An Irish Country Cottage

by Patrick Taylor

  “This is lovely,” Sue said. She tossed the newspaper onto a large double bed, crossed the carpeted floor, and opened the French windows. “Come and see the view.”

  Barry joined her. Two low deck chairs sat on red tiles on either side of a matching circular table. Sue was grasping a waist-high wrought-iron railing. From up here the wide-open sky to the southeast was not quite cloudless, the traffic noise from below was muted, and the eighty-year-old tower, now visible reaching up from the level of the lowest observation deck, stood proud and haughty above the rooftops of Paris.

  Barry stood behind Sue, put his arms round her waist, and kissed her neck. She turned in his arms, put hers round his neck, and kissed him, long and hard. He was short of breath when they parted. “I do love you,” he said. “Very much.”

  She smiled at him. “Thank you for loving me, Barry.”

  They went back inside, hand in hand. This morning’s Le Figaro, France’s most famous newspaper, lay unfolded on the bed where Sue had dropped it moments before. Her eyes strayed to a headline, then her eyes widened as one hand went to her mouth. “Oh, my God.” She sat heavily on the bed, picked the paper up, and read.

  “What’s wrong?” Barry crossed the floor, taking one of her hands in his.

  “‘Hier, Docteur Patrick Steptoe et Professeur Robert Edwards ont annoncé—’” She stopped but continued scanning the story. “Here, let me translate—made the announcement that they have successfully fertilised a human egg in Edwards’s laboratory in Cambridge.”

  “Good Lord,” Barry said. Damn it. Not today. He didn’t want any reminders. Not today.

  “Steptoe and Edwards disent c’est le premier pas vers—” Sue stopped and bit her lip. “Steptoe and Edwards say it is the first step on the road to more effective treatment for infertile couples.” She looked up at him and he saw her eyes glisten.

  Barry’s thoughts raced. As a physician, he found the story fascinating. As a man, deeply concerned about how difficulty conceiving was affecting both him and the woman he loved, he just wished the story could have broken a few days later.

  Sue straightened her back, folding the paper to hide the headline. She rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes. “I’m sure it’s a great piece of science,” she said, “but I don’t think Graham will be making any—the paper calls them bébés éprouvettes, test-tube babies—for us.”

  “That’s going to be quite a leap from fertilisation in the laboratory to a—”

  “Baby,” Sue said. “I know.” She stood and hauled in a deep breath. “Barry, we came here for a break from all that. We came here to relax. I will not let this story gnaw at me. I won’t.” She headed for the bathroom. “Why don’t you trot down to the lobby. I need a few minutes to restore myself and then I’ll join you and we’ll start enjoying the City of Lights.”

  * * *

  Hand in hand, Barry and Sue strolled past Rue Benjamin Franklin and onto Boulevard Delessert. The mature lime trees growing through circular holes at the edge of the footpath and lining both sides were leafless, but already tiny buds had appeared.

  Barry was relieved Sue had not mentioned the newspaper story. Trying to keep things light, he said, “I suppose we’re a few weeks early for,” he sang off-key, “‘April in Paris, whom can I run to, what have you done to my heart?’”

  She swung his hand, letting go a burst of laughter. “Eejit. Has Paris gone to your head already?”

  “Being here with you has,” he said. And my head’s not the only part of me you are affecting, he thought.

  “You are sweet, Doctor Barry Laverty.” She shook her head and laughed again. Then she broke into a jog-trot, hauling Barry after. “Come on, Frank Sinatra, I’m hungry.”

  She didn’t slow down until they’d reached Place de Varsovie. She was panting. Barry was close to wheezing but controlled his breathing. “Hang on,” he said, stopping, forcing Sue to stop. He hauled in a lungful, looked to his left, and said, “Aren’t those the Jardins du Trocadéro and the Palais de Chaillot on the far hill?”

  “They are,” she said, turning to their right. “And look straight ahead. There’s the Seine and Pont d’léna. And there’s the Eiffel Tower in all its glory.” The broad, murky river seemed more to ooze than flow past its concrete, tree-lined banks. A long, low, glassed-in bateau-mouche motored by, taking sightseers on their way back upstream to admire the flying buttresses, gargoyles, and twin Gothic towers of Notre Dame Cathedral.

