“Only in private,” she said with a grin. “And certainly not in tonight’s company.”
Despite John and Myrna’s graciousness, Kitty, O’Reilly knew, still felt a little overawed to be dining with two titled people. John MacNeill’s rank was only one lower than a duke, after all, and senior to a duke was only Her Royal Highness—and God.
Before O’Reilly could walk round the car, John MacNeill, twenty-seventh Marquis of Ballybucklebo, had come down the broad front steps and opened Kitty’s door. He made a small bow. “Good evening, Kitty. You’re looking particularly lovely tonight.”
Kitty got out and dropped a small curtsey. “Thank you, my lord.”
John, of course, was right. O’Reilly had had his breath taken away back at Number One as he had draped her camel hair coat over a silver, sleeveless, V-necked cocktail dress with a wide sash to cinch her waist and a just-above-the-knee skirt. The colour complemented the silver tips of her raven hair. Dark nylons, silver dress pumps, and a silver clutch handbag completed her outfit.
“Kitty O’Reilly,” John MacNeill said, “it’s John, and you know that perfectly well.”
“Evening, John,” O’Reilly said, rubbing his hands. He could see their breath on the evening air. “Nippy tonight. There’ll be frost.”
“Indeed. Let me get you both into the warm.” He offered Kitty his arm, and O’Reilly followed them up the steps and into the spacious, thickly carpeted hall. O’Reilly noticed another hint that the number of servants had been reduced. A cobweb ran between the arm and breastplate of one of two suits of plate armour flanking the corridor. Each grasped a massive broadsword, its point resting on the floor between pointed iron sabatons for covering the feet. The mediaeval suits stood beneath crossed pikes hanging on the mahogany-panelled walls. Overhead soared a high, black-beamed ceiling. Portraits of previous marquises and their ladies, one with a Cavalier King Charles spaniel on the lap of her voluminous skirts, stared down with haughty miens.
“In here,” John said, stepping aside to let Kitty precede him to where Finn MacCool, a red setter, lay asleep in front of a fire in a huge grate beneath a tall mantel. Over it hung an enormous oil painting, in the style of Sir Joshua Reynolds, of a peer of the realm in his ermine-trimmed robes.
Lady Myrna Ferguson, the marquis’s sister, sat in an armchair. “Hello, Fingal. Kitty. Lovely to see you both.” She held a sherry. “Do come and sit down beside me, Kitty.”
“Kitty, let me take your coat,” John said, did so, and held an armchair for her.
She sat and crossed her legs.
O’Reilly parked himself in another chair beside her. He opened his mouth to ask where Lars was, then thought better of it. Perhaps he would come later. O’Reilly was bursting to know how things were going with Myrna and his big brother and was concerned that the answer was “not well.” Lars was reticent by nature and didn’t always tell his brother about important things, particularly if he was hurting. O’Reilly wanted to know, but he hesitated to ask outright. In these circles, one didn’t pry into another’s social life.
“And what would you both like?” John said.
“Gin and tonic, please,” Kitty said.
“Neat Jameson for you, Fingal?”
“Please.”
“It’s Thompson’s night off. Cook will look after us. She’ll be serving at seven fifteen.”
O’Reilly was disappointed about missing Thompson. He always enjoyed seeing the marquis’s valet/butler, who had been a gunnery chief petty officer on HMS Warspite, O’Reilly’s old ship during the war.
“So I’ll do the honours.” John draped Kitty’s coat over a chair back, walked to an ornate sideboard, and poured. He headed back with the drinks. “I hear the Americans landed their Surveyor 3 on the moon last Thursday.”
“At least they got a nice clear day for it,” Kitty said, deadpan except for an upcocked right eyebrow.
John MacNeill laughed so hard he nearly spilled her drink. “Here, Kitty,” he said, still chuckling as he handed it to her. “And here’s yours, Fingal.” John took a chair beside O’Reilly and picked up his own whiskey and water from a three-legged wine table.
Myrna said, “Big day today in Montreal.”
“Oh?” said Kitty, sipping her gin.
“Opening ceremonies there for Expo 67. It was in today’s Belfast Telegraph. The Canadian governor-general, Roland Michener, made the proclamation and their PM, Lester Pearson, lit the flame. It’ll be open until October.”
