An Irish Country Wedding

by Patrick Taylor

  “So far, it’s all supposition until a properly conducted archaelogical dig can be arranged.” He smiled. “I’ve got an appointment with the people at the Ulster Museum next Tuesday. I must say the chap I talked to on the phone sounded very enthusiastic.”

  “I really do hope you’re right, Sonny,” Sue said.

  “Me too,” Barry said. He leant forward. “And as a matter of interest, where exactly does ‘X’ mark in today’s County Down?”

  “There,” Sonny said, pointing. “Between the limbs of that awful hairpin bend on the main Bangor to Belfast Road. I’ve been there. It’s an old cottage with a thatched roof and a sold sticker on the for-sale sign. There’s a mound in the back garden. I’m sure that’s what I’m looking for.”

  “And you said it was called Dun Bwee?” Barry said, taking another look at Sonny’s map. There it was, a large X directly over the centre of the land bordered by the hairpin bend. “Sonny … you just may have given Doctor O’Reilly a very timely wedding present.”

  40

  Who Reads Incessantly

  “So that’s the setup, Doctor Bradley,” O’Reilly said to the young woman sitting beside him in the car. “Barry showed you how the surgery works, and you’ve had the grand tour of the village and the townland this afternoon, seen a couple of the customers in their homes. Grand mal epilepsy and pyelonephritis … not the most common things we’re called out to see.”

  “But interesting cases,” she said and smiled, “and, the second one? I’ve never been inside such a lovely cottage.”

  “It was there before the 1845 potato famine,” O’Reilly said, “but by local standards it’s one of the newer developments. The townland was apparently inhabited in the Stone Age.”

  “Amazing,” she said, “and your patients and their families were delightful people.” Her accent was definitely from the Upper Malone Road where the better-off Belfast people lived. O’Reilly knew her father, Norman Bradley, a retired GP himself. He’d practiced on the Stranmillis Road. “It’s been most interesting,” she said, “and I’m sure I’ll be able to find my way about soon. I do enjoy country practice. I spent the last six months in Ardglass, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “You’ll find Ballybucklebo much the same, and if you’re not sure about anything ask Kinky. And except in front of the customers it’s Fingal, Jennifer. We’re not terribly formal here.”

  “Actually,” she said, “I prefer Jenny.”

  “Jenny it is.” He eased the Rover into the garage across the back lane. He got out and appraised the young woman while she walked round the car. Twenty-six, twenty-seven, five foot six, blonde hair cut with bangs, or what the locals called a donkey fringe, low on a smooth forehead and sweeping inward to curve under her jaw. Blue eyes with a hint of mischief, small nose, curved lips.

  Her navy blue suit exuded a no-nonsense, businesslike look. He noticed that she wore no jewellery and very little makeup. Her stethoscope stuck out of one jacket pocket and she carried a battered-looking doctor’s bag in one hand. It had probably belonged to her father.

  “Let me take your bag,” O’Reilly said. Gentlemen were expected to carry loads for ladies.

  “I can manage,” she said and smiled, “but thanks for offering.”

  O’Reilly opened the back gate. Arthur Guinness yelped happily and trotted over to welcome the boss home and greet the newcomer. “Meet Arthur Guinness,” O’Reilly said. “Be careful he doesn’t beat you to death with his tail.”

  “He’s very friendly,” she said, patting Arthur’s head. “I like dogs.”

  “So do I,” said O’Reilly, “especially that great lummox.” He opened the kitchen door and stood aside to let her go in.

  Kinky was lifting a tray of sausage rolls from the oven. As ever her kitchen smelled delicious. “Doctors,” she said, putting her burden on the counter. “I’m starting to get organised for Saturday afternoon, so, and Doctor Bradley, dear, I have your room made up and your things taken up. It’ll be yours until Sunday and then, so as you can have the landing bathroom to yourself, we’ll be moving you to the attic bedroom after Doctor Laverty leaves.” She shook her head. “It does not seem like a whole year, at all, since he moved into it, so.”

  O’Reilly detected a wistful tone and knew how fond Kinky had become of the young man.

  “I’m sure I’ll be very comfortable. Thank you, Mrs. Kincaid,” said Jennifer Bradley.

