An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  Kitty smiled. “I like it. It shows you care.”

  “I do, very much. I could use a break too. I thought she was a charming young woman when we met her in Barcelona at El Crajeco Loco. I’d love to see her again.” Suddenly, he felt in a celebratory mood. Kitty was beginning to get the message about work. And when he thought of his wife’s old romance, not a single spark of concern ignited in O’Reilly’s heart. That hadn’t been the case three years ago when he’d first learned about it. Now, despite the news from Derry and the dull throb in his jaw, he cheered. “Hooray.”

  O’Reilly’s yell woke Kenny, who jumped to his feet and barked, occasioning her ladyship to stand, arch her back, and spit.

  “It’s all right, Kenny,” O’Reilly said. “Settle down.”

  Kenny flopped back down in his place by the unlit fire and closed his eyes. The dog was right to get excited, but not as excited as he was. He took a great swallow and finished his Bass—and quite forgot to tell Kitty about Emer.

  18

  My Glory Was I Had Such Friends

  “Come in, Bertie. Flo.” O’Reilly held the front door to Number One open. “Donal and Julie are upstairs with Kitty, but I’d like you two to come into the surgery.” He closed the door behind them and led the way. “About your immunisations. It seems you should get your yellow fever ten days before your trip, so we’ll do that one in September, but the professor in Belfast says I can give you the others, the typhoid and the combined diphtheria-tetanus-polio, two weeks before you go or even earlier. I have them ready now, and your chloroquine tablets.”

  “Dead on,” Bertie said. “Come on, Flo.”

  “Have a pew,” O’Reilly said. “Who’s first?”

  “Me.” Bertie shrugged off the jacket of his dark blue suit. “Into my shoulder? Which one?”

  “Left, please.”

  Bertie loosened his tie, unbuttoned his top two shirt buttons, and pulled the sleeve down to expose his shoulder. O’Reilly dabbed a spot with a swab soaked in methylated spirits, pinched up a fold of skin and muscle, and rapidly gave two intramuscular injections, each punctuated by Bertie’s sudden indrawing of breath. “All done.”

  “Thanks, Fingal.” Bertie did up his buttons and adjusted his tie. “It’s only a couple of wee stings, Flo. Nothing til worry about.”

  Flo swallowed. “I hate jags, but if I must, I must. You mind, Doctor, I fainted six years back when you give me penicillin?”

  “I do. Please try not to today. I might suggest—”

  Bertie interrupted, “Never worry your head, Flo. I’ll catch you if you start to go.”

  She smiled her gratitude. She had a pale green cardigan draped over her shoulders and removed it. The matching dress beneath was sleeveless and revealed a meaty upper arm.

  The injections were rapidly given. Flo re-draped her cardigan. “I’m glad that’s over.” She smiled. “And I didn’t pass out.”

  “Now, before we join the others—” O’Reilly took a seat at the rolltop desk. “I must warn you that some folks can get a bit sore at the injection sites. Headaches, nausea, low fever, diarrhoea, bellyache—” He consulted a sheet on his desk. “Let’s see, stuffy nose, joint pains, they can all occur.”

  Flo said, “Sounds ferocious, so it does.”

  “Probably all told only about ten percent of folks do get something. If any of them happen and you’re worried, give us a call.” He handed Bertie a paper bag. “That’s your chloroquine. The ship’s doctor will advise you about which countries you’ll need anti-malarial protection in, but you each take one dose of chloroquine per week starting at least one week before travelling to the area where malaria transmission occurs, one dose per week while there, and for four consecutive weeks after leaving. I’ve written those instructions and put your certificates of immunization in the bag.”

  “Goodness,” said Flo. “I feel like Doctor Livingstone, ready to explore darkest Africa.” She was smiling, but O’Reilly sensed the smile was covering up some apprehension.

  “Except the good doctor probably only had quinine to keep him safe from malaria,” said Bertie. “We’ll have something more potent than that, won’t we, Fingal?”

  “Indeed, you will. Chloroquine was discovered in 1934 but initially thought to be a little too potent.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Flo said.

  “No need to worry. During the war, the U.S. government sponsored clinical trials that proved conclusively it was superior to quinine and safe for use, and that’s a good thing. Having malaria’s not funny. U.S. civilian doctors have been using this against it since 1947.”