O’Reilly heard Freddy Eynsford-Hill in My Fair Lady saying to Eliza Doolittle, “It’s the new small talk. You do it so awfully well.” The British upper classes were adept at making a conversation run on perfectly safe grounds devoid of any risk of controversy, and the MacNeills were remnants of the old Protestant Ascendancy.
Myrna was certainly avoiding any reference to Lars. O’Reilly was still hoping his brother would appear, but his hopes were fading. And fading fast.
“So, Doctor,” John said. “You know I’ve been at Westminster for the last few days.” His smile was wry. “You have no idea how positively riveting a debate about sewage disposal and coastal pollution can be.” He sipped his drink. “Ballybucklebo can’t boast an Expo like Montreal, but what’s happened in the village while I’ve been away in London?”
O’Reilly reckoned he’d been given a way to introduce one of the matters he wanted to discuss tonight. He laughed. “Bit of excitement early Sunday morning. You know Donal Donnelly?”
“Carpenter? Works for Bertie Bishop?” Myrna said.
“That’s him. Sometimes Donal can be about as bright as a beach ball.”
Everyone chuckled.
“He stupidly got himself nicked early on Sunday morning. He’d—er, borrowed a couple of cock pheasants.”
“On the estate?” John MacNeill asked.
O’Reilly shook his head. “No. In a coppice that marches with the estate.”
“Pity,” John MacNeill said. “If he’d taken them here, I’d have had the charges dropped. Our birds, after all.”
Kitty said, “That would have been very decent of you,” she hesitated, “John.”
The marquis shrugged. “Kitty,” he said, “if it had been a stranger I would not have interfered. Let the law run its course. Serve the blighter right. But, damn it all, Donal’s one of our villagers.”
O’Reilly hid a smile. He loved how John MacNeill still regarded the locals as his ancestors might have. Feudal possessions who must defer to their betters, but to whom the lord of the manor owed loyalty and a strong protective duty.
“It would have helped,” O’Reilly said. “Donal’s not a wicked man, but he’s short of cash because he and the other nine of his mates are unemployed.”
Myrna frowned. “I thought he worked for Bertie Bishop?”
“They all do, but the building of the new road’s been delayed until June.” O’Reilly sipped his whiskey. He glanced at John MacNeill, who was frowning.
“I’d heard,” said John, “but didn’t quite realise the implications locally. I’d like to help, but I’m afraid there’s no seasonal work on the estate at the moment.”
“I actually think you might still be able to do something.”
“Oh? Do tell, Fingal.”
“Last time we met, you told me two of your labourers’ cottages were going to the Ulster Folk and Transport Museum and you were meeting with the museum people to arrange transport. I know for a fact that buildings going there have to be taken apart brick by brick, each component numbered, transported to their new sites, foundations poured, and the cottages rebuilt. I’d say that’s pretty labour intensive.”
Kitty said, just as she and O’Reilly had planned she would, “And I’d say it would be a great job for Bertie Bishop’s building company.”
O’Reilly cocked his head to one side and waited.
“By Jove,” John said. “There’s a thought. Yes, indeed. What do you think, Myrna?”
Myrna inhaled and sighed. “The museum has
agreed to take the cottages. The estate can’t afford to pay for their move. I imagine the museum folks have their own contractors.”
John, drink in hand, stood, paced across the room, then came back. “They do, and they were to start work here mid-May. They’re moving an old church at the moment and won’t be free until then, but I don’t see that we can lose anything by asking the museum to give the job of our cottages to Bertie Bishop. Don’t you think so, Fingal? Unless there are contractual difficulties.”
“I agree…” He saw another opening. “So why don’t we ask my brother to find out. I’m sure he’d be delighted to do so. I’d imagined he’d be here tonight.”
John MacNeill cleared his throat and refused to meet O’Reilly’s eye.
Myrna put her drink down and crossed her arms, tucked her chin down.
As innocently as he could manage, O’Reilly said, “Did I say something wrong?”
The marquis was quick, too quick, to offer reassurance. “Of course not.” He smiled and O’Reilly knew the smile was forced.
Myrna took a deep breath. “Unless you’ve been speaking to your brother recently, Fingal, and by the way you asked about him I don’t think you have, you’ll not know that he and I came to a parting of the ways a couple of days after we fell out at Kirkistown. Too many differences.”
