An Irish Country Cottage Read online

  A silence fell on the room. O’Reilly heard low murmurings as neighbour consulted neighbour, then Gerry Shanks said, “Me and Mairead have a wee single bed and a cot we could borrow you.”

  Someone clapped, and a round of applause filled the room.

  One twin would have to sleep in the pram that had been given, but Tori and her other little sister would have places to sleep.

  Lenny Brown said, “Me and Connie can loan youse pillows and bedclothes.”

  Bertie said, “Me and Flo has an extra double bed and bedclothes, and there’s already a table in the kitchen. Looked a bit rickety, but you’re a carpenter, Donal. If it needs any fixing you can do it.”

  Mister Coffin said, “When they’re old enough to leave their mammy I’ll give you a kitten, Donal,” and laughter filled the room.

  “That’s very decent, Mister C., but I don’t need more mouths til feed, and Bluebird might not like it.”

  More laughter.

  Alan Hewitt said, “I’ve a transistor radio they can have.”

  “Does it get BBC?”

  “Aye.”

  “Oh,” said the voice, “we thought it would only get Radio Éireann, you oul’ Nationalist, you.”

  O’Reilly joined in the general merriment at the gentle leg pulling.

  In next to no time, offers had been made that would give the Donnellys Spartan but adequate furnishings without having to trouble the marquis.

  O’Reilly watched Donal glance from face to face. His eyes glistened.

  “I’ll tell youse all a wee thing,” said George Mawhinney. His head was as white and as round as a cue ball and he ran a small appliance shop on Main Street. “With those weans and their nappies til wash they’ll need a washing machine. I’ve a reconditioned Rolls Razor one they can have.”

  “Sorry, George,” said Donal. “Julie would love it, but there’s no electricity in the cottage.”

  “Oh.” Mister Mawhinney screwed up his face, fiddled with his grey moustache. “Well. I tell you what. If Julie brings her laundry til my store, she can pop it in the machine, and when it’s ready I’ll put it in a tumble dryer. By the time she’s finished her other messages the things’ll be dry and ready to take home.”

  “That,” Donal said, “would be wonderful. Thank you, George.”

  Even Bluebird was not overlooked. Willie Dunleavy had a spare kennel large enough for Donal’s greyhound.

  Donal was crying through his smile. “I … huh…” He swallowed. “I … that is, me and Julie and the wee ones…” he sniffed, “can’t thank everybody enough, so we can’t.”

  “And youse can use my lorry for pickup and delivery,” Bertie Bishop said, “once the cottage’s ready.”

  Alan, the committed Nationalist, walked over and shook the hand of Bertie Bishop, Worshipful Master of the Ballybucklebo Loyal Sons of William Orange Lodge. “That’s a very decent thing youse and everybody else has done, Mister Bishop. The only question is, how soon can we start?”

  O’Reilly was nearly choking on the lump in his throat. Looking at these two men, and knowing how evenly both sides of the sectarian divide were represented in this room, he thought there might yet be hope for the Wee North.

  * * *

  “… events have been steadily getting out of hand today, and this evening in Londonderry, since the arrival of the People’s Democracy march outside the Guildhall.” The TV reporter stood in front of a back-projection of a rioting mob. Flames limned dark bodies running and throwing things.

  Barry slid along the couch to where Sue sat with the tabby kitten asleep on her lap. He put his arm round his wife’s shoulders.

  Her eyes didn’t leave the screen and she held a finger in front of her lips.

  “Following an earlier violent confrontation at Burntollet Bridge, several marchers had been taken to Altnagelvin Hospital. We have been assured by a hospital spokesman that none of the injuries were serious.

  “Later today the arriving marchers were greeted outside the Guildhall by a huge cheering crowd of residents of Londonderry’s Bogside, a Roman Catholic district. A confrontation between those supporting the marchers and supporters of the Reverend Ian Paisley and his lieutenant, Major Ronald Bunting, who have been harassing the People’s Democracy since they left Belfast four days ago, was prevented by the Royal Ulster Constabulary. The police have managed to keep the factions apart.

  “Outside the Guildhall, after delivering their message to Derry city council, one of the People’s Democracy leaders, Mister Michael Farrell, supported by Miss Bernadette Devlin, addressed the marchers and asked them to make their way back peacefully to Belfast. Transport was waiting.”

