An Irish Country Wedding (21 page)

Barry tried to catch his breath. Too fast. The whole thing was going too fast, but swept up in her mood he trotted after her, nearly tripping over the cat, who was heading downstairs.

The phone rang. Not now, damn it all, not now.

Sue was passing the phone. She turned around and pointed. “Shall I?”

He nodded and she answered, “Doctors O’Reilly and Laverty?”

He watched her frown, turn pale, and say, “There’s no need to be rude.” Making no attempt to cover the mouthpiece, she handed Barry the receiver while saying, “It’s a Councillor Bishop and he is not a nice man.”

“Hello?”

A voice roared over the phone, “What the hell do you mean, not nice?”

If the boot fits, Barry thought, but said, “Can I help you, Councillor?”

“Laverty? Where the hell’s O’Reilly?”

There were days when Barry wished he were not bound by Hippocratic tenets and could tell Bertie Bishop to go to blazes, but he said, “In Belfast. Can I help you?”

“His bloody cat’s been at my pigeons again. I just seen it running away there now, so I did.”

Barry waited.

“Are you still there, Laverty?”

“I am, Councillor, and so is Doctor O’Reilly’s cat.”

“Away off and feel your head. I told you I just seen the bloody thing not five minutes ago.”

“I’m sorry, you can’t have. She’s been here all morning, and you don’t have to take my word for it. I have a witness. You spoke to her a minute ago. And the last time this happened, the cat had been with our receptionist, Helen Hewitt, the entire time.”

“Huh,” Bertie grunted, and said, “well, something white got two more of my birds, and by Jesus I’m going to get it, so I am.”

Barry’s ear tingled from the crash of Bertie’s receiver being slammed down. He put his on the cradle, grinned at Sue, and shrugged. “You’re right. Not a nice man, our Bertie Bishop,” he said. “I’m sorry you had to take abuse from him.”

“I’ve heard worse,” she said, then moved to him and asked, “What’s for lunch, Doctor?”

“I honestly don’t know,” he said, “but we can go and look in the fridge.”

As they walked hand in hand along the hall to the kitchen, Barry gave a moment’s thought to Colin Brown’s ferret, Butch. That would have to be looked into before Bishop put two and two together, came to a conclusion, and rightly or wrongly demanded retribution. But not today, not until after lunch and a bottle of chilled white. Not until, telephone willing and O’Reilly not coming home too soon, Barry had spent time alone with Sue Nolan in the comfortable, cosy, private, upstairs lounge.

23

In That Case, What Is the Question?

“Sorry I’m late, lads,” O’Reilly said as he opened the door to one of the ten snugs in the Crown Liquor Saloon on Great Victoria Street, not far from the Royal. “I had to pop in with a couple of patients.” Aggie Arbuthnot had been surprised and pleased to see him and was indeed doing well, physically, but was still worrying about finding a job. She should be discharged soon. “Move over in the bed, Charlie.” Charlie Greer slid along the cubicle’s deep U of smooth black leather benches with button backs. O’Reilly sat beside his friend.

“Better late than never,” Sir Donald Cromie said. “Did you call with Mrs. Kincaid?”

“I did,” said O’Reilly, “and thanks to you, Cromie, she’s out of the woods and well on her way.” Ever since they had been students together in the 1930s, “Cromie” had been his friend’s preferred form of address. “And thanks to you too, Charlie, and your Mister Gupta, Donal Donnelly’s running round like a bee on a hot brick.”

Charlie Greer laughed. “Do the sheep in your neck of the woods still have fleeces? Before we discharged him, Jane Hoey had to make him give back the money he’d won playing pontoon.”

O’Reilly shook his head. “That’s Donal. But as far as I know he’s behaving himself now he’s back home.”

“So,” said Charlie, sipping his pint, “God’s in His Heaven and all’s right with the world.”

“The hell it is,” O’Reilly said. “You two have drinks. I haven’t.” He pushed an electric bell mounted on the wall of the booth. The dark wooden panels were each surmounted by stained-glass windows adorned with shells, fairies, pineapples, fleurs-de-lis, and clowns.

Conversations from the other booths and the open bar were subdued, and the place was mercifully unpolluted by the piped musical rubbish that was starting to infiltrate Irish bars. Traffic
could barely be heard outside. A tobacco-smoke cloud hovered
beneath an ornately carved ceiling. By peering over the snug’s half-wall, O’Reilly could read, etched in glass over the bar,
Bonders of Old High Class Whiskies and Direct Importers of Sandeman’s Reserve Port
.