  “Fair enough,” Bertie said. “A million thanks, Fingal.”

  O’Reilly shrugged. “Come on upstairs for drinks and nibbles.”

  “Nibbles?” Bertie rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Now you’re talking. Come on, Flo.”

  Kitty and O’Reilly had earlier arranged six chairs in a semicircle facing one of the bow windows. A table, set in the bay, was arrayed with plates, forks, and napkins. Kinky had prepared her favourite party fare—smoked salmon on wheaten bread, sausage rolls, pickled herrings, and chicken liver pâté. Kitty had just finished making melba toast to accompany the pâté before the guests started to arrive.

  As O’Reilly reached the open door to the lounge, he surveyed the pleasant scene before him. Lady Macbeth was curled up in front of the unlit fire. Donal and Julie sat beside Kitty, looking at the view past the steeple of the Presbyterian church, over roofs of houses and across the breadth of Belfast Lough to the hills of Antrim, lighter blue on this clear late-summer Saturday. When they heard O’Reilly and the Bishops coming in, all three heads turned to the door and Donal scrambled to his feet.

  Kitty said, “Lovely to see you both.”

  Bertie and Flo greeted Kitty, Donal, and Julie as O’Reilly made his way to the drinks table. “What can I get you?”

  Flo said, “Small sherry, please, and sit you down, Donal. It’s just me.”

  Bertie asked for bottled beer.

  Fingal gave his guests their glasses. “Now come and have a seat.”

  Kitty passed the Bishops plates, forks, and napkins. “Please help yourselves.”

  O’Reilly, needing no bidding, loaded a plate from the food on offer. He raised his Jameson. “Cheers. To friends.”

  Five voices returned the toast.

  “You have a wonderful view from up here,” said Julie.

  “Thank you.” Kitty smiled. “It is peaceful.”

  “Which, if youse don’t mind me saying so,” said Donal, “is more than you can say for the poor wee north. Have you been watching it on the telly, er, Fingal?”

  Clearly Donal was still a bit uncomfortable with using O’Reilly’s Christian name. He sighed. “Hasn’t everybody?”

  “What a relief,” said Kitty quickly, “when the soldiers replaced the police on Thursday and, praise be, the people of the Bogside realized the troops were there to keep the peace and actually welcomed them and the fighting stopped.”

  “I grant you it’s calmer,” Bertie said. “But it’s desperate, so it is. In Belfast, folks have died or been wounded so badly, they might not recover.”

  O’Reilly stole a glance at Kitty. She may have had some of them on her operating table.

  “Lots of properties set on fire.” Bertie took a sip of his beer. “That’s why soldiers of the Queen’s Regiment and the Royal Regiment of Wales got moved into Belfast.”

  “I hear things are quietening down a bit there,” Donal said, “and that the troops are being welcomed there too as peacekeepers.”

  Kitty said, “That’s promising. I hope it lasts.”

  “At least we’ve been lucky here in Ballybucklebo,” Flo said. “None of that rubbish here. Nor likely to be, I’m happy to say.”

  “That’s true,” Bertie said. “And I’m sure our wee hooleys on Saturday nights at the club are helping. We’re having a hop the night for the youngsters. Will you be there, Fingal and Kitty?”
>
  Kitty laughed, glancing at O’Reilly’s waistline. “I think our hopping days are over, Bertie.”

  “But we’ll try to get to next Saturday’s dance,” O’Reilly said.

  “It’s the Belmont Swing College again,” Julie said. “I like their music. Traditional New Orleans jazz.” She smiled at Donal. “You’d not think it til look at your man there, but Donal can jive to beat Bannagher.”

  Donal smiled and shrugged.

  “Speaking of things at the club,” Bertie said, “reminds me. I seen the marquis about a job he’ll have for you, Donal, and the company while me and Flo’s away on our cruise. I’ll tell you about it Monday. This here’s no place for til be talking shop with all this grand food and the ladies present, and all.”

  “Fair enough, Bertie.” Donal grimaced. “But I’ll be up til my neck with building them there new flats.”

  O’Reilly asked, “How’s that coming along, Donal?”

