An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  “I’ll bet they shook more when your mum told you the results.”

  She nodded. “I was gobsmacked. I couldn’t believe it. I had to read it for myself. Dear God, Barry . . .” He heard awe in her voice. “I’ve done it. I’ve actually done it.”

  “It’s wonderful.” Barry took the bottle and poured two glasses. “I’m proud of you. Here.” He handed her one. “Come and sit down.” He waited for her to join him on the sofa, raised his glass, and said, “To your success.”

  Together they drank.

  She lowered her glass. “And I’d promised to tell you as soon as I heard. I’m sorry I blurted it out over the phone, but I couldn’t keep it to myself, and telling you on the phone wasn’t good enough.” She hugged him and kissed him so hard he almost spilled his wine. “I had to see you. Dad understood. He ran me up . . .”

  “I’m glad of that,” he said, seeing the joy in her dark eyes, loving their brightness.

  “I still can’t believe it. The award covers all my fees, books, equipment, and board and lodge for three years. I’ll be living at Girton. That’s one of the all-women colleges . . .”

  He let her prattle on, understanding how unlike her it was to be so loquacious, how the excitement had built up inside her like steam in a whistling kettle.

  “I’ll have to pay, or at least Dad and Mum’ll have to pay my travel expenses.”

  “I suppose that means you’ll only be coming home for the long holidays?”

  “That’s right. I’ll be off to England in the first week of September, but I will be home for Christmas. . . .”

  “I’ll be looking forward to it.” He wanted to sigh, but instead forced a smile.

  “And Easter, and I’ll have two months off in the summer . . . if I’m not doing some kind of practical course.” She took another drink. “Isn’t it wonderful, darling? Isn’t it?” She kissed him, and he tasted her through the wine.

  The “darling,” spoken with such naturalness, should have warmed him, but he felt a chill, already imagining her whispering it to some intense, long-haired undergraduate or, worse, to some junior don. Last year, a nurse, then so important, but now a fading memory, had dumped him for a young surgeon with better prospects than his own. He imagined Cambridge professors were paid a lot more than country GPs.

  He tilted his head back and stared into her eyes. “It is wonderful,” he said, “and I love you.”

  She didn’t answer but kissed him once more, as lightly as butterfly wings on his lips; her perfume filled his senses. She sat back, took his hand, and said quietly, “Thank you.”

  “For what? For loving you? That’s easy.”

  “Yes, but for more.” She frowned. “I’ve been terrified about how I was going to tell you. I know what you’re thinking. I know you think we’ll drift apart . . .”

  Barry lowered his gaze.

  “But we won’t. We won’t. How could I not love, and go on loving, a man who’s been dreading my winning, but who has not said a word about it and has celebrated with me? Hasn’t let his worries show? You have a gift, Barry Laverty. It’s no wonder O’Reilly thinks you’re one of the finest young doctors he’s met in years.”

  “O’Reilly said that?” O’Reilly said that?

  “He did. When I was chatting to him a couple of weeks ago at the big party in his garden. He said your gift is to be able to feel what other people are feeling. And it’s more than that. You don’t just feel. You act on those feelings, just as you did when you learnt I’d won the bloody scholarship. You put yourself second.”

  “Well, I . . .” He could feel the heat of pleasure in his cheeks. “If it’s true about feeling things and O’Reilly said it, then all I can say is, ‘It takes one to know one.’ I swear Fingal’s telepathic.”

  Her smile had faded when she said, “And you admire him for it, don’t you?”

  He nodded.

  “And you’d not mind being the kind of doctor Fingal O’Reilly is, would you?”

  “No. I’d not.” This was getting a bit too serious. “Warts and all. He’s not perfect, you know.”

  “Neither,” she said, “are you.” She picked up her wine and sipped. “If you can read minds like O’Reilly, what am I thinking now?” She smiled and cocked one eyebrow at him. “Go on. What’s on my mind?”

  “Right now? I haven’t the foggiest notion.” Somehow he felt awkward. She’d always been confident, but now she seemed to be more than confident. The word “cocky” came to mind. Had success gone to her head? He wasn’t sure if he liked the new Patricia.