  “And where’s Barry?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Upstairs,” said Kinky, “champing at the bit for yourself to get home, sir. I know you’ve important visitors coming.”

  “We have,” said O’Reilly. He spoke to Jenny. “Barry and I have a meeting with a man from Belfast and, I think, a local councillor.” That’s what McCluggage had agreed to when O’Reilly had phoned the man on Monday with an offer to save him money—provided he brought any partners along. “We’ll be meeting in the lounge, so I’m going to have to ask you to wait in your room or the dining room until it’s over, and if there are any calls deal with them. We’re pitching you in at the deep end, I’m afraid, seeing you’ve only been here since this morning.”

  She smiled, laugh lines at the corners of her eyes. “Deep end? I’m quite a good swimmer, Fingal,” she said. “I’ve been doing locums for two years. I’ll be fine.”

  It was simply a statement of fact, not a boast, and it impressed O’Reilly. “Fair enough,” he said, “now come on up to the lounge where you can take the weight off your feet. No need for you to leave there until my guests arrive.” He led the way.

  They met Helen in the hall. She had her coat on, and his copy of Dickens’s Our Mutual Friend tucked under one arm. “Helen Hewitt,” O’Reilly said, “this is Doctor Bradley. She’ll be moving in today and getting to know the place. Taking over from Doctor Laverty.”

  “Doctor Bradley, pleased til meet you,” Helen said.

  “How do you do, Helen?”

  “Helen’s been working as our receptionist,” he said, and, he thought, almost certainly following in your footsteps, Jenny Bradley, when medical school starts in September. He’d know for sure by tomorrow. “She’ll be leaving us on Friday,” he said. “We’re going to miss her.”

  “And I’m going to miss Number One,” Helen said. “And I don’t want to make no fuss about going, but thank you very much for the work since May, sir.” She grinned. “It’ll not be as much fun behind the counter in a sweetie shop, but the wages aren’t bad.”

  “I’m sure something better will show up soon,” O’Reilly said, and kept his voice level and his face expressionless.

  Helen smiled.

  “I just wish it was Kinky’d said that.” She lowered her voice and said seriously to Jenny, “Mrs. Kincaid has the sight, you know.”

  “Really?” said Jenny. “How unusual.”

  O’Reilly detected no hint of Jenny being patronising. Good. “She is a most unusual woman,” he said. “You’ll come to see that in the months ahead.”

  “I’ll be running on,” Helen said. “Doctor O’Reilly, I’ll be sure to get this here book read before I leave on Friday.” She showed it to Jenny. “It belongs to the doctor. He’s been very generous with his library, but I don’t want to take advantage.”

  “You can’t go at Dickens like a bull in a china shop. Take all the time you need. Away off now and we’ll see you tomorrow, Helen,” O’Reilly said. “Come on, Jenny.” He headed upstairs, remarking as they climbed, “Kinky’s not the only unusual woman here. Helen has been fielding phone calls, doing housework, job hunting, and systematically going through my entire collection of Dickens novels since she started with us in the spring.” He chuckled. “She’s even made a few side trips into the vagaries of X-ray crystallography. She’s not one to let the grass grow under her feet.”

  “I’m impressed,” Jenny said.

  “So,” said O’Reilly, “am I.” He stood aside at the doorway.

  Barry, cozily ensconsed in an armchair, Times cryptic crossword on his lap, rose imme
diately she entered.

  “Sit down please, Barry,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He returned to the chair, taking a quick glance at the crossword.

  “Actually, Fingal,” Jenny said, “if you don’t mind, I’ll head on up to my room. I’ve some letters I want to write. Good luck with your meeting.”

  “I think, Doctor Bradley,” O’Reilly said, “you are going to fit in at Number One; fit in very well indeed.”

  “I hope so. I’m soon going to be looking for a partnership,” she said, regarding O’Reilly levelly.

  She’s certainly not backward in coming forward, O’Reilly thought, and admired the way she’d got to the point. He saw Barry’s eyes widen, his forehead crease. It’s a bit Machiavellian, O’Reilly thought, but it won’t hurt to let Barry know there could be competition. “And I’ve got used to having help.” He smiled at Barry, whose frown deepened, and said, “So I might be looking for a partner a year from now, but I have to be honest, Jenny. I’m not sure how the country patients are going to take to a woman. Usually they mistrust what they call ‘lady doctors.’ We’ll have to see how you are accepted here.” And I’ll have to see how I get on as the only man in a household of three women, he thought.