  “Pretty well. Me and Bertie’s got most of it ready to go. We’ll start pouring the foundations next week and they’ll be dry and ready for us till start on the building proper by late September, early October. With work for his lordship too, I’ll be running around like a blue-arsed fly.” He clapped his hand over his mouth, which had formed a soundless O. “I’m sorry, ladies, but I forget my manners when I’m a bit worried, like, and I am now. Some of the suppliers are real chancers. You have til watch them like a hawk or they’ll try to give you short orders. Scam you, like.” Donal glanced at Bertie to find the man glaring at him. “Sorry, Bertie. You just said we shouldn’t be talking shop and here’s me blethering on about the suppliers. Sorry.”

  O’Reilly smiled as the older man’s look softened to one of pride.

  “Aye, well, you’re dedicated to the job. I like that. But don’t worry about the suppliers. Who better to recognize a scam artist than you, Donal Donnelly?” Bertie chuckled, Donal looked uncomfortable, and both took hearty gulps of their beers.

  Flo said, “You’re forgiven for your slip of the tongue, Donal, and for talking shop. We’re none of us shrinking violets here, are we?” Flo nodded to Kitty and Julie.

  “I’ve been known to use some colourful language in my day,” said Kitty.

  “Aye, so have I,” said Julie with a giggle.

  “Don’t I know it,” said Donal.

  “Now, Donal Donnelly. Don’t you go telling on me.”

  Flo turned to Donal. “But I’m sorry to hear you’re fretting. My Bertie says all the time how well you’re doing the managing. Isn’t that right, dear?”

  Bertie nodded his affirmation. “I’ve no worries about you, Donal, and speaking of the marquis, he told me that the ould do-re-mi from the club functions is rolling in rightly. He reckons there’ll be enough for us to send some kiddies to an interdenominational camp next summer.”

  Julie said, “Why, that’s wonderful.”

  “Aye,” Bertie said. “I do hope things’ll stay quiet, but…” He shrugged. “And I know it may sound a bit disloyal to the rest of Ulster—but at least me and Flo’s going til get a break from it on our cruise if any more trouble does start again.”

  Donal chuckled. “Lucky youse. Julie and me’s not.”

  Bertie helped himself to another sausage roll. “I’ll be here and available to help right up until we leave. Our cruise leaves Southampton on the evening of Monday the fifteenth of September. We’ll be crossing on the Liverpool ferry on the Sunday before.”

  Flo said, “I know how much Bertie’s looking forward to this. Me? I’m a wee bit nervous.” She glanced down. “I’ve never been out of Ireland in my puff.” She smiled at Bertie. “But I know you’re bound and determined, love, so I’m sure it will be all right.”

  Wither thou goest, I will go, O’Reilly thought, and he’d been right earlier in the surgery. Flo was apprehensive. “I saw a lot of strange places during the war, Flo. I think you’re going to find it all most interesting. Honestly.”

  “Thank you, Fingal.”

  “Of course you will,” Bertie said, “and, Donal, don’t you get worried. I’m still here for another month and I’ll do everything I can to help as long as I’m here.”

  “And Donal’s very happy about that, aren’t you?” Julie said. She sipped her sherry.

  “I’m very proud and grateful, and dead thankful, so I am.”

  O’Reilly, who had just tucked into some smoked salmon, heard the sincerity in the man’s voice.

  “Look at it this way, son. Me and Flo’s no spring chickens. You’re a young man at the beginning of what I hope will be a very successful career as a builder. Success means you’ve til work hard when you’re young so when you start to get on a bit you can slow down. Like us.”

  O’Reilly smiled, caught Kitty’s eye, held her gaze, and decided this was neither the time nor place to start nagging her about particulars on her plan to slow down. He looked at Bertie. “True on you, Councillor” was all he said. He took another pull on his whiskey and lifted a pickled herring onto his plate. “And when our friend Consuela comes over in September from Barcelona, Kitty and I are going to take two weeks off.”

  “Imagine that,” said Flo. “You folks knowing someone from Barcelona. Who is she, Kitty?”

  “A lovely young woman I met in a place called San Blas in Tenerife when she was a little girl during the Spanish Civil War. Fingal and I saw her in ’66. She hopes to visit us next month.”

