An Irish Country Wedding (30 page)

“Sue,” he said, wanting to change the subject, but at the same time feeling a need to defend himself and not being quite sure why, “I do know about gerrymandering. And I’m not a bigot. I have heard what you’re telling me before. But it’s been forever thus, since partition in 1922. You know as well as I do that the religious divide goes back to when Protestant settlers were imported to the north in the early seventeenth century in the Plantation of Ulster. And it’s not a one-way street. The Orange Order was formed in 1795 to protect Protestants from Catholic violence. It takes two sides to make an argument.” And, he thought, an argument’s the last thing I want tonight. He looked down at his plate, then back up. “I think we should try to understand a little of the Protestant attitude, then perhaps you and I can leave it at that. I can see how deeply you feel about this, I do. But honestly, Sue, I believe there’s right and wrong in both parties. And I’d rather not take sides.” He smiled at her. Maybe they could drop it now?

“Go on,” she said, “I’m listening. What do you understand about how the Protestants feel?” There was an edge to her voice.

Barry shook his head. Should he agree with her, declare himself to be on her side, placate her, or should he stick to his middle-of-the-road guns? He said slowly, “I can’t pretend to speak for every Protestant, but I’ve met enough hard-liners from both camps. The Royal Victoria Hospital stands between the Catholic Falls and the Protestant Sandy Row districts. The medical staff and nurses didn’t, don’t, care what persuasion someone is. They’re simply sick people.”

“That’s commendable. It’s how it should be in every aspect of life, but it’s not. So please, tell me what Protestants feel. I am one. I should know but I’d be interested to hear you describe it.”

Barry sighed. “Okay. In Ulster, the Protestants are the majority. The hard-line Republicans, who are mostly Catholic, want noth
ing short of a reunion of the six counties here in the north with
the twenty-six counties of the Republic of Ireland.” He tried to
keep his voice level, his tone patient. But he could feel the impatience creeping in. He had not come here tonight to get—or give—a history lesson. “The Republic, of course, is an officially Catholic country with the church having a place in its Constitution. If Ulster were to unite with the Republic, that would put the one million Protestants in the minority in a country of four million. You
see the same in South Africa with the white South Africans.
They’re massively outnumbered so they’ve tried to segregate the races.”

Sue shook her head. “Apartheid. Barry, it’s bloody nearly like that here. It’s wrong.”

Barry didn’t want the argument to continue, but damn it all, he did have an opinion and it wasn’t, he half-smiled at the unconscious pun, as black and white as Sue seemed to think. “I agree,” he said, “but I’m willing to try to understand both sides. The committed Loyalists want to stay part of Britain. So it’s not just Catholic-Protestant, it’s to do with class, national loyalties that have been manipulated for political ends, desire to hold on to power. I believe people are frightened, and frightened people do irrational things.”

“And we want to change that.” She folded her arms across her chest. “I wish you could see that.”

Barry took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll try, Sue. I promise.” He inclined his head to his prawn cocktail. “Now, I’m a bit peckish.” Liar, he thought, his appetite had fled. “Should we perhaps start having our dinner? You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble.”

He looked at Sue, who was looking down at her food with about as much enthusiasm as he felt. The vase of carnations, dark red and white, seemed to be taunting him. Dark red for deep love, and white for pure love and good luck. The bloody things might as well have been Loyalist orange and Republican green. And he didn’t understand how things seemed to have gone so horribly wrong.

32

The Road Through the Woods

“And that concludes the agenda for this Friday evening. Thank you all very much,” the marquis said to the other six members. “The next session of the executive committee of the Ballybuck
lebo Bonnaughts Sports Club will be after the summer on the
second Friday in September, but for now I’ll entertain a motion to adjourn unless there is any other business.”

“Mister Chairman.” Fergus Finnegan was rising to his feet and addressing the marquis. The bandy-legged little man was captain of the rugby team and the marquis’s jockey. “There’s one wee matter, sir. It’s not official, like, but if I could have the floor for a wee minute, and I know Dermot Kennedy has something to say too.” He nodded to a man sitting across the long mahogany table.

“Carry on, Fergus,” the marquis said.

