An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  The fish stopped running and Barry reeled in, but the trout wasn’t ready to surrender yet. Barry felt the tension on the rod increase, stopped reeling, and let the line run out. In total, the brown trout made six runs before Barry netted it, dispatched it, admired its speckled scales, and put it in his creel.

  He checked his fly to make sure it had sustained no damage and the fine nylon leader was intact. All was well.

  Generally, one fish alone would occupy the tail of a ripple. Barry glanced downstream to where Sebastian, with a lovely fluid action, was working the pool. Barry decided to fish his way downstream. He took a few paces to his right and cast several times. No luck. A few more paces. Same actions. Same result.

  His attention was caught by a splash from his right. Barry turned to see Sebastian’s rod being held vertically, the upper section bent nearly double. A flash of silver reflected the sunlight as his fish hurled itself from the water before falling back on its side with a slap and splash. The rod tip sprang back and the bend in the rod flattened out. Sebastian had hooked the proverbial one that got away. Barry smiled, lengthened his stride, and decided to go and have a chat while Sebastian selected and attached another fly.

  When Barry arrived, Sebastian looked up.

  “That looked like a big one.”

  “About four pounds, I’d wager. Not that I’m a gambling man. Far from it.” Sebastian frowned. “Anyway, he fell on the leader and snapped it.” Sebastian smiled. “I saw you had a bit of luck.”

  Barry patted the creel. “He’s in here.”

  Sebastian nodded. “Good for you, Barry.” Sebastian leant his rod against his shoulder. “Before I start fishing again there’s something I want to say.”

  Barry waited.

  “I think I owe you and Fingal an apology.”

  Barry frowned. Was he going to hear what only half an hour ago Sebastian hadn’t wanted to confess?

  “When you both interviewed me, I told you my father had died last year. But I lied about what killed him.” He took a deep breath. “Mother and I are dreadfully ashamed.”

  Barry waited.

  “He hanged himself. Mother found him.”

  “My God.” Barry took a step back and stifled the urge to ask why. “That’s terrible. No wonder she’s still upset.”

  “Quite.” Sebastian stared into the distance before saying, “He had been a heavy gambler and had lost so much that most of the family’s money is gone. The shock, the grief, and the shame nearly killed Mother.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Thank you. Apart from the loss of my father—” He paused, and Barry saw a parade of emotions swiftly cross his face. “—it’s not a complete disaster. He never mortgaged the house, thank God, so it’s paid for, and there’s just enough for Mother to get by on if she lives frugally, which she’s learning to do. I give her most of what I earn, and it will get easier when I’m fully trained and can secure an assistantship with a better income.”

  Barry remembered Sebastian’s answer to the question during his interview in July about why he had chosen GP. “I’d like to finish my training quickly.” Was this the reason? It certainly seemed so.

  “She told you there were times she didn’t like to be alone, but until very recently that was pretty much all the time, dear old thing. So, she’s desperately needed my emotional support too. Still, I think she’s improving.”

  Barry moved closer and put a reassuring hand on Sebastian’s shoulder. “I am so sorry. I do understand.”

  “Thank you. Thank you very much.” He inhaled. “It’s been hard not being completely honest. I don’t think lying comes very naturally to me. Mother and I have been telling everyone he died of a heart attack and the police were very discreet.” He took a deep breath and glanced over at his mother again. “I know you’ve both been aware of my wanting to get away the minute the work was done. One day, I led Fingal to believe I needed some fun after the gruelling workload of my houseman year, but mostly I’ve just been trying to cover up the reality of our situation. I once asked Kinky for a recipe I said I’d give to our cook, Mrs. O’Gara. I’m afraid Mrs. O is no longer with us.” He shrugged. “I’ve been doing a lot of the cooking. Mother had never so much as boiled an egg before Father died. She feels we must try to keep up appearances and so I do my bit to try to help.”

  “You can count on me. I’d do the same. Sometimes secrets are necessary.”

  “I’d appreciate it if you don’t indicate to Mother that you’re in on the secret.”