  “And Bertie and Flo, that reminds me,” said O’Reilly. “Could you book the club for Saturday the thirteenth? When we were at your house in July, I promised you a proper sendoff. Where better to have it?”

  Flo said, “That would be lovely. Thank you, Fingal. I’ll get Kinky and Maggie Houston to cater, and I’m sure Alan Hewitt will look after the bar.”

  Bertie tucked his thumbs into his waistcoat. “I’ll see to the booking.”

  O’Reilly held up his now-empty glass. “All this chitchat has given me a thirst. Who’s for another, and let’s hope this little part of Ireland has enough wit to still be settled down before you two leave, and stay that way.”

  19

  Put a Duck on a Lake

  “I’m awful sorry, sir—” A police constable in a dark green uniform stooped to speak through the Rover’s open window. The officer had flagged O’Reilly down on the Portaferry side of Greyabbey where the road separated the waters of Strangford Lough from the walls of the Mount Stewart estate. “But may I ask what you’re doing on this road at five of a Monday morning.” He was one of two manning a checkpoint. This kind of thing had become more prevalent all over Ulster since the rioting in August. British soldiers now patrolled the streets to assist the police in maintaining law and order.

  O’Reilly did not like the increased police and army presence one bit but understood the need for it. “Because, Officer, it is the first of September, the opening day of wildfowling season, and I am keeping a promise I made eighteen days ago to that great lummox of a Labrador in the backseat that we’d get a day on the lough down the stream at Lisbane. I’m here at five because opening day’s a prime opportunity. The birds have been left in peace all summer and will be less wary, and as a bonus there’s going to be a happy combination of dawn and an ebb tide shortly before six A.M.”

  “Right enough? Them’s good conditions, all right.” The officer shone his torch into the backseat where Kenny lay. “Handsome big fellah, and dawn flight’s a good time. I don’t want you til miss the tide. I like a shot myself once in a while, but I have til ask to see your firearm certificate, sir, and shooting licence.”

  “Bugger,” O’Reilly muttered under his breath. He rummaged in the inside pocket of his waterproof jacket. “Here.” He handed over a buff-coloured document certifying that he did own the weapon and that it had been properly registered. Enclosed in the certificate was the annual licence required to be able to shoot waterfowl. Taking game birds like pheasants and grouse, and hares, required possession of a different document.

  “Doctor O�
�Reilly? Would you be related to Mister O’Reilly, the solicitor in Portaferry?”

  “He’s my brother. I’m having lunch with him later.”

  “He’s a sound man. I’m sorry til have delayed you, sir.” He handed back O’Reilly’s documents. “Have a good day at the ducks.” He saluted by touching the peak of his bus-conductor’s-type cap with its harp cap badge.

  O’Reilly tucked his papers back into his inside pocket.

  The other officer lifted the red-and-white-striped pole.

  O’Reilly drove on, sad that his Ulster had come to this but heartened by the thought that the authorities were taking steps to try to regain control. And things were much quieter now, with both sides accepting the military as peacekeepers. But how much longer would it last, this “honeymoon period,” as Lieutenant-General Sir Ian Freeland, the commanding officer in Northern Ireland, called this truce between the troops and the local people and between the two factions? That was anyone’s guess.

  As O’Reilly passed through the village of Kircubbin, he could see that to the east the night’s black velvet was softening to the greys of a gentleman’s formal morning gloves. Never a patient driver and now running late, O’Reilly let the Rover 2000 have her head between the outskirts of Kirkubbin until, to the accompaniment of happy mutterings from Kenny in the back, the car was parked outside the churchyard in the townland of Lisbane.

  O’Reilly let Kenny out. The big dog ran to the churchyard wall and promptly cocked a leg. O’Reilly took a leg-of-mutton leather gun case from the backseat, removed the barrels, stock, and fore-end, and put the case back in the car. With long-practiced ease, he joined the barrels to the stock and secured them by inserting the back of the fore-end into its place in the stock and clipped the rest under the twin barrels.

  He took his game bag from the backseat, slung it over his right shoulder, and tucked the twelve-bore in the crook of his right arm. “Go over, Kenny.”

  The chocolate Lab, who had been sitting in front of a low stile in the church wall, now climbed over and waited for O’Reilly on the other side. The dog was well used to the way. This was his third season wildfowling with O’Reilly.