An Irish Country Welcome Page 22

  “Thank you, John,” O’Reilly said.

  “And, Ruth, my dear. A drink?”

  “Mrs. O’Reilly’s drink looks very refreshing. Is that a gin and tonic?”

  “It is, and please do call me Kitty. Barry mentioned the beautiful watercolour you gave him on Saturday. We have painting in common.” The two women bent their heads toward each other and began talking.

  John smiled at O’Reilly and nodded his head to the two women. “One G and T coming up. And can I get anyone else anything?”

  Heads were shaken.

  “Fingal, I have been most abstemious since it was suspected that I had reflux. But, tonight might I—?”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Two pints. That’s your limit.”

  “Thank you.” And John MacNeill headed for the bar hatch.

  A voice arose above the hubbub, asking, “Did any of youse see pictures on the telly of that there August music festival on the Isle of Wight?”

  “I did,” a woman answered, “with Bob Dylan and Jane Fonda, and all. He sang ‘Tambourine Man’ and—”

  A roar of laughter from elsewhere drowned out the rest of her sentence.

  Ruth and Kitty looked up from their conversation at the sound of the laughter and O’Reilly took the opportunity to say, “You must be very proud of Sebastian, Ruth. We are getting to know him much better. I know you’ll agree, Barry, Sebastian’s very well trained and has the makings of a first-class GP. We’re enjoying having him.”

  “Thank you, Fingal. And he’s enjoying being with you. I’m so sorry I’ve taken up a great deal of his time until recently.”

  “He didn’t go into details,” Barry said, “but he explained that you have been upset, for which we are sorry, so we don’t hold it against him.”

  Tactful, O’Reilly thought. Of course, Ruth didn’t want anyone to know the true facts. It must have taken a great deal of spunk for Sebastian to have confessed to Barry. O’Reilly could admire both the young man’s support of his mother and his later honesty. Fingal had told Kitty, because he told her everything. He’d had no need to ask her to keep it confidential.

  Ruth smiled. “Thank you both. I’m afraid I’ve played havoc with his social life, but tonight, because I’m here, he is seeing a young woman.”

  O’Reilly smiled, remembering Sebastian’s remark that “I’ve not the remotest intention of being celibate.” He glanced over to Bertie’s table, where a short queue of well-wishers had formed. Ronald Fitzpatrick and Alice Fitzpatrick, née Moloney, were at its head. O’Reilly wondered how married life was suiting them.

  He got his chance to find out when Ronald and Alice stopped beside Fingal, who automatically rose.

  “Please do sit down, Doctor,” Alice said, but O’Reilly remained standing. “Ronald. Alice. Great to see you both. That dress really suits you, Alice. A beautiful colour. What would you call that?”

  She smiled. “Thank you. I believe Ronald called this cerise, the colour of cherries. Even though I am a dressmaker, Ronald chooses all my clothes for me now. He has a wonderful fashion sense.”

  Ronald’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “It’s my pleasure. A beautiful woman like you should be well dressed.”

  “You really are a sweetie of a husband,” said Alice.

  O’Reilly watched as the two beamed at each other. He was delighted for them. He looked over at Barry and Sue, wishing they looked as happy as the Fitzpatricks. Barry had shared with him the strain that Sue’s early miscarriage scare was having on the two of them. Although she looked as lovely as ever, O’Reilly could see the telltale signs of Sue’s anxiety—the smudges under the eyes, her gaze darting to and fro, her hands playing with the end of her plait.

  “We’ll be trotting off,” Ronald said. “We won’t interrupt Kitty’s conversation with the marquis’s guest, so please give her our regards.”

  “I’ll tell her,” said O’Reilly as the couple, Ronald’s arm round Alice’s waist, moved off.

  “Excuse me—”

  O’Reilly looked up to see Sonny Houston standing beside the table, holding Maggie’s hand. She had her dentures in and two purple freesias in her hatband.

  Sonny wore a black patch over his left eye. “We went over to wish Bertie and Flo bon voyage and—” He smiled at Ruth, who was a stranger to him. “—we don’t mean to intrude, but I just wanted to pop over and tell my doctors that I had my operation last week. It was easier than I had expected, and Mister Cowan says he’s very pleased. I’ve to wear this patch to rest my eye until I’m told to get my new glasses. So, thanks again, and please thank Doctor Carson.”

