An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

  She peered through the glass.

  “There,” Sonny said, “‘Sanctum Lignum.’ It’s quite clear. Finnian worked at the monastery there. Do you think, Doctor Laverty, that might be a reference to the place we now call Holywood or Holy Wood?”

  “I think it’s one literal translation,” Barry said, remembering with a certain amount of distaste the Latin exam he’d had to pass as a prerequisite for admission to medical school.

  Sue said, “You know, Sonny, in Irish, Holywood was called Baile Doire, Ballyderry, the place of the oak. I know because I’m living there and the ruins of the old priory on the site of the original church are just down the road from my flat, not far from the remains of Norman Motte near Brook Street. I’ve visited them both and done a bit of reading.”

  “Indeed,” said Sonny, “well done, Sue.” He frowned. “Unfortunately I’ve very little Irish, but if I come across that name in my reading it might help pinpoint what I’m looking for. I’m hoping to use Holywood as one of my reference points.” He tapped a finger on the tabletop, then said, “For now though, I’ll continue working on the assumption that I’m right about the old Sanctum Lignum being Holywood. My source predates the coming of King Henry II’s men to Ireland by a good four hundred years, and the old Celtic disciples of Saint Patrick did use ancient Latin back then. There’s been a church on the site of the Holywood Priory since 640 A.D., you know.”

  Maggie returned, a smile on her face and carrying a tray. Barry noticed that she had taken the opportunity to put in her teeth. “Can you move your papers, Sonny?” Her dentures clicked. “Lord,” she said, “I wish thon dental technician would get my new teeth finished. With these ould ones in I sound like I’ve a mouthful of castanets.”

  Barry stifled a smile.

  Sonny made several neatly stacked piles, leaving room for Maggie to set the tray down.

  “Him and his archaeology,” she said. “Your woman Agatha Christie was on the telly. Her hubby’s an archaeologist, you know, and she said, ‘An archaeologist is the best husband a woman can get. The older she gets the more interested he is in her.’” She pecked Sonny’s cheek. “Isn’t that right, you ould goat?”

  Sonny beamed at her. “Come and sit down, everyone,” he said, and led them back to the armchairs while Maggie poured. “If I can find a cross-reference that says the founder of the monastery that Finnian cites was a Saint Laiseran, that will confirm it is what we call Holywood today. There is solid evidence that old Laiseran built the first church here, and if it is where Finnian wrote then there’s a neolithic structure three miles east.” Sonny’s smile was as wide and as innocent as a child’s on seeing its first snow. “Finnian was quite specific.” He frowned. “Of course I’ll have to hazard a guess he was working in Roman miles.”

  “Why?” Sue asked.

  “Because,” he said, “the English statute mile of one thousand seven hundred and sixty yards didn’t come in until 1592. The old Roman mile was one thousand six hundred and seventeen yards, and the Irish mile could vary from county to county.” He smiled. “I could be wrong, but I am confident the old monks would think in Latin measurements, mille passuum, a thousand paces.”

  “How will you find out for sure?”

  “If I can find a similar reference in the papers from Bangor Abbey—and I’ve got lots here—giving a distance west of Bangor, it’ll be like working from two cross bearings. And if I’m right about their being in Roman miles the arcs drawn on a map will kiss each other without overlap.”

  “That’s very exciting. You will keep me posted, Sonny, won’t you? I’d love to hear.” Sue frowned and said, “I don’t know if it helps, but another Irish name for Holywood was Ard mHic Nasca, and that means ‘the heights of Nasca’s son.’”

  “What?” Sonny’s voice went up. “Are you certain? I didn’t know that. Nasca was a princess here. She sent her son to study under Saint Comgall in Bangor and then near Cork. When the son came back he founded a church. I’ll have to check it, but I’m almost certain that Laiseran was that son.”

  Barry watched the two, who clearly because of their excitement had forgotten there was anyone else present.

  “Does that give you your first coordinate, Sonny?” Sue asked. Her voice had dropped to a whisper.

