An Irish Country Cottage

by Patrick Taylor

  The three girls were wearing their own nightclothes, which had been washed and hung in front of the fire to dry overnight.

  The adults seemed to O’Reilly to be reluctant to delve into the daunting task ahead. Finally, he pushed aside the remnants of a brace of kippers. His voice boomed when he said, “Right. To business. First, we’ll need to…” It was as far as he got.

  Someone was knocking on the dining room door.

  O’Reilly called, “Come in.”

  “Good morning to all. I let myself in, sir,” Kinky Auchinleck said, taking off her woolly gloves.

  “Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “What brings you here on a Saturday?”

  “Can you not guess, sir?” She looked around the table. “Archie is still on his milk rounds, but I ran into Cissie Sloan on my walk and she told me of the terrible fire last night, so. I am truly sorry for your troubles, Donal. Julie. It seems Aggie Arbuthnot had told Cissie about the ambulance stopping outside Number One and you and your family coming in here, so I guessed you’d still be here this morning. I came to see what I could do to help.”

  Typical, O’Reilly thought. The Corkwoman had a soft heart and a great love for her adopted village.

  “Sit down, Kinky,” Kitty said. “Cup of tea?”

  “Well, I…”

  Kinky still hadn’t quite accepted that her employer and his wife considered her more of a friend than a part-time housekeeper. “’Course, you will,” he said, and poured, rose, and handed her the cup and saucer. “Here.”

  Kinky took off her hat, accepted the tea, and sat down beside Tori. “Thank you, sir.” She helped herself to sugar and milk then looked at Julie. “So, a stór, it does be a bad thing, but you are not without friends. What do you and the children need?”

  Julie looked at Donal as if seeking approval, then her eyes filled with tears. “Everything’s gone, Mrs. Auchinleck. All we’ve got are the things we stand up in and a few nappies I managed to grab.”

  “They’ll need a roof over their heads,” said O’Reilly. “I was going to ask Sue to take Kitty’s Mini and run Julie, the kiddies, and Bluebird to Julie’s folks in Rasharkin.”

  “I can do that,” Sue said. “It’ll be a bit of a crush, but we’ll manage.”

  “Thanks a million,” Julie said. “When I phoned them this morning Mammy and Daddy said we can stay for as long as we need to.”

  Kinky said, arms folded on her ample bosom, “Well, now, sir, that does be very fine and good, so, but are they going to go there in their nightclothes, and would I be right in thinking the little ones need more than a few nappies? Things like toothbrushes, toothpaste, soap, towels?”

  Julie nodded.

  “One step at a time,” Kinky said. “I’ll take care of all that, but may I suggest, sir, that Julie and the children stay here until I have?”

  “Of course they can stay,” Kitty said.

  “Thank you, Mrs. O’Reilly,” Julie said.

  “Don’t wanna go see Granny and Grampa,” Tori said. “I wanna go home.” She banged her fork on the tablecloth and sniffled. “Wanna go home.”

  “And so you shall, Tori, sweetie,” Julie said. “Later on. There are animals here, you know. I’m sure Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly will let you see a nice pussycat and a big doggy called Kenny.”

  Tori giggled. “I love ’ittle pussy, her coat is so warm.”

  “That’s my good girl,” Donal said. He shrugged and spread his arms. “None of us slept the sleep of the just last night, and this one, by the way she muttered and twisted, I think she had some bad dreams.”

  “Poor wee mite,” Kinky said.

  “I know it will be a while before things are back to some kind of normal for you all,” said Sue, looking at Tori then to Julie, “but you’ll feel so much better. Some of my things will fit you, I’m sure, Julie. It’ll only take me a few minutes to nip home and bring some back.”

  “And I was going to ask Doctor Laverty to take Donal up to his insurance company in Belfast. They’re open on Saturday mornings,” said O’Reilly, reaching for the last piece of toast on the rack, “so take Kitty’s Mini, Sue.”

  Kitty nodded her agreement. “The keys are on the hall table.”

  “You’re all very kind,” Julie said.

  “Thanks,” said Sue, rising. “I’ll be off.”

  “And if you’ll excuse me,” Kinky said, “sitting colloguing will not get the baby a new coat. In this case, literally.” She glanced at the twins. “I need to make a few phone calls.”