“It’s not the same as Davy Byrne’s in Dublin,” Cromie said. “It’ll never have the memories of us there when we were youngsters, but the Crown keeps its pints in very good order.” He drank from his.

“It’s probably the most stylish pub in Belfast,” O’Reilly said. “Founded by Felix O’Hanlon as the Railway Tavern and refurbished by Patrick Flanagan in 1885.” O’Reilly splayed his hands on the dark wood table in front of him. “That was the same year the prince and princess of Wales were booed in County Cork and General Gordon was killed in Kartoum.”

“And you know about that because you were here in 1885 for the reopening, weren’t you, you old fart?” Charlie said.

“Go ’way, you young puppy,” O’Reilly said, grinning. They were all in their fifties now and had been meeting regularly for years. The easy teasing, the comfort of being with real friends was always a delight and O’Reilly smiled at the two men. It was what he had asked them here to discuss—old friends and acquaintances, and the possibility of gathering them all together in one place next year for a class reunion. “Just because I’m a few years older than you two doesn’t mean I’m senile. I’ve already told you I’m marrying Kitty O’Hallorhan in July and I expect you both there as ushers.”

“Yes, sir. What’ll it be?” An aproned barman opened the door to the snug. “Och, it’s yourself, Doctor O’Reilly. How’s about ye?”

“Overall, I’m fine, thanks, Knockers.” The man’s name was Knox Ritchie, but everyone called him Knockers. “But did you know that under ancient Irish Brehon laws, your estate can declare a grievance if you die of thirst in a public house? Make you forfeit all your sheep? My tongue’s hanging out.”

The young man laughed. “Can’t have that. Anyroad, where’d you find a free Gael to administer the law? The usual?”

“Aye.”

Knockers left.

“I must say you rocked me when you first told me you were going to walk down the aisle,” said Cromie, “but Charlie and I are delighted for you both. As this is our first get-together since you broke the news, it calls for me to order another jar as soon as your man gets back.”

“She’s quite the woman,” Charlie said. “Always was.”

“True on you, Charlie Greer. True on you,” O’Reilly said. Kitty with the grey eyes. Kitty with her gentle “I wish you’d drive more slowly.” Kitty who knew her diamonds, Kitty with her soft lips. Quite the woman indeed.

“I hope I’m not going to lose my damn fine ward sister,” Charlie said.

O’Reilly shook his head. “She intends to go on working.”

“I’m relieved,” Charlie said.

“Here’s to the pair of you, Fingal.” Cromie lifted his glass and drank. “Long life and happiness.”

“Hear him.” Charlie drank too.

“Thanks, lads.” O’Reilly grinned at them both and was grateful there weren’t any remarks about it being bloody well time he’d made up his mind about the girl he’d walked out with thirty years ago. His friends knew about Deirdre. And they also knew not to
reopen old wounds with banter about his new wife-to-be. “I’ll
make sure you and your missusses get formal invites. The service will be in the Ballybucklebo Presbyterian church, but we haven’t decided on the venue for the reception, yet. But you’ll both hear in good time.”

“Grand,” Charlie said, “and I suppose it’ll be top hats and tails? I hope to God mine still fit.”

O’Reilly laughed. “I’ll certainly have to get my old naval number one uniform let out. Kitty wants me to wear it for old times’ sake.”

“I doubt there’s many of our class could fit into their graduation suits now,” Cromie said, “and I believe that we’re here to talk about a reunion.”

“True,” said O’Reilly. He glanced at the snug door. “I wish Knockers would get a move on. Anyway, about the reunion, we should discuss it, and lads, while we’re together, I want your advice with a couple of other matters. Shirt factories and scholarships. They’ll keep ’til later, but I do need help.”

Charlie said, “Shirt factories and scholarships? Doesn’t sound as romantic as ‘Moonlight and Roses,’ but whatever we can do we will.”

“What are you on about, Charlie?” Cromie asked.

“You know I sing in a choir. It’s one of the numbers we’re doing in a concert.”

Cromie knit his brows and feigned bafflement. “I’ve never heard of a tune called ‘Shirt Factories and Scholarships.’ Will you be singing it?”

“We’re doing ‘Moonlight,’ you eejit.”

“All right, you two,” said O’Reilly, laughing, “if you’ve finished acting the lig, back to the agenda. We all remember Hilda Manwell. She wrote to Charlie from Australia and suggested a thirtieth class reunion next year and we’ve all agreed it would be a good thing.”

Two heads nodded.

“And we’d be the steering committee?”