  Sonny frowned. “I’d like documentary proof,” he started shuffling through papers, “but if you’re right about Laiseran, and once I get the information from the Bangor material it would be easy enough to use them and work on the assumption that you’re right, Sue. I could plot a cross bearing, find a location, and go out and look at it. Thank you. I think you’ve given me exactly what I need.”

  She smiled. “And you’ll let me know what you find out, won’t you? I’d love to know.”

  “It would be my pleasure.”

  Maggie, who had been pouring, interrupted. “Sonny, would yiz stop footering about with those blooming papers? If thon yoke’s been there for a couple of thousand years it’s not going to run away while we have a cup of tea.” She turned to Sue. “Here yiz are, Miss Nolan, and help yourself to milk and sugar, and seeing you’re the only lady guest, yiz can have the last piece of plum cake. I thought I was out, but there was a wee taste left.”

  Barry, knowing full well that Sue, in sampling Maggie’s cake, was about to have an encounter with something as hard as a relic from the Stone Age, rushed to the rescue. “I know Sue’s too polite to refuse, Maggie,” he said ostentatiously, looking at his watch, “but we’re going for lunch and she’ll not want to spoil her appetite.” He stared at Sue and made a miniscule shake of his head. “Will you?”

  “It’s all right, Barry,” Sue said, accepted the plate of cake, lifted the slice, and bit.

  Barry could hardly bear to watch, and his admiration for Sue Nolan grew as not only did she manage to eat the whole thing, albeit chewing mightily, but she accepted a second cup of Maggie’s famous stewed tea, which was known throughout Ballybucklebo and the townland to be strong enough to cure leather.

  27

  Where There’s a Will …

  “One hundred and forty over ninety, John. Bit better than after Christmas,” O’Reilly said to Lord John MacNeill, twenty-seventh marquis of Ballybucklebo. “Not bad for a man of sixty-three.” O’Reilly removed the blood pressure cuff, put his stethoscope back into his jacket pocket, and rummaged in his bag to produce an opthalmoscope. “Quick look at your retinas.” He half-turned and pointed. “Stare at the cock pheasant in the Milliken painting over there beside the bookshelf and try not to blink.”

  The marquis, sitting in a leather button-backed chair in his study in Ballybucklebo House, fixed the picture with a hawklike glare.

  O’Reilly bent and shone the light through the lens of the left eye, peered through the eyepiece, and spun the focusing wheel until he had a good view of the inner lining of the organ. The scarlet retina contained the cells, called rods and cones, that were responsible for picking up images that were transmitted through the lens and feeding them to the optic nerve. He could see the nerve end as a regular white disc, the macula, in the centre at the back of the eyeball. Over the surface of the retina snaked small arteries and veins. He paid particular attention to the arteries, looking for any evidence of narrowing or nipping of the veins where an artery crossed. If such distortions were visible, it was because the arteries’ walls had become thickened in response to the patient’s raised blood pressure and were pressing on the vein beneath. “Vessels and that disc are okay,” he said, moving to examine the right eye. “Now, as a disc jockey would say, ‘Let’s have a look at the flip side.’” He hmmmed to himself. “Looks grand,” he said. O’Reilly straightened and switched off the opthalmoscope. “You’ll do for another six months, John. Carry on with the chlorothiazide five hundred milligrams daily and go easy on the salt.” He busied himself writing a prescription, which he left on a table.

  “I will. Thank you, Fingal.” The marquis rose, rolled down his shirtsleeve, pushed one end of a gold cuff link back in place
, and took a tweed hacking jacket with scuffed leather elbow patches from the back of his chair. “I didn’t think I was due for your ministrations for another couple of months.” He slipped the jacket on and stroked his neatly trimmed grey moustache with his index finger.

  “You weren’t,” O’Reilly said, “but I was passing and wanted to call and ask you if you could help me.”

  “Naturally. If I can.” He glanced at an ormolu clock on the mantel of a marble Adam fireplace. “I’ve to go out in half an hour.”

  “Won’t take that long.”

  The marquis ambled across to the sideboard. “Would a whiskey ease our discussion along?”

  “Indeed it would.” O’Reilly put his instruments back in his bag. Needing no invitation from a friend of long standing, O’Reilly sat in an armchair. “I do have a couple of questions,” he said.

