An Irish Country Wedding (44 page)

There was a mumbling of agreement.

And a row and a ruction then began, O’Reilly thought. “You bide, Jeremy,” he said, “and Donal? Houl’ your wheest.” He’d try
to thank Donal later privately for his support. Country GPs
weren’t
rich no matter what some folks here might think. “So fill your
glasses.”

There was a great clinking of bottle necks.

“Grand,” he said. “Now rise with me and toast my family and the wedding party.”

He watched everyone get to their feet except Bridget Doherty, whose arthritis kept her chairbound. A couple of chairs were overturned, but a myriad voices roared, “To the doctor’s family and the wedding party.”

A single voice yelled, “May they be half an hour in heaven before the divil knows they’re dead,” and among general laughter
and murmuring of voices everyone was seated and eventually si
lenced so he could continue.

“I’ve been saving the best for last, of course. It is my privelege to thank the girl I met in Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital in 1934. The lovely woman who came back into my life last year, to whom I proposed in April, and who, God bless you, Kitty, consented to becoming Mrs. Caitlin O’Reilly, my wife. With no disrespect to any of the other lovely ladies here, will you all please rise again and raise your glasses to Kitty O’Reilly, the true shining Star of the County Down?”

The crowd rose and the response chased a flock of starlings from one of the elm trees. Arthur stuck his head out from under the table to see what was going on, muttered, and retreated to his second bowl of Smithwick’s.

Fingal bent and firmly kissed Kitty and tingled from head to toe when she flicked her tongue on his and said softly as they parted, “I love you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly. Thank
you
.”

*   *   *

As soon as most of the crowd had finished dessert, Mister Robinson again signalled for silence. O’Reilly surreptitiously undid his top trouser button. That sherry trifle—Kinky’s he was sure—had been blissful. With just one speech, Barry’s, to go it wouldn’t be long until he could get out of this damn uniform.

“It is time for me to call upon the best man, Doctor Barry
Laverty, to propose the health of the bride and groom.”

Applause as Barry rose and pulled papers from his inside pocket. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen,” said Barry, glancing at his notes, “it is the task of the best man to toast the bride and groom. Nothing could give me greater pleasure. I’ve been here for one year, and no young doctor could have asked for a better
teacher. For this I must thank Doctor O’Reilly. Where else could I
have learned that the correct treatment for a sprained but dirty ankle is to hurl the patient bodily into a rosebush?” Chuckling started.

“Who else could have taught me that the term ‘The quick and the dead’ might be applied to unwary cyclists who don’t know to take avoiding action and head for the ditch when a certain doctor is driving by?” O’Reilly joined in as the chuckling grew into roars of laughter.

Barry softened his voice. “Who, but Doctor O’Reilly, aching to watch his belovèd rugby football on the telly, would ignore that and rather than wait for an ambulance load a little girl with appendicitis into his car,” O’Reilly heard the affection in Barry’s voice, “and run her up to the Royal?”

Jeannie Kennedy was sitting with her parents, smiling at him.

“Or wait the night through at that hospital to be sure a patient with bleeding into his skull was going to be all right?”

The laughter had gone and remarks like, “Right enough,” and “He’s a sound man, our doctor,” could be heard. “You should buy himself a jar, Jeremy, so you should.”

Fingal recognised Dermot Kennedy’s voice.

“And contrary to popular belief, Doctor O’Reilly
can
admit he’s wrong. Last year I advised him research suggested smoking is dangerous. He pooh-poohed that and on the same day went wildfowling. He’d run out of matches so he took the gunpowder from a cartridge, put it on a flat stone, stuck his pipe in it, struck a spark from a flint
 
… and blew his eyebrows off. When he came home, looking like he’d just spent the weekend mining coal in Wales, he had the courtesy to say to me, ‘Begob, Barry, you might just be right. Smoking can be bloody dangerous.’”

The laughter was so deafening that as it subsided not only was Arthur howling, but at least ten other dogs were joining in.

Eventually all was calm enough for Barry to continue. “Doctor O’Reilly, you may not be gentle, but in my book you are a perfect knight
—
”

A nice twist on Chaucer’s “He was a veray parfait gentil knight,” O’Reilly thought.

