An Irish Country Welcome

by Patrick Taylor

  O’Reilly turned left at the end of Grosvenor Road past the Fisherwick Assemblies building. For some time, the traffic was heavy, but after a left onto Victoria Street and a right at the Albert Clock to get him onto the Queen’s Bridge over the river Lagan, his attention was caught by activity on the narrow streets of Ballymacarrett off the Newtownards Road. Union flags waved from every terrace house’s first-floor windows, red, white, and blue bunting flying from each cross-street pair of lampposts.

  He was about to leave the bridge but could make out an Orange Arch, a street-spanning plywood headboard supported on poles on either side of the road. He knew the slogans painted on it would be Not an inch. No surrender. This we will maintain. Civil and religious liberty for all. Men were dragging or carrying last-minute burdens of broken wooden pallets, crushed cardboard boxes, and smashed planks as others would be doing in many Loyalist enclaves all over Ulster. When lit tonight, the bonfires would rave and burn and try to singe the sky while, behaving like a bunch of hooligans, men, women, and children would dance in the flames’ light, barely able to wait for the parades of tomorrow, July the Twelfth.

  For the second time that day, Doctor Fingal O’Reilly was deeply concerned, and this time it was for the Ulster he loved.

  7

  A Formidable Opposition

  Jack Mills rolled down the window on the passenger seat of Barry’s Hillman Imp and took a deep breath. “Smells like the country,” he said.

  Barry inhaled air heavy with the scent of cut and drying hay.

  “We’ll be home in five minutes. Funny how I haven’t lived here in sixteen years, since you and I started at Campbell College, and yet I still think of it as home.” Jack looked out the window at rolling green fields. “I suppose I always will.” He paused. “We’ve made good time.”

  And they had. The multilane M2 highway that had been opened three years ago had got them out of Belfast without having to go through the districts where local Orange lodges and their bands would be parading. But while they may have bypassed the marching, the stink of the previous night’s bonfires as they passed the Shankill District had still hung in the air like methane gas over a swamp.

  “Thank God there were no reports on the nine o’clock news of any trouble last night,” said Barry. “I just hope the whole day passes without any violence.”

  “There’ll be no ructions here,” said Jack. “Cullybackey is nearly ninety percent Protestant. Let’s pray it stays quiet everywhere else. With Dad being such a staunch Loyalist, I don’t need him up on his high horse because things are going wrong in other parts of Ulster.”

  The two friends exchanged a glance. No words were spoken, but Barry knew the truth of what Jack had said. He indicated for a turn and swung onto the rutted lane leading to the Mills’s dairy farm. He needed no direction. He’d been visiting here since he and Jack had become friends in 1953. He stopped at the gate and Jack hopped out, opened it so Barry could drive through, then closed it again and rejoined Barry.

  “Just like old times, hey bye. You can take the bye out of the country, but you’ll never stop him closing gates. I didn’t do it once when I was a kid, and every last beast got out. Dad was livid. I ate my meals standing up for a few days after. Never again. Thanks, Barry, for coming. I hope it’s going to help.”

  “Me too.” Barry parked in front of the two-storey, redbrick, slate-roofed early Victorian building. A central front door, painted the colour of a chestnut, was flanked on each side by wide sash windows. He’d been coming to this house for fifteen years and he didn’t like to think what Jack was going to do if his father refused to accept Helen as Jack’s fiancée. “We’re here. Good luck, mate.” Barry turned the engine off and got out into a clear sunny day. There was no difficulty recognising the place for what it was even if the herd of red-and-white Ayrshires had been out at pasture. Cow clap has its own nose-tingling smell. A series of clangs came from the byre at the back of the house. The clangs were accompanied by the strains of “The Boxer” sung by Simon and Garfunkel.

  “That’ll be Dad,” Jack said. “Working on some piece of machinery. He keeps his transistor going for company.” He laughed. “I think the old man’s getting a bit deaf. That’s why he keeps the volume up. Good thing he lives on a hundred acres. Let’s go in and see Mum first.”

  Barry heard the relief in his friend’s voice.