  “Here.” The marquis handed him a Waterford cut-crystal glass and, with his own drink, a small whiskey and water, in his other hand, retook his seat. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers, and praise and blessings be on Mister John Jameson and sons. Although why you insist on putting water in yours is beyond me. Have you ever seen what water does to the outside of a boat?”

  The marquis laughed. “You never change, do you, Fingal?”

  “Well, actually, I do, or I’m about to, and you know it.” He gave his friend a lopsided smile. “I told you I’m getting married.”

  “You did, and at first I thought, good Lord. You, O’Reilly? Married? I thought you were completely set in your ways, like me, but you surprised me and it’s wonderful news. I am truly delighted for you.” He sighed and glanced at an oil painting of a striking woman mounted sidesaddle on a black gelding. A long ponytail escaped from under a John Bull top hat. Piercing blue eyes smiled straight at the artist—and the beholder. “I still miss Laura, you know. She’s gone nine years in August.”

  “The first time I met her, and you, back in ’35, she looked just like that. She looked as if she was a female centaur, she was so comfortable on her horse.”

  “Before the Portaferry Hounds Boxing Day hunt. I remember it. We were just back from India. I was a captain then.”

  “She’d sprained her ankle and I was a medical student. You asked me to take a look.”

  The marquis smiled. “And she swore to me blind that you’d said it was all right for her to hunt. Bloody thing swelled up like a barrage balloon.” He sighed and took a sip of his drink. “She was a game one, my Laura,” he said softly. “Even if the war took a chunk out of them we had twenty-two wonderful years and a son, Sean, to follow me into my old regiment.” He paused and looked Fingal in the eye. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have mentioned that. I do know what the war did to your—”

  “Don’t worry, John. I’ll always carry a soft spot in my heart for my Deirdre, but I’m certain she’d approve of Kitty. Want me to be happy. I expect your Laura would have felt the same if the right woman came along for you.”

  “Not likely at my age, but thanks for the thought, Fingal.” The marquis cleared his throat, offered a hand, and said, “It’s not the custom to say congratulations, but may I wish you and your bride-to-be every happiness?”

  “You may, John.” He shook the proffered hand.

  “I first met your Kitty at my Christmas party and last at the Downpatrick Races a month ago. Dublin lass. Nursing sister. Remarkable eyes with amber flecks. You’re a lucky man, Fingal.” The marquis lifted his glass. “To you both.”

  “Sláinte,” O’Reilly said, and thought, Lucky man? By God I am. “The big day’s Saturday, July third. Kitty’s father is dead and she has no close male relatives. Would you, as a favour to us, stand in for him, walk her up the aisle, John? Give her away?”

  “Why, I’d be honoured. Truly honoured.” He stood, went to a mahogany escritoire, and consulted a desk diary. “In the morning?”

  “Aye. Eleven thirty. And there’ll be a reception after the ceremony. Your sister Myrna’ll get her invitation to both through the post.”

  The marquis frowned. “I’m supposed to be attending some damn meeting. It’ll wait. I’d not miss your big day, my friend. Not for anything.” He lifted a pen and wrote.

  “Thank you.” O’Reilly took a swallow of his drink. “My friend.” It was true. They’d become reacquainted here in Ballybucklebo after the war because of a mutual love of rugby football. They’d both played for Ireland, and John MacNeill, once the social gap between a commoner and a peer had been bridged, was a very easy man to like.

  “That’s taken care of.” The marquis turned. “Formal dress, I presume?”

  Fingal chuckled. “Kitty wants me to wear my naval number ones.”

  “Lord. I don’t think even my butler, Thompson, knows where my Guards’ kit has got to.”

  “Don’t worry, John. Top hat and tails’ll be fine.”

  “Good. Thompson will know where those are. Poor chap has to do double duty as my valet these days. Had to let Smithers my valet go three years ago. Taxes, you know. I was able to get him a position, but I was sorry to lose him.” The marquis shrugged. “Now, you did say you’d a couple of questions? What’s the other?”

  One thing, O’Reilly thought, about John MacNeill. He comes straight to the point. “It’s about the MacNeill Scholarship.”