  She laughed and said, “I’ve lived through nine years of that mistrust since I started medical school. It doesn’t bother me, and you’d be amazed how quickly most of the patients realise that us ‘lady doctors’ don’t have horns.”

  “Good for you,” O’Reilly said, “but that’s not the only constraint, and so there’s no misunderstanding, I’ve promised Barry the job in January if he finds he doesn’t like being a specialist.”

  “I understand,” she said. “I’ll still do the best I can.”

  Barry’s frown faded.

  O’Reilly, warming to this self-sufficient young woman, said, “I know you will, but at least for this evening I hope the phone is quiet and you can get to your letters.”

  From below, the front doorbell rang.

  “Thanks, Fingal. I’ll be off,” Jenny said, and left.

  Kinky’s footsteps, then a familiar voice roaring, “Where the hell’s O’Reilly?”

  “Please go upstairs, Councillor,” Kinky said. “He’s expecting you.”

  Perhaps not expecting, more like hoping, although he couldn’t remember a time when he’d truly been hoping to see Bertie Bishop. This was a first. Still, his presence was as good as a signed and sealed confession that their tenuous suspicions were right. Given the way the man bellowed, though, how he was ever a “silent” partner was beyond O’Reilly.

  41

  They Lose It That Do Buy It

  Barry stood with O’Reilly to greet their guests. Bertie led the way, and he did not offer to shake hands. He was accompanied by a stranger. The man of about forty was as skinny as Bertie was rotund, had a bowler hat perched on what looked to Barry to be a completely bald head, small ash-coloured eyes, and a dark, pencil-thin moustache on a narrow upper lip. He whipped off his hat.

  “I’m Doctor O’Reilly and this is Doctor Laverty,” O’Reilly said by way of introduction. “Pleased to meet you, Mister McCluggage. Won’t you both please have a seat?” He indicated the two armchairs.

  For the first time in the year he’d been here, Barry noticed, invited guests had not been offered a drink.

  McCluggage smiled, it was an open smile, and replied amiably, “Likewise,” and sat.

  Bertie scowled and dumped himself into the other armchair.

  As previously arranged, Barry took a third chair facing the two men. O’Reilly stood leaning against the fireplace.

  “You let me do the talking, Ivan,” Bertie said. “I’ve had dealings with these two before.”

  McCluggage narrowed his eyes. “All right.” He crossed his legs and set his bowler on his lap.

  “First things first, O’Reilly,” Bishop said. “I want this on the table here and now. Youse told Ivan you’d not say nothing unless he brought his partner. That’s me, but we want no word of that getting out, do you hear? Not a whisper.”

  Barry noted that O’Reilly inclined his head but didn’t speak.

  “Right. Youse phoned Ivan and told him youse could save him a brave wheen of money. Let’s hear what you’se’ve to say.” He folded his arms across his chest. “And it had better be bloody good, so it had.”

  O’Reilly made a show of lighting his briar.

  “Och, Jasus, would youse get on with it, O’Reilly?” Bertie hunched forward in his chair.

  “It’s true,” O’Reilly said. “There’s a lot at stake. Mister McCluggage, may I first ask you a few questions?”

  “Aye, certainly.” The man’s voice was a pleasing tenor. “Fire away.”

  “Are you trying to purchase a cottage I once thought was Dawn Bwee but now know is called Dun Bwee?”

  McCluggage glanced at Bishop before saying slowly, “Aye.”

  “Have you put down a deposit?”

  “Aye. Three hundred pounds.”

  This man is not going to win any competitions for loquacity, Barry thought. Typical Ulster businessman.

  “And will you be completing the deal soon?”

  “The morrow.”

  “I’m glad we’ve got to you in time. I’d strongly advise you not to.”

  “And lose my deposit?” McCluggage half-turned his head away and regarded O’Reilly sideways.