  The front door opened. “Son. Barry. How are you both? Come on in.”

  Jack enfolded his pinafore-wearing mother in a hug. “I’m grand, Mum, and all the better for seeing you.” He was a good head taller than Denise Mills but had her fair hair and blue eyes.

  “And I’m very well thanks, Denise. Good to see you again.” Barry followed mother and son along a spacious parquet-floored hall from which doors opened to the flanking dining room and lounge and into the red-tile-floored kitchen, which, with its attached scullery, occupied the ground floor of the rest of the house. A mullioned window with red-checked gingham curtains gave a view over the farmyard. He noticed four gutted brown trout on a plate beside the stovetop where fresh garden peas waited in one water-filled saucepan and shiny new potatoes still in their skins were being boiled in another. The fish would have been caught in the nearby River Maine, which harboured both trout and salmon. Jack’s dad, Morris Mills, was a member of the Maine Angling Club and had often taken Barry to cast a fly on its more interesting runs. “Morris still fishing, I see?”

  “Aye. He was out early this morning. Caught his limit. He was quare chuffed.”

  “Good for him,” Barry said, and thought, Good for Jack. His dad should be in an expansive mood.

  “I have the kettle on. Would anybody like a wee cup of tea? Morris said he had to fix one of the milking machines and he might be a wee bit late, hey. He knows we’re going to eat about one.”

  “That would be great, Mum. Have a pew, Barry. Make yourself at home.”

  Barry sat at the kitchen table, opposite Jack. It was already set for lunch. The room was full of the scent of freshly baked bread. Four loaves covered by a tea towel were cooling on a rack. Six large cured hams, three strings of onions, and cloves of garlic hung from a beam overhead. A black cast-iron range bulked large against one wall and, being midsummer, was not lit.

  “Here y’are, byes.” Denise Mills’s Antrim accent was clear as she set cups of tea in front of them. “Milk and sugar’s on the table.” She busied herself at the gas stove. “I’ll get the trout under the grill now. Peas on a bit later.” As she worked, she asked, “So, what have you been up to, the pair of you?”

  Jack said, “They keep me pretty busy at work, but I got off last weekend. Spent it with Barry and Sue. On Saturday night I took Helen—” He hesitated.

  Barry guessed his friend was waiting to see how his mother would react, but Denise Mills said nothing.

  “—and the four of us went to a talent contest at the Sporting Club. Great craic. The local councillor’s wife, Mrs. Bishop, won. She’s a marvellous voice.”

  “Sounds like fun. And, Barry, how’s that lovely Sue of yours?”

  “She’s glowing. We’re not shouting it from the rooftops yet, but Sue’s going to have our first in January.”

  Carrying her own cup, Jack’s mother sat at the table. “Congratulations to you both. That’s wonderful news.”

  “It is. Thank you. We’re both very excited.”

  Denise Mills sipped and put her teacup down. “I’m sure your folks and Sue’s are excited too.”

  “Mine certainly are. It’ll be their first grandchild. Sue hasn’t told hers yet. She’s a bit superstitious.”

  Denise smiled. “Aye. Your Sue’s from Broughshane. That’s only half a dozen miles from here. Us country folk are”—she paused to consider her words—“we’re cautious, but I’m sure she’ll be fine, and they say a baby brings its own welcome.” Her look at Jack was wistful.

  He swallowed. Looked down. Pursed his lips. Looked up. Inhaled and said, “Mum, I’m glad Dad’s not here yet. I’ve�
�I’ve, that is…”

  “Asked Helen to marry you and she’s said yes?”

  Jack’s mouth opened and he sat back in his chair. “How—how did you know?”

  She chuckled. “You, my son, have had more girlfriends than a hedgehog has fleas. Until Helen Hewitt. It’s nearly three years now. And I’ve seen the way you look at each other, bye.”

  “Sue and I are delighted,” Barry said, “and so is Helen’s dad.”

  She sighed. “Jack, you know fine well that we’re Presbyterians and Helen’s a Roman Catholic?” She paused.

  Barry held his breath, waiting for what would come next.