  “I will,” O’Reilly said. “I’m glad it turned out well.”

  A voice from the other side of the hall called out, “Hey, Sonny, you look like a pirate. Where’s your parrot? Get yourself over here and tell us why you’re done up like that.”

  Sonny waved and they took their leave.

  “Ruth, that was Sonny Houston and his wife, Maggie,” said Barry. “Sebastian diagnosed Sonny’s cataract. I’m not sure Sebastian can learn much more medicine from Fingal and me. He is a fine diagnostician and our patients do like him.”

  “Hearing that gentleman say thanks was most gratifying, and your praise even more so.” She turned from O’Reilly and looked up as John MacNeill set a G & T on the table in front of her.

  “Thank you, John.”

  And, clutching a pint of Guinness, he took his seat beside her.

  He raised his glass. “To friends and good company.”

  Glasses were lifted and everyone drank.

  “Ah,” he said with a grin. “Mother’s milk.” He turned to Ruth. “I hope my friends have been keeping you entertained, Ruth.”

  “They have indeed. Thank you all.” She smiled at him.

  “It really is a pleasure to meet you, Ruth,” Kitty said. “And I hope we’ll be seeing more of you. I’m sure Sebastian, like all of our previous trainees, will end up becoming one of the practice family.” She glanced at Fingal. “We’d like to include you, his mother, as an honorary member. Have you and your son round for dinner.”

  Ruth inclined her head. “That is most gracious.”

  O’Reilly smiled. Letting Kitty in on the secret of Mrs. Carson’s social withdrawal was paying a dividend. He overheard, “Did you see that yesterday, Donal, the powers that be released the Cameron Report about the recent civil unrest?”

  “Aye, Bertie, but I’ve no idea what’s in it.”

  “Nor me.” Their conversation moved on.

  A bloody good thing, O’Reilly thought. The unrest was the main topic of conversation these days, and the report was causing quite a stir, but tonight was a party. He didn’t think any of his group had heard the exchange, but to be on the safe side, he changed the subject. “Right. Ruth. You and John have just started, but who’d like another gargle?” He took the order. “Come on, Barry. Give me a hand to carry them back.”

  As he stood, O’Reilly noticed the queue at Bertie’s table had not shortened. Gerry and Mairead Shanks were its head now, followed by Dougie George, Ballybucklebo’s bellicose barber, then Dapper Frew with a full head of hair, his surgery scar no longer apparent.

  O’Reilly made his way across the noisy room, stopping occasionally to greet friends and neighbours at tables or standing and chatting, until he arrived at where Alan Hewitt, acting as barman, stood behind the bar hatch.

  Snatches of conversation rose above the general murmuring. O’Reilly recognised Lenny Brown’s voice: “I see your man Rod Laver won the U.S. tennis open five days ago,” and Mister Coffin’s reply, “That’s four Grand Slams this year—Melbourne, Paris, and at Wimbledon too.”

  “He’s no dozer, thon boy.”

  “True on you, Lenny.”

  O’Reilly arrived at the hatch. “Evening, Alan.”

  “Evening, Doc.”

  “Two pints, a gin and tonic, and a brown lemonade, please.”

  “Coming up.”

  Barry arrived. “Evening, Alan.”

&nb
sp; “Hello, Doctor Laverty. While the drinks is being poured could I have a word with youse both?”

  “Of course.”

  “You know, Doctor Laverty, that Mister Mills is dead opposed to his son marrying my Helen, and I’ve got no problem in sharing that news with you, Doctor O’Reilly. And hasn’t he gotten worse since that Bogside nonsense?”

  Barry sighed. “I know, and yes, he has. I had a drink with Jack the week after the riots. He’d been very upset, and I’d no useful suggestions to make. And I discussed my concerns with Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “Well, I’ve had a notion.” He paused. “Mebbe I’m crazy, and it’s good to have you here too, Doctor O’Reilly. You’ll tell me straight, won’t you, if you think it’ll make matters worse?” He paused again.

  “Go on, man. We’ll be honest with you,” O’Reilly said.

