An Irish Country Cottage--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  “The sun reflecting off all that white would take the light from your eyes.” Kitty shaded hers with her hand.

  “New front door. It’ll need painting, of course.”

  “I wonder if they’ll paint it red like the old one,” Kitty said.

  “Bertie was right about the timing. The ridgepole and all the rafters are in place and the thatcher is at his work.” He pointed to a man lying on the roof. “And I think Bertie Bishop might be here. There’s his lorry, and who’d that be picking up a pile of laths from it?”

  O’Reilly’s question was answered when Brendan MacNamee, wiping a tear from his artificial left eye, walked over, carrying his load under his right arm. “Excuse me, Doctor, I’m sorry to bother you, but would you have just a wee minute?” He tipped his duncher. “Mrs. O’Reilly.”

  “Hello, Brendan.”

  “A minute? Of course, Brendan. And how’s Fiona?”

  “She’s rightly, sir. Well mended after thon miscarriage. She was going to see you next week, but I could maybe save her a trip and you a surgery visit. I know you’re very busy.”

  “I’m going to go talk to Bertie, gentlemen,” said Kitty. “I’ll leave you to have your conversation in private.”

  O’Reilly watched her head for the cottage, then turned back to Brendan. “Thoughtful of you, Brendan. Is it about what we discussed?”

  “Yes, sir. We talked it over—what you told us Father Hugh said and all—and she’d like to have,” he glanced round to be sure he couldn’t be overheard by anyone, “thon operation we talked about.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “You’re both certain?”

  “Oh, aye. Absolutely, sir. And we’ll square it with Father Hugh after it’s done.”

  O’Reilly inwardly blessed the devout priest’s ability to bend his church’s doctrine in the name of humanity. “Leave it with me,” he said. “I’ll write to the Royal. They’ll send you an appointment. One thing. You’ll have to give your signed consent. I’m afraid the medical profession still regards your wife as your chattel. Bloody silly if you ask me.”

  “Och, sure it’s only a bit of paper, sir. As long as the job gets done. Thanks a million. Fiona’ll be very happy. Begging your pardon, sir, but I don’t mind saying four chisslers is enough. We love them all rightly, but, well…” He laughed. “I’d better be getting on. Thanks again, sir.” He headed for the cottage’s front door and met Bertie Bishop coming out. Bertie waved at O’Reilly and walked over with Kitty by his side. “How are you, Doctor.” He raised his bowler. “You’ve come to see the progress.”

  “We have,” O’Reilly said.

  “I just popped out to bring Donal and his crew a load of lumber. The floors are down, the chippies are framing doors between the rooms and windows now, and the two sparks have a fusebox in and they’re rewiring like Billy-oh. They have the kitchen near finished. The plumber’s in the bathroom. He has the sink and bathtub—”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “I don’t think the Donnellys are going to miss that old hip bath.”

  “You’d be right, Doctor, and they’ll be glad of the new toilet he’s fixing onto the standpipe.” Bertie Bishop smiled. “I’m very proud of my crew,” he said, “and see thon Donal Donnelly? See him? Best foreman in Ulster. He keeps them at it, and I’m learning him bookkeeping like I said I would, and quantity surveying. He’s a very quick study, so he is.”

  “I hope you don’t mind, Bertie, but I told Mrs. O’Reilly what you’re doing for Donal.”

  “And I think it’s wonderful,” said Kitty.

  Bertie puffed out his chest, slipped his thumbs behind his lapels, and threw back his head. He cleared his throat.

  Good Lord, O’Reilly thought, that’s the old Councillor Bertie Bishop. It looks as if he’s going to address us like a public meeting.

  But then Bertie shook his head and blushed. “Aye. Well. I don’t mind you knowing, Mrs. O’Reilly. Not one bit.” He cleared his throat again. “I’m going til tell Donal when this job’s finished.”

  The man hastened to change the subject. “I haven’t seen you, Doctor, since they announced the results of our general election last Friday.”

  Kitty stooped to pick up something from the grass. She held up a small wood-handled tool.

  “One of Donal’s wood chisels. He’s been looking everywhere for it. One of the tools you and Mrs. O’Reilly give him. He was dead worried he’d lost it,” Bertie said. He slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Anyroad,” Bertie said, “this here wee house is far from divided. The sparks, the MacSweeny twins, are in Father Hugh’s flock, the plumber is a Presbyterian like me and Donal, and one of the chippies is a Baptist, and not a word of dissension, I’m happy to say.”

