An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

He took a deep breath. “Pity,” he said, “I was really looking forward … look, Sue, I know you’re secretary, but surely someone else could take notes? Just for one night.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry. Please try to understand.”

  “All right. I understand. It’s important to you,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I’d not want to stand in your way.” He knew his voice had become formal, despite his attempt to sound natural.

  The sound of her doorbell ringing came over the line.

  “Barry, that must be Peter.”

  “Fine,” Barry said. “Off you go.”

  “Please don’t be like that, Barry.” The bell rang in the distance. “Barry, when can I see you again?”

  “Honestly, Sue, at the moment I’m not quite sure. Work—” He didn’t want to speak. “I’ll give you a ring. Maybe see you at the Yacht Club next time I’m racing.” And that was nine days away. He sighed. Just like the advice Jack Mills had once given Barry about Patricia. Leave her be for a while. See if she makes the first move. He hoped Sue would.

  As Barry turned from the phone O’Reilly appeared in the hall carrying a box sealed with Sellotape. Airholes had been punched in the cardboard. The sounds of scrabbling came from inside. O’Reilly held up a finger with a brand-new elastoplast. “Bloody thing bit me,” he said, looking aggrieved.

  I did warn you, thought Barry, but instead said sympathetically, “I hope it’s not too sore.”

  “Nah,” said O’Reilly. “Hurts like bedamned at the moment, but it’s not that deep. I’ll get over it in time.” He went out and closed the door.

  Not that deep, Barry thought, feeling hurt himself. Patricia Spence’s career had been too important for her to make time for romance. She’d told him so when they’d only been going out for a few weeks. They had made up, but she’d eventually dropped him for another man. Perhaps he should have seen the writing on the wall much earlier.

  And maybe Sue’s remark about the banjo bolt hadn’t been as simple as he and O’Reilly had thought. Sometimes a seemingly trivial symptom could be the clue to a serious underlying disease. Maybe he wasn’t as important in her life as he’d like to be. If this dinner he’d arranged this evening could be so easily brushed off in favour of another committee meeting— Barry bit his lower lip, grimaced, and headed upstairs. Well, he thought, I’ve been getting over Patricia. He only hoped that in time he’d get over this too.

  36

  That Reconciles Discordant Elements

  “Any more for anyone?” O’Reilly asked. Then, as if daring Barry or Kitty to say yes, he nonchalantly encircled the pie dish with his left arm, a pie dish containing the remnants of Kinky’s orange dessert soufflé.

  Barry said, “Not for me, thanks.”

  He’d only toyed with his food and O’Reilly knew why. Earlier this week the lad had confided that it looked as if things between him and Sue Nolan had gone bust on Tuesday night. It seemed unfair to O’Reilly, in light of his own happiness, but he was wise enough in the ways of the world to realise that all might not yet be lost and that Barry’s best tactic was to let the hare sit for a while. Which is what he’d been doing for the past three days.

  O’Reilly turned to Kitty. “What about you, dear?”

  She shook her head.

  “Shame to waste it,” O’Reilly said with a grin and helped himself. Kitty was a good cook, but Kinky was definitely in a class by herself, particularly when it came to pandering to his sweet tooth. And despite her ongoing attempts to cut down his calories, she’d been doing more desserts recently, in part, he was sure, to demonstrate just how indispensible she was. While she did seem to be more comfortable with the notion of having Kitty around, the Corkwoman still kept things formal between them.

  “Who said, ‘Moderation in all things’?” Kitty asked, staring at O’Reilly’s tummy.

  “Haven’t the foggiest,” O’Reilly mumbled, his mouth full of the last morsels.

  “I believe it was that Roman dramatist, Publius something or other. Terence for short,” Barry said. “He’s also the bloke who said, ‘Charity begins at home.’”

  “So let’s have a bit of charity in this home about my appetite. It’s been a long time since lunch,” O’Reilly said, and stifled a burp.

  “I’ll grant you, Fingal, that soufflé was out of this world, but—”

  “Thank you, Miss O’Hallorhan,” Kinky said, coming in with her tray. “And yourself, sir, should go easy on the seconds. Your fiancée is right, so.”

