An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

  “Hear him.” Charlie drank too.

  “Thanks, lads.” O’Reilly grinned at them both and was grateful there weren’t any remarks about it being bloody well time he’d made up his mind about the girl he’d walked out with thirty years ago. His friends knew about Deirdre. And they also knew not to reopen old wounds with banter about his new wife-to-be. “I’ll make sure you and your missusses get formal invites. The service will be in the Ballybucklebo Presbyterian church, but we haven’t decided on the venue for the reception, yet. But you’ll both hear in good time.”

  “Grand,” Charlie said, “and I suppose it’ll be top hats and tails? I hope to God mine still fit.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “I’ll certainly have to get my old naval number one uniform let out. Kitty wants me to wear it for old times’ sake.”

  “I doubt there’s many of our class could fit into their graduation suits now,” Cromie said, “and I believe that we’re here to talk about a reunion.”

  “True,” said O’Reilly. He glanced at the snug door. “I wish Knockers would get a move on. Anyway, about the reunion, we should discuss it, and lads, while we’re together, I want your advice with a couple of other matters. Shirt factories and scholarships. They’ll keep ’til later, but I do need help.”

  Charlie said, “Shirt factories and scholarships? Doesn’t sound as romantic as ‘Moonlight and Roses,’ but whatever we can do we will.”

  “What are you on about, Charlie?” Cromie asked.

  “You know I sing in a choir. It’s one of the numbers we’re doing in a concert.”

  Cromie knit his brows and feigned bafflement. “I’ve never heard of a tune called ‘Shirt Factories and Scholarships.’ Will you be singing it?”

  “We’re doing ‘Moonlight,’ you eejit.”

  “All right, you two,” said O’Reilly, laughing, “if you’ve finished acting the lig, back to the agenda. We all remember Hilda Manwell. She wrote to Charlie from Australia and suggested a thirtieth class reunion next year and we’ve all agreed it would be a good thing.”

  Two heads nodded.

  “And we’d be the steering committee?”

  “Agreed.” Two voices spoke.

  “We’d pick a meeting site, contact the class, and make sure there’s lots of interest, perhaps arrange a little scientific program so we can get tax concessions for the ones who have to come a long way?” O’Reilly said.

  “Chase the pharmaceutical companies for grants. Invite some of our old teachers if they’re still alive, and set up the social events,” Cromie added.

  “And,” said O’Reilly, “I suggest we divvy up the jobs. I’ll look after a place. It has to be in Dublin because that’s where it all began. I’d suggest the Shelbourne as the meeting hotel. I’ll work through the Trinity Alumni Association. They’ll have a class list of addresses.”

  Charlie said, “When you get it, Fingal, send it to me. I’ll dictate a letter to the whole class, see who’s interested, what dates would suit. My secretary can run off copies. We’ve just got one of those new Xerox machines, beats the hell out of the old Gestetner. And the letters can go out with the rest of the hospital mail. They’ll be addressed to a bunch of doctors, after all.”

  “Good,” O’Reilly said.

  Cromie added, “Charlie and I’ll take care of the science, the pharmaceutical companies, and see who of our old profs are still around. I know Victor Millington Synge is and that surgeon Mister Kinnear.”

  “He let me do my first appendicectomy,” O’Reilly said. “He’s a good skin.”

  “He is,” said Charlie. “I saw him last year at the Royal College, and old Synge was pretty decent too. Do you remember when the … damn it, I’ve forgotten their name … the visiting society came?”

  “The Pilgrims,” O’Reilly said. “All those senior doctors. The ones we set Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick up for a fall in front of. Ronald was an arrogant bollix, but he practises near me now. He’ll have to be invited.”

  Cromie said, “Maybe he’ll have forgotten that day, but I haven’t. Embarrassed the hell out of Fitzpatrick, but Doctor Synge turned it all into a laugh and even got Doctor Micks to see the funny side.”

  “I came close to giving myself a hernia, I laughed so much,” Charlie said, “and Bob Beresford had tears in his eyes.”

  “Good old Bob,” O’Reilly said quietly. “Sad what happened.”

  “Aye,” said Charlie, “very sad.”

  The door opened. “Here y’are.” Knockers set a pint on the table. “That’ll be two and tuppence, sir.”