  “Huh,” she said, “some mind reader.” Suddenly her arms were round his neck, and she was pulling him to her, kissing him, her tongue flickering. She took his hand and held it to her left breast, and he felt the pressure of her hand and the warmth beneath it. She put her lips to his ear and whispered, “You think the man has to be the pursuer, don’t you? ‘Me Tarzan, you Jane.’ Well, times are changing, and because they are you can’t possibly read my mind.”

  He cupped her breast, feeling his whole body tingle; he screwed his eyes tightly shut and then felt the loss of her as she gently stood up and moved away, still holding his hand.

  “Bring your wine,” she said, and he opened his eyes and looked up at her smile.

  “If you had known what I was thinking, you’d have beaten me along to the bedroom. It’s the first door on the left.”

  She and I Were Long Acquainted

  “I know it’s only ten thirty. I’m sorry I’m so early, but it’s such a lovely day.” Barry followed Patricia through the front door of Number 9, The Esplanade, and into her flat. He closed the door behind him, took her in his arms, and kissed her, wanting her even more than he’d wanted her so few hours ago.

  She pulled back and said slightly breathlessly, “I don’t mind that you’re early, but look at me. I’m a mess. I’m just out of the bath.”

  “You’re beautiful,” he said, even though her hair was damp and hung limply, and she wore no makeup. She was in an old, tatty dressing gown and pink, fluffy slippers.

  “And you’re nuts if you think that right now.” She shook her head.

  “Ah,” he said with a grin, “vanity, thy name is woman.”

  “There’s coffee in the pot,” she said, moving away from him. “Would you like a cup?”

  “Please.”

  She poured his coffee and put in some milk. She knew how he liked it. It was as if they were a long-married couple, comfortable in their morning ordinariness.

  “I love you,” he said.

  “And I love you, Barry. I really do.” She handed him a cup.

  He took it, set it on the table, and held her to him. “Last night was wonderful. Thank you.”

  She kissed him, then smiled into his eyes. “Mmm.”

  He strangled the urge to untie the gown’s belt and slip his hands beneath. God, he wanted her, but he sensed that now was not the time. He moved back, sat on the sofa, and gulped a mouthful of coffee. It was too hot. He burnt his lip, spluttered, and almost spilled the cup. “That’s bloody scalding,” he said.

  She laughed. “So take your time, silly.”

  And he knew by the way she looked at him she wasn’t talking about the hot drink.

  “You sit there quietly,” she said, “and I’ll go and get ready.”

  “Fine.” He made himself comfortable as she went along to the bathroom and closed the door. He heard the humming of a hair dryer and knew she’d be holding both hands above her head, as she had last night while he’d kissed her breasts. Stop thinking about it, he told himself. Stop it.

  He stood up, then walked to the window to gaze past the tiny front garden where the rough, sea salt–burned grass straggled in brown tufts. He looked across the narrow road, and the seawall to where a fleet of racing yachts tacked close-hauled to the upwind mark. They’d be the Fairy class from Royal North of Ireland Yacht Club in Cultra.

  The white sails were taut, straining against the wind, as the boats heeled to lee, s
pray from their bow waves shimmering and making tiny, ephemeral rainbows in the bright sunlight. It seemed to be a very long time since he’d had a chance to race, and he’d loved his sailing.

  He heard the bathroom door open and close, turned, and glimpsed Patricia slipping across to her bedroom. Carrying her dressing gown over one arm, she was quite naked.

  Perhaps it was watching the yachts that made him think of a passage from one of C. S. Forester’s Hornblower books where the sailor hero and his new wife, Lady Barbara, are dressing, and she is wearing a transparent shift: “Women, once the barriers were down, really had no sense of decency.” He smiled at the thought, and at the knowledge that Forester was wrong. It wasn’t a matter of decency, but rather an indication of comfort and trust.

  “I’ll not be much longer” came from the bedroom. “Just putting on my face.”