  “Long may it last,” Kitty said. She frowned. “And I didn’t mean just here in Ballybucklebo. I’m a Southern girl. I’m just old enough to remember the Irish Civil War in 1922. I’d like all of Ulster, all of Ireland to get along.”

  “I hear you, Mrs. O’Reilly, and I think there’s a lot like you,” Bertie Bishop said, and pointed up. “See your man up the ladder, leaning on the roof? That’s Donnacha Flynn, he’s a Kerryman and learned his trade down there. He’s no time for the Orange and Green. His interest is thatching and he’s a quare dab hand at it. He’s an assistant inside in the roof space helping him. Come and see how it’s done.”

  O’Reilly and Kitty followed.

  Bertie yelled up, “Donnacha, this here’s Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly. Can you explain what you’re at up there?”

  Donnacha looked up, then scuttled down the ladder.

  O’Reilly reckoned him to be at least seventy. Wisps of grey hair wandered out from under a duncher. Tufts of hair stuck from each ear and they were thicker than O’Reilly’s own ex-boxer’s lugs. Donnacha’s face was lined and reddened from more than fifty years of practising his trade in all weathers, and his eyes, blue as a robin’s egg, held his humour. “Dia duit, Dochtúir,” to which O’Reilly replied, “Dia Maire duit, Mister Flynn.” By “Mister” O’Reilly was acknowledging the respect of one professional for another. “And yes, I have the Gaeilge, but I am afraid Mrs. O’Reilly does not.”

  “In that case,” the laugh lines crinkled, “a very good day to you, Mrs. O’Reilly.” Donnacha spoke the words in his musical Kerry brogue. “And you do want to know about the thatching?”

  “Yes, please, Mister Flynn.”

  Bertie said, “Before you explain, Donnacha, if youse’ll all excuse me, I’ll be running along.”

  “Good day to you, Mister Bishop,” Donnacha said, raising his duncher to reveal that only a fringe of grey surrounded his bald pate.

  “Bye, Bertie. Give our regards to Flo,” O’Reilly said. He turned back to the Kerryman. “Please carry on, Mister Flynn.”

  “If it pleases you, sir, Donnacha’s my name.” He rubbed both hands across his eyes and squinted at O’Reilly. “I’m a bit reed blind, just now.”

  “I’ve never heard of that,” O’Reilly said.

  “It’s nothing medical, sir, but after an hour or so of staring at the reeds you start seeing nothing but a sea of them. It always passes, but I’ll not mind taking a break until it does.” He yelled, “Finbar.”

  A voice rang out from inside. “Yes, Da.”

  “Take a five-minute break.”

  “Grand, so.”

  Donnacha pulled out a dudeen, a short-stemmed clay pipe, and O’Reilly, from his own tobacco pouch, offered the Kerryman a fill.

  “Erinmore Flake. That’s a fine smoke. Thank you, sir,” he said.

  Both men lit up.

  “Thatching does be a tradition that goes back nine thousand years. My father and his father before him were thatchers and they left me the trade and a patch where I do grow my own reeds. When they’re ripe and about eight feet tall I cut them, and bind them into what we call ‘spires.’” He took a puff on his pipe and pointed to a stack of bundles of long yellow reeds leaning against the wall, their feathery flowered ends uppermost. “As you can see, the thatchi
ng starts with the row of spires side by side all along the eaves. The reeds are put on with their butt ends facing the ground. Then I lay successive rows, each overlapping the lower courses, until I get to the top. This roof will take three courses.” Another puff. “Then I put on the capping along the ridgeline at ninety degrees to the upper course to anchor it. It overlaps for about two feet on either side.” He set his dudeen on a nearby flat rock. “Now, no smoking on the roof, bye.” He grinned. “Why don’t I get back to my work and explain what I’m about as I go along?”

  With a spire under one arm, Donnacha went nimbly up the ladder.

  O’Reilly saw how a row of yellow spires had been laid all along the eaves’ line.

  “I’m laying on the second course now,” Donnacha said.

  He cut the binding from the spire and laid it so the butt end overlapped the first course.