  * * *

  By the time Kinky returned, O’Reilly had established a plan of action: Barry would run Donal to Dapper Frew’s, where Donal would borrow some clothes and, Donal was sure, be offered short-term lodgings. It would mean that the man could continue working for Bertie Bishop and keep bringing in the “oul’ doh-re-mi,” as he called it.

  “On that subject,” O’Reilly had said, handing Donal two ten-pound notes, “that’s only a loan, so no arguments.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll pay you back as soon as I’m able.”

  Sue had come back with a suitcase and armfuls of clothes, which she had helped Julie try on in Barry’s old attic bedroom. They had come down smiling, Julie looking just like a schoolmistress in a black knee-length skirt, white blouse, and red cardigan, and carrying the suitcase, which O’Reilly assumed contained more clothes. He noted with satisfaction that Julie was wearing makeup. He had known for years that when a woman patient began to pay attention to her appearance again, she was on the road to recovery. Dealing with a disaster was probably no different.

  The doorbell rang.

  “I’ll go,” Kitty said.

  Abi had been in Sue’s arms throughout breakfast, and now that she was back she scooped up the baby, who immediately began to howl. “I think someone needs changing,” said Julie.

  “I’ll see to it, Julie.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Laverty,” said Julie. “There’s clean nappies in the upstairs bathroom.”

  Barry said, “I’ll come with you.”

  Sue looked puzzled.

  “It was decreed that it would be good for medical students, nearly all men, to learn to change nappies when we were at Royal Maternity. The midwife who taught me said when I’d done my tenth, and I quote, ‘Mister Barry Laverty, you’ve a quare soft hand under a duck.’”

  “Thanks, Barry. I think you know more about it than I do.”

  Kitty came into the dining room followed by Cissie Sloan, carrying two brown paper bags. She gazed around the room as wide-eyed as a Russian serf who had gained entrance to the Winter Palace in Saint Petersburg. “I’ve not been in here for ages, Doctor. Very nice since the rebuilding, so it is. Dead on.” She beamed. “Hello, everybody.”

  A chorus greeted her.

  “I don’t want til intrude nor nothing, but it’s desperate, so it is. Aggie Arbuthnot, her with the cousin with six toes, told me about what happened last night til Dun Bwee. It must have been ferocious. God-awful for youse. I’m old enough til remember when them Germans bombed Bangor in September 1940. They dropped incendiaries. Some fell on the gas works but didn’t go off. Fifteen others hit Main Street…”

  “You’re a powerful historian, Cissie Sloan,” O’Reilly said, “but we don’t want the children upset.”

  Cissie’s hands flew to her mouth. “No, Doctor, of course not.” She laughed at herself. “My husband Hughie says I could talk the hind legs off a donkey.” She proffered her paper bags to Julie. “There’s three wee teddy bears in that one, and I made some Rice Krispie squares. They’re in that one.”

  O’Reilly saw Julie’s eyes mist up. He himself felt a distinct lump in his throat.

  “That’s very kind of you, Cissie,” Julie said. She handed Tori and Susan Brigit a teddy bear each. “Say thank you to Mrs. Sloan, Tori.”

  “Fank ’oo very much, Missus Sloan,” Tori said, grabbed her bear, and hugged it tightly to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut. Two tears rolled down her cheeks.

  Kinky
reached out and squeezed one of the girl’s hands gently. “There now, pet. Everything will be alright.” Tori smiled a shy smile at Kinky, but then slipped off her chair and darted to her mother’s side, still holding on tightly to the bear.

  “Oh, my,” said Cissie. “I hope that means she likes the wee fellah. I better be running along now. You all must have a brave wheen of things to do, but if youse Donnellys need anything, anything at all, just you ask.”

  “Thanks, Cissie,” Donal said. “Thanks a million.” He too sounded choked.

  Kinky grabbed her gloves and hat. “Hold on a minute, Cissie Sloan,” she said, rising. “I’m coming with you. You, and me, and Flo Bishop have some organising to do.” She bent a bit at her not inconsiderable middle in a small bow. “Thank you for the cup of tea, sir. Now I know Donal must go with Doctor Laverty and see his insurers, but please everyone else bide a wee while before heading to Rasharkin. I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

  * * *

  It had been a busy morning. Barry and Donal had left for Belfast. Kitty had introduced Tori to Lady Macbeth and Kenny, much to Tori’s delight. The twins had needed attention, and the women had been busy keeping them occupied. O’Reilly had watched his wife and the weans, thinking, not for the first time, that he wished he and Kitty could have had a family.