  “Take your time,” he called back. He was happy to wait. He sat on the sofa. “I came early because O’Reilly’s gone off to pick up someone in Belfast, and Kinky’s holding the fort until the service. She’ll arrange an ambulance for anyone she thinks is really sick, and tell everyone else to come back tomorrow. There were no early calls, and I got bored sitting there waiting for the phone to ring.”

  “You mean waiting for calls from patients?”

  “Yes.” And perhaps from Jack Mills. But if Jack did phone, Kinky would take a message, and if he didn’t, he’d promised to come to the reception this afternoon. Sitting playing with Lady Macbeth had not kept Barry from stewing. O’Reilly was right; doing something you loved, and he’d meant practising, could keep your mind off your worries, but so could being with someone you loved. “I reckon everyone’s too busy getting ready to see Sonny and Maggie get hitched to be bothered to get sick,” he said.

  “It’s going to be quite the do, isn’t it?”

  “The whole village is buzzing. Has been for the last week. If the rest of the folks are as excited as Kinky, it’ll be standing room only in the church. She’s had her new hat on and off half a dozen times.” He remembered the song she’d been singing to herself as she admired her hat in front of the mirror above the hall table, and did his best to mimic her:

  “I have often heard it said by me father and me mother,

  That going to a wedding has the makings of another.”

  “That,” she said, coming from her room, “is an interesting thought, but God, Barry, you couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.” She turned her back to him and said, “Do me up please, darling.”

  She wore a high-collared, bottle-green blouse with a row of buttons down the back. The material gaped and he noticed her bra strap, black against her white skin. He stood and started to work, but his fingers were clumsy as he fastened the buttons. She’d left her hair down, and it fell in an ebony cascade to her shoulders. He pushed it aside and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck. “There,” he said, as he closed the final button.

  “Ta.” She spun round to face him. “How do I look?”

  He eyed her up and down from her half-heeled patent pumps, past her calves—she clearly was not one bit concerned by the small amount of wasting from the polio in the left one—over her knee-length tartan kilt, and past her blouse to her almond eyes. “Stunning,” he said, “absolutely stunning.”

  “Thank you, kind sir.” She dropped a little curtsey. “Dad bought me the blouse yesterday.”

  “As a ‘well done for winning the scholarship’ present?”

  “Sort of. He is proud of me.”

  “I’m not surprised. So am I.” He hugged her.

  “Don’t mess up my hair.”

  He let her go, knowing he had to get out of the flat or he’d soon be trying to make a mess of more than her hair. “Look,” he said, “we’ve plenty of time before the ceremony. I thought we might go for a drive.”

  “Where to?”

  “Sonny’s house. It’s been derelict for years. But Donal Donnelly, he’s one of our patients, and a bunch of the boys have been fixing it up. It’s the village’s wedding present to the happy couple, and it’s to be a big surprise. I’d really like to see how they’ve finished the job.”

  “How absolutely lovely of them.” A little frown creased her forehead. “There is something extra special about wee villages. I can see why you’d want to settle down here.”

  He nodded, knowing that she still did not understood that he might have reasons to leave too, and that she was one of those reasons.

  “I’d like to see the place,” she said. “I really would. Hang on. I’ll get my handbag.”

  Barry parked close to Sonny’s gate.

  “What on earth is that?” she asked, pointing to Donal Donnelly’s bike of many colours where it lay propped against the gatepost.

  “Donal must be here,” Barry said. “That’s his machine.”

  “I hope,” she said with a grin, “he has better taste in interior design.”

  Barry laughed. “Donal’s all right. He may be a bit odd, but he has a heart of corn.” He took her hand. “Come on, let’s go and inspect the great project.”

  He paused at the gate. He barely recognized Sonny’s house. The scaffolding had vanished. The new slate roof glowed darkly in sunlight that brightened the green-painted front door and window sashes, and flashed from the washed and polished glass. He was pleased to see window boxes on the lower sills. Maggie would like that.

  Tarpaulins in one corner of the garden covered what must be the huge heap of Sonny’s belongings. Years of sitting unsheltered from the elements would have ruined them. Two of his old motorcars were parked beside the caravan, which waited patiently for the return of Sonny’s five dogs. Barry noticed that the vegetable garden had been weeded.