“Agreed.” Two voices spoke.

“We’d pick a meeting site, contact the class, and make sure there’s lots of interest, perhaps arrange a little scientific program so we can get tax concessions for the ones who have to come a long way?” O’Reilly said.

“Chase the pharmaceutical companies for grants. Invite some of our old teachers if they’re still alive, and set up the social events,” Cromie added.

“And,” said O’Reilly, “I suggest we divvy up the jobs. I’ll look after a place. It has to be in Dublin because that’s where it all began. I’d suggest the Shelbourne as the meeting hotel. I’ll work through the Trinity Alumni Association. They’ll have a class list of addresses.”

Charlie said, “When you get it, Fingal, send it to me. I’ll dictate a letter to the whole class, see who’s interested, what dates would suit. My secretary can run off copies. We’ve just got one of those new Xerox machines, beats the hell out of the old Gestetner. And the letters can go out with the rest of the hospital mail. They’ll be addressed to a bunch of doctors, after all.”

“Good,” O’Reilly said.

Cromie added, “Charlie and I’ll take care of the science, the pharmaceutical companies, and see who of our old profs are still around. I know Victor Millington Synge is and that surgeon Mister Kinnear.”

“He let me do my first appendicectomy,” O’Reilly said. “He’s a good skin.”

“He is,” said Charlie. “I saw him last year at the Royal College, and old Synge was pretty decent too. Do you remember when the
 
… damn it, I’ve forgotten their name
 
… the visiting society came?”

“The Pilgrims,” O’Reilly said. “All those senior doctors. The ones we set Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick up for a fall in front of. Ronald was an arrogant bollix, but he practises near me now. He’ll have to be invited.”

Cromie said, “Maybe he’ll have forgotten that day, but I haven’t. Embarrassed the hell out of Fitzpatrick, but Doctor
Synge turned
it all into a laugh and even got Doctor Micks to see the funny
side.”

“I came close to giving myself a hernia, I laughed so much,” Charlie said, “and Bob Beresford had tears in his eyes.”

“Good old Bob,” O’Reilly said quietly. “Sad what happened.”

“Aye,” said Charlie, “very sad.”

The door opened. “Here y’are.” Knockers set a pint on the ta
ble. “That’ll be two and tuppence, sir.”

“You’re an angel of mercy, Knockers.
Sláinte
,” O’Reilly said, and sank one-third of his pint. “I think you’ve just saved a life.”

“Here,” said Cromie, handing the barman a half crown and waiting for his change. Tipping was not a custom in Belfast pubs. “And bring another round, please.”

The hinges of the swing door creaked as Knockers left.

“Right,” said Charlie, “now Fingal is getting himself refuelled, is there anything more about the reunion?”

O’Reilly shook his head. “I think that’s it, isn’t it? We’ve all jobs to do and we can report back when we’ve made progress.”

“My kind of meeting,” Cromie said. “Short, sharp, and to the point. Not like some of the hospital ones.”

“You can say that again,” Charlie said. “You were at the last surgical operating theatre committee. Went on for bloody hours.”

“It’s an advantage of being a GP,” O’Reilly said. “No medical committees and the rugby club executive is different.”

“Do you miss playing the game?” Charlie said.

“Do you?” O’Reilly said, remembering he and Charlie Greer playing together, proudly wearing their country’s green.

“I do.” Charlie nodded, but said, “We’d fun, but the world moves on. I reckon the Irish team are going to be hard to beat next season. Willie John McBride and Syd Millar will be back in the forwards and Michael Gibson in the backs.”

“I hear there’s a real prospect playing for Queen’s,” O’Reilly said. “Medical student called Ken Kennedy.”

Cromie coughed. “If I might try to get you two mighty athletes to stop getting dewy-eyed over a game of legalised mayhem and come back to the questions at hand, I’d suggest we get together here next month for reports?”

Two heads nodded.

“Now, about shirt factories,” O’Reilly said. “Do either of you know anything about the ones here in Belfast?”

“Faulat and Latimer have a band, the Faulat Girl Pipers, very pretty they look in their short kilts, and they’re damn fine pipers too,” Charlie said. “But that’s all I know. I’m sure it’s not much use.”

O’Reilly shrugged. “Can’t be helped. Cromie?”

He shook his head. “Why the sudden interest?”

“We’ve a patient, one I was seeing today, who lost her job at the Beresford Street factory. The owner’s a man called Ivan McCluggage. He has a silent partner. I’m trying to find out more about them, see if there’s a way to persuade them to rehire Aggie.”