“And get a move on,” Bertie Bishop snapped, “I’ve not got all night.” He fiddled with the Masonic Order fob on his gold watch chain.

O’Reilly stifled his annoyance. He’d been delayed by a patient with a nosebleed and had arrived late. He’d still hoped to have a quiet word with Bertie after the meeting, ask about the man’s possible interest in the shirt factory, test Barry’s ideas about the cottage, but it wasn’t to be.

Fergus ignored Bertie’s remark. He was holding a brown-paper-
wrapped parcel. “On behalf of all the rugby players, we’d like
for to give this here wee present to Doctor O’Reilly and Miss
O’Hallorhan to mark the occasion of their upcoming wedding.”

Father O’Toole, sporting an egg stain on his rusty black cassock, said with a grin, “Having met your Miss O’Hallorhan, Doctor O’Reilly, I think you are a lucky man, bye.” His Cork accent was as soft and musical as Kinky’s.

Fergus handed the gift to O’Reilly and before he could say thanks, Dermot Kennedy rose and spoke. O’Reilly moved to face the captain of the hurling team. Dermot had a turn in one eye, making it tricky to determine to whom he was speaking. “This here’s one from all the hurlers, sir, you know. It comes with our wishes for a long and happy life for both of yiz, so it does.” He too thrust a wrapped gift at O’Reilly.

There was a prolonged round of applause. Jasus, O’Reilly
thought, if any eejit starts singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” I’ll die of embarrassment, but he felt a lump in his throat.

The applause died and O’Reilly rose. “Thank you both, and please thank all the players. I know Kitty will be delighted too so please thank them on her behalf as well. I’d like
—
”

“Move to adjourn,” Bertie yelled, heaving himself out of his chair.

“Sit down please, Councillor,” said Mister Robinson, the Pres
byterian minister, “and when the doctor’s finished I’ll second
your motion.”

Bertie subsided onto his chair, muttering to himself.

O’Reilly gave Bertie a frosty smile and continued, “I’ll come straight to the point so Councillor Bishop can get away. We all
know what a busy man he is. Kitty and I would love to invite ev
eryone to the church.” O’Reilly inclined his head to Mister Robinson, who earlier had agreed to this little subterfuge. “But Mister Robinson would rather not have standing room only, so we’re keeping the guest list small, mostly family, but
 
… but
everyone
, and I do mean everyone is invited to the after-service ta-ta-ta-ra at Number One. The festivities’ll be starting at about twelve thirty Saturday, July third.”

Another round of applause.

“Is that it, Doctor?” the marquis said.

O’Reilly nodded.

“Motion to adjourn seconded,” the minister said.

“I call the question,” Father O’Toole said so the chair could ask for a vote.

No one waited for the marquis to speak. Six hands instantly were raised.

“Carried,” said the marquis.

“About bloody well time,” Bertie Bishop said, and headed for the door without so much as a “good evening.”

Damn it, O’Reilly thought, but said, “One minute please, Mister Chairman. Unless anyone else has pressing business elsewhere, in view of the generosity to me and Kitty this evening, I’d like to invite everyone still here through to the bar.”

“That,” said Father O’Toole, “is a brilliant notion. I’m your
man, Doctor O’Reilly, and just by chance, as secretary-treasurer, I
do happen to have the keys with me, bye.”

O’Reilly and the marquis were the last to leave the room with its head-and-shoulders photos of all the Bonnaught rugby players who had represented Ulster, and the hurlers who had played for County Down. The marquis fell into step. “I think I may have some good news for you, Fingal.”

“Go on.”

“My solicitor has looked at the MacNeill bequest. Initially he feared we were right. Young men only when it was set up by my great-great-grandfather in 1849, but it seems my great-grandfather, William MacNeill, changed it in 1899.”

They turned into the main function room, with its high ceilings, wood floors, and plain folding tables and chairs randomly
arranged or stacked against the walls. At the far end, Father O’Toole
was opening sliding doors halfway up the wall to reveal a small room where the drinks were kept.

O’Reilly could barely control his excitement about the scholarship, but waited as his lordship continued.

