An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  “Ta, Patricia.” He grabbed the bottle. “Nice to see you. You’re looking gorgeous.”

  “Jack. The report.” A cloud had passed in front of the sun, and in its shadow Barry felt chilled.

  “Right enough.” He fished an envelope from the inside pocket of his jacket and handed it to Barry. “Have a gander at that while I’m pouring.” He lifted the bottle.

  Barry grabbed the envelope. He knew how Patricia had felt when her examination results arrived. He barely had the strength to open the bloody thing, but he ripped the flap open, fished out a form, unfolded its two pages, and began to read.

  Major Fotheringham’s name and identifying information headed the pages. Next came the histological report. Barry scanned the first page, which described polymorphocytic infiltration and lymphocytic aggregation, atheromatous plaques, platelets, fibrin, and eosinophilia of the myocardial fibres.

  He flipped over to the second page to the section headed Summary.

  There is striking evidence of atherosclerotic occlusion of three of the four major coronary arteries . . .

  He lowered the paper.

  He was having difficulty focusing on the typing, but he raised the sheets and read on: . . . and extensive damage to the myocardial muscle supplied by these vessels. There was more, but he dropped his gaze to the final section, Conclusions.

  Cause of death: Massive coronary occlusion of sufficient magnitude to result in sudden death prior to the formation of obvious macroscopic pathological changes.

  He reread the words, brighter now on the page since the cloud had moved away from the sun. Major Fotheringham had died of a coronary, a condition that had nothing whatsoever to do with his earlier cerebral haemorrhage. Barry exhaled. No physician could have saved the man’s life. He tucked the report into an inside pocket.

  “You all right, Barry?” Patricia stood by his side. She was frowning.

  “What?”

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine. Yes, thanks. I’m fine.”

  “Good, because you went white as a sheet.”

  “I . . . I’ve been waiting for this report. I’ll tell you what it’s all about later, but I’ve been waiting for it for the last two weeks.” He grabbed her and hugged her. “As Donal Donnelly would say, ‘it’s the best thing since sliced pan.’ ”

  “So that’s two of us with things to celebrate, isn’t it?”

  “Damn right it is.” He kissed her, not giving a tinker’s damn who saw. “Now,” he said, “I have to go and tell O’Reilly. He’s been waiting too.”

  “Go ahead. He’s over there with Kitty, but come back and tell me soon. I’m dying to hear.”

  “I’ll be back.” Barry started to walk to where O’Reilly stood deep in conversation with Kitty O’Hallorhan. He heard Jack call, “Good news? Harry told me what it said.”

  “It’s exactly what I wanted to hear. Why the hell didn’t you tell me at once if you knew?”

  “And spoil the surprise? Don’t be daft, and it was worth it just to see that idiotic grin on your face.”

  “You bugger,” Barry said. “I’ve been on eggs about this.” But he couldn’t be angry with Jack. He couldn’t be angry with anybody. “Now, I have to go tell O’Reilly.”

  “Do me a favour before you go?”

  “Sure.” Barry realized that keeping O’Reilly waiting now didn’t really matter, and it would give Barry a few moments to let the news sink in.

  “See that stunning redhead over there? The one with the amazing green eyes?”

  “Helen Hewitt?”

  “Introduce me, like a good lad.”

  “She’s one of my patients, Jack.”

  “Not one of mine. Come on. Introduce me.” He headed towards Helen.

  Barry said to Patricia, “Back in a jiffy. I promise I will explain.” He followed his friend. “Jack, I should tell you; Helen has a mind of her own.”

  “It’s not,” said Jack, “her mind I’m interested in. Have you seen her legs?”

  Barry had a mental picture of Miss Moloney’s hats battered beyond recognition. “On your own head be it, Mills, but you have been warned.” He coughed. “Excuse me, Helen, may I introduce you to an old friend of mine, Doctor Jack Mills?”

  Jack bowed slightly. “Helen,” he said, “the face that launched a thousand ships.”

  Barry heard Helen’s laugh, heard her say, “Away off and chase yourself. You’re full of it.”