  “And they did,” Sue said. “They’d made their point. They weren’t spoiling for a fight.”

  “Later this evening, the Loyalists held a protest meeting inside the Guildhall where the Reverend Paisley called for, and I quote, ‘a banning of these outlaw rebel marches.’”

  Sue said, “‘Love thy neighbour’?—but only your Protestant neighbour. Calls himself a man of God?”

  Barry tightened his grip round her shoulder.

  “An angry mob gathered outside the Guildhall. A prominent Nationalist leader, Mister Eamon McCann, addressed them and begged for calm, but he was ignored. Major Bunting’s car was overturned and set alight shortly before we came on the air.” The announcer turned and pointed at the back projection. Missiles were being hurled at the police officers. “The police are being pelted with bottles and prised-up cobblestones.”

  Barry saw ranks of helmeted men with full-body-length plastic shields locked in front of them, as the Anglo-Saxons of yore had formed their defensive shield wall, ducking as missiles rained on them. It must take courage, he thought, to advance as they were doing, with only a baton as a weapon. Rules of engagement forbade the drawing of sidearms unless the officer believed he was about to be shot at.

  “Listen to the mob, Barry.”

  The feral entity was roaring, raving, hurling insults, and over the cacophony came the rumbling of the rubber tyres propelling armoured vehicles from which high-pressure jets were being sprayed by water cannon.

  “Please turn it off, Barry,” Sue said. “I really don’t want to see any more.”

  He rose and switched off the set. “Pretty bloody grim,” he said. “What do your NICRA folks reckon? Will things calm down? Do you think there’s any hope for Ulster?”

  She shook her head. “No. No, I don’t. Why would there be? They’ve been at each other’s throats since the 1700s and the same grievances, real and imagined, are still there.”

  Barry said, “But surely there’s been some progress?”

  “Not with the bunch of Unionist politicians deliberately stoking unreasonable fears among the Protestant majority so they continue to vote Unionist and the MPs keep their seats, and that demagogue Paisley preaching virulent anti-popery.” She started to sob.

  Barry crossed the room, sat beside her, and put both arms round her. He murmured a trite, “It’ll be alright, love.”

  She leant her head against him and he felt her hot tears on his neck. “No. It won’t.”

  He sat back and saw how she lifted the kitten and cuddled it. She shook her head, took a massive breath, and with a quavering in her voice that sliced Barry to his soul, said, “And it’s not just the politics, Barry. I got my period today.” She stared into his eyes. “I’m still not pregnant.”

  12

  Builders Have Laboured

  A crust of snow crunched under the tyres as O’Reilly pulled up to Lars’s house in Portaferry. The thin layer was melting in patches on the roof of the heated greenhouse where his brother grew his precious orchids. In the nearby townland of Ballyphilip, the bells of Saint Patrick’s Church were summoning the faithful to eleven o’clock mass.

  “Stay, Kenny.” O’Reilly climbed out to open Kitty’s door. “Hop out, love.” Overhead two curlew, soulful of voice, their long, down-curving bills clearly etched against the sharp, cold blue of midwin
ter, kept a white cloud company as all three drifted across the sky. A light breeze whispered to the hedge around the garden.

  Kitty, in heavy boots, thick woollen pants, a white Aran sweater under her overcoat, gloves, and a knitted cap, stepped out. “Nippy,” she said. Her breath hung wraith-like on the air.

  O’Reilly fetched Kenny from the backseat. “Sit.” The dog obeyed. His tail made lazy sweeps through the snow, clearing a fan-shaped arc.

  Lars appeared on the front steps carrying a blackthorn walking stick, the ear flaps of his deerstalker tied down. “Welcome. Kitty, you’re looking lovely.”

  “Thank you, kind sir,” she said.

  He rubbed his gloved hands together. “Bit brisk, but I liked your idea, Finn, of a walk before lunch.” He stepped back a pace. “Just keep Kenny at a safe distance.”

  It was two years since Kenny, a gift as a pup to Lars from his then lady-love Myrna Ferguson, had provoked a severe allergic reaction in his new master and the O’Reillys had adopted the Lab.

  “He’ll not bother you,” O’Reilly said. “He’d learned not to jump up on anyone by the time he was five months. Heel, sir.”

  Kenny tucked in.

  O’Reilly took Kitty’s hand and fell into step with his big brother.