“Seems the agèd ancestor was in the Royal Horse Artillery. The family didn’t start serving in the Irish Guards until after Queen Victoria founded the regiment in 1900. He was wounded during the seige of Sevastopol in the Crimean War, and nursed in Scutari. He was mightily impressed by Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole. Thought they both should have been doctors, but of course
—
” He shrugged.

When they arrived at the bar, O’Reilly called, “My shout, Father O’Toole,” and as the others gave their orders asked, “Whiskey, sir?” Calling his friend “John” was for private conversations.

The marquis nodded. “Please. With water.”

“Jameson’s and a pint.”

“Anyway,” the marquis said, “the original will said that the incumbent trustee, always the current marquis, could at the family’s
discretion alter its conditions. Great-grandpapa William, the
twenty-fourth marquis, persuaded the family to agree to an alteration,” he pulled a piece of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket, “and I quote from this copy of the relevant page, ‘If no suitable young men have come forward by July the First of any given year, and whereas the medical faculty of the Queen’s University of Belfast has in this the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-nine near the dawn of a new millennium approved the admission of women into the faculty of medicine, and if a suitable candidate of the fair sex can be identified as possessing the necessary character and intellect and as attested to by two medical men is of sufficiently robust spirit to withstand the rigours of a medical education in the aforesaid faculty
—
’” He smiled widely at O’Reilly.

“Jasus,” said O’Reilly softly. “Jasus Murphy, the first of July’s only three weeks away, and Barry and I can certainly give Helen whatever medical certif
—
”

“Here.” The marquis handed O’Reilly his pint and picked up his whiskey. “I hate to tempt Providence, Fingal, but it looks very like your Helen Hewitt is going to be the first female MacNeill laureate, and I’m delighted. Maybe she will find a cure for cancer.”

“By God,” said O’Reilly, “I’ll drink to that,” and by God he did, sinking half his pint in one swallow. “Thank you, sir. I know we’re all going to be very proud of that girl, but I’ll say nothing to her until you give me the go-ahead.”

“I think that’s wise, Fingal. ‘Many a slip,’ and all that.”

The four other members of the committee had settled themselves at a table, and as far as O’Reilly could discern from scraps of their conversation were good-naturedly debating the relative merits of rugby and hurling, a subject which had provided a constant source of discussion since he had joined the club nineteen years ago.

“I must say,” the marquis remarked, changing the subject, “I do find these sports club committees a good deal more entertaining than the county council ones.”

“You have the pleasure of Bertie’s company on both,” said O’Reilly, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

“He’s not my favourite man, and I know you don’t trust him, Fingal, but I think he does take his community duties seriously.”

O’Reilly nodded. “I suppose.”

“Take the last meeting. It’ll be common knowledge by now because the report was released for last night’s
County Down Spectator
, so I’m not breaching any confidence. Council are considering straightening that bad hairpin bend on the Belfast to Bangor Road. There’d been some vague talk of it before, but Councillor Wilson introduced the motion under ‘any other business.’ We’ll vote on it next month, but I’m pretty sure it’ll go through then.”

O’Reilly stiffened. It may have been guesswork, but Barry
might just have been right about why Donal and Julie had been outbid for the cottage in the loop of the bend.

“Our Councillor Bishop disqualified Bishop’s Builders from tendering,” said the marquis, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Apparently there’s land that’ll have to be expropriated and a cottage demolished. He said being on council meant he was in a conflict of interest, that he had plenty of work, and that his support for the project was a simple discharge of his civic duty.”

“I see,” said O’Reilly drily. He wasn’t impressed by Bertie’s
“discharge of civic duty.” It was quite possible that Bertie had
prior knowledge of Councillor Wilson’s motion. Or perhaps Bertie had nothing to do with McCluggage? One thing was certain,
however: McCluggage was going to make a pretty profit when the
cottage and land were purchased by council. It didn’t allay O’Reilly’s suspicions when the marquis continued.

“He even asked why, if council had had notions to straighten the bend, they hadn’t moved sooner and bought it from the estate. The house has been on the market for a year and now some chap from Belfast has an accepted offer on the place.”