“And every knight errant must woo and win a fair lady. You, Doctor O’Reilly, have found her. Since last year I have been privi
leged to know the woman who was Kitty O’Hallorhan. She is
lovely, as you all can see
—
”

There was quiet applause and at least two wolf whistles.

“As fine a nurse as there is anywhere in Ulster
—
”

“In Ireland,” Charlie Greer roared. “And I should know, she works with me.”

“And a complete woman, who as a skilled oil painter has her
Shannon in Flood
hanging in the Royal Hibernian Academy in Dublin. Her
Donegal Peat Bog
series graces the Ulster Museum.” He looked straight at O’Reilly. “You, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, are a very lucky man.”

Be God I am, and be damned to the throng. Fingal leant over and planted another kiss on Kitty’s lips.

“Fingal, to cite sixteenth-century writer John Ford, ‘The joys of marriage are heaven on earth, life’s paradise.’ May it ever be so for you both.” Barry raised his glass and said, smiling at Fingal and Kitty, “Will the company charge their glasses, rise, and with me drink the toast, ‘Long life and happiness to the bride and groom, Doctor and Mrs. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.’”

The toast was so loud and the applause so strenuous that not only did the starlings, which had resettled in the elm tree, take wing once more, but the azure sky above the Ballybucklebo Hills was alive with the cawing of startled jackdaws and rooks.

46

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

Thank goodness that was over. Barry sat and took a deep breath. This public speaking was not his idea of the best way to enjoy a party. He could sympathise with Lars. Barry’d spent hours poring over O’Reilly’s
Oxford Dictionary of Quotations
to find
les mots justes
. He hoped his speech had been all right.

One look at Sue Nolan told him that at least one member of the audience had thought it was. “You were wonderful. I’m proud of you.” Her face, beneath the tiny pillbox hat that perched on her upswept copper hair, was made lovelier by a wide smile, and her eyes sparkled.

“Thanks, I’d like you to be.” He smiled back at her. He meant that. This schoolmistress had struck a chord with Barry, one he’d not fully recognised, even before Patricia had announced that she was finished with him. He was beginning to understand why since their dates had become more intimate after her near drowning. There were real depths to Sue Nolan, and that they ran under a sexy exterior was no hindrance to his increasing feelings. He was looking forward to having time alone with her after the party, but for now he’d have to bide.

“I think that’s it as far as speeches go,” he said, “and with a bit of luck we can take it easy now, but I need to have a word with one or two folks first. Tie up a few loose ends.” Barry looked round to see Fingal on his feet.

“I’m going in to change,” he said. “Back in a minute.” And holding his jacket closed in front made his way to the back door. Kitty had turned and was deep in conversation with Jane Hoey.

Barry said to Sue, “Can you do without me for a wee while? I do need to speak to a patient, Aggie Arbuthnot. She’s a few tables back. I’ll not be long.”

Sue smiled at him and shook her head. “Do you never stop thinking about your patients?”

Barry thought for a moment. “Fingal never does,” he said.

Her smile broadened. “Off you trot,” she said. “I’m quite content to sit here and watch the world go by
 
… as long as you don’t abandon me for too long.” She cocked her head and blew him a kiss.

“I promise,” he said, and set off, and before he passed the first row of tables he saw Helen Hewitt waving and holding a thumb
up. He called, “See you in a minute, Helen,” but he was standing
right beside Doctor Fitzpatrick’s table. Noblesse oblige, he thought, and stopped to exchange a few words with the lugubrious medical advisor who tended to the sick and suffering of the Kinnegar, just up the road. “Good afternoon,” Barry said, noting the sun glinting from the man’s gold pince nez. “Lovely day.”

“Indeed. Indeed,” Fitzpatrick said, his prominent Adam’s ap
ple jerking as he spoke, “and a beautiful bride.” Barry thought the man may have sounded a little wistful. “I knew them both years ago. Fingal and I were students together, you know.” He cleared his throat. “I wish them every happiness.”

The air was rent by the sound of pipes. A space had been cleared at the back of the garden, folding tables and chairs propped against the fence. Dapper Frew tore into a double jig in 6/8 time and two sets, men with their jackets off, women now hatless, were dancing away.

“And so do we,” said Flo Bishop, who was sitting at the same table, “don’t we, Bertie?”