  “I’m holding this in place with a thatching pin.” Donnacha thrust a metal pin like a huge hairpin through the second course and into the first one. “Now I’m going to dress the thatch.”

  He lifted a tool like a short spade. Its flat head had a honeycomb of grooves etched into its surface. With it he pounded the butts until they were even. “A good dressing should make the reeds look like poured-on custard: yellow, smooth, and even,” he said. “Now for the flowers.” He grabbed a shearing hook and trimmed the flowers off. “Are you back, Finbar?”

  “I am that, Da.”

  “Now,” said Donnacha, “we’re going to attach the second course to the first. This is called a scallop. It’s a thinly sliced, bent sally, a willow branch.”

  O’Reilly saw the U-shaped device. The ends of the limbs were pointed.

  “Here she comes,” Donnacha called to his son, and thrust the scallop through the reeds.

  “Got it,” came from inside.

  “Now,” said Donnacha, “Finbar will attach the first scallop to the roof timbers and then I’ll put a couple more scallops through the spire for him to attach, and that’s her done.” He came down the ladder for another spire. “Then we do it all over again.”

  “It’s almost as if you’re stitching the reeds onto the roof,” said Kitty.

  “It’s exactly like that, Mrs. O’Reilly. We do call it stitching.”

  “Thank you very much for showing us, Donnacha,” Kitty said. “Do you have time to answer a question?”

  “Indeed, I do.”

  “How long will this roof last?”

  “The roof? Thirty years. But the reed-ridge on top, along the ridgepole, it’ll need to be replaced in ten to fifteen.” He grinned. “Finbar will be running the business then. He’s a good lad, my son.”

  “Takes after his father,” O’Reilly said, wondering, as he did infrequently, what would have happened if he and Kitty had married young and had children. Certainly, young Barry was a kind of surrogate son, and when Barry and Sue started a family, O’Reilly hoped he and Kitty would be allowed to be honorary grandparents. He said, “Thanks, Donnacha—”

  “How’s about youse both?” Donal Donnelly appeared from the now open front door. He was shoving a ball-peen hammer into his carpenter’s leather work belt. “Come til see how we’re getting on?”

  “It looks like you’re getting on famously,” Kitty said.

  “We’ll be a month or two at it yet,” Donal said, “but before March is out the thatching’ll be all done and Julie and the—”

  He was interrupted by a cry of “Here she comes” from the roof and the reply of “Got it” from inside the roof space.

  “See what I mean? Your man Donnacha and his lad work away like Brogans.”

  “Do you mean Trojans, Donal?” O’Reilly asked.

  “No, for once. I really do mean the Brogan brothers. Them fellahs live out the Donaghadee Road way. They never quit. Hardest-working men I ever met. Anyroad, if the weather behaves, we’ll have all the windows in and the front door and them all painted red. It’ll look a hell of a lot like the old Dun Bwee.” He scratched his thatch. “Could I ask for your advice, Doctor? It’s about Tori.”

  “Of course, Donal,” O’Reilly said.

  “You see, she’s not having as many nightmares, but she’s still having a few, and she still thinks the fire was her fault, so she does.”

  “I’m so sorry to hear that, Donal. Poor wee mite,” Kitty said.

  Donal shook his head. “You wasn’t here, Missus, but last time the doc was here, Tori got all upset when she came with her ma and Dapper. I think now the place looks like her old home and she may accept it better. She has to, or we’ll not be able to live here. What do you reckon, Doctor. Is it time to try again?”

  O’Reilly pursed his lips. Wait until they were ready to move in or try again now. He looked at the house, glittering brightly in the sun, its roof almost complete. He had no professional expertise to guide him, but for all his adult life, when faced with a decision, O’Reilly had always preferred action to inaction. “I think it might be.” And if it did not work out, O’Reilly, having offered advice, was now in a position to help Donal shoulder the blame.

  “Dead on,” Donal said. “And I’d like a bunch of people here who’ve helped us. You, sir, and Mrs. O’Reilly, and Doctor Laverty and his missus invited us to your house the night of the fire. And Doctor Emer has til come. She’s so good with Tori.”

  “I’m sure we can arrange that. When were you thinking?”