  Barry decided that to say “confession is good for the soul” would be trite. “I’m flattered you would confide in me. You needn’t worry about me letting anything slip in front of your mum.”

  “Thanks, Barry.” Sebastian managed a weak smile. “You’ve no idea what a relief it is to have got that off my chest. You must have thought me such a prig at my interview. I really wanted the job and, well, I was nervous. And then all that rot about not having any intention of being celibate and running off for a date afterward. Complete fabrication. My social life has been nonexistent.” Sebastian looked quickly at Barry and then away.

  “I hope that changes now your mother’s a little better. It’s admirable how protective you are of her, but it’s important to have some time to yourself. So apart from that free advice,” he said with a smile, “is there any other way I can help?”

  Sebastian shook his head once, then said, “I’d like you to explain to Fingal. I really want him to have a good impression of me. Will you do that?”

  “Of course, unless you’d like to tell him yourself?”

  “I’d rather not. Too embarrassing.” He looked back to the water. “And I’d like it if we fished this pool together. I do find fly-fishing can be all-consuming. Takes one’s mind off one’s cares.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure, Sebastian.”

  “Do you know, Laverty, you really are a brick.” Sebastian offered his hand, which Barry shook, thinking that only an Old Harrovian would use terms that might have come straight out of a Frank Richards Billy Bunter novel.

  * * *

  Before the afternoon was out Barry had landed another brown trout and Sebastian two. By mutual agreement, they’d decided to pack it in and had walked together to where Ruth Carson sat admiring her work, a fine, subdued piece depicting the willows, river, and far bank populated by sheep beneath a cerulean sky where clouds like woolly celestial sheep roamed.

  “Hello, boys. Have you had fun?”

  “The whole thing was very relaxing,” Sebastian said, “and we both took fish.”

  “I’m delighted,” she said. “Trout for dinner tonight.” She pointed to her frame-mounted paper. “And I’ve finished my painting. One of my better efforts, I think. This place agrees with me.”

  “It’s lovely, Mrs. Carson—Ruth.”

  “Would you like to have it, Barry?”

  “I couldn’t possibly.”

  “Don’t be silly. Our house is cluttered with the things. It’s yours—for you and your wife.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Sebastian has told me you’re expecting your first baby soon. Congratulations.”

  “We are, thank you. Sue will love the painting.” He could already see the space in the Lavertys’ living room where it would hang.

  Two blackbirds fleeing from the elm wood both gave their alarm calls. The source of their annoyance appeared in the meadow—Lord John MacNeill, carrying a blackthorn walking stick and accompanied by his red setter, Finn MacCool.

  Ruth started patting down her hair. Smoothing her dress. She muttered, “I’m not fit to meet a peer.”

  “Of course you are, Mother.”

  “Welllll, I suppose.”

  John MacNeill arrived. “Sit,” and Finn MacCool obeyed. “Mrs. Carson.” He lifted his paddy hat and smiled. “How lovely to see you.”

  She rose from her stool and made a small curtsey. “And you, my lord.”

  He replaced his hat. “Come, come, Ruth, our
families have known each other for ages. It’s John if we’re among friends, and of course that applies equally to you, Sebastian, and you, Barry.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sebastian said.

  Barry inclined his head.

  “Now, tell me, how’s my water?”

  For a split second Barry thought the marquis was having urinary difficulties, then realised his mistake and had to stifle a laugh. Of course, he was referring to his beat on the Bucklebo River. “We’ve had a wonderful afternoon,” Barry said. “Thank you again for allowing us to come.”

  “Anytime. Just ask.” He looked at his watch. “The time’s right and it’s been ages since I’ve seen you, Ruth. How would the three of you like to come up to the house for a quick preprandial?”

  “That would be delightful,” Ruth Carson said.

  “I saw your cars, so I’ll walk on ahead, give you time to pack up. Let Thompson know you’re coming.” He bent to the easel. “I see you haven’t lost your touch, Ruth. Right. Come on, Finn.” And with no further ado, the Marquis of Ballybucklebo, militarily erect, strode off home with Finn MacCool at his heel.

