is fleebo-whatsit bad? It certainly sounds as if it is, so it does.”

  He didn’t like not telling the truth, but by the same token he didn’t want to terrify her. “Probably not if we get treatment started straight away. I’ll have to give you an injection.” He stood up.

  “I don’t like them needles,” Aggie said, “but if you must, you must.”

  “Miss Brennan, could you call the ambulance, please?”

  “Of course.” She left.

  “Ambulance?” Aggie asked. “Can youse not fix me here, like?”

  Barry rummaged in his bag. “I wish I could,” and he did, “but you’ll not be in long. I’ll give you a medicine called heparin here. It’ll work at once and stop the clot spreading.”

  “That’s good,” she said.

  “You’ll have to get five doses more of it.”

  “Needles?”

  “’Fraid so, but you’ll get another medicine called warfarin in tablets to thin your blood, prevent more clotting. Once your specialists get the dose of warfarin right, they’ll stop the injections.”

  She frowned. “Get the dose right? Should they not know already if they’re specialists?”

  “Everybody reacts differently,” Barry said. “The doctors measure a thing called the prothrombin time. Once it’s twice as long as normal, they’ll know that’s the right dose of the medicine for you and they’ll let you come home. I’m sorry I can’t do that for you here. The tests have to be done in a laboratory and you need nurses round the clock to give you the medicines.” He found the bottle of heparin and a prepacked hypodermic syringe and needle.

  “Boys-a-dear,” she said, “modern science is a wonderful thing.”

  Barry dampened a ball of cotton wool with methylated spirits. The acrid fumes cut through the aroma of the smoking slack and tickled his nose. He turned his head away and sneezed. “Excuse me,” he said, then swabbed the rubber cap of the heparin bottle and rapidly withdrew 15,000 units of the drug.

  “They’ll be here in half an hour,” Miss Brennan said.

  Barry hadn’t heard her return.

  “Good,” he said. “Can you give me a hand?” He held up the loaded syringe. “IV,” he said.

  She moved to Aggie. “Hold out your arm, dear.”

  Aggie did and Colleen encircled it with both hands above the elbow. The antecubital vein began to distend.

  Barry swabbed the elbow’s hollow, slipped the needle into the vein, withdrew the plunger, and was pleased to see smoky turbulence. Blood had entered the barrel, proving the needle was in the vein. “Let go, Miss Brennan.” It took moments to inject the heparin. “All done,” he said, removing the needle and pressing the cotton wool ball over the puncture.

  “That wasn’t too bad, sir,” Aggie said. “Thank you.”

  Barry smiled. “They’ll have you better in no time.”

  “They will,” Colleen Brennan said. She turned to Barry. “I’m sure you’ve other cases, Doctor. I’ll tidy up here. Get Aggie ready to go. Keep her company ’til the ambulance comes.”

  Barry did not have any more calls to make, but he did want to hear how O’Reilly had got on with the Donnellys. They were probably back by now. “Thank you,” he said.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Aggie said, “before you go?”

  “Yes, Aggie.” Barry put the used syringe and heparin bottle back in his bag. He removed the cotton wool ball. Good. She wasn’t bleeding from the puncture. He chucked the ball onto the coals, where it sizzled and burst into a tiny fireball.

  “Colin Brown’s mammy, Connie, looked in to see me. Her and me’s in the Ballybucklebo Strolling Players, you know. She was a lovely Juliet last year, so she was. I was Nurse.”

  “I’m sorry I missed that,” Barry said, marvelling at the depths that flowed beneath the surface of this place.

  “Aye, well, we’re doing Brian Friel’s new play, Philadelphia Here I Come, this year. I’m Madge … at least I will be once my leg’s better, and Connie’s Kate Doogan.” Aggie lowered her voice. “When Connie was here, and no harm to youse, sir, but—”

  Barry knew a criticism was coming. Ulsterfolk always prefaced one that way.

  “—she told me she didn’t reckon you and Doctor O’Reilly were any great shakes as cooks.”

  Barry chuckled. “She’s right.”

  “If you pop into my kitchen there’s a cherry cake I baked, and before you get mad, sir, I mixed it all lying here. I only got up to put it in and take it out of the oven, so I did.”