  Barry shook his head, laughed, and made a beeline for O’Reilly, past Highlanders piping for dance sets, past kids and dogs chasing each other. Sonny’s five dogs were clustered around O’Reilly and Kitty. There was no sign of Arthur Guinness. Nor of Sonny and Maggie. They must be in the Big House getting changed into their going-away clothes.

  Barry was still laughing when he arrived where O’Reilly and Kitty O’Hallorhan stood close together, O’Reilly’s arm round Kitty’s waist. Barry waited for them to finish speaking.

  Kitty chuckled. “. . . And then you put me out the fifth-floor window of the students’ residence in the sling of that friction rope-and-pulley fire escape device . . . and it only reached to the second floor.”

  “With you hanging in it like a great big spider, between the devil and the deep blue sea,” O’Reilly said. “At least the warden didn’t catch you.” O’Reilly cleared his throat and took his arm from her waist. “Just . . . h-hem . . . talking about old times,” he said. “What can we do for you, Barry?”

  “Fingal, Jack Mills brought me the PM report.”

  O’Reilly’s shoulders stiffened. “And . . . ?”

  “Massive silent coronary.”

  “Bloody marvellous. Wonderful. Tough on the major, but that’s life.” He grabbed Barry’s hand. It must have been a reflection of O’Reilly’s pleasure because his grip was the car-crushing one Barry remembered from their very first meeting. “Bloody marvellous.” He pumped away with all the vigour of a cowman at a dry cattle-trough pump. “We’ll see the widow tomorrow. I told you, she’ll keep her promise now we have the facts. No lawsuit. Jesus Murphy, I’m delighted for you, son.”

  “I’m sure you’ll explain all this in a minute, Fingal,” Kitty said.

  “I will, by God, but first this calls for a jar. Whiskey, Barry?”

  “Just a small one, but later. I’ve left Patricia all on her own, and I promised I’d explain to her what this is all about.”

  “Right.” O’Reilly took command. “You wait here, Kitty. I’ll get the drinks. Barry, you bring Patricia over here. She’ll want another wine.” Without waiting for an answer, he charged off singing to himself a lyric Barry recognized came from The Mikado. “The threatened cloud has passed away . . .”

  “You’ve known him for years, Kitty. Was he always like this?”

  “Worse,” she said. “He’s mellowing with age.”

  She really had the most delightful smile.

  “I’d better go and see Patricia,” he said. “And thanks.”

  “What for?”

  “You know.” Barry hesitated. He knew he meant for being with Fingal, but baulked at saying so.

  “Get on with you,” she said, clearly having understood his meaning. “We’re just old friends.”

  Patricia was waiting where he’d left her. “Sorry about that,” he said.

  “Terrible,” she said, with a grin. “Leaving a helpless maiden all on her own. I’m waiting for the explanation.”

  “It’s a long story, but between the jigs and the reels of it, that report I just got has saved my bacon. You know O’Reilly has offered me a partnership after one year as his assistant?”

  She nodded.

  “It looked as if it was going to fall through.”

  Her eyes widened. “You told me, but I thought it was all straightened out.”

  “I was threatened with a lawsuit.”

  She shuddered. “Good God. When?”

  “Last week.”

  “You never said anything about it.” She frowned. “You might
have told me.”

  He shook his head. “No. You’d enough on your plate.”

  “The exam?” Her cheeks reddened.

  Barry held up both hands. “There was nothing you could do. I had to wait for the results of a postmortem.”

  “Because . . . ?”

  He explained.

  “And you just got the results a few minutes ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And it’s not your fault, is it?” She kissed him. “Wonderful. So you can stay?”

  Should he tell her he’d been thinking of leaving anyway, of looking for a post in Cambridge to be near her? No. “Yes,” he said. “I can stay.”

  She kissed him again. “I’m very happy for you.”

  He looked into her eyes. “But what about us?”

  “Us?” She didn’t answer at once. Her brow wrinkled. She ran one hand over the top of her head. “I love you, Barry. I really do.”

  “And I love you, Patricia. You know that, but three years is a hell of a long time.”

  She took his hand. “We both have our careers to think of. We’re both of us far too young to get married, if that’s what you have in mind.”