  “But I for one won’t hold that against the pair of you. If Helen’s dad approves, then so do I. God bless you and Helen both.” She laughed. “And we’ll be the only family in Cullybackey with two doctors in it, hey.”

  Jack rose, bent, and kissed the top of his mother’s head. “Thanks, Mum. Thanks a million.”

  “We love you, Jack, and if Helen makes you happy—”

  “She does, Mum. She really does.”

  “Then that makes me happy too.” She stood and pecked his cheek. “Now,” she said, rising, “time to turn the trout. I’ll get the peas on in a couple of minutes, Jack. The clanging out there’s stopped, so give Dad a shout out the scullery door. He’s always in good form after lunch. I’ll help you to break the news. He was happy after his stint on the river. Looking forward to seeing you and Barry. I think we can talk him round.”

  Barry heard the crackling sounds as she turned each of the fish to grill the other side. He knew he was grinning like a moon calf. It looked as if Jack were halfway home.

  Jack opened the scullery door. “Dad. Lunch.”

  “Get Back” by the Beatles was cut off in mid-song.

  Barry saw the scullery door open and Morris Mills strode into the kitchen. He must have left his boots at the door. No man would be popular if he trod cow clap into a house. “Jack. Barry.” His voice was steady, but he had no smile on his square face.

  “Dad.”

  “Morris.”

  He lifted off a tweed duncher to hang on a peg, revealing close-cut dark hair over brown eyes. His ruddy, lined cheeks were the trademarks of the Ulster farmer exposed for years to the elements. “Just need to wash my hands.” He went to the sink and did so. “How’s lunch coming along, Denise?”

  “Ready in about three minutes.”

  “So, seeing it’s Saturday and our son’s home with his best friend, sherry for you, dear, and I’m sure you boys could face a beer. I’ve some bottles of Blue Bass. I’ll have time to pour.”

  “Thank you,” Barry said.

  Jack nodded.

  As Denise finished cooking lunch, Morris poured the drinks. He gave glasses of Bass to the lads, put her sherry at her place at the table, and sat at what would be his usual seat. He lifted his own glass and said, “Cheers.”

  The toast was returned.

  Barry waited for the man to say something, but he refused to look at anything but his beer.

  Denise said, “Did you get the machine fixed, dear?”

  “Not quite.”

  Antrim men were not renowned for being loquacious, but Barry was starting to find Morris Mills’s taciturnity unsettling. He had to stop himself from letting the doctor in him ask if something was wrong. Because he was afraid the answer would be: “Aye there is, bye. Very, very wrong.”

  Jack said, “You’d a good day on the river, Mum says.”

  “Aye.”

  Denise started to set steaming plates of grilled trout, new potatoes, and peas in front of both Barry and Jack. “Help yourself to butter, Barry. Jack, pass the salt and pepper over to Barry.”

  Barry busied himself splitting the new potatoes and putting dabs of butter between the halves while Denise served herself and her husband.

  She said, “You were very good to catch four trout, dear. One each for us.”

  “And they’re very tasty,” Barry said, trying to keep the conversation going. “What did you take them on?”

  “Dry fly. Royal Coachman.” There was little enthusiasm in the man’s voice.

  Barry smiled. “I remember you showing me how to tie that one, and a humpy sedge, and a hopper orange.”

  “Aye. Orange.” Morris Mills set down his knife and fork. “And bloody green. Orange and bloody green. I switched over to the one o’clock news. Half the province has gone mad. A bunch of Fenians started throwing bottles at an Orange parade in Belfast and now there’s a full-blown riot the police can’t control.”

  Barry realised he’d inadvertently used one word, “orange,” that had caused what was wrong to explode from Jack’s father, and now he was in full cry.

  “Dungiven and Londonderry are at it. Same thing. Nationalists fighting with Loyalists. Cars burning. Houses on fire. It would break your bloody heart.” He struck the tablecloth with his outstretched index finger to emphasize his points. “Can the bloody Romans not understand that Ulster is a part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland?”

