An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  O’Reilly let Emer and Barbara precede him into the low-ceilinged kitchen/living room of what had once been Maggie MacCorkle’s cottage. Her old paraffin lamps had been replaced by electric ones and a TV set sat in one corner. Ah, progress, he thought. Any time now the Americans or the Russians will land a man on the moon, but we still don’t have a cure for the common cold.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Emer said, “but if you’re concerned about anything, anything at all, don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  “We’ll be off,” O’Reilly said.

  “Except,” Emer said, “could I use your sink? I’d like to wash my hands.”

  “Aye, certainly. Fresh towels in the top drawer.”

  O’Reilly said, “I’ll wait outside.”

  The Devines’ cottage sat on Shore Road between the railway line and the lough. Outside the air was soft, salty. A pair of common tern, fork-tailed and black-capped, their red bills and red legs vivid against the clear sky, alternated between hovering and plunging into the water in pursuit of small fish.

  Emer appeared.

  “Hop in.” O’Reilly held open the door of his 1968 Rover 2000. Kitty had joined forces with his brother and talked Fingal into getting rid of his ancient long-nosed model. He’d pretended enthusiasm when Kitty’d waxed lyrical about the 2000’s de Dion suspension and four-gear fully synchromesh transmission. Enthusiasm about cars was something she shared with Lars. Fingal regarded the things as infernal machines for getting from A to B in relative comfort and—he chuckled at himself, fully aware of his own foibles—scaring the living daylights out of cyclists.

  O’Reilly settled back into his seat, gazing intently at the single-storey, slate-roofed cottage. “Do you know this is one of the first places I brought Barry when he was my brand-new assistant. We’d popped in to check up on Maggie MacCorkle, as was, before she married Sonny Houston and moved into his house.”

  “I saw Maggie and Sonny with Barry yesterday,” Emer said, “making sure Sonny’s mild heart failure was under control yesterday. It was. Sonny asked me to do him a favour.”

  O’Reilly drove off. “Favour?”

  Emer giggled. “Barry has warned me about Maggie’s infamous plum cake.”

  O’Reilly guffawed.

  “Sonny took me aside and asked if there was any chance I could get Kinky to teach Maggie how to make it properly? I said I’d try.”

  O’Reilly turned onto Station Road. “Kinky can be the soul of tact. I’m sure she’ll have Maggie making plum cake to rival Fanny Cradock’s.” He stopped at the traffic light and indicated left. “Maggie’s baking is as tough as the armour of my old battleship, Warspite.” He made his left onto the Belfast to Bangor Road. “Incidentally,” he said, “I thought you handled the Devines very well. You’re learning fast.”

  She chuckled again. “I wasn’t sure what you’d say when Mrs. Devine told us right at the door she thought it was mumps.”

  “I learned that lesson in Dublin in ’36. A woman with a bellyache told me she had a tubal pregnancy. ‘And what medical school did you go to?’ I asked. ‘None,’ said she, ‘but I had one in my other tube last year.’ She was right, and I’ve never questioned a patient’s self-diagnosis since.”

  “I’ll remember that. Thanks, Fingal.” Emer smiled.

  * * *

  The new Rover’s suspension absorbed the ruts more gently than his old one had. Then the tyres were crunching on gravel. O’Reilly parked beside Bertie Bishop’s van, his lorry, and a larger van from the General Post Office. Two of its employees strung wires between two new poles.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Let’s see how they’re getting on.” He climbed out.

  From above came the whine of engines. Jet service to Belfast’s new Aldergrove Airport had started three years ago. O’Reilly looked up to see contrails disfiguring an otherwise perfect blue sky. His thoughts went back to the graffiti of intertwined white trails and black smoke on the late-summer English sky of 1940, and a badly burnt Hurricane pilot, Pilot Officer Flip Dennison. Nineteen years old and already decorated for gallantry. O’Reilly shook his head. The young lad would be forty-eight now. What had happened to him?

  “Golly,” said Emer. “It’s really come on. That thatch’s lovely now it’s finished.”

  “And somebody’s done a great job replacing those sandstone windowsills. Every one of them cracked, the fire was so hot.”