  It was. The second he’d understood the import of the pathology report, he’d made up his mind to propose. At least Patricia had spared him the shame of an outright rejection.

  “I know all that,” he said, “but—”

  “There aren’t any buts, Barry. Listen. If you love me as much as you say you do, you’ll wait. Some people do, you know.”

  “Sonny and Maggie?”

  She nodded. “Deep down they must love each other very much, and I know how much I love you, Barry Laverty. I’ll come back to you. Never worry about that.” She came closer, flung her arms around his neck, and kissed him, harder than she had ever kissed him before, as if there was more anger than love in her lips. She was smiling, her dimples deep when she pulled away. “Of course I will. Don’t you ever doubt it.”

  He laughed, kissed her, and said loudly, “I believe you, Patricia. I love you, and I don’t give a hoot who knows.”

  He was going to say more but was interrupted by cheers and the clattering of tin cans on gravel. The marquis’ Rolls-Royce, strings of cans and old boots tied to its rear bumper, had been drawn up to the portico of the big house.

  “Come on,” he said, “we have to go and see the happy couple off.”

  He took her hand and led her across the lawn. They arrived just in time to see the marquis walking down the broad front steps. He was leading Sonny, now dressed in a neat, double-breasted grey suit, and Maggie in a heather-mix twin set, smart pleated wool skirt, and a straw hat with a single rose in the hatband. She carried her bouquet.

  Well-wishers lined the steps.

  Maggie hesitated, then threw her bouquet at the crowd. Barry wished Patricia had been the one to catch it, but the roar of approval from the crowd, and the look of bewilderment on O’Reilly’s face when it flew straight to Kitty O’Hallorhan, made up for his disappointment.

  Sonny helped Maggie into the back of the Roller, and the marquis, as befitted his position of best man, drove them away, accompanied by the clattering of the cans and the music of a single piper. Why the man was playing a bagpipe version of “Rock around the Clock” was beyond Barry.

  “Tell me again, how long did you tell me Maggie had waited for Sonny?” Patricia asked.

  “More than fifteen years,” Barry said without thinking.

  “Now there’s a thing,” she said, cocking her head slightly to the side, one eyebrow raised and a smile on her lips.

  And Barry heard the unspoken promise and slipped an arm around her shoulders. “Indeed it is,” he said.

  He heard O’Reilly call, “Barry, get over here this instant.” He was summoning Barry and Patricia with a roar and a come-hither wave of his hand.

  O’Reilly was sitting with Kitty and Mrs. Kincaid. Barry had forgotten that there were drinks waiting for Patricia and him. Taking her hand, he walked to the table, then held Patricia’s chair until she was seated. He noticed that Arthur Guinness had made his way back from the covert and lay under the table, slurping from his stainless-steel bowl.

  “Here you are.” O’Reilly handed the wine to Patricia and the whiskey to Barry. “Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte mHath,” Barry replied, standing behind Patricia with a hand on her shoulder.

  “Right then,” said O’Reilly. “The jollifications here are really going to get going now, but I’ve a half-notion you youngsters might like to slip away?”

  Barry glanced at Patricia, who smiled up at him.

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. “In that case, I’ll take call tonight.”

  “Thanks, Fingal.” Barry set his glass on the table and stood back to allow Patricia to rise, but he was halted when O’Reilly bellowed, “Not yet, you goat. You’ve not finished your drink. And before you gallop off, I’ve a job for you.”

  Barry shrugged and picked up his whiskey.

  “Now,” said O’Reilly, “if I’m going to take call, I’ll need to be near the phone.” He looked directly at Kinky. “Do you think, Mrs. Kincaid, you could put together a bite of supper for Sister O’Hallorhan and me?” He didn’t wait for a reply but turned to Kitty. “You might like to see how an old country GP lives?”

  “That would be lovely.” She nodded her agreement. “But I’m not sure I could eat anything else.”

  “Supper is it?” Kinky asked, staring straight at O’Reilly’s straining waistcoat buttons. “I can do that all right. I’ve all the makings of a wonderful salad, so.”

  Barry had to smother a laugh.