  “You’re an angel of mercy, Knockers. Sláinte,” O’Reilly said, and sank one-third of his pint. “I think you’ve just saved a life.”

  “Here,” said Cromie, handing the barman a half crown and waiting for his change. Tipping was not a custom in Belfast pubs. “And bring another round, please.”

  The hinges of the swing door creaked as Knockers left.

  “Right,” said Charlie, “now Fingal is getting himself refuelled, is there anything more about the reunion?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “I think that’s it, isn’t it? We’ve all jobs to do and we can report back when we’ve made progress.”

  “My kind of meeting,” Cromie said. “Short, sharp, and to the point. Not like some of the hospital ones.”

  “You can say that again,” Charlie said. “You were at the last surgical operating theatre committee. Went on for bloody hours.”

  “It’s an advantage of being a GP,” O’Reilly said. “No medical committees and the rugby club executive is different.”

  “Do you miss playing the game?” Charlie said.

  “Do you?” O’Reilly said, remembering he and Charlie Greer playing together, proudly wearing their country’s green.

  “I do.” Charlie nodded, but said, “We’d fun, but the world moves on. I reckon the Irish team are going to be hard to beat next season. Willie John McBride and Syd Millar will be back in the forwards and Michael Gibson in the backs.”

  “I hear there’s a real prospect playing for Queen’s,” O’Reilly said. “Medical student called Ken Kennedy.”

  Cromie coughed. “If I might try to get you two mighty athletes to stop getting dewy-eyed over a game of legalised mayhem and come back to the questions at hand, I’d suggest we get together here next month for reports?”

  Two heads nodded.

  “Now, about shirt factories,” O’Reilly said. “Do either of you know anything about the ones here in Belfast?”

  “Faulat and Latimer have a band, the Faulat Girl Pipers, very pretty they look in their short kilts, and they’re damn fine pipers too,” Charlie said. “But that’s all I know. I’m sure it’s not much use.”

  O’Reilly shrugged. “Can’t be helped. Cromie?”

  He shook his head. “Why the sudden interest?”

  “We’ve a patient, one I was seeing today, who lost her job at the Beresford Street factory. The owner’s a man called Ivan McCluggage. He has a silent partner. I’m trying to find out more about them, see if there’s a way to persuade them to rehire Aggie.”

  Charlie said, “McCluggage?” and frowned. “There’s a Robin McCluggage, a surgeon at the Belfast City Hospital. He’s a member of Royal Belfast Golf Club like me. Once in a while he brings his brother as a guest. I’ve a half notion his name’s Ivan. I could have a word with Robin. It’s pretty thin, Fingal, I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “every little bit helps. I’d be grateful if you would.” He finished his pint.

  Someone must have told a good story out in the bar because a gale of men’s laughter swept through the place.

  “Sounds like they’re happy at their work,” Cromie said. He drank and said, “You’d another question, Fingal. About scholarships?”

  O’Reilly, his Guinness now finished, glanced longingly at the door of the cubicle. It did take time to pour a good pint. “About scholarships in general and to medical school in particular,” he
said.

  Cromie frowned. “In general you can win them in our national examination, Advanced Senior. I can’t remember the exact marks you need, but one level in a clatter of subjects earns you a County Scholarship, paid for by your county, and higher marks get you a State Exhibition, paid for by Her Majesty’s Government. That’s the one with the most money. My Jennifer—”

  “Your daughter who married the pathologist?” O’Reilly said.

  “Aye, she had a County. Saved me a few quid while she was getting her B.A.”

  “Good for her,” O’Reilly said, “but I’m pretty sure my lass doesn’t qualify for either. She’d have told me if she had, but do either of you know of any ones aimed at less privileged kids?” He waited.

  Finally Cromie said, “I think there are a couple. They’re not awarded every year. I’ve not got a notion about the details, but I know the bursar, chap called George Burland. I could find out.”

  “I’d be grateful, Cromie.”

  “I’ll ask next week. Call you.”

  The door swung open and Knockers, bearing a tray of pints, came in and set them down on the table. “Here yiz are. Six shillings and sixpence.”

  “My shout,” Cromie said, and paid.

  As Knockers left, two pints were raised and Cromie said, “Here’s to you, Fingal and Kitty. Every happiness, you old bollix.”