  Barry looked at Jack. The poor man’s face had crumpled. Barry reckoned that his friend, who, like Barry himself, had been trained to hide his feelings, was close to tears. Any hope of Jack’s father today accepting his son’s engagement to Helen Hewitt was gone and, Barry wondered, would there be any chance ever of his doing so in the future?

  “And if they don’t like it,” Morris made a fist this time and pounded the table, “there’s America or Canada or the Republic of Ireland they can bloody well go to. I’d like to—”

  The sound of a phone ringing in the hall stopped Morris. They all, as if in a trance, listened to it ringing. Denise got up slowly from her chair and began to walk to the hall. She passed behind Jack and as she did so, rested a hand lightly on his shoulder and then continued walking.

  The phone stopped ringing and Denise’s voice came from the hallway. “Jack, it’s the hospital. You’re needed back in Belfast.”

  8

  We Are All on Our Last Cruise

  “Can you not hear the phone, Fingal? I’ll go.” Kitty rose from the bog oak dining table where the wreckage of Sunday breakfast still remained at nine thirty.

  “Sorry, Kitty.” And he was, but not only for inconveniencing his wife. He understood his hearing was deteriorating, damn it, but he regretted it and was trying hard not to accept the onset of the aging process.

  Kitty came back. “Councillor Bishop on the phone. He’d like to talk to you.”

  “Someone sick?” O’Reilly set his tea aside and put down the Sunday Telegraph, in which he had been reading its front-page story about the July the Twelfth’s riots yesterday.

  “No, it’s a social matter, he says.”

  “All right.” O’Reilly rose, left the dining room, and picked up the hall phone. “Yes, Bertie?”

  “That you, Doctor?”

  “It is. What can I do for you?”

  “I know it’s very short notice and all, but me and Flo was wondering if you and Mrs. O’Reilly would consider dropping in for a drink before lunch? It’s not entirely social. We’ve a couple of quick medical questions to ask too, and you know I’m in the middle of a big contract. I can’t seem to find time, over the next week or two, to sit in your surgery waiting room.”

  “Hang on.” O’Reilly put his hand over the mouthpiece and yelled, “Bertie and Flo want us to come for a drink before our lunch.”

  “Fine by me. Kinky left all the stuff to heat up for tonight’s dinner with our Trinity friends.”

  O’Reilly removed his muting hand and spoke into the mouthpiece. “Yes, we’d like that, Bertie. What time?”

  “Twelve?”

  “Great. See you then.” O’Reilly heard the line go dead and replaced the receiver. He wondered what questions he might be asked, shrugged, and was about to rejoin Kitty when the phone rang again. “Hello. O’Reilly.”

  “Fingal. Charlie.”

  O’Reilly flinched. Was there bad news about D
apper?

  “I’m just taking a break. I’ve been here all night. So’s Cromie. It’s bedlam.”

  O’Reilly frowned. What was going on?

  “I’m calling to let you know we’ll not be able to make it for dinner. It’s all hands on deck. I’m sure you know about the rioting that started yesterday when Catholics began chucking bottles at an Orange parade coming from Peter’s Hill. What you may not know is that Belfast’s been going daft ever since. Houses and cars burned. You can smell the stink of smoke off the patients’ clothes. People driven out of their homes. Skull fractures and brain damage—that’s my end; broken bones—that’s Cromie’s. I saw young Jack Mills. He was sewing people up in the casualty waiting room. God alone knows when the fighting’s going to stop. They’re at it in Derry and Dungiven too.”

  Charlie’s description brought home to O’Reilly with stark vividness what the printed word could only hint. “I’ve just been reading the paper but I’d no idea—” He paused. “Don’t worry about tonight. Get some rest. Something to eat.”

  “We will, Fingal. Sorry again about letting you and Kitty down.”

  “Think nothing of it. We’ll do it some other time.”

  “By the way, I had a look at your bloke Frew between cases. He’s doing very well for forty-eight hours postop. If his friend wants to visit it should be fine. And I’ll keep you posted anyway.”

  “Thanks, Charlie, and—”

  “Hang on—”

  Fingal waited.

  “That was John Wilson. We’ve admitted a compound skull fracture. Gotta go.”