  O’Reilly grunted and bent down to reach under the table. Still bending, he fixed Barry with a stare. “Now, Doctor Laverty,” he said slowly. “I’ve not asked you about your plans for the future, but I’m going to take a chance now. In view of your recent news, will you be accepting my offer?”

  “I will, Doctor O’Reilly, and thank you.”

  “Grand, so. Grand.” Kinky’s chins wobbled as she laughed.

  “And,” O’Reilly continued, “I assume you’d like to work unsupervised?”

  “Well, I . . .” It certainly was what he’d been dreaming of two weeks ago as he watched the seagulls spreading their wings above the foreshore of Ballybucklebo. “Yes, Fingal. You would be right.”

  “Good. Because I’ve your first independent case for you, Doctor Laverty.”

  Barry felt a glow in his cheeks and pride in O’Reilly’s obvious confidence. He glanced at Patricia. He’d rather be taking her somewhere at once, but if there was a patient to be seen . . . He was relieved to see her nodding at him. “Who is it, Fingal?”

  “Not who . . . what.” O’Reilly guffawed as he straightened up. Then he pulled a single Wellington boot from under the table and thrust it at Barry. “You find a home for that bloody thing, Doctor Laverty . . . and you’ll not have me breathing down your neck while you do.”

  AFTERWORD

  by

  Mrs. Kincaid

  I suppose I shouldn’t have agreed to do this the last time, because here I am at it again, but Doctor O’Reilly says my recipes were appreciated by the readers, so. And sure, appreciation is better than imitation as a sincere form of flattery.

  Himself and that nice Sister Kitty O’Hallorhan are in the upstairs lounge listening to some awful caterwauling. He says it’s an opera called Le Nozze di Figaro, whatever the divil that means. Something to do with weddings, he says. I’ve had my fill of those today. My feet hurt with all that standing around, and my jaw’s near cracked with all the smiling I’ve had to do for people who’ve been admiring my new hat. Still and all, it was nice of young Doctor Laverty to get it for me. I’ve it back in its box ready for the next go-round when that eejit Donal Donnelly and wee Julie MacAteer tie the knot.

  I’m just glad to be here in my own kitchen with my feet up. My ankles swell, you know, and it doesn’t hurt to give them a bit of a draining. I’m sitting at the
table with a pen in my fist, thinking about what I should give you this time by way of instructions for cooking.

  Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, would you listen to that coming from up there? They call that woman a soprano? If you’d like my opinion, I think if she stopped standing on the poor wee pussycat’s tail it would stop yowling, so. Lady Macbeth thinks the same as me, I can tell you that. She’s under the table with her tail over her ears. The wee dote.

  The row would distract a body from her task, but I’ll have to make a start. I think I’ll take Doctor O’Reilly’s advice and give you the recipes for some of the meals I’ve been putting on the table in the last couple of weeks, but if you don’t mind I’ll not say nothing about pigs on a spit, roasted whole. I doubt there’s much need for that in America. Anyway, His Lordship’s cook wouldn’t take my advice. It could have done with cooking for another half hour.

  So. Let’s see. Where’ll I start? At the beginning, Kinky Kincaid. That’s the place. Here you are then. I gave the Doctors an Ulster breakfast at the start of the story. Everything in it is well known but perhaps not the soda farls. I’ll start with the recipe for them and then a few of the other things you’ll have read about if you’ve got this far in the book.

  Ulster Recipes

  SODA FARLS

  _______

  1 pound all-purpose flour

  1 teaspoon salt

  1 teaspoon baking soda, heaped

  10 to 15 ounces of buttermilk

  Sieve the dry ingredients into a bowl. Then add enough buttermilk to give a soft, but not sticky, dough. Turn onto a well-floured board, and shape into a round cake about 1½ inches thick. Transfer to a floured baking sheet, and mark into 4 to 6 wedges (farls). Bake at 400° to 425° F for 30 to 35 minutes. The farls can be separated once the soda bread has cooled.

  If preferred, the farls can be cut into wedges and cooked on a floured, gently heated griddle. This is the more traditional method.

  SHERRY TRIFLE

  _______

  sponge cake or pound cake

  raspberry jam, seedless

  2 ounces sherry