  “Finn, it’s been a while since you’ve been down. I thought we’d walk over to the shore. Would you like to visit the big field? It’s on the way.”

  “Please.” O’Reilly’s word was soft.

  They chatted about what was almost certainly upmost in the minds of all Ulsterfolk, yesterday’s events in Londonderry and reports of rioting in Belfast today. Eventually Kitty said, “Boys, it’s awful I know, but today’s a lovely day and so peaceful here. Can we try to forget about this business for a while? Please?”

  O’Reilly took his brother’s silence for assent. The three walked on.

  As they turned into the big field and crossed the frost-rimed grass tussocks, he inhaled the salty tang of drying seaweed, heard the sea’s soft come-away-with-me song to the shore, and watched a lazy curl of peat smoke drifting up from the chimney of a nearby farm labourer’s cottage. They stopped at one corner of the field in the dappled shade of a leafless elm.

  Kenny needed no command. He sat quietly.

  Two raised mounds lay side by side. O’Reilly took off his paddy hat and stared at the newer one. Och, Arthur. Arthur. The first and last lines of Kipling’s “His Apologies” ran in O’Reilly’s head:

  Master, this is Thy Servant. He is rising eight weeks old …

  Lord, make haste with Thy Lightnings and grant him a quick release!

  In the poem, which encapsulated a faithful dog’s life, O’Reilly saw Arthur Guinness’s long one from puppyhood to creaking old age. It had been a full one and, O’Reilly was sure, a happy one. He bowed his head and a single warm tear trickled, soon icy cold on his cheek. He felt Kitty squeeze his hand. He sniffed, cleared his throat, and said, “Sorry. Thank you both.” He inhaled. Put on his hat. “Now where to, Lars?”

  “Over the hills a bit, down to near the shore, then back home for lunch,” Lars said.

  They set off. Overhead a flock of glaucous gulls squabbled and screeched. At least they kept their quarrels to yelling at each other, O’Reilly thought. No one got hurt.

  “Hey on out,” he said, and Kenny dashed ahead, quartering the ground, nose down, tail waving. He’d never quite replace Arthur Guinness in O’Reilly’s heart, but Kenny was a damn fine gun dog and a loyal companion. O’Reilly smiled. The big fellah charged in, making the stems of a clump of yellow-flowered whin bushes swish, just the way Arthur had in his younger days. Their soft almond scent was all pervasive now in the brittle, cold air. Two rabbits raced out from the far side, scuts flashing, big ears flopping. And, as the well-mannered animal he was, Kenny disdained to give chase. O’Reilly watched the creatures disappear into a burrow.

  “Kenny is well behaved, Finn,” Lars said. “You’ve done an excellent job training him.”

  “Thank you,” O’Reilly said.

  They had crested a hill and now were close to the foreshore.

  “You’ll probably not approve, Lars, you old preservationist, but Kitty and I went to John MacNeill’s pheasant shoot on New Year’s Day. Kenny took to the work like a champion.”

  “I actually don’t mind about the pheasants, really,” Lars said, “they’re hand-reared.” He pointed out over the lough to where a gaggle of brown birds with white under their tails and black necks and heads flew in a ragged V. They discussed their affairs in low, hoarse honks. They were smaller than grey-lag geese, but larger than mallard. “Those are the kind that interest me. Pale-bellied Brent geese. And they’re making a strong comeback on Strangford Lough.”

  “We used to shoot them before the war,” O’Reilly said, “but they’re protected now.”

  “And a damn good thing,” Lars said. “Their numbers were down to about six thousand in the ’40s and ’50s—eighty-five percent of the world’s entire population. Strangford’s a perfect winter habitat for them if they’re left alone.” He smiled. “And the numbers are going up.”

  “Gentlemen.” Kitty had taken off her gloves and was blowing on her bare hands. “Your lovely geese have eiderdown for insulation, but I’m getting a tad cold. Anyone for home?”

  “Of course,” Lars said, “and I’m sure when we get there, a hot half-un would be revivifying.”

  “You, dear brother, have said a mouthful.”

  “It’s quicker if we take the road. I don’t want Kitty to get chilled. We’ll go through there.” Lars pointed to a five-bar gate set between low dry stone walls.

  Once on the road, O’Reilly strode along, impervious to the cold. A small man not more than five foot tall was coming toward them. As he neared, O’Reilly recognised the farmworker Jimmy Caulwell’s weather-beaten face and thick ears that stuck out from the sides of his head.