  “Thanks, lads,” O’Reilly said. “Now if you two will join me in our old goodnight blessing?”

  In unison, three voices called, “Here’s to us. Who’s like us? Damn few and they’re mostly dead.”

  “Aye,” said O’Reilly, wiping froth from his upper lip, and thinking fondly of the old days. “Damn few.”

  “Do you remember a folk group called the Limelighters?” Charlie said.

  “‘Wabash Canonball’? ‘City of New Orleans’?” O’Reilly said.

  “That’s them, but I was thinking of another number. ‘Those Were the Days.’” He sat back. “Trinity 1931 to ’36, five years, but for us three those were the days. Five bloody good years.”

  “I wonder,” said Cromie, “how many of the rest of the class feel that way?”

  “We’re going to have to wait to find out,” Charlie said, “but as soon as we start getting replies to our letter to the class we’ll know.”

  “Patience,” said O’Reilly, “is a virtue which I’ll try to exercise while I wait for any answers you two can get for me on those other matters, but for the meantime I’d like to propose another toast.” He raised his glass. “To absent friends,” and as the others repeated the toast and raised their glasses, Fingal O’Reilly thought with bittersweet fondness of Bob Beresford, the man who in Trinity had been the fourth member of their Fearsome Four, and, of them, O’Reilly’s closest friend.

  24

  Home Sweet Home

  “Get a move on,” O’Reilly muttered as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The car was becoming warm so he wound down the window. He knew he should be used to the inevitable delays of the Thursday cattle market in Ballybucklebo, but he wanted to get Kinky to Number One, and he understood how she was aching to be there. Seventeen days was a long time to spend in hospital. He turned and looked into the rear of the Rover. “All right in the back? Sorry about the holdup.”

  Kinky, wearing a tartan dressing gown, lay across the seat, pillows propping her against one side of the car, fluffy-slippered feet sticking out from under the red rug that covered her legs. Her face, though pale, was wreathed in a beatific smile. “I’m doing very well, sir.”

  An Aberdeen Angus bullock lowed as it and two companions ambled their way past the car. A cattle smell made more powerful by the mid-May heat drifted in through the car’s open window.

  “City folks might find that awful,” said Kinky. “But I’d rather get a whiff of a good beast in the country than the stink of motorcar fumes in the city, and I’ve had my fill of the smell of disinfectant, so. Don’t you fret, sir. Up ahead now I can see the Maypole so we’re nearly home.”

  “We are that,” O’Reilly said, managing to edge past the last of the herd and accelerate through the traffic light just as it was changing from amber to red. He parked outside Number One, came round, and opened Kinky’s door. “We have arrived, madam,” said O’Reilly, bowing and extending his hand. “Can I help you out?”

  “Take you this, sir.” She handed him the rug and her overnight bag. He noticed the toy hare’s droopy ears sticking out through the half-open zip. Puffing, and hauling on O’Reilly’s hand, she managed to slide out of the seat, get her feet onto the pavement, and stand.

  With the rug and the bag tucked under one arm, O’Reilly offered her his elbow.

  She took it and said, “I do be like a great lady being squired on the arm of a gentleman, so.”

  “Hang on,” he said as he twisted, managed to slam the door, and turned back. “I’ll get the pillows later.” He took a deep breath. “Now, Kinky? Ready?”

  She nodded.

  He measured his steps to hers, feeling her weight as she leaned against him, and together they walked along the path, past the rosebushes, and up to the green-painted door. This wasn’t the old Kinky. She had to stop once to catch her breath. Her dressing gown seemed to be a size too big. O’Reilly frowned and sought for the right word. That was it. Kinky seemed to have shrunk.

  But not, it seemed, when it came to accepting her responsibilities.

  She stopped, pointed, tutted, and said, “Would you look at your brass plate, sir. Just look at it. Mother of God, but it’s a disgrace, so.”

  He glanced at the offending object.

  DR. F. F. O’REILLY, M.B., B.CH., B.A.O.

  PHYSICIAN AND SURGEON

  “All tarnished. It should shine like—”

  “Kinky Kincaid,” O’Reilly said, chuckling, “we are going to get you into the house, into your quarters, and tucked up. The bloody plate can wait.”

  The door opened. Cissie Sloan stopped in the doorway, her mouth opened, then she beamed and said, “Welcome home, Kinky, and good morning to yourself, Doctor dear.”