  “Well, do you think Jack could finagle an invite for the four of you—him and Helen, and you Doctor Laverty and your Mrs.—for lunch in Cullybackey?”

  “I’m sure he could get us invited. Jack and I’ve visited back and forth since we were at Campbell College together, but I don’t see how Sue and I could help. But I’m not so sure taking Helen would help either.”

  “By all accounts, he’s a stubborn man,” said O’Reilly, frowning.

  “I know, and I don’t expect you and Mrs. Laverty to convince him otherwise, but we all know the laws of Ulster hospitality. They’d not turn Helen, a friend of Jack’s, away even if she’s not been down there for a while.”

  Barry looked down to the floor. “No, they wouldn’t. But I think she’d get a frosty—but polite—reception.”

  “Aye. I know. And it’ll get worse with what I have in mind. I intend to go with Helen. Wait until she’s inside. I want you til be closest til the door, Doctor Laverty, and let me in when I knock.”

  O’Reilly saw the man’s eyes mist. “So, you’re hoping to talk him round?”

  “Doctor, I love my wee girl. I don’t really approve of mixed marriages either, but her happiness is all I want. And all her mother would have wanted too, God rest her soul. Maybe there’s a chance I could get him to see that if I can bend, then mebbe so can he?”

  O’Reilly offered his hand. “You, Alan Hewitt, are a gallant gentleman. I honestly think it’s worth a try, and I wish you well.”

  “And I’ll do all I can do to help,” Barry said.

  Alan dashed the back of his hand across his eyes. “Thanks a million, to youse both.”

  He turned his back, clearly wishing to hide his embarrassment, then turned back and pushed full glasses across the counter. “Now here’s your drinks.”

  O’Reilly paid.

  “And, Gerry, I know you’re next in line, but I’ll just be a wee minute. I’ve things til do in the back.”

  “Take your time, oul’ hand,” said Gerry Shanks. “I’ll wait my turn.”

  O’Reilly and Barry looked at each other and shook their heads. The din was too loud for any lengthy discussion now. O’Reilly planned to alter course on the way back. He’d seen Archie and Kinky Auchinleck, and Sonny and Maggie Houston sitting at a table near the buffet. Poor Jack and Helen. A real-life Montague and Capulet, he thought, and wished them and Alan well, but given the age-old antipathy could neither be sanguine nor offer Barry any comfort.

  “Sue’s thirsty, so I’d better take this lemonade back to her.”

  “How’s she doing, Barry?”

  “Glad to be back working, and trying to be cheerful, but she’s getting a bit desperate to feel the baby’s first kick, wanting that confirmation that all’s well. I’ve tried to reassure her it was quite normal in a first pregnancy not to have felt the baby move by twenty weeks, but she says some women start feeling the baby earlier and she will not be reassured.” Barry looked over at their table.

  “You’re doing your best. You can do no more.”

  “Thanks, Fingal. I’d better—”

  “I understand. Go on with you.” He watched as Barry headed back to the table and continued on to see Kinky.

  “Good evening to the table,” O’Reilly said.

  His greeting was returned.

  “All the catering under control?” Kinky smiled. “I think the English would say everything is A1 at Lloyd’s. And do you know, Doctor dear, Doctor Carson’s mother dropped by the trestle table on her way in with his lordship and brought a plate of meringues, introduced herself, said her son had a sweet tooth and these were his favourite, and that she wanted to contribute something to the evening. She’s quite grand, so?” Kinky sniffed, rose, pulled back a corner of the cloth that covered the food, and pointed to a gold-edged china plate bearing the meringues. She leaned across the table to whisper to O’Reilly. “I shouldn’t say, but the marquis’s first wife, Lady Laura, never would have come to a hooley like this in the Bonnaughts’ clubhouse. And if she had, she wouldn’t have brought meringues for the dessert table, so.”

  O’Reilly studied Kinky, trying to decide whether she approved or disapproved of the late Marchioness of Ballybucklebo. “Well, I’ll be damned. That was kind of her. Enjoy yourselves, ladies,” he said. “I’ll get these drinks to my table.”

  He returned, and as he set the drinks down, Donal’s voice boomed from the loudspeaker. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen.” He waited for the noise to settle. “We’ll be opening the buffet soon—”

  “About time. My belly thinks my throat’s cut.”