  “That’s very kind, Aggie. Thank you.”

  “It’s just a wee thanks, sir, for seeing me and for trying to fix things up at my work.”

  Barry heard the emphasis on “trying.” “What’s wrong there?”

  Aggie shook her head. “I sent them your letter. I got a phone call from Ivan the Terrible’s secretary. She told me that Mister McCluggage and his partner had decided to reduce the workforce and were letting a folder and packer go. Me. I’m getting a month’s notice and severance pay. Nothing to do with my being sick, like. No. No. Not at all.” She curled her lip. “And if you’ll believe that you’ll believe fish walk on legs, but I can’t do nothing, so I can’t. I spoke to the shop steward and he told me the bosses was in their rights.” She stifled a sob. “And me working there for sixteen years.”

  “I’m so sorry, Aggie,” Barry said, wondering if there was anything he, or more likely he and the big guns of O’Reilly in full cry, could do. “I truly am.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’re very kind.” Aggie took a deep breath, squared her shoulders. “Doctor Laverty, when I’m at the hospital do you think they’d give me a brave wheen of that warfarin for to bring home?”

  Barry frowned. “Why would you want a lot? I’ll write you a prescription whenever you need more.”

  “Because,” she said, and Barry heard the steel in her voice, “I know what warfarin’s for. It’s not just for thinning the blood. It’s a bloody good rat poison, so it is, and I want to give some to Ivan the Terrible, so I do … and I’ll tell you, that there silent partner? See him whoever he is? He’d be silent as the tomb all right, because he’d be in one, so he would.”

  18

  A House with Deep Thatch

  O’Reilly drove the Rover from the centre of the hairpin bend in the Bangor to Belfast Road to the end of a rutted lane. The tyres crunched on gravel in front of a single-storey thatched building. Patches of moss marred the straw. “Here we are,” he said, and parked. The old cottage’s whitewashed walls were grubby and the mullioned lead lattice windows needed washing. Red paint was peeling from the window frames and from the front door set in a narrow porch. Window boxes on sandstone windowsills had been invaded by blue-flowered birdseye speedwell and plantains. “Everybody out.”

  Donal leapt from the car and opened the back door for Julie and Arthur.

  The drizzle had stopped, and high overhead patches of sky looked down between slowly drifting clouds. O’Reilly noticed branches of broom, already covered in bright yellow flowers, straggling through the gravel.

  “That there has to go,” Donal said, pointing to the weed. “Give that stuff an inch and it’ll be all over everything like clap on a heifer’s arse.”

  “Donal,” said Julie, but her reproach was gentle.

  Donal peered at an etched stone fixed to the wall beside the front door. “It says 1795. There’s a thing,” said Donal. “The house was built the year the Orange Order was founded. But what’s the other say, sir? Can you read the Irish?”

  O’Reilly scrutinized the lettering but although the carved date was clear, the letters were indistinct. He rubbed some of the moss away and thought he could make out Dán Buídhe. “Dawn Bwee,” he said. “It’s Irish for Yellow Poem.”

  “The wee place has a name, so it has. Just like the houses of toffs. Dawn Bwee? I like the sound of that, but I never heard of a yellow poem.” He grinned and showed
his buck teeth. “I’ve heard some blue ones, with the lads, like.”

  “Donal,” Julie said. “Eejit.”

  He scratched his bandage under his cap. “Come on,” he said, “let’s take a wee dander round her before we go in.”

  “Heel, Arthur,” O’Reilly said, and was happy to follow, listen, and watch as Donal pointed everything out to Julie. “That there gable end,” he said as they passed, “needs new pargetting, but Buster Holland’s a sound man with rough plaster, so he is.”

  O’Reilly could see bricks exposed where the old plaster had cracked and bits had flaked off.

  “The back of the house is grand, just the door needs painting and the window frames. I’ll do that, so I will. Do you see that there?” He pointed to where a spout ran from a roof gutter into a huge wooden tun. “That there collects rainwater, you know, and my ma says rainwater’s so soft it’s dead wheeker for washing your hair, so it is.”