  “Saturday, the twenty-second. I’ll give the volunteer builders the afternoon off. There’d just be us. Sort of family, like. I know all the village and townland pitched in, but I don’t want til upset Tori with a crowd. We’ll be having the whole lot in for a proper housewarming once we’re moved in in a few months. But just family, like, on Saturday.”

  Family. O’Reilly loved the idea. Little Tori here at the cottage, surrounded by people who loved her and her parents. Donal was right about not having the multitude until later. “Just family, like.” O’Reilly thought about that word. Perhaps he and Kitty had never had a “family” in the traditional sense, but the whole of Ballybucklebo and the townland were part of their family.

  “Could youse all be here at two?”

  “Don’t see why not,” O’Reilly said.

  “I’ll be here already, for I’ll have been working in the morning. Dapper will bring Julie and Tori like the last time.”

  “Of course, and Kitty? How would you feel about having everyone back to Number One afterward for tea and buns?”

  “I think it would be a grand idea,” she said.

  “Jasus, Doc, thanks a million, and I’m sure everything’ll work out. I’m dead sure it will.”

  And Fingal O’Reilly hoped to hell that Donal Donnelly was right.

  34

  Such Great Contests as These

  The two fifteen-man teams, Bangor Grammar School wearing royal-blue-and-yellow jerseys, Campbell College in black with a silver star on the left breast, jogged off the pitch. It was halftime and they were headed for the dressing rooms of the Ravenhill Rugby Union Football Grounds.

  The crowd stirred in the covered stand. Jack Mills and Barry, sporting their Old Campbellian scarves, were among the first to stand. Sue, Helen Hewitt, O’Reilly, and Kitty rose with the rest of the crowd and began to applaud. Those spectators leaning on inverted cast-iron brackets at the lower level joined in the clapping for the muddy young men vying for the Ulster Schools’ Challenge Cup.

  The Schools’ Cup, the second-oldest rugby competition in the world, had begun in 1876, and Barry knew O’Reilly had not missed a game since 1946. Jack Mills, who had dreamed of playing rugby for Ireland as O’Reilly had back in the ’30s, had probably not missed a game since he and Barry had started attending Campbell College in 1953. Barry’s attendance was not as unblemished, but this year was special. This year, Campbell College was playing the grammar school Barry had attended from age eleven to thirteen, and his loyalties were divided.

  Tap-tap-tap. The rhythmic single beat of one side drum kept the step as the pip
es and drums of the Queen’s University Officers Training Corps band marched onto the pitch beneath a cold blue sky. The drum major was resplendent in bottle green caubeen, green jacket, and red sash draped from shoulder to hip. His saffron kilt swayed as he strode ahead of the band, signalling with his silver-headed mace. The side-drummers gave two triple rolls and with a blaring of drones the pipers swung into the quick march “Saint Patrick’s Day.” The final was always played on March 17.

  Many spectators retook their seats on the long concrete-and-wood terraces. Others sidled along the rows toward steps down to a passageway under the stand.

  O’Reilly addressed his party while holding a thermos flask aloft. “That first half was a cliffhanger. Three all. I for one need a bit of a restorative. There’s enough in here for six hot half-uns. Who’d like one?”

  Barry rubbed his gloved hands together. It was a bright day but cold. Trust Fingal to bring a warmer for the game.

  “I have coffee, Doctor O’Reilly,” said Helen. “I’m not much for whiskey. Would you like some, Kitty?”

  “Yes, please,” Kitty said.

  “And I’m not much for being called Doctor O’Reilly as if I was one of your professors, Doctor-to-be Hewitt,” said O’Reilly.

  “I’m fine with coffee too, Fingal,” said Sue. “Pay him no heed, Helen. The tension of the game is getting to him.”

  “I’ll tell you what, Fingal. I’ll take a wee bit in my coffee,” Helen said. “How’s that for a compromise?”

  O’Reilly and Helen laughed and O’Reilly tipped whiskey from the flask into Helen’s cup.

  Barry admired how his wife was keeping the promise made in Paris not to let her worries come between them. This morning she had almost decided not to come. “Tell them I have the flu or something, Barry. I don’t want to be a moaning Minnie and spoil everyone’s fun.” But after a shower and a walk with Max on the shore, she had revived. Still, he knew her mood had darkened since Paris, and their visit to Graham Harley last Friday had given her more to fret about. But after a private cry she’d cheered up and was continuing to put on a brave face.