  And across the bridge and slightly to the right was the latticed ironwork of the Eiffel Tower. “Quite the sight,” he said.

  She fished a book out of her handbag, opened it, and read as they crossed the bridge. “‘The tower was opened in 1889 as the gateway to L’Exposition Universelle. Its base is square, 410 feet on each side, and it rises 1,063 feet.’”

  She’d spent hours poring over the Michelin: Guide Paris et Ses Environs 1968 in the evenings while he devoured John D. MacDonald’s latest Travis Magee adventure, The Girl in the Plain Brown Wrapper.

  “Lord,” said Barry with a smile. “You can take the schoolmistress out of school, but you can’t take the school out of the schoolmistress.”

  Laughing together, they left the bridge and crossed the Quai Branly.

  * * *

  Conversation between Barry and Sue at lunch had been light, and Sue’s mood, at least on the surface, buoyant. Their attention had been on their food, her moules frites and Barry’s coquilles Saint-Jacques and the views out their second-level window of small people coming and going on the green field of the Champs de Mars. They lingered over their crisp Chablis.

  The caged lift conveyed them and a small group of other sightseers toward an enclosed catwalk.

  Barry heard polyglot snatches of conversation.

  “… Sie keine angst, Kleine…” said a mother to a trembling little boy.

  “J’étais là plus de vingt fois.” A chic, middle-aged French woman shrugged.

  “What a bore for you, Dominique,” said her cravat-wearing, very upper-class English companion. “I haven’t been up here since they got the lift going again in ’46 after the war.”

  “Ah, oui,” his companion answered. “Les Maquis ont coupé les câbles avant que les Allemands ont occupé Paris en 1940.”

  Barry managed to grasp that the French resistance had cut the cables in 1940 ahead of the Nazi occupation of Paris.

  “Why don’t you go first,” Sue said when they arrived, “and I’ll hang on to your waist. I know I’ve been really looking forward to this, but now I’m here, I know it’s silly, but I’m feeling a little afraid of the height.” She laughed nervously and held on tight.

  They inched across and then he helped her into a second elevator that rose and deposited them on a narrow walkway surrounding the core of the highest observation platform. “Here we are,” he said, looking round.

  The walkway was fenced in with a chest-high railing. From railing to deck, small aperture chain-link fencing was tightly stretched. Above it, metal poles rose at intervals and curved inwards.

  Ahead of them a young couple were having their photo taken. A boy of about twelve stretched up to peer through one of the coin-in-the-slot telescopes and yelled, “Mommy. Mommy. I can see the Arch du Triumph and the Champs Ellie-sees.” By his twang, the lad was American.

  Barry led Sue to the railing beside the young American. “You alright?”

  “Perfect. It’s exhilarating to be so high up. I’m a little scared and very excited at the same time.”

  “Okay. Don’t let go. Look there,” he said. “I think that’s pretty close to north, because there’s the Seine and the Pont d’lena we crossed, the Trocadéro, and the east and west wings of the Palace of Chaillot.”

  Sue held on to Barry with one hand and with the other flipped open her guidebook. “The bridge to the left of d’lena is the Pont de Bir-Hakeim and the one upstream is Pont de l’Alma.”

  Sue looked back at the crowded walkway. “We’re nine hundred and six feet above Pa
ris.”

  Barry peered over the railing and looked down at the tower and the tiny people below on the Champs de Mars. He stepped back. “It’s a brave way down, right enough. You could get dizzy looking down.”

  “Then I’ll look up instead.” Sue leant back, looked up, and so did Barry. His gaze followed the lattices of the towering communications mast as it strained to reach the blue sky above.

  “You know,” said Sue, “the tower was only supposed to stand for about twenty years and then be taken down, but that radio mast was just too valuable for communication. Its top’s one thousand and sixty-three feet above the ground.”

  Together they strolled round the walkway, drinking in a 360-degree panoramic view of the city.

  “This is wonderful, Barry. Thank you for suggesting Paris. Thank you.”

  He gave her a hug and a kiss. “My pleasure, Mrs. Laverty.” Barry felt the warmth of her, felt her softness, and inhaled her faint Je Reviens. The thought of making spontaneous love to his beautiful wife with, he hoped, no pressure to be trying to achieve anything, at least anything but mutual pleasure, was growing stronger by the moment in Barry Laverty.