  When he pushed the gate open, the hinges no longer creaked.

  Patricia’s heels clicked on the paving stones as he led her to the front door. The lawn had been newly cut, and the air smelled of grass clippings. A single goat’s-beard weed had survived between a crack in the stones, and Barry’s foot scattered its ball of downy seeds to float like miniature parachutes along the breeze. There was less wind inland here than he’d noticed earlier out on the lough.

  He could hear a combine harvester working in the distance and the lowing of a cow. Two birds, black-caped and white-flanked, with long, broad tails, swooped erratically overhead, their cries harsh giggles.

  “Magpies,” Patricia said. “Two of them. That’s lucky.”

  “I know.” He squeezed her hand. “One for sorrow . . .” He repeated the country belief: “But there won’t be sorrow if you salute the bird . . . two for joy . . .”

  She continued the rhyme, “Three for a girl. Four for a boy. Five for silver. Six for gold . . .”

  He finished it. “And seven for a secret never to be told . . . but I’ll tell you a secret, Patricia Spence.” He kissed her. “I love you.”

  He’d have kissed her for longer, but a loud cough interrupted. “Pardon me, Doctor Laverty sir.” Donal Donnelly stood in the open doorway, his shock of ginger hair untidy, his buckteeth white in the middle of his grin. They really would be the envy of every hare in the Six Counties, Barry thought. He remembered thinking the selfsame thing the first time he’d met Donal, on the day last month when he’d been lost at the Six Road Ends. He’d been on his way to his job interview with Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, M.B., B.Ch., B.A.O.

  “Morning, Donal.” Good Lord, the man was blushing. “Grand day.”

  “Oh, aye. Grand indeed.”

  “Donal, this is Miss Spence,” Barry said. “Patricia. Donal Donnelly.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Miss,” Donal said, knuckling his forehead. He shifted from foot to foot. “If youse’ll excuse me, I’ll be running along. I’ve to get into my uniform. Me and the rest of the Highlanders are going to be a guard of honour after the wedding, so we are. There’s been nothing like it since Her Majesty the Queen came to Bangor a wheen of years ago.” Donal stopped fidgeting. “Honest to God, I know you’ve been busy, Doctor, so
maybe you’ll not have heard, but all the ladies are fit to be tied, so they are.”

  “Because Sonny and Maggie are getting wed?”

  “Not at all, sir; they’re tickled pink about that, they’ve been talking about nothing else all week. All the best dresses is out and ready, so they are. The smell of mothballs would gag a maggot, but all womenfolk wanted new hats for the big day . . . and do you know what?”

  Barry made an effort to hide his smile. “What, Donal?”

  “The dress shop was closed on Friday, and the silly besoms had all waited ’til the last minute. There wasn’t a hat to be had for love nor money.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Dear’s not the half of it,” Donal said. “You’d’ve thought half the plagues of Egypt had come to Ballybucklebo.”

  Barry choked back a remark he was going to make, that at least the firstborn children had been spared. Under the circumstances it would have been less than tactful.

  Donal plucked a long grass stem from a flowerbed, started to chew the end, and said seriously, “I heard that it was only the one plague, and it hit poor ould Miss Moloney hard. But then you’d know about that, Doc.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Aye,” said Donal, inspecting the now flattened piece of grass. “Aggie Arbuthnot told her cousin Cissie Sloan, and she told Finnoula Robinson, and she told my Julie, and Julie told me, and what do you think?”

  Knowing how a rumour could become distorted as it passed from mouth to mouth, Barry was able to say quite honestly, “I haven’t the faintest idea.”

  “Aggie seen her lying on the floor and she sent for youse doctors and she never saw Miss Moloney again.” He lowered his voice to a half whisper. “Aggie thinks youse had her shipped off to Purdysburn, like.”

  Purdysburn was the Belfast mental hospital. Barry could tell by the expectant way Donal was looking at him that he was fishing for information, and given Donal’s interest in thoroughbreds like Arkle, it was typical of the man to try to get it straight from the horse’s mouth. “You know very well, Donal, I can’t discuss patients.”