  * * *

  Thompson ushered the guests into what was becoming to Barry a familiar room, the marquis’s comfortable study. John MacNeill rose from an easy chair, welcomed his guests, and seated them in an arc of chairs facing his across a low circular coffee table. “Now,” he said, walking to a sideboard, “what can I get you, Ruth?”

  “Dry sherry, please?”

  He started to pour and asked over his shoulder, “Boys?”

  Sebastian emulated his mother.

  Five years ago, Barry would have asked for the same, but now said, like Fingal, “Small neat Jameson, please, John.” He’d never really developed a taste for sherry, no matter how dry.

  The marquis handed each their drinks, returned to the sideboard, opened a door to reveal a small refrigerator, and poured himself a glass of milk. “Barry and Sebastian will understand, Ruth, but for your sake I’ll tell you I had to consult my doctors last month for a little bit of chest trouble. Your son made a very astute diagnosis of nothing worse than simple gastric reflux—”

  Barry saw Ruth glow.

  “It was in early August and he referred me to a Mister Wilson. A subsequent barium X-ray confirmed the original diagnosis, I’m happy to say, but I’m afraid I’m not allowed much alcohol.” He took his seat and drank, then wiped off his milk moustache with a white linen handkerchief.

  Ruth said, “I’m very glad to hear it’s nothing serious, John.”

  “Thank you. I’m relieved too.” He smiled at her. “I must say, and if you don’t mind my saying, Ruth, you are looking lovely. The country air clearly agrees with you.”

  “Thank you, sir,” she said, inclining her head.

  Barry wondered if he detected a tiny blush and thought, What a gracious man you are, Lord John MacNeill. Then he thought he saw something in the man’s look, a look of interest that made him wonder about the long-a-widower peer. Barry decided he was no matchmaker and swallowed some whiskey, savouring its smoothness.

  John said, “I’m afraid I owe you all an apology. It’s Cook’s day off so I cannot offer you any hors d’oeuvres.” He chuckled. “In a pinch, Thompson and I can open a tin of baked beans—”

  “That’s perfectly all right, John,” Ruth said. “It’s delightful just being here. I haven’t been out for a drink for ages.” She sipped her sherry.

  “Really?” John MacNeill looked thoughtful but did not comment. Turning to Barry, he asked, “So, Barry. How is your lovely wife?”

  “She’s back teaching, John, since Wednesday, and is very well, thank you.”

  “Excellent, and Sebastian, how are you enjoying working with Fingal O’Reilly? He can be a bit of a rough diamond sometimes, but don’t let him fool you. Inside he’s a marshmallow.”

  Sebastian said, “You could have fooled me—on both counts. He has always been straight with me, is a fine physician, and cares for and about his patients.”

  “An excellent physician indeed. And so are you, young Laverty.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  “And I know how easy it can be to feel a bit junior in a profession where seniority counts. I can still remember as a mere lieutenant being terrified of the major. Sebastian, don’t be intimidated. I know you dislike blowing your own trumpet, but you already have a lot to be proud of.”

  Sebastian frowned. “Sir, please.”

  “No, Sebastian. Barry should hear it. Did you know Sebastian won an exhibition to Queen’s University Belfast and also a bursary to Queen’s College Cambridge? You chose Cambridge.”

  Barry whistled. Sebastian Carson was clearly a lot cleverer than the average young physician. “You never told us about that, Sebastian.”

  Sebastian smiled. “You never asked me.”

  “We—I’m very proud of him. His father was too. But my Sebastian’s a modest boy.”

  And how, Barry thought, his respect for the young man increasing.

  “And he takes very great care of his mother, since,” she inhaled, “our loss.”

  “Yes. I do understand. And you both still have my deepest sympathy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Tell me, Ruth, I was thinking about something you said a bit earlier. Have you begun to rejoin society?”

  She looked down and shook her head.

  “Would you think me very impertinent if I said I think it’s time you did?”

  She nodded. “I know you’re right, John, but it’s difficult.”

  He coughed. “I think if you would permit it, I might be able to offer some assistance.”

  “Oh?”