  Well, not quite spontaneous. While he’d been waiting in the hotel lobby, Barry had used five minutes of sign language, Franglais, and his execrable French until the grinning desk clerk had agreed that when the Lavertys returned there would be an ice bucket with Champagne bien froid, deux flûtes, and une douzaine de roses rouges awaiting them in their room. Sometimes spontaneity might need a little nudge. And the afternoon was young.

  30

  The Immanent Will and Its Designs

  “Come on, youngster.” O’Reilly couldn’t bring himself to call Kenny “lummox.” That had been Arthur Guinness’s nickname. O’Reilly looked with great affection at the now grown chocolate Lab leaping from the back of the elderly Rover. O’Reilly had parked at the Old Inn in Crawfordsburn, and man and dog were now setting out for the short walk down the narrow path that led into the glen where the burn, for which the village was named, flowed gently down to Belfast Lough. “Heel, sir.”

  The leafless trees cast spindly shadows on the leaf-strewn path. From a hawthorn ahead came the “pook-pook-pook” warning of a cock blackbird protecting his territory, and from behind came a call of, “Hang on, Finn.”

  O’Reilly stopped and turned to see his older brother, Lars. O’Reilly waved. “Come on then.” They would be meeting Bertie Bishop for lunch in half an hour and Lars, who had driven up from Portaferry, had clearly had the same notion as his brother.

  “Not a bad day,” Lars said as he neared, keeping a safe distance between himself and Kenny.

  “Not a bad day at all,” O’Reilly said, “and thanks for agreeing to see Bertie Bishop.”

  “My pleasure,” Lars said. “Wills are my bread and butter.” He held a branch aside so all three could pass.

  “So how was Villefranche-sur-Mer?” O’Reilly asked as he bent and picked up a two-foot-long stick.

  Lars’s thin moustache, greying now, lifted in a smile. “Wonderful. The place always cheers my spirits. It’s to me what Strangford Lough is for you. A place where I can get away from the everyday business of life.”

  “Did you get to Fort Mont Alban and the Église Saint-Michele? I know those are two of your favourite places to potter about.”

  “I did. And the town itself was charming as always. The minute I see those narrow, cobbled streets and the terraces of yellow and terracotta houses I feel better. And, of course it’s sunnier and warmer than Ulster.” He laughed. “One of the best things I ever bought is my place there. I don’t know why I stayed away.” He hesitated and inhaled before saying, “Well, actually I do. I hadn’t been since Myrna and I spent a fortnight there two years ago.”

  He and O’Reilly stepped aside to let a man with a liver-and-white Cavalier King Charles spaniel pass in the opposite direction.

  Kenny ignored the little dog.

  O’Reilly wondered if his brother was going to speak more of his feelings. Lars was a man who usually kept his own counsel.

  “She’s a remarkable woman, you know. Took first-class honours in science at a time before the war when women barely went to university, and if they did it was for an arts degree. Great sense of humour too. And a naturalist in her own way.” O’Reilly saw a flush on his brother’s cheeks. “And I’d tell no one but you, Fingal. A very”—he cleared his throat—“passionate woman.”

  “Are you still missing her?” O’Reilly felt for Lars. “Remember Father filling our young heads with quotes from the classics? ‘No man is an island.’”

  “I’d be a liar if I said from time to time I didn’t think of her. But fondly, Finn. Fondly. I am content to be a bachelor. Probably as content as you are with Kitty.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, brother. But I hope you’re not turning into a hermit with your orchids and your law books?”

  “Don’t worry about me, little brother.” His voice was gentle but firm. “In truth, though, I was getting a bit insular. So, after Christmas I joined the Portaferry Choral Society—we’re doing The Batsman’s Bride next month. I’m playing the umpire.”

  “A fitting part for a man of the law.”

  “I thought so.” Lars stopped, took a theatrical stance, and opened his mouth. “‘I’m the instrument of justice and the symbol of authority. At times I may be biased but I’m just to the majority.’”

  “Bravo, Lars.”

  Lars took a bow. “Thank you. You and Kitty should come down for it. And I’m still involved in bird counts and do my pro bono work for the National Trust. So, you see, I’m in no danger of becoming a hermit.”