  Laughter.

  “Sounds more like you’re half-cut, so houl’ your wheest. I’ve an important announcement til make. Many of youse will remember the song our guest of honour, Flo Bishop, sang at our talent contest. Well, she has agreed to give us another.”

  Rather than cheering, there was a respectful silence.

  “So, Mrs. Bishop, if you’d kindly—”

  Bertie helped Flo up.

  Every eye, O’Reilly’s included, was fixed on her.

  She said into the mike, “Bertie and me’s off on a sea cruise and this here song is also about the sea and ships.” She took a deep breath and began,

  Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly,

  Blow the wind south o’er the bonny blue sea;

  Blow the wind southerly, southerly, southerly,

  Blow bonnie breeze, my lover to me.

  O’Reilly remembered Bertie once boasting that Flo’s rendition of that song would give Kathleen Ferrier’s 1949 version a run for its money. He was right. He closed his eyes and sat back, letting the music flow over him. He thought, even if politically matters in Ulster could be better, there were moments of complete tranquility to be relished. He savoured this one.

  Flo concluded,

  As lightly it comes o’er the deep rolling sea?

  But sweeter and dearer by far when ’tis bringing,

  The barque of my true love in safety to me.

  And at that point she gazed fondly at a clearly enraptured Bertie.

  Silence. Then one pair of hands clapping was soon followed by a thunderous round of applause.

  When at last the applause faded raggedly away, Flo spoke. “Thank youse all very much. And like my Bertie said, thank youse all for coming out.” She bowed, left the stage, and was replaced by Donal. “Amazing Flo. Amazing.”

  Truly, O’Reilly thought.

  Donal continued, “The buffet is now opened, and you will see a number on your table. When you go up, please hold it up so the next table in sequence will know it’s their turn next. But before we start to dig in, gentlemen, please.” He pointed to where Father Hugh O’Toole, and the Reverend and Mrs. Robinson sat.

  Both men of the cloth came up onstage.

  Everyone bowed their heads.

  The Reverend Robinson began, “Oh Lord, bless this food and this companionship—”

  Father Hugh continued in his Cork brogue, “In a spirit of brotherly love regardless of persuasion, so. In the name of Jesus Christ our Lord…”

  Both men and the crowd said, “Amen.”

  As the
clergymen left the stage, the buzz of conversation grew.

  Bertie stood, held up his number one, and led his table to the food.

  O’Reilly, feeling the volcanic rumbling of hunger in his tummy, got ready to attack the buffet tables, but before he could stand, Sue clapped her hands to her belly and grunted. Her smile was radiant when she said to Barry, “Our baby kicked me. It kicked me,” she inhaled, “and it’s just done it again.”

  Barry reached over to cover his wife’s hands with his. “And again,” he said, and laughed. The happiness and relief on both their faces lightened O’Reilly’s own heart.

  “There must be something about this place,” said Barry. “When we were here in July during the talent contest, we told you all that we were expecting.”

  She beamed, still holding her tummy. “And another one.” She giggled. “And where better to get kicked than in a football clubhouse?”

  O’Reilly said, “If it’s a boy, one day he might grow up to be another Jack Kyle.”

  “Not if I can help it. Nasty rough game,” said Sue with a wink.

  O’Reilly chuckled, thought about how protective all mothers were, and watched as Barry bent his head over Sue’s belly to listen, pretending he had a stethoscope, making the whole table laugh. The young couple had become close to being the son and daughter the O’Reillys had never had, and he hoped this wee one would become one of the O’Reilly family too.

  He grinned. “Before we go to eat, lift a glass with me and toast to the next generation. May they be beautiful, wise, and healthy—and live in an Ireland at peace.”

  23

  I Have Had My Labour for My Travail

  Barry heard the telephone in the hall. All four doctors were enjoying a cup of tea before Emer took the surgery and O’Reilly made home visits.

  The single ting of the receiver being replaced was followed by the appearance of Kinky.

  “That,” she said with no sense of urgency in her voice from long years of practice, “did be Ken Anderson. He asked for a doctor to come quick. He thinks Mildred may be in labour, so.”