  Together they walked to the newly painted red front door, set in a narrow porch. O’Reilly had first approached this doorway when Donal was hoping to buy the place. They had thought the old plaque on the wall read 1795. Dán Buídhe, or “yellow poem.” The name had baffled everyone for months. The sign had somehow withstood the flames, and whoever had cleaned it had made sure the first word was clear: Dun Buídhe, Dun Bwee, yellow fort.

  The door opened and out came Bertie Bishop. “Good morning, Doctors. I only beat you here by a few minutes.” He pointed to the GPO men. “The phone’ll be connected soon.”

  During a conversation in the Duck, Bertie had said Donal would have no difficulty getting connected. Bertie knew the right people. Man of his word, was Bertie Bishop.

  “I’m happy to tell you the roof, chimney breast, and walls are finished. The front frames and door are painted. Inside, all the structure’s complete. Boggy Baxter’s wiring the washing machine Donal plumbed in yesterday, and Buster Holland did the plastering. My lads is putting in the kitchen floor tiles, and the worthy Donal himself is painting round the back. It’ll not be long until we move Donal and his family in. Mebbe three, four more weeks. Dapper and me’s got the arrangements in hand”—Bertie hunched forward and put his hand to the side of his mouth—“for the housewarmin’ hooley.” He continued in a low voice. “My Flo and Cissie Sloan and Kinky have the catering planned, and Willie Dunleavy and Mary will work the bar and he’ll give me the drink on ‘sale or return’ if unopened. We’ll have no difficulty moving the Donnellys in. The trick’s going til be getting them out again so we can get set up for the surprise. I’m damned if I can see how.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “Donal’s the expert on tricks. But let me think on it.”

  They rounded the gable end. Unkempt grass studded with blooming primroses ran for fifty yards from the back of the house to a tall laurel hedge. From it came the constant twittering of a small flock of goldfinches. The lawn was bounded on each side by fifty-foot-tall leafless linden trees, known as limes in Ulster. Two small white butterflies danced to fairy music only they could hear.

  “See that long mound on this side of the dog run, Emer?” O’Reilly pointed to a hillock clothed in long grass and a sunburst of dandelions. “That’s a Neolithic grave. About four thousand years old. The National Trust look after it, and they insisted the cottage be restored to its original state.”

  “Like Newgrange in County Meath?”

  “Not quite as old, and not as big, of course, but the same idea.”

  Donal turned to greet the newcomers. “How’s about youse all?” Wearing paint-spattered overalls and a paddy hat, he’d been standing back, head cocked, admiring his handiwork. The nearest window frame was wet, the red paint glistening.

  Bertie said, “We’re all grand, so we are.”

  “Great day for the painting,” Donal said.

  Emer said, “You’re a man of many talents, Donal Donnelly. Carpenter, plumber, painter.”

  “Poacher, rare dog breeder, creator of ancient artifacts.” O’Reilly reached into his pocket for his pipe.

  “Och, now, Doctor. I’m done with them schemes. Now I’m just a jack-of-all-trades.” Donal sang in a passable tenor,

  I’m a roving jack-of-all-trades

  Of every trade and all trades

  And if you want to know my name

  They call me jack of all trades.

  He pulled off his paddy hat and bowed to Emer, who applauded.

  Donal straightened and turned to Bertie Bishop. “You missed the man fr
om the Trust, sir. He was here an hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “He was pleased and said til carry on.”

  “That’s good news,” O’Reilly said. “You’ll soon be finished.”

  “Aye,” he said. “Won’t be too soon for me and mine.”

  “You and the crew keep at it, Donal,” said Bertie Bishop. “Me and the doctors have til trot on.”

  “Right, sir.” Donal clapped his hat on his head, picked up his pot of paint, and moved to the next window.

  As they rounded the gable O’Reilly heard,

  I’m a rovin’ and a sportin’ blade

  They call me jack of all trades …

  O’Reilly lit his briar and took a long puff. “What’s up with the sporting club plans, Bertie?”

  “Doctor McCarthy, we’ve been planning events at the sporting club on Saturday nights. Raise a bit of cash for a good cause. Bring the two sides together.”

  “The two sides, you mean the Catholics and the Protestants, Mister Bishop?” Emer said.

  “Aye, I do. Me and Flo, the minister, and the priest, we’ve had a couple of meetings so we can bring the proposal to an extraordinary general meeting and members can vote.”