“No,” O’Reilly said. He had been dreading it. “I’m sorry to hear that.” There had been friction at the races, but O’Reilly had been forced to concentrate on taking care of the driver who had crashed and fortunately had only sustained minor scratches and bruises.
“So am I,” Kitty said. “It’s none of my business, I know, but the pair of you seemed so…” she was clearly looking for le mot juste, “so comfortable with each other when you got back from Villefranche.”
Lord, O’Reilly thought. The wheels are coming off Barry and Sue’s romance. Now Lars’s was falling apart. And Fingal was pretty much helpless when it came to doing much for either couple except offering sympathy, but he could try. “Is it hopeless?” he asked. “Can’t you two work things out?”
Myrna shook her head. “We are both pig-headed, stubborn people.” Her words were clipped, clearly with irritation, but her eyes were moist. She looked away.
There was an uncomfortable silence, broken by John saying, obviously to change the subject, “So I’ll get our family solicitor, Mister Simon O’Halley, to talk to the museum people to see if they could use Bertie Bishop’s firm instead of their usual contractors.”
O’Reilly, deciding it would be unwise to pursue matters any further, said, “That would be terrific if you would. It could make life a lot easier for ten families and Bertie and Flo Bishop.”
“I understand,” John said, “and I also understand the urgency. I’ll phone Simon first thing tomorrow, and I’ll have a word with one of the museum’s senior staff. I was, after all, on the steering committee that set the thing up and, damn it all, they are my cottages.”
O’Reilly nodded and finished his whiskey. “Thank you,” he said. “Will you keep me posted, please?”
“Of course.” John looked at Fingal’s empty glass. “May I refresh that, Fingal, or would you rather wait for dinner? We’ll be eating in five minutes.”
Kitty said, “The last time Fingal and I were here with La—” Kitty paused, looking flustered; she must have realised what she’d almost said. “The last time we were here, Cook delighted us with a beef Bourguignon. May I ask what we can look forward to tonight?”
“What? I’m sorry, Kitty, I wasn’t paying attention,” Myrna said. She was twisting the stem of her glass with taut fingers.
“She’s wondering what’s on the menu for tonight, old girl,” John said.
“Right. Cook and I discussed it as soon as we knew you were coming. We’ll be starting with melon balls and ginger, then a prawn cocktail, roast glazed Ulster ham with pineapple and seasonal veggies, crême caramel for dessert, then a cheese plate. There’s an Alsatian Gewürztraminer with the fish, and a Moulin aux Vent Beaujolais for the ham. John has a Graves if you’d like a sweet wine with dessert, and to complement the cheese a 1924 port our father laid down.”
O’Reilly thought about the feast to come and felt a pang for his brother, probably home alone with a book and his housekeeper’s shepherd’s pie. And he thought too, of the bedraggled topiary and the spider’s web on the suit of armour. He marvelled at how John MacNeill, groaning under the massive expense of keeping the estate running, could still entertain like a king and find time to be concerned about Donal Donnelly and Bertie Bishop and his men. “You really are doing us proud,” he said, quite loudly to try to hide the gurgling of his tummy. “And with wines like those to come, I think I’ll wait.”
25
Accidents Will Occur in the Best-Regulated Families
“The young medical gentleman you were expecting has arrived, so.” Kinky stood aside to let Doctor Connor Nelson into the dining room. She handed O’Reilly a slip of paper. “And here does be your list.”
“Thank you, Kinky.” O’Reilly pocketed the list of patients who needed a home visit and, from where he sat at the head of the table, said, “Come in, Connor. Welcome to Number One Main Street.”
Connor Nelson’s receding ginger hair was neatly combed. He wore a dark blue two-piece suit, the trousers crisply creased, a white shirt with enamel cuff links, and a Royal Victoria Hospital staff tie done in a neat half-Windsor knot. A tiny sun was reflected from the toe of one of his highly polished black shoes. He carried a black leather doctor’s bag. “Thank you, sir.”
O’Reilly said, “May I introduce you to the real boss around here, Mrs. Maureen Auchinleck? Kinky to her friends, owing to her previous name of Kincaid. And, Kinky, this is Doctor Connor Nelson. As you know, he’ll be attached to the practice for the next year.”