  “Pay you no heed to him,” Bishop snarled. “He’s only trying to get youse to back off so a local layabout can buy it. If you back out we’ll lose a profit of seven hundred pounds—”

  “I know exactly what we’ll lose, Bertie. I’m not stupid,” McCluggage said, “but if we go ahead there’s another one thousand seven hundred to pay. I’d like to hear what the doctor has to say.”

  Barry thought the man sounded quite calm, but that “we’ll lose,” and “if we go ahead” was interesting.

  “Buy it and you’ll be throwing good money after bad,” O’Reilly said quietly.

  “For God’s sake, O’Reilly—”

  It was as far as Bishop got. McCluggage held up one hand. His voice was measured with a touch of steel. “Wheest, Bertie,” he said. “Go ahead, please, Doctor.”

  Barry recognised that not only was Bertie a silent partner, for all his bluster, he was the junior partner too.

  “Have you ever seen the property?”

  McCluggage shook his head. “It was just a business deal.” He looked across at Bishop. “Bertie thought it would be a good buy for a quick resale. I wasn’t going to live in it.”

  More pieces are starting to fall into place, Barry thought.

  “I’ve been there,” O’Reilly said. “There’s a big mound in the back garden.”

  “And what the hell does that have to do with the price of turnips?” Bishop demanded.

  “Nothing,” O’Reilly said, “but it has a very great deal to do with road straightening.”

  Bishop sneered, “I doubt you’ve ever seen a bulldozer at its work. It’ll go through your mound like a hot knife through butter.” Barry had a sudden urge to grin. Bertie was probably right that Fingal hadn’t seen a working bulldozer, but the councillor was going to meet the equivalent of one head on. Right now.

  “Correct.” O’Reilly took a long count before continuing, “But it’s common knowledge that the council wants to straighten the road—”

  “And that was brung forward after Mister McCluggage put in his bid,” Bertie rushed to add.

  “I know that, Bertie,” O’Reilly said, “but to come back to bulldozers, you’re quite right, I’ve never seen one at work, but I have seen compulsory purchase orders stayed.”

  Bertie went scarlet. “What? Stayed? How? Why? What in the name of the sainted Jasus and all the saints are you talking about?”

  “I’d like an explanation too,” McCluggage said, “and Bertie, houl’ your wheest and try to listen.”

  Bishop spluttered.

  O’Reilly said levelly, “A local archaeologist ha
s good reason to believe the mound contains important Stone Age artefacts. The Ulster Museum will be organising a dig.”

  Bishop leapt to his feet. “What? I don’t believe a fecking word. Your head’s a marley, O’Reilly. There’s no feckin’ Stone Age rubbish within fifty miles of here, so there’s not.”

  “’Fraid there is,” O’Reilly said, and inclined his head to Barry, “and you don’t have to take my word for it.”

  Barry took his cue. “That’s right. I’ve seen the evidence, it’s pretty convincing, and I know the folks at the Museum are considering excavating the site right between the arms of the hairpin.”

  McCluggage pursed his lips. “That’s a turn up for the books.” He stared at the councillor. “Bertie, I’m inclined to believe the doctors.”

  O’Reilly faced Bishop and said, apparently ignoring McCluggage, “Does the expression ‘cease and desist’ ring a bell, Bertie? There’ll be no compulsory purchase, no big profit for the owner of the house. The house and property’ll be made a historic site, which means very little can be done to it, besides changes for maintenance.”

  “I see. Thank you, Doctor.” McCluggage turned on Bishop and said coldly, “You told me it was a sure thing.”

  “It was,” Bertie blustered. “I knew it was. I’d arranged—” There was a pleading tone.

  “If I were you, Mister McCluggage,” O’Reilly announced, and Barry knew he was stirring the pot, “I’d wave good-bye to your deposit. It’ll be cheaper in the long run.”

  “It’ll not cost me a penny, Doctor,” McCluggage said calmly.

  Barry frowned. How could that possibly be?

  “You got me into this, Bertie, you and your ‘It’s a sure thing as long as we keep our traps shut. Don’t let people know we’re partners. We’ll split the cost of purchase and split the profit after the council buys the place to straighten the road.’ When I put our money down I made sure that half that deposit’s refundable. Guess whose half that’s going to be?” He turned to O’Reilly. “I’m not sure why you’ve done it, Doctor O’Reilly, but you’ve surely done me a big favour, so you have.”