  “Morning, Cissie,” O’Reilly said. “Now, if you’ll give us room, I need to get Kinky into the house.”

  “Certainly, sir.” Cissie didn’t budge. “I was just seeing that nice Doctor Laverty, so I was. I needed a prescription for more of them there thyroxine tablets to take care of the little thingys in my blood that—”

  “Cissie.” It wasn’t his force-ten bellow, but O’Reilly spoke sharply.

  “Right enough, sir. Sorry, sir.” She got out of the way. “Get you better soon, Kinky. All the ladies at the Women’s Union wants to see you. Flo Bishop says, so she does, says she—”

  Cissie was still talking on the intake of breath as O’Reilly helped Kinky into the hall and closed the door. She stopped as soon as they were across the threshold and he heard her whisper, “Home. Thank you. Thank you.”

  And Fingal O’Reilly knew to whom Kinky, who went to church every Sunday, was speaking. He nodded in agreement. “Not far now,” he said, and helped her down the hall. The surgery door was shut, but he could hear Barry’s tones. The door of the waiting room was open. Hughey Gamble, the octagenarian known to all as “Shooey,” who must have been in because of his arthritis, spotted them. “Kinky’s back,” he called, and from the waiting room came a solid and prolonged round of applause.

  Kinky grinned. “Thank you,” she called, and said to O’Reilly, “I know Flo’ll have spread the word. I told her two days ago when I was getting home.”

  O’Reilly stuck his head round the corner and, as always, admired the puce-coloured roses on the wallpaper. “Thank you all. It’s good to have her home.”

  When they reached the kitchen, Helen Hewitt turned from the stove. “Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, “and Mrs. Kincaid. Lovely to see you home.”

  O’Reilly saw Helen deliberately place herself between Kinky and the stove, where a saucepan filled with steaming water held a sealed jam jar. Something brown was being hea
ted over a low flame. “Helen’s doing me a favour,” he said. “Before she goes back upstairs.”

  Kinky smiled and cast a searching eye round her kitchen. “I approve, Miss Hewitt. And thank you for helping out while I was away. Doctor O’Reilly has explained, so. I will be pleased to have you in this house until I’m back on my feet, and I do hope you find the perfect job soon.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Kincaid,” Helen said. “I hope so too.”

  O’Reilly heard how flat her voice was. So far she’d had only one interview, for a salesgirl position at Robinson and Cleaver’s department store in Belfast. It had been unsuccessful. They were looking for someone younger and, of course, cheaper. Helen, with her Junior, Senior, and Advanced Senior certificate subjects was entitled to a higher starting wage than someone younger who’d left school at fifteen with no qualifications. He wished Cromie would call again, but on Monday he’d rung to explain that the bursar was away until next week so Cromie had no news about any potential scholarships. “You’ll be with us for a few more weeks,” he said. “Isn’t that right, Kinky.”

  “If you say so, sir.” But Kinky was smiling. “That pneumonia does knock the stuffing out of a body. We’re happy to have you here, Helen, to help my doctors, so.”

  And O’Reilly was delighted to hear that, and pleased by how quickly Kinky had moved from the formal “Miss Hewitt” to an informal “Helen.” “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you settled.” He steered her through the kitchen and into her tidy sitting room. “Where would you like to sit?”

  Kinky didn’t answer.

  O’Reilly waited as she looked round the room—at the black enamelled fireplace with its crenellated semicircular arch over the top, at the brass fender round a tiled hearth, at the fire screen with its tapestry behind glass standing beside the fire. O’Reilly knew Kinky had embroidered the galleon in full sail. And she’d tatted the lace antimacassars on the two maroon armchairs. They were arranged near the fireplace but angled so she could watch her TV, which sat on a mahogany table. Both armchairs were flanked by circular wine tables, each with three legs and a spiral pedestal. A brass handbell sat on one table. On the far wall, beside the door to her bedroom and bathroom, two framed prints of Percy French watercolours depicting the Mountains of Mourne hung over a mahogany tallboy with ash trim and brass drawer handles. It shone in recently polished splendour, courtesy of Helen Hewitt, and was topped with a vase of freshly cut red, yellow, and maroon tulips, beside which a large placard announced, WELCOME HOME, KINKY KINCAID.