“And I am sure that will be very good for the practice, so. Doctor O’Reilly, you should be slowing down, and I am sure Doctor Nelson will help you to. I am very pleased to meet you, Doctor Nelson,” Kinky said.
“The pleasure’s m-mine, Mrs. Auchinleck,” Connor said, making a small bow.
That tiny stammer.
“Aye, so. I’m sure you’ll do very well. I’ll be off, gentlemen, there’s hoovering to do, and can I expect four for lunch?”
“Please, Kinky,” O’Reilly said.
“Grand altogether, and because today is the first Monday in May it does be Beltane,” Kinky said.
O’Reilly saw a puzzled frown cross Connor’s face, and said, “Lá Bealtaine. Old Celtic festival. Celebrating the first day of summer in the Celtic calendar. Kinky’s very well up on her Irish myths and legends.”
“That is true, sir, for as you know I do have personal knowledge of the Little People and what must be done to keep them happy. In olden times, the Celtic folk lit bonfires and held feasts, and some of the food and drink was given as offerings to the Aes Sidhe, the faerie people of the mounds. We’ll not be doing that today, so, but I do have a special lunch planned.” Before Kinky left, she added, “So do not be late. One o’clock sharp.”
O’Reilly smiled and shook his head. “Have a pew, Connor. That Kinky? She truly is one of a kind. And she cooks to beat Bannagher. It would take a nuclear blast to make me late for one of her specials.”
Connor cocked his head. “And would I be right in guessing that an explosion is precisely what you’d get from Mrs. Auchinleck if you were late?” He sat to O’Reilly’s right.
“Perceptive, Connor. Very perceptive. In deepest County Cork where Kinky’s from, she’d be called a ‘powerful woman.’” He laughed. “Now, would you like a cup of coffee before we start the working day?”
“Please.”
As O’Reilly poured, he began explaining the way the practice worked, with one doctor running the surgery, one making home visits, while whoever had been on emergency call last night was having the morning off. He handed Connor the cup and nodded at the milk and sugar.
Connor ignored the milk but put in th
ree spoonfuls of sugar. “I’ve a terrible sweet tooth,” he said.
O’Reilly chuckled. “Me too,” he said. “Enjoy your coffee. Then we’ll be off. This morning Barry’s taking the surgery. Nonie Stevenson was on call last night, but she’ll be holding a well-woman clinic this afternoon, and we’re making the home visits. The doctors leave a note if they want one of their patients followed up. Folks phone in and Kinky decides who’s most urgent and adds them to the list. Then I try to work out a way of seeing them that involves as little backtracking as possible. You’ll soon learn the local roads.” He fished out the list and scanned it. “Right,” O’Reilly said. “Nobody on this is in extremis, so if we head off soon we’ll have time to give the dogs a run first, and then Barry wants me to look in on one of his patients who was discharged from the Royal nine days ago. Make sure she’s not having any more trouble with her porphyria. Eileen Lindsay had an acute attack brought on by Nembutal fifteen days ago.”
“I’m ready when you are, Fingal,” Connor said, setting down his cup and rising.
Together the men headed for the kitchen and back door. From overhead came the sounds of a vacuum cleaner.
“Porphyria?” Connor said. “Interesting and rare condition. I’ve read that it probably afflicted King George III of England and Vlad III of Walachia, better known as Vlad the Impaler. He was the model for the Dubliner Bram Stoker’s Dracula.”
“Now that’s something I didn’t know,” O’Reilly said, opening the back door and waiting for Connor to limp through.
“Mammy always said I should learn something new every day. I did a brave power of reading when I was l-laid up.”
O’Reilly closed the door.
Two Labradors charged from the doghouse. Both without bidding halted in front of O’Reilly and sat awaiting his instructions.
“Good,” said O’Reilly. “Good. The big fellah’s Arthur Guinness. He and I have been together for years. The little lad’s Kenny. He’s four months and learning, but he’s a quick study.”
“I h-hope I’ll be one too,” Connor said.
“Heel,” O’Reilly said to the two dogs. “Come on, Connor. The car’s in the garage.” He walked more slowly than usual to allow for the man’s limp, clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “Quick study? I’m sure you will, Connor. I’m perfectly sure.”
An Irish Country Practice Page 22