  “I applaud you, Mister Bishop,” said Emer.

  “Thank you, Doctor. Things was proceeding—until this morning. The county clerk phoned me. There’s been a letter of complaint filed and the borough council will have til make a ruling before we can proceed.”

  “Bugger,” said O’Reilly. “Let me guess. That Colonel Mullan?”

  “Correct,” said Bertie Bishop, “and he may have a point.”

  O’Reilly said, “He may. We need a plan. I’d suggest, Bertie, that your committee get its final report in quickly. If Mullan’s request is rejected by council we can call an extraordinary general meeting at once and get the proposal ratified. The next council meeting is on May 19.”

  “I’ll do my best to help.”

  “Good. But it would be even better if we could get him to withdraw his complaint. There may be a way to scotch his plans. Either way, we should be ready to get the events up and running.” And, he thought, the best solution was to get the complaint withdrawn. But how?

  * * *

  O’Reilly held the back door open and ushered Emer into the warm kitchen.

  Kinky was pouring milk into the bowl of a purring Lady Macbeth. “Right on time. Doctor Stevenson does be in the dining room, sir. She’s got a secret, that one. And Doctor Laverty hasn’t finished the surgery, but here.” She straightened and picked up a plate. “Wheaten bread, chicken liver pâté, and smoked salmon pâté while you wait.”

  “Secret? Ahh, you, Kinky Auchinleck, are a wonder,” O’Reilly said. “Thank you.” He inhaled. “And those are wonderful smells. What’s on the menu?”

  “Sir, I’d like to have my own secret, so.” Kinky chuckled and her chins wobbled. “I do not think you will be disappointed.”

  “I’m sure I won’t,” O’Reilly said. “Let’s head on through.”

  “Fingal, I just want a word with Kinky. Sonny asked me to ask you for a favour, Kinky. He’s too embarrassed to ask himself, but he wonders, could you teach Maggie how to make a proper plum cake?”

  Kinky laughed. “Poor Sonny. Four years of eating Maggie’s plum cake. Indigestible, it is. I’ll get Maggie to join the catering for a certain housewarming hooley.” She winked at O’Reilly.

  “All of Ballybucklebo thanks you, Kinky,” Emer said.

  In the dining room, Nonie Stevenson, her hair combed neatly, wearing no makeup, sat in a tartan dressing gown, reading the Belfast Telegraph. She looked up. “Fingal. Emer. Sorry about this, but I was out all night. Your patient, Fingal, Anne Enright? Mother and seven-pound-six baby boy they’re going to call Lionel are doing well.”

  “Céad míle fáilte, a hundred thousand welcomes to young Master Enright.” O’Reilly went to the head of the table and set down the plate of bread and pâté. “That grand news has given me an appetite.” He took two pieces. The gods may have lived on nectar and ambrosia, but the poor divils never had the good luck to sample Kinky’s pâtés.

  Emer sat next to Nonie and pointed at the headline. “What do you think of this Bernadette Devlin. Can she win, do you think? The Mid-Ulster byelection to Westminster is on Thursday. She’s up against the late incumbent’s widow, Anne Forest. Devlin went to Queen’s, you know. Took psychology.”

  “I do know. She’s a firebrand, that one.” Nonie shook her auburn bob. Her green eyes twinkled. “If she does, she’ll be the youngest MP ever returned.” She looked at the doorway.

  “Hello, everyone. Sorry I’m a bit late from the surgery. Kinky knows I’m here. She’ll be in in a minute.” Barry took a seat opposite the women.

  Kinky entered, carrying a tray of steaming bowls, which she placed in front of the diners. “Pea and ham soup, and it does be hot,” she said. “Eat up however little much is in it.”

  “Thank you, Kinky,” O’Reilly said to her departing back. He took a spoonful. “This soup is one of Kinky’s best.”

  “No argument there,” Emer said. “Busy surgery this morning, Barry?”

  O’Reilly tucked into his soup, happy to let his younger colleagues chat.

  “It was a long one. The last customer was a real Readers’ Digest patient.”

  Nonie rolled her eyes.