  O’Reilly threw an arm around his brother’s shoulders. “I’m very glad to hear it.”

  “And I won a hundred pounds playing baccarat last week. There’s an active expatriate community in Villefranche. Six of us took the train to Monte Carlo.”

  “A hundred pounds. You’re a regular James Bond, Double O Seven,” O’Reilly said. “That’s his game.”

  “I know. Ian Fleming made it sound very romantic, but it’s a simple game, really.” He smiled.

  Lars certainly seemed to be in good spirits, and his light tan suited him, O’Reilly thought.

  They continued in companionable silence until they came to an open, grassy ride.

  “Now,” said O’Reilly. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to give Kenny some exercise.” O’Reilly hurled the stick. “Hi lost.”

  Kenny charged off.

  “We’ll give him ten minutes of that,” O’Reilly said, “then we’d better head up to the inn. We mustn’t keep Councillor Bishop waiting.”

  * * *

  O’Reilly waved to Bertie from the table where he sat with Lars in a semicircular alcove separated from its neighbour by a high, red-velvet-covered pony wall. The bar/dining room was more than usually busy, the regular lunchtime crowd being boosted by couples celebrating Saint Valentine’s Day. From outside, light from the sun slipped through the mullioned windows and painted bright strips across the wood-panelled, low-ceilinged room.

  “How are you, Bertie?”

  “I’m rightly, so I am, Doctor.”

  “And you’ve met my brother, Lars O’Reilly, the solicitor.”

  Bertie Bishop nodded. “Glad til see you,” he said as he took a seat to Lars’s right. “And how’s Mrs. O’Reilly?”

  “She’s grand. Thanks for asking.”

  “Excuse me, sir?” A waiter O’Reilly didn’t know stood by the table. “Can I get you gentlemen drinks? Menus?”

  “Three menus, and, Lars?”

  “A small sherry, please.”

  “Bertie?”

  “Brown lemonade, please,” Bertie said. “I don’t take a drink now until after five. Ever since—” He patted his left chest with the flat of his left hand.

  “Mine’s a pint.”

  “Certainly, sir.” The waiter withdrew.

  “I hear you was in France, Mister O’Reilly?”


  “I was, and I think if you don’t mind, I’m Lars.”

  “And I’m Bertie, so I am.” The two men shook hands.

  “I wonder how young Barry’s getting on,” O’Reilly said. “He’s in Paris with Sue for the weekend.”

  “Good for Barry,” Lars said. “I like that young couple.”

  “Your drinks, gentlemen, and three menus.” The waiter set the drinks and menus on the table. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Cheers,” said O’Reilly, and the three men drank. All for a few moments consulted their menus until O’Reilly asked, “And how are you feeling? Bertie?”

  Bertie set his menu aside. “Belly couldn’t be better. Thanks for asking.” He turned to Lars. “I had a wee health scare this month but thon Doctor Emer McCarthy, Doctor O’Reilly’s young trainee, done good. Indeed, them’s all been great wee lady doctors you’ve had in your practice.”

  “Thank you,” O’Reilly said. “I’ll tell Emer what you said.”

  Bertie nodded. “And how am I otherwise? There’s things til think about. I’m relieved the Reverend Ian Paisley will be going to jail for illegal assembly. That’s to the good. Keep him quiet for a while. Nothing much unpleasant’s gone on for a while in Ulster.” He sipped. “But did youse hear what happened in Canada yesterday? It’s desperate, so it is.”

  “What is?” O’Reilly shook his shaggy head. “I haven’t seen the news.”

  “Nor me,” Lars said.

  “There’s a mob out there, the Front for the Liberation of Quebec. They want their province to separate from Canada. They set off a bomb at the Montreal Stock Exchange yesterday. Injured twenty-seven people.” He made a growling noise. “I just hope til God it doesn’t give anyone over here any notions, so I do. French, English, Catholic, Protestant. There’s hardly a hair’s breadth worth of difference. We’re all just humans, aren’t we? Why the hell can’t folk get along with each other?”

  “Very good questions,” Lars said. “I wish I knew the answers.”

  A discreet cough and, “Would you care to order, gentlemen?”