  O’Reilly saw how fondly Donal gazed at his wife’s waist-length blonde tresses.

  “I can just see me giving you a hand with it on a summer’s night, love,” Donal continued, “out here in the back garden.”

  Unkempt grass studded with buttercups ran for fifty yards from the back of the house to a tall laurel hedge. O’Reilly guessed the lawn was thirty yards wide, bounded on each side by fifty-foot-tall leafless linden trees, known as limes in Ulster.

  “See them there limes?” Donal asked. “I’d put Bluebird’s run fornenst them to the right there.” He glanced at Julie’s tummy. “And when the leaves come there’ll be great shade when you can put the wee lad out in his pram. And when he’s bigger, him and me can kick a soccer ball about on the grass, like.”

  Julie said, “He might be a wee girl, you know.”

  O’Reilly watched the puzzled look on Donal’s face turn into a huge smile. “Right enough she might, so she might. She can lie in her pram, and when she’s bigger can’t I make her a doll’s house, maybe even a Wendy house for her to play in out here.” He frowned. “Mind you, I’d have to flatten that there mound.” Donal pointed to where a small hillock rose and fell, clothed in long unmown grass and a sunburst of myriad dandelions.

  Donal laughed. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “I never want to meet the mole that dug thon boy.”

  O’Reilly pictured Donal’s supposed mole the size of a carthorse tunnelling under the lawn and throwing up the hill. “True,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “Come on, Donal. Let’s have a look inside the house. I’ll have to get back home soon.”

  “Fair enough, sir.” Donal unlocked the back door and lifted the snib to let them in.

  “Stay,” O’Reilly said to Arthur outside the door, and followed into a bright kitchen with a red tile floor. O’Reilly smelt the dry mustiness, but that wasn’t surprising. The place had been empty for a year. “It’s lovely, Donal,” said Julie. “If we can buy the house and there’s money left over, I could have a washing machine. I’ve never had one of my own and it would be great for doing nappies, so it would. I’d put it there.”

  “Aye,” said Donal. “I’ll plumb it in for you, darlin’, but we’ll need a sparks for to wire it into the mains. Boggy Baxter’d be the man for the job. He done all the electrics at Sonny and Maggie’s house.” Donal headed for an archway. “Come on ’til we see the rest of it.”

  O’Reilly followed them through the empty house. He held his peace, but watched and listened as Donal and Julie admired an alcove here, decided this wee room would be stickin’ out a mile as a nursery, thought the parlour suite her ma had given Julie as a wedding present would be dead on in the front room. He envied them as they planned, dreamed.

  Kitty wouldn’t have that kind of pleasure—making a place her own. Not unless he sold Number One and let her start from scratch in her own house, but selling was not in the cards. No doubt she’d want to make some changes to their home, and Kitty O’Hallorhan was wise enough not to rush into that until she felt Kinky was comfortable with the presence of another woman. But, and the thought pleased him, handled in the right way, seeking Kinky’s advice on any suggested changes might well be another way of making her understand that she truly was needed.

  O’Reilly was still puzzling over Kinky and Kitty when he arrived in the small front hall and Donal announced, “Here endeth the conducted tour. What do you think, Julie?”

  She took a very deep breath, held it, exhaled, and said, “It’s lovely, so it is. I never thought in a million years, not a million, the likes of us could have a place like this. I love it. Are you sure we can afford it?” O’Reilly heard the longing in her voice.

  “If we can get this house we’d be elected, so we would, and I think we’ve enough of the ould doh-ray-mi. What do you think, Doc?”

  O’Reilly saw the pleasure in Julie’s eyes. “It does need a bit of work, but it would be ideal for you … three.” He pointed at Julie’s bump.

  She and Donal laughed.

  O’Reilly said, “And they were asking two thousand pounds?”

  “Aye, and we don’t have it all, but what with Julie’s five-hundred-pound settlement from Mister Bishop last year, my winnings on Bluebird, Julie’s prize for nearly winning the hair model contest, and the dosh I got at the oul’ gee-gees in Downpatrick, we can come close.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Hold your horses, now, even though I know it was a couple of horses, one called Arkle and the other Flo’s Fancy, that helped get you some of the money. Two thousand pounds is not all you’d have to pay if you give the full price.”