  Lord preserve me, O’Reilly thought, from the “monstrous regiment of women.” Not for the first time he realised that it was entirely possible Kitty and Kinky might gang up on him once Kitty moved in. Oh well, it would be good for him to lose a bit of weight, and it had forever been a good tactic to get Irish people to forget their differences and form alliances against a common foe, in this case his waistline. A small price to pay for harmony between the women in Number One.

  “It was wonderful,” Kitty said. “Mine always collapse.”

  “If you wish, Miss O’Hallorhan, I’ll be happy to show you how I make them, so.”

  “That,” said Kitty, “would be wonderful, and there is another thing, a favour I’d like to ask you too.”

  O’Reilly saw Barry looking quizzically at Kitty and watched the expression change on Kinky’s face from a puzzled frown to—“Welllll—” and the beginnings of a smile. “If I can be of assistance, Miss O’Hallorhan,” Kinky said, putting her tray on the sideboard.

  Go on, Kitty, Fingal thought, and slid his foot under the table to nudge hers for encouragement. When Kitty had put the suggestion to him yesterday, he’d said it was bloody brilliant. Now it was time to see how it was going to work.

  “Doctor O’Reilly has arranged who will be his best man and who will make up the groom’s party. He’s enough men, five including himself, to form the first two rows of a rugby scrum.”

  “And rightly so,” O’Reilly said. “After all, Charlie Greer and I were the second row for Ireland once.”

  “Indeed, but you outnumber my side, Fingal.” She faced Kinky. “My best friend Jane Hoey’s going to be my maid of honour, and an old nursing school friend, Virginia Currie née Treanor, is coming up from Dublin.” Kitty looked Kinky in the eye and smiled. “Mrs. Kincaid, I’d be truly honoured if you’d consent to be one of my bridal party too.”

  O’Reilly watched.

  Barry’s jaw dropped then he smiled. Kinky frowned, crossed her arms, pursed her lips, and looked down. Clearly she was making up her mind, and not without difficulty. O’Reilly shuddered to think of the implications if she said no.

  “Please, Kinky,” Kitty said in a voice that would have melted Pharaoh’s hard heart.

  “Miss O’Hallor … Miss Kitty, it would be a great pleasure to me to stand with you on your big day, so.”

  Barry surprised O’Reilly by applauding and O’Reilly joined in. He laughed then roared, “Good for you, Kinky Kincaid. Wonderful.”

  Kinky frowned. “But I do see a shmall-little difficulty, so.”

  Oh, Lord, O’Reilly thought. Now what?

  “Perhaps I’m being too literal, but I’m wondering what you’ll be calling Mrs. Currie and myself?” Kinky said with a shy smile.

  “Goodness. I’m pretty new at this wedding business,” Kitty said. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “Well, a bride,” said Kinky, “can have as many attendants as she wishes. The bride’s ‘best woman’ is the maid or matron of honour. The other attendants are the bride’s maids. But we’re a little old to be bride’s maids, aren’t we?”

  Whoops, O’Reilly thought, and saw Kitty looking at him. “I knew getting married late in life would be an adventure, but I didn’t appreciate how truly tricky it could be until this moment,” O’Reilly said with a laugh. “But it’s only a name, Kinky,” he said, “and I think I might have a solution.”

  “Please go ahead, sir, for I would like to do this for Miss Kitty, so,” Kinky said.

&nb
sp; “For starters, we’re not having a completely traditional wedding so I don’t think we have to stick exactly to protocol and use all the old titles. I’ve always been partial to the early nineteenth-century expression ‘my particular friend.’ I see no reason why Virginia Currie and you, Kinky, couldn’t be referred to as ‘particular friends’ of the bride.” He waited.

  Kinky’s smile was vast. “Oh, I do like that. I do like that very much, so.”

  “So do I,” said Kitty.

  “Then that’s taken care of,” O’Reilly said, and felt himself relax.

  “And now that it is, Fingal,” Kitty said, “seeing Helen’s still answering the phone on weekdays, could Kinky have Monday off? I really could use help picking my wedding outfit and some of my trousseau. Jane is working that day and it’s much too far for my old mum to come from Dublin. I would so appreciate Kinky’s help. There’s the outfits for the maid of honour,” she grinned and nodded to Kinky, “and for my particular friends. Brands and Norman’s have some beautiful stuff.” She turned to Kinky. “I’d love to have your advice.”

  Kinky nodded. “If that would be all right, sir, I could get the train to Belfast.”