Bishop grunted. Barry could understand why.

Flo nudged the councillor and raised her voice again. “Don’t
 
… we
 
… Bertie?” She thrust her face closer to his.

“Every happiness,” he said as if each word was a tooth being drawn without the benefit of an anaesthetic.

“I thank you on their behalf,” Barry said.

“Doctor Laverty, dear. I think the doctor and his wife make a lovely couple, so I do.” Cissie Sloan was not to be denied. She looked past Barry and he followed her gaze as it settled on Kinky and Archie. “And I think Kinky’s taken a shine to Archie. Archie’s a good man, so he is, and Kinky has a heart of corn
—
”

“She has that,” Barry said, and smiled. “We’re very happy that
—
”

“And no harm to youse, sir, but I think, we all think, don’t we, Flo? That youse and Miss Nolan make a lovely couple too.”

Barry cleared his throat. “I thought,” he said, trying to change the subject, “your harmonium playing was terrific.”

She glowed. “I’ve always loved music. There’s a great wee song, so there is. It’s fit for today.” She threw back her head and, ignoring the pipes, began in a clear contralto,

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

That going to a wedding has the makin’s of another
…
”

Dapper’s pipes gave counterpoint.

“That’s lovely, Cissie,” Barry said, searching for an escape route. “Your singing’s as tuneful as your harmonium playing. Now, if you’ll excuse me?”

“Pay you no heed to Cissie,” Flo said. “You run along, and Doctor? We all wish youse well, and everybody I know wants yiz to come back, don’t we, Bertie?”

“Och, aye,” said the councillor, and Barry heard all the enthusiasm of a heretic anticipating a consultation with the Spanish Inquisition.

He moved on, smiling at folks he recognised, accepting their good wishes, thanking them, shaking hands. Funny, he thought, in one year I’ve gone from being an only child to having a family of hundreds, at least that’s what it feels like. I
will
miss them.

“Aggie,” he said when he arrived at her table, “how are you?”

“All the better for seeing yourself, Doctor dear,” she said. “The oul’ hind leg’s no bother at all now.” She lowered her voice. “And youse must be a miracle worker. The Big Doctor’s keeping me on the sick until the nineteenth of July. It’s going to make a powerful difference.”

And hadn’t O’Reilly sometime in the past year remarked that making differences in small ways was what country general practice was all about?

“Mind you,” she said, “I’ve still not found another job.”

“You don’t need to worry about that, Aggie
—
”

“Because,” and she laughed, “because I’m for going til meet a rich man here today, get swept off my feet, and taken away to the Casbah?”

She’s seen too many Errol Flynn films, Barry thought, but said, “I don’t know about that, but Doctor O’Reilly and I did get a word with Mister McCluggage
—
”

“And?” He heard the hope in her voice and saw a smile start.

“He wants you to go and see him on Monday morning. He won’t give you your old job back
—
”

Her face crumpled.

“
—
but he’s going to train you as a buttonholer.”

Her eyes widened, mouth opened, and she drew in a deep shuddering breath before whispering, “Me? A buttonholer? My God.” She frowned. “Honest? Honest to God? You’re not codding me, sir?”

He shook his head. “I’d not make fun of you, Aggie. Actually we didn’t think Mister McCluggage was such a bad fellow. He told us that you’re a hard worker, and he was sorry to have had to let you go.”

She sniffed. “About as sorry as Pharaoh was to see the back of the Israelites after all them Egyptians got a bath in the Red Sea, I’m sure.”

“He did say he was sorry, and Mister McCluggage understands why you have to sit down at your work,” Barry said. “Doctor O’Reilly was there too.”

She cocked her head. “If you say so, sir, but, oh Lord, I’m all overcome. A buttonholer? That’s dead on so it is. Wheeker. And buttonholers make seventeen and six a week more than folders. Thank youse and Doctor O’Reilly very, very much.”

“There’s no need for thanks,” Barry said. “It’s our job. I’m just sorry I’ll not be here to see you settled into your new post.”

“We’ll all miss you, Doc,” Aggie said. “Good luck til yiz, sir.”

He smiled. “Thanks.” Someone was tugging at his sleeve. He turned to see Mairead, and Angus and Siobhan. “Have youse a wee minute, Doctor?” Mairead asked.