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll go,” he said.

  “That was Alice Moloney,” he said, returning to the lounge. “She brought a red onion and pepper tart. It’s in the kitchen—”

  The doorbell clanged again.

  “I’ll go,” he said.

  By the time O’Reilly’d answered the front door for the third time, he’d brought his book down to the dining room. Charging up and down stairs was getting tiring. By lunchtime he’d spoken to twenty more well-wishers who wanted to help. One thing was for sure, the Donnellys would not go hungry. The pantry was stacked with home-baked breads, jams, soups, ready-cooked meals that would only need rewarming, and homemade sweeties and biscuits for the children. He was sure Julie’s parents and Dapper Frew would not object to their unexpected guests bringing their own provisions.

  Now lunch was over, but while the others had gone back upstairs, O’Reilly remained in the dining room, where he could continue to answer the door. The tide of visitors of this morning had slowed to a trickle.

  When another ring at the door sounded, he muttered, “No rest for the wicked,” and went to answer it. Kinky was standing on the step with a large laundry bag and Bertie Bishop stood beside her, holding the handle of an enormous navy blue perambulator. The hood was lowered and the carriage was filled to overflowing. “Morning, Doc. Can we come in?” Bertie asked.

  “Please,” O’Reilly said.

  “My Archie, and Flo, and Cissie wanted to come too, but I said you’d enough people in Number One, sir.”

  “And you were right, Kinky. The place has been as busy as the Lammas Fair at Ballycastle,” O’Reilly said, closing the door. “Can you take the pram into the dining room, Bertie?”

  “Aye, certainly.” Bertie pushed the pram and stopped beside the table. He began to unload it. “Kinky took charge,” he said, “and her, and me, and Flo, and Cissie made the rounds in my van.” He began unloading items and setting them on the table. “A brave wheen of folks has been very decent. We just asked for things they could spare til tide the Donnellys over for a few days until they get settled.”

  Kinky too worked at emptying the contents of her laundry bag.

  Nappies, nappy pins, plastic pants, baby powder, tissues, vests, little knickers, kiddies’ blouses, cardigans, coats, and towels accumulated on the table. Manna, if not from heaven then from Marks & Spencer. He wondered how the hell Donal was going to thank everybody who had contributed.

  Kinky said, as if reading his mind, “Now we know the Donnellys have a lot to do getting settled in the next few days”—she handed O’Reilly a sheet of paper—“but here’s a list of who gave what.”

  He scanned it. It was a who’s who of Ballybucklebo. The Browns had given the pram and what must have been now-discarded soft toys from a fifteen-and-a-half-year-old Colin. Mister Hanna, the chemist, had donated nappies, nappy pins, and baby powder. Eileen Lindsay had cast-off kids’ clothes from her three. O’Reilly inhaled deeply. Mister Coffin, the undertaker, had added a stack of towels. Toothbrushes, and toothpaste, and toilet soap had come from Aggie Arbuthnot. Anne Galvin, still well after the removal of her left lung two years ago for lung cancer, had contributed combs and hairbrushes. Alice Moloney, the dressmaker, clearly not resting on her food donation alone, must have known Julie’s size. There was underwear, two knee-length dresses, and a sky blue cardigan. He folded the list, unable to read on, overwhelmed by the generosity of his neighbours. Damn it all, wasn’t this how Ulsterfolk always responded to tragedy? Bless them. If only the ones elsewhere in Ulster who had been causing the political strife over the last year could show the same degree of Christian charity. O’Reilly shook his shaggy head. “I think,” he said, “that you lot deserve citations and gold medals.” And, he thought, so does everyone else who’s pitched in.

  Barry and Donal appeared in the doorway of the dining room, the carpenter resplendent in flannel trousers, white shirt, Bangor Grammar School old boys’ tie, woollen grey pullover, and a navy blue blazer with the crest of the Ballybucklebo Athletic Club on the breast pocket.

  “Come in,” O’Reilly said. “See what your friends have done for you and yours, Donal.”