  “Of course,” O’Reilly said. Better and better. He must stop worrying about whether the two women were going to get on. Kitty and Kinky were very much alike, really. Capable, intelligent, and for once, when there was a problem to be solved in Ballybucklebo, he hadn’t had to come up with the answer. Kitty herself had put things to rights with Kinky.

  O’Reilly leaned back in his chair, folded his hands across his full stomach, and sighed with contentment. It was going to be very pleasant having someone else to share the load when it came to sorting out nonmedical things in the village.

  “And I don’t want to contradict you, Miss Kitty,” Kinky said, “but I do believe the very best shop for wedding outfits is Robinson and Cleaver’s.”

  “We’ll try both,” Kitty said, “and I’ll take us to Isabeal’s for lunch. And you’ll not need to take the train up. I’ll be staying here until Monday so we’ll go up to town together after we’ve been to see Alice Moloney. I’m going to live here soon so I’d better get in the habit of doing my shopping in the village and I know Alice keeps some lovely things.”

  Masterful, Fingal thought, and more so because of Kitty’s obvious sincerity. Well done, Kitty, my love. Now let’s see what Kinky says.

  Kinky’s words were measured, chosen it seemed with great care. “That is a very thoughtful thing to do, bye. Miss Alice will be pleased.” Kinky cocked her head to one side. “I do believe, Miss Kitty,” she said, “that you are going to fit into Ballybucklebo very well. Very well indeed, so.”

  37

  Whose Dog Are You?

  “Morning, Connie,” Barry said as she joined him in a short queue in front of the newsagent’s counter where Phyllis Cadogan was serving. “How’s Colin?” Barry was on his way to a nearby home to see a little girl with what, over the telephone, had sounded like German measles. June was late for these kinds of infections, which were usually seen in the spring. It wasn’t an urgent case, and Barry, while he was en route, was picking up a tin of Erinmore flake for O’Reilly, who was taking this morning’s surgery.

  “Och,” she said, “his body’s rightly mended, but his wee heart’s broke, so it is.” She switched her wicker shopping basket to her other arm. “He’s done nothing but mope since Butch went away last week, you know. Mind you, he’s powerful grateful to youse, sir. Colin and me both know that if Mister Bishop had got ahold of the wee craythur—” She drew a finger rapidly across her throat then pointed in her basket to show Barry a comic book with a garish-looking six-armed alien pointing a ray gun at an Earthman wearing a space suit complete with goldfish-bowl helmet. “Colin’s been daft about science fiction, so he has, ever since he seen Doctor Who on the telly.”

  “I’ll bet he was excited a couple of weeks ago when that American astronaut walked in space.”

  “That was dead amazing, so it was. You’d not get me out there in a space suit. Next thing you know them Yankees or maybe the Russians’ll be putting a man on the moon. Unless—” She giggled. “—it really is green cheese. Anyroad, I thought a couple of these here comics might cheer Colin up when he gets home from school. He says when he grows up he wants to be an astronaut.” She grinned at Barry. “I told him if he did he’d better be very good at his sums and do his homework.”

  “Good for you,” Barry said. “I hated maths at school, but I wanted to be a doctor, so I stuck with it.”

  “’Bout ye, Doc.” Barry recognised Billy Brennan, a chronically unemployed labourer, who clutched a packet of ten Woodbine cigarettes. “Morning, Billy.”

  The queue inched forward.

  The next man, having paid, moved aside. “Morning, Doc.”

  “Morning, Malcolm,” Barry said to Constable Malcolm Mulligan, who was not in uniform so must have the day off.

  “I’m glad I’m not working there, so I am.” He showed Barry the front page of The Daily Mirror for Monday, June 21—a picture of a huge plume of black smoke and a banner headline screaming RIOTING IN ALGERIA. “Aren’t we brave and lucky to live here?”

  “We are that,” Barry said. “Enjoy your day off.”

  As he spoke, Cissie Sloan left the counter with this morning’s Belfast Newletter and a copy of the most recent Woman’s Own under her arm. “Morning, Doctor.”

  “Morning, Cissie.” Barry could see Cissie taking a deep breath, ready to launch into some conversational gambit, but fortunately Constable Mulligan was still speaking, so Barry paid him attention and she left.