  “Hello, Jimmy,” Lars said. “How are you?” He explained to Kitty, “Jimmy’s a great handyman and he helps me with my orchids too.”

  “I’m rightly, sir.” He raised his cap to Kitty, who smiled.

  “Jimmy, you remember my brother, Doctor O’Reilly, and this is Mrs. O’Reilly.”

  “Dead pleased til meet you, so I am, missus, and aye, I do remember the doctor. I met him the day my ferret had killed a rabbit underground and your big black dog helped me dig him out.” He looked at Kenny. “The ould fellah not with us anymore?” There was sadness in his blue eyes.

  O’Reilly shook his head and felt a pang.

  “Dead sorry to hear that, so I am, sir.”

  “It’s alright. He had a good long life.” And, anxious to change the subject, O’Reilly said to Kitty, “Jimmy did me a great favour once. He gave a home to a fugitive ferret who had only been doing what ferrets do, but made the mistake of nearly getting caught.”

  Kitty laughed, but Jimmy’s face grew long. “Poor ould Butch is gone too, you know. Ferrets only live about five or six years, but he was a ferocious wee rabbit hunter for all he’d been someone’s pet afore. They never forget what comes natural, so they don’t.”

  “I’m sorry to hear he’s gone,” Kitty said.

  Jimmy shrugged. “Sure, we all get old.” He hawked, glanced at Kitty, and clearly thought better about spitting. “Right now all of us here in Ulster have a lot more til worry about than dumb animals.”

  O’Reilly was not offended. Farmworkers like Jimmy were a lot less attached to their beasts. “See them there riots in Derry and now Belfast? They’re still at it the day.” He shook his head. “I was at eight o’clock mass and the priest said the good Lord told us to forgive them that trespasses against us, turn the other cheek, but, I don’t know. I don’t think I could if a bunch of Loyalists…” He inhaled deeply. “Och, well. Maybe it won’t come til that.” He lifted his hat to Kitty. “Nice til have met you, Mrs. O’Reilly, and saving your presence, you look like you’re foundered.”

  Kitty smiled. “It is a bit nippy.”

>   “I need to be running on too. A fox got into Mrs. Crawford’s chicken coop last night and I promised I’d take a look-see. She’s always good about giving a fellah a good strong cup of tea in his hand and a bit of barmbrack on a cold day.” His laugh was quick and a little wheezy and he lifted his duncher again and turned to go.

  “Bye, Jimmy. Don’t forget, I need you on Thursday,” Lars said as the little man strode off.

  Jimmy waved in acceptance.

  Lars said, “Come on, Kitty. Not much farther. Let’s get you home.”

  They strode off.

  O’Reilly said, “What do you make of Jimmy’s remark, Lars?”

  Lars pursed his lips. “We’ve been through all the troubles since 1916 on this benighted island. I keep hoping folks’ll see sense, but when an honest, uncomplicated fellah like Jimmy Caulwell is thinking about defence—or is it reprisals? I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  “Last night a fox killed a bunch of Mrs. Crawford’s hens, perfectly natural for the animal to do. I wonder, just wonder, is attacking each other over our differences simply an inevitable part of human nature?”

  “If it is, brother—the Lord help us. Ulster could be in for a lot of trouble.”

  * * *

  O’Reilly, driving the big Rover along the Bangor to Belfast Road, was replete after a lunch of lentil soup and steak and kidney pudding, both prepared on Friday by Lars’s housekeeper and heated up by Kitty.

  Lars’s wistful parting had been, “When you see the MacNeills, please give them my regards.” Did his brother still carry a torch for Lady Myrna Ferguson? O’Reilly nosed the car down the drive to Ballybucklebo House, parked in the stable yard, and got out. He opened the car door for Kitty and took his wife’s hand. “You, my dear, are getting out. But you, sir,” he said to Kenny, “must stay. A building site’s no place for a dog.”

  The morning’s dusting of snow had melted and the ground underfoot was muddy. Even at this distance, he could hear sawing, hammering, and voices, and not only men’s. If that wasn’t Cissie Sloan’s voice yelling, “I need more water, so I do,” he’d eat his paddy hat. Alan Hewitt’s observation that the wives would help too must have come to pass. A thin curl of what smelled like coal smoke rose above the shrubbery, so the kitchen fire must have been lit.