  Fingal shook his head. He always explained things to patients, and he knew Barry did too. But many physicians kept patients in the dark with arcane language, believing it added to the mystique of their profession. More and more, patients armed with a little knowledge were now challenging that. Some politely, others belligerently. The latter were referred to as Reader’s Digest types because the magazine carried medically related articles from which they quoted.

  “I really don’t mind folks asking questions, but my last one—he’s going for a barium meal because I’m sure he has a peptic ulcer. He handed me an article from the aforementioned font of all wisdom entitled ‘I Am Joe’s Stomach.’ I thought I was going to be there all day.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “I’m sure you handled it well.”

  Kinky came in and set a full tray on the table. “Has everyone finished their soup?”

  Voices said, “Yes, delicious” or “Thank you, Kinky.”

  She smiled, then raised a large spoon to begin serving the next course. “Fish pie with champ topping and glazed carrots.”

  “Take a look at that before Kinky cuts into it,” said O’Reilly. The pie sat steaming and fragrant, its peaked crust golden brown. O’Reilly breathed in the aroma. “The top of that pie is a work of art in potato and spring onions, Kinky.”

  “And inside is some of Hall Campbell’s halibut. He gave me the pick of his early morning catch, so.” She finished handing around plates to clapping and shouts of approval, then patted her silver chignon and acknowledged the applause with a little bow. “Enjoy it, and I will bring coffee and biscuits later, and, Doctor Laverty, I heard what you said. In Cork we say every patient is a doctor—after he’s cured.” She cleared the soup bowls and left to laughter.

  For a while they ate in companionable silence, until Emer said, “When I was a houseman, some of the senior staff at the Mater Hospital were discussing being challenged. They reckon it began in 1958 when BBC started that documentary series Your Life in Their Hands. It went on until ’64. Lots of folks are better educated about themselves today.”

  “In ’58? That was the year after I started at Queen’s,” said Barry. “Each episode discussed a surgical condition from the point of view of patient and surgeon. We all watched it.”

  “I watched it too,” O’Reilly said. “Learned quite a bit.”

  Kinky reappeared with a coffeepot and plates of her own ginger biscuits. As a sop to O’Reilly, she had included a plate of Jacob’s fig rolls. “Two, sir,” she said, and stared at his waistline. “Two.”

  “Yes, Kinky.” She was the only person who could make O’Reilly feel meek.
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  “That was delicious, Kinky,” Emer said. “Boy, am I going to miss your cooking.”

  Kinky was clearly pleased by the compliment. “And we’ll miss you, Doctor McCarthy. May the saddest day of your future be no worse than the happiest day of your past.”

  A knock on the wall beside the open door turned heads.

  “Connor. Come in,” O’Reilly called. “You just missed Kinky’s fish pie.”

  Doctor Connor Nelson, red-haired and sharp-nosed, limped in. “Afternoon, all. Last time I was here I forgot my walking stick. I’ve another at home, b-but I was passing and—”

  “Coffee?”

  “Love some.” He sat beside Barry.

  “Hi, Connor,” Barry said, picking up the coffeepot. “Shall I be mother?” He started to pour.

  Barry’s attempt at an upper-class accent wasn’t a patch on his friend Jack Mills’s, O’Reilly noted, but everyone chuckled.

  Connor, accepting a cup, crooked his little finger. “Thank you, young man, coffee would be delightful.”

  “How are things in the Kinnegar?” Nonie asked.

  “G-going well,” Connor said. “Having you folks to share call is terrific. And I’ve enjoyed having you with me on occasions, Emer,” Connor said. “I’ll miss you.”

  “It has been my privilege to work with you all. I’ll never forget my time here in Ballybucklebo.”

  “And we’d love to keep you,” Barry said, “but—”

  “So,” O’Reilly said, hoping no one had noticed him snaffle a third fig roll, “Barry and I are pulling in favours from our contacts. Connor. Nonie. I’d ask you to do the same.”

  “Of course,” Connor said.

  Nonie nodded. “Please, Emer, don’t put too much store in what I’m going to say. At the moment it’s unclear, but, and it’s a big but, I wanted you to know I may have something to offer. I’ll not know for several weeks.” She raised her coffee cup to her lips and smiled. “Don’t ask me,” she said as everyone at the table leaned forward. “My lips are sealed.”