  “I will, so I will,” said the constable. “I’m getting well rested for Doctor O’Reilly’s wedding, so I am. I think, by the number of folks that’ve told me they’ll be going to the party after the church, I’ll need to have a wee word with my sergeant about getting more officers for crowd control, you know.” He laughed. “There’ll likely be a bigger mob than you’d get for a Glentoran, Linfield match at Windsor Park.”

  “Oh, I think you can handle us on your own,” said Barry with a wide grin. He was still smiling after the constable had left and Phyllis said from behind the now-free counter, “Morning, Doctor.”

  “Morning, Phyllis.” He put the tin of tobacco on the counter. “And two ounces of jelly babies, please.” It was a trick he’d learned from O’Reilly, having a bag of sweeties in his pocket. They often made paediatric consultations much easier, and little Joyce Cunningham might enjoy a jelly baby despite her German measles.

  Phyllis took down a large glass bottle from among a shelf of similar bottles, each containing unwrapped sweets—brandy balls, butterscotch, dolly mixtures, and liquorice allsorts. She used an aluminium scoop to ladle jelly babies onto a scale before decanting them into a paper bag and crimping its top. “That’ll be two and nine altogether,” she said.

  Barry counted out the coins, a half crown and a thruppenny bit. “Thanks, Phyllis.”

  “Brave day, the day,” she said. “I hope it’ll be as lovely a day for the wedding. Miss O’Hallorhan popped in this morning with Kinky. They were on their way to see Miss Moloney, and then on up to Belfast. Miss O’Hallorhan wanted a magazine for Kinky to read on the train on her way home. She’s very polite, that Dublin lady, so she is. I think we’re going to enjoy having her living here. Mind you,” she lowered her voice, “we’ll have to get used to her southern accent.”

  “Don’t you be so pass-remarkable, Phyllis Cadogan,” Connie said over Barry’s shoulder. “She’s going to make a lovely Missus O’Reilly, so she is.”

  “Don’t I know that, Connie?” Phyllis said. “And there’s no harm in noticing her manner of speaking.”

  Barry, not wanting to linger and quite happy to leave the ladies to their debate, said, “I’d better be running along.”

  “And I hear you’ll be running further soon,” Phyllis said. “A wee birdie told me you’re going to be leaving us?”

  Barry had learnt months a
go that going to any shop here was as much a social outing as a buying trip, and a glance at Connie assured him she wasn’t in a hurry. “That’s right, I’m going to Ballymena to take more training.”

  “Och, well,” Phyllis said, “maybe you’ll come back to us when you’ve finished?”

  “I might,” Barry said.

  “I think you should. If you don’t, that nice Miss Nolan’s going to miss you.” Phyllis winked at Barry.

  “Well … I … that is—” Barry blushed. He’d not heard from Sue since last Tuesday.

  “Run you on, Doctor dear,” Phyllis said, “sure I’m only pulling your leg.” She turned to Connie. “More of those comics? You’ll have wee Colin’s head turned. He’ll be seeing Martians dancing round our Maypole next, so he will.”

  “Och,” said Connie good-naturedly, “if he does, he’ll likely think they’re leprechauns. Martians are green, you know.”

  Barry heard the two women laughing and the little bell on the door tinkling overhead as he left the shop. He had only gone a few paces when he bumped into Maggie and Sonny Houston.

  Sonny lifted his homburg.

  “Good morning, Doctor Laverty, dear,” Maggie said, and smiled.

  Maggie had her false teeth in and was wearing her usual long skirt and boots. Her flower of the day in the band of her straw boater was a red geranium.

  “Morning,” he said. “Good to see you both.”

  “And you, Doctor,” Sonny said. “And how is that nice Miss Nolan? I’ve some very interesting news for her.”

  Barry shrugged. “I’ve not seen her for a few days. She’s very busy with some work she’s doing for civil rights.”

  “Would that be that new group, the Campaign for Democracy in Ulster?” Sonny asked.

  Barry shook his head. “No, it’s the Campaign for Social Justice.” And they’re more important than having dinner with me, he thought, trying not to feel bitter.

  “I wish them all well,” Sonny said. “I do hope that both groups can succeed here in the north. I’ve been getting much more optimistic about the overall future for the two Irelands ever since Sean Lemass, the Taioseach, came up from Dublin and had lunch with our Ulster prime minister, Terence O’Neill, back in January.”