  Donal scanned the growing piles of necessities. He shook his head. “Boys-a-dear,” he said, “that’s wheeker. Dead on. Thank you very much, Mister Bishop, Kinky.” But his words were flat. He sighed.

  Delayed shock, O’Reilly thought, but asked, “Is everything alright, Donal?”

  “Not quite,” Barry said, looking O’Reilly right in the eye. “There’s a snag with the insurance.”

  “What?” O’Reilly said.

  “Aye,” Donal said. “Rebuilding’s not going til be a money problem…”

  “I can promise you that, Donal,” Bertie Bishop said. “My building company will be at your service once you get things sorted out with the National Trust. They keep an eye on the site because of thon Stone Age burial mound in your garden, so they do. I’m not sure about the legislation for rebuilding your cottage.”

  “My brother Lars may be able to help with that,” O’Reilly said. “I’ll give him a ring.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Donal said, “but that’s not the real problem. You see, when we bought the house, Dapper helped me work out what I could afford til put down and how much a month for principal, interest, taxes, and insurance of the mortgage and the house.” He hung his head. “Servicing one thousand seven hundred pounds is a brave clatter of spondulix and I had to take a wee gamble…”

  Knowing Donal’s past history of betting on almost anything, that did not surprise O’Reilly.

  “I took the mortgage and replace house protection, but didn’t want til spend any more by taking the options for replacing the contents and providing temporary accommodation.”

  “I see,” O’Reilly said. “That is a bit tricky.”

  “Aye,” said Donal. “I can’t impose on Dapper for too long.”

  He did not need to explain. O’Reilly clapped Donal on the shoulder and said, “Look. You and yours are alive. None of you are badly hurt. You do have places to go for the short term, this load of stuff in here, and there’s a ton of grub in the pantry.”

  Donal nodded. “We’ve a lot til be grateful for, so we have. At least it’s a stone-built cottage and a fire can’t burn down stone walls, but it’ll take months to rebuild.”

  “It will,” said O’Reilly, “but you can’t make crab cakes without killing a crab. The waiting to get your own house back is going to be the hard part, but you will get through it, Donal.”

  Donal managed a small smile. “I’ll have to, won’t I? We all will.” He looked around before saying, “And with friends like all of youse, Julie and me and
the weans can get on with our lives, and who knows, maybe the new Dun Bwee will be better than the old?”

  5

  Who Clothed You in Scarlet?

  Barry held the Imp’s passenger door open. “Hop in, Emer.” Doctor Emer McCarthy, the GP trainee now attached to the practice, had been with them since last July. Barry, as a full partner, had been suggested by O’Reilly as a mentor, and Professor George Irwin of the Queen’s University department of general practice had agreed to the appointment. Now O’Reilly and Barry shared the supervisory role, and Barry found to his delight that he really enjoyed teaching. And he had come to like Emer too.

  He closed the door and walked round the car. His passenger was from Belfast’s Lisburn Road, had been schooled at Saint Dominic’s and studied medicine at Queen’s University. Her teaching hospital had been the Mater Infirmorum, run by the Sisters of Mercy. Emer was a Roman Catholic—and in the opinion of both O’Reilly and Barry, a damn fine young doctor. And as Barry’s friend Jack Mills would undoubtedly have observed in his younger days, restful on the eye, with a trim figure, cornflower blue eyes and shiny close-cut blond hair. She was twenty-four.

  He got in beside her. “First call, the Lindsays at 31 Comber Gardens up on the housing estate.” The surgery was closed for the holiday and Barry and Emer were on call.

  Barry drove off through a village strung from lamppost to lamppost with loops of forty-watt bulbs hand-painted in various colours, as well as a huge holly wreath halfway up the Maypole. The lights and wreath would be coming down in five days.

  He stopped behind a red Massey-Ferguson tractor at the traffic light. “So, Emer, now you’ve seen the famous O’Reillys’ New Year’s Eve hooley. Did you enjoy it?”

  “They certainly know how to throw a party,” she said. “And aren’t they the lovely couple—Fingal and Kitty? For the last three years we—my boyfriend and I—we’ve gone to the Queen’s University New Year Formal. He played in the Queen’s Pipe Band and he and another fellow always piped in the New Year, but—” She paused and shrugged.