  Barry detected some interest in her voice.

  “Next Saturday the village is giving a going-away party for a local dignitary.” As if to stiffen his reserve as he might have with a whiskey, John took a mouthful of milk and, ignoring the milk tide line on his upper lip, continued, “I would consider it a great honour if you would permit me to escort you there.”

  22

  And Singing Still Dost Soar

  “Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen. If I could have your detention—”

  The volume of sound, which had been decreasing in the main hall of the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts’ clubhouse, was magnified by a huge outburst of laughter.

  O’Reilly wondered sometimes if Donal’s malapropisms weren’t deliberate for the sake of getting a laugh. That one had certainly done the trick and lifted the mood in the room.

  Donal waited for the laughter to subside. “All right. All right. What I want is your attention.”

  “You have it, eejit,” the off-duty Constable Malcolm Mulligan called, “and don’t be embarrassed, Donal. We all make mistakes and we all love you.”

  Several voices, including O’Reilly’s, called, “Hear, hear.”

  “Thank youse all. And I need your attention so I can tell youse about this here party. Unlike the talent contest, I’m not MC and there’s no structure. Youse all know Mister and Mrs. Bishop’s going off on a world cruise the morra. We’re here til wish them bon voyage, but my senior partner, Bertie, has a request. Feel free to drop by our table, but he doesn’t want til make a speech, and he does not want any speeches made. He wants me to thank youse for coming out the night. He’s dead pleased how everybody here in Ballybucklebo is like one big family and he’s asked me til tell youse that the club is donating half the drinks profits to the summer camp for kiddies fund and Bertie’s going to cough up the same amount.”

  That remark earned a solid round of applause and cries of, “Sound man.” “Dead on.” “Heart of corn.”

  “I’m nearly finished,” Donal said. “There’s no program, but if anyone wants til do a party piece, the mike will be on. That’s all I have to say, but before I go let’s wish Bertie and Flo a wonderful cruise and give them three cheers. Hip-hip…”

  The thrice repeated “Hooray”s were deafening.

  Donal came down from th
e stage and had his hand shaken by Bertie before he was able to take his seat.

  O’Reilly noticed motion at the opposite end of the room. Lord John MacNeill was coming toward O’Reilly’s table, and it wasn’t his sister accompanying him as usual. The woman stopped, spoke to John MacNeill, and together they went to a long row of trestle tables covered in white linen tablecloths against the far wall where Kinky and Maggie Houston stood. The woman left something, and she and John approached O’Reilly’s table. He studied the blue-eyed, middle-aged woman and thought, My father, God rest him, would have described her as handsome. As the couple progressed, men inclined their heads in mini bows, and any standing women curtsied, to be thanked by smiles from his lordship.

  O’Reilly and Barry stood when they arrived.

  “My friends,” said the marquis, “may I present Mrs. Ruth Carson of Cherryvalley? Our families have known each other for years.”

  During the time it took for everyone else to be introduced, O’Reilly realized that he should not have been surprised. Earlier in the week over a pint in the Duck, Barry had briefed Fingal on how he had met Sebastian’s mother and why Sebastian needed so much time off, his covering up of his father’s suicide, his academic achievements, and how Mrs. Carson had yet to venture out socially since her loss. If this was her first real sociable venture, it was a baptism of fire. He looked around the crowded hall.

  Bertie, Flo, Donal, and Julie sat at the next table. The other tables were all full, and indeed it was standing room only. Behind the bar hatch, Alan Hewitt was serving a short queue. Tobacco smoke blued the air and the level of noise was rising.

  He hoped the crowd didn’t scare Mrs. Carson away. But she looked relaxed and happy. Perhaps because the folks here were not part of her regular social set?

  “And last, but not least, Mrs. Ruth Carson, may I present Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly?”

  “How do you do, Doctor?”

  “How do you do, Mrs. Carson?”

  John MacNeill positioned her chair, helped her to be seated, accepted a warm look of gratitude, and pulled out his own. “I really do think,” he said as he sat, “we are sufficiently far enough away from other tables that we can drop the titles.”