  Donal frowned. “Why not?”

  It was O’Reilly’s turn to inhale before he said, “You have to settle the estate agent’s commission, stamp duty—that’s a tax on all house sales—and you’ll need a lawyer to sort out the deeds.” For a moment O’Reilly thought of asking his brother Lars, a solicitor in Portaferry, to conveyance the house as a favour, but realised if he did they’d soon be flooded with requests for favours every time someone bought or sold a house. “And you’ll need money to insure the place, pay the rates … the county council taxes … and money to fix it up and finish furnishing it.” He saw the smile flee from Julie’s face and watched Donal put his arm around her. Uh-oh. O’Reilly hadn’t meant to discourage them, but they did have to face the facts.

  “Thank you for being honest, Doctor O’Reilly,” Julie said. There was a catch in her voice. “It was nice to dream for a wee minute there, so it was.” She turned her face into Donal’s shoulder.

  “Wait a minute,” said O’Reilly. “It’s not as bad as that. I didn’t mean you couldn’t afford it. I was trying to explain what it takes to buy a property. Now that’s one of the reasons you asked me to come, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” Julie said. She looked at Donal for reassurance. “And we know you’re helping us, don’t we, Donal?”

  “We do indeed,” Donal said.

  “So,” said O’Reilly, relieved that his little faux-pas had been forgiven, “with what Donal earns working for Councillor Bishop, you can get a mortgage, a loan from the bank, if you don’t have quite enough money.”

  “Honest to God?” Donal said. “Me?”

  “You, Donal Donnelly. You pay it off every month, just like paying rent, but one day you’ll own the house lock, stock, and barrel.”

  “Like buying on the never-never?” Julie asked.

  “Like hire-purchase,” O’Reilly said, “and I’m not sure you’ll need to offer the whole amount the estate’s asking anyway.”

  Donal frowned. “Why not?”

  “The house needs work. Nobody’s bought it in a year. Maybe the people who inherited it are getting tired of paying rates and the upkeep and would be glad to get rid of it for a bit less. They’re already asking five hundred pounds below what’s called the ‘appraised value.’”

  Donal’s frown vanished. “Do you think so, sir?”

  “I do, Donal. Offer one thousand seven hundred but have a word with your bank manager about a mortgage first. What w
ith the repairs and furnishing, things could be a bit pricier than you expected. The manager will look at what you’ve got, what you earn, and work out the details of financing

  “That would be great,” Donal said, “and I would ask, sir, honest to God, but I don’t have a bank, never mind a manager.”

  Donal wasn’t the only countryman who mistrusted banks and in truth rarely had enough money to need an account. “I’ll speak to Mister Canning at the Bank of Ireland,” O’Reilly said. “You go see him next week. He’ll take care of you.”

  “By God, I will see him, sir.” He scratched his bandage. “First thing after this yoke comes off.” He spun to Julie, and Donal Donnelly’s words came tumbling out. “We’re going to get the wee house, Julie.” He grabbed her and waltzed her round the hall. “Our wee house. You, me, and the chissler.” He sang off-key,

  —the roof was thatched with yellow straw,

  the walls were white as snow.

  The turf fire boiled the pot. I see it still …

  O’Reilly recognised “The Little Old Mud Cabin on the Hill.”

  Donal stopped singing and released Julie. She stepped up to O’Reilly and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very, very much.” There were tears in her eyes. “I’m so happy.”

  That was twice in an hour he’d made a woman cry and been kissed. O’Reilly stepped back, cleared his throat, and said, “I didn’t do anything, Julie.”

  Her look said “Like hell you didn’t,” and he imagined Julie Donnelly, née MacAteer, rarely swore. All very embarassing, this effusive thanking. “And there’s one other thing, Donal.”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “You go to Dapper Frew, tell him you want to offer one thousand seven hundred pounds. He’ll present that offer to the sellers. Dapper’ll make all the arrangements, get you a solicitor, that kind of stuff. If they make a counteroffer and want more money, or if there are any complications, come and talk to me.”