  “The what?” He frowned.

  “MacNeill Scholarship. According to the bursar at Queen’s it’s specifically for kids from County Down, kids from poor backgrounds, to go to Queen’s medical school.”

  A smile creased the marquis’s face. “Of course, of course. Unfortunately we don’t get many applicants.” He tapped his temple with one finger. “Sometimes things do slip my mind, but you’re absolutely right. I remember my father granting it once or twice. As I recollect, I gave one in ’56. Nice young man from Banbridge, Arthur … Arthur Furey. He’s in Canada now. Surgeon in Toronto. I get a Christmas card from him every year.” He stood.

  “I have a candidate I’d like to recommend.”

  “Do you?” The marquis stretched out his hand. “Here. Let me refill that.” He took O’Reilly’s glass and moved to the sideboard. “Tell me about him.”

  O’Reilly said, “I’m afraid the him is a her, but she’s a remarkable young woman.”

  The marquis came back and handed O’Reilly his refilled glass. “Oh.” He sat. “That’s a bit tricky.”

  “I do know,” O’Reilly said. “I’ve been told that it’s specifically for young men, but I’ve also been told there may be a codicil, and apparently the whole thing is in your gift.”

  The marquis folded his arms and supported his chin with his left hand. “Tell me about her.”

  “Her name’s Helen Hewitt. She’s single, she’ll be twenty-two this August. Helen left one position in a dress shop, then lost her job last month when a linen mill closed down. At the moment she’s my temporary receptionist.”

  John frowned. “She doesn’t seem academically well qualified. Am I missing something?”

  O’Reilly grinned. “She has three Advanced level subjects—physics, chemistry, and biology. She reads Dickens for pleasure, understands X-ray crystallography, and thinks she wants a career in medical research. And she’s had the gumption to enquire about the admission requirements.”

  “Sounds like a regular polymath, by jove. Just the type the original bequest was looking for.” The marquis smiled. “I should have known you’d not be recommending someone who wasn’t special, Fingal.”

  “She’s that, all right. She can go to medical school … if she can afford it. That’s the rub. She’s been with us for four weeks. She’s bright as a bee, hard-working, keeps her head. She wanted to go to university three years ago when she left school, but her mother had just died. That’s why the thoughts about research. Helen wants to discover the cure for cancer. Her da’s a workingman, but between him and his missus they probably could have afforded to send Helen, but once there was only one wage—”

  “And that’s the kind of thing the schol
arship was meant to put right. Pity she’s a girl, but of course folks did think differently about the sexes back in Victoria’s day.”

  “And when I was a student at Trinity in the ’30s. The women students had their own dissecting room and anatomy lectures in deference to their sensitive natures, but these days things have moved along a bit.”

  The marquis shook his head and said, “I do know that, but it still might not allow me to alter the bequest. I’m not sure if there’s anything I can do. As far as I know the law protects the terms of most wills. I’m truly sorry, Fingal.”

  “Could you perhaps look at the original bequest? See exactly what was specified?”

  “I fully intend to do that, but I can’t today.”

  O’Reilly was going to ask Why the hell not? But he took a slow sip of his drink and realised that would be impertinent and instead said, “I’d be very grateful, John. You’ll let me know?”

  “The documents are with my solicitor. Unfortunately he’s up in Ballymoney for two weeks’ salmon fishing on the Bush River. He’ll be back the second week in June. I’ll ask him to take a look as soon as he is and I’ll phone you, or better still, don’t we have a rugby club executive on June eleventh?”

  “We do,” O’Reilly said.

  “I’ll see you there, then.” He glanced at the clock. “Now, I don’t want to rush you, Fingal, but—”

  “You’ve a meeting to go to.” O’Reilly finished his whiskey and stood.

  “It’s the fourth Thursday of the month. County Council. Some business about roadworks.” The marquis raised his eyes to the heavens and said with a smile, “You have absolutely no idea how utterly, positively riveting discussions of roadworks can be.”

  “Rather you than me,” O’Reilly said. “I’m sure the next rugby club executive will be much more fun. I’ll see you there, John.”