An Irish Country Wedding Page 24

  There was a prolonged round of applause. Jasus, O’Reilly thought, if any eejit starts singing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow” I’ll die of embarrassment, but he felt a lump in his throat.

  The applause died and O’Reilly rose. “Thank you both, and please thank all the players. I know Kitty will be delighted too so please thank them on her behalf as well. I’d like—”

  “Move to adjourn,” Bertie yelled, heaving himself out of his chair.

  “Sit down please, Councillor,” said Mister Robinson, the Presbyterian minister, “and when the doctor’s finished I’ll second your motion.”

  Bertie subsided onto his chair, muttering to himself.

  O’Reilly gave Bertie a frosty smile and continued, “I’ll come straight to the point so Councillor Bishop can get away. We all know what a busy man he is. Kitty and I would love to invite everyone to the church.” O’Reilly inclined his head to Mister Robinson, who earlier had agreed to this little subterfuge. “But Mister Robinson would rather not have standing room only, so we’re keeping the guest list small, mostly family, but … but everyone, and I do mean everyone is invited to the after-service ta-ta-ta-ra at Number One. The festivities’ll be starting at about twelve thirty Saturday, July third.”

  Another round of applause.

  “Is that it, Doctor?” the marquis said.

  O’Reilly nodded.

  “Motion to adjourn seconded,” the minister said.

  “I call the question,” Father O’Toole said so the chair could ask for a vote.

  No one waited for the marquis to speak. Six hands instantly were raised.

  “Carried,” said the marquis.

  “About bloody well time,” Bertie Bishop said, and headed for the door without so much as a “good evening.”

  Damn it, O’Reilly thought, but said, “One minute please, Mister Chairman. Unless anyone else has pressing business elsewhere, in view of the generosity to me and Kitty this evening, I’d like to invite everyone still here through to the bar.”

  “That,” said Father O’Toole, “is a brilliant notion. I’m your man, Doctor O’Reilly, and just by chance, as secretary-treasurer, I do happen to have the keys with me, bye.”

  O’Reilly and the marquis were the last to leave the room with its head-and-shoulders photos of all the Bonnaught rugby players who had represented Ulster, and the hurlers who had played for County Down. The marquis fell into step. “I think I may have some good news for you, Fingal.”

  “Go on.”

  “My solicitor has looked at the MacNeill bequest. Initially he feared we were right. Young men only when it was set up by my great-great-grandfather in 1849, but it seems my great-grandfather, William MacNeill, changed it in 1899.”

  They turned into the main function room, with its high ceilings, wood floors, and plain folding tables and chairs randomly arranged or stacked against the walls. At the far end, Father O’Toole was opening sliding doors halfway up the wall to reveal a small room where the drinks were kept.

  O’Reilly could barely control his excitement about the scholarship, but waited as his lordship continued.

  “Seems the agèd ancestor was in the Royal Horse Artillery. The family didn’t start serving in the Irish Guards until after Queen Victoria founded the regiment in 1900. He was wounded during the seige of Sevastopol in the Crimean War, and nursed in Scutari. He was mightily impressed by Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole. Thought they both should have been doctors, but of course—” He shrugged.

  When they arrived at the bar, O’Reilly called, “My shout, Father O’Toole,” and as the others gave their orders asked, “Whiskey, sir?” Calling his friend “John” was for private conversations.

  The marquis nodded. “Please. With water.”

  “Jameson’s and a pint.”

  “Anyway,” the marquis said, “the original will said that the incumbent trustee, always the current marquis, could at the family’s discretion alter its conditions. Great-grandpapa William, the twenty-fourth marquis, persuaded the family to agree to an alteration,” he pulled a piece of paper from an inside pocket of his jacket, “and I quote from this copy of the relevant page, ‘If no suitable young men have come forward by July the First of any given year, and whereas the medical faculty of the Queen’s University of Belfast has in this the year of our Lord eighteen hundred and ninety-nine near the dawn of a new millennium approved the admission of women into the faculty of medicine, and if a suitable candidate of the fair sex can be identified as possessing the necessary character and intellect and as attested to by two medical men is of sufficiently robust spirit to withstand the rigours of a medical education in the aforesaid faculty—’” He smiled widely at O’Reilly.

  “Jasus,” said O’Reilly softly. “Jasus Murphy, the first of July’s only three weeks away, and Barry and I can certainly give Helen whatever medical certif—”

  “Here.” The marquis handed O’Reilly his pint and picked up his whiskey. “I hate to tempt Providence, Fingal, but it looks very like your Helen Hewitt is going to be the first female MacNeill laureate, and I’m delighted. Maybe she will find a cure for cancer.”

  “By God,” said O’Reilly, “I’ll drink to that,” and by God he did, sinking half his pint in one swallow. “Thank you, sir. I know we’re all going to be very proud of that girl, but I’ll say nothing to her until you give me the go-ahead.”

  “I think that’s wise, Fingal. ‘Many a slip,’ and all that.”

  The four other members of the committee had settled themselves at a table, and as far as O’Reilly could discern from scraps of their conversation were good-naturedly debating the relative merits of rugby and hurling, a subject which had provided a constant source of discussion since he had joined the club nineteen years ago.

  “I must say,” the marquis remarked, changing the subject, “I do find these sports club committees a good deal more entertaining than the county council ones.”

  “You have the pleasure of Bertie’s company on both,” said O’Reilly, barely keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

  “He’s not my favourite man, and I know you don’t trust him, Fingal, but I think he does take his community duties seriously.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “I suppose.”

  “Take the last meeting. It’ll be common knowledge by now because the report was released for last night’s County Down Spectator, so I’m not breaching any confidence. Council are considering straightening that bad hairpin bend on the Belfast to Bangor Road. There’d been some vague talk of it before, but Councillor Wilson introduced the motion under ‘any other business.’ We’ll vote on it next month, but I’m pretty sure it’ll go through then.”

  O’Reilly stiffened. It may have been guesswork, but Barry might just have been right about why Donal and Julie had been outbid for the cottage in the loop of the bend.

  “Our Councillor Bishop disqualified Bishop’s Builders from tendering,” said the marquis, taking a sip of his whiskey. “Apparently there’s land that’ll have to be expropriated and a cottage demolished. He said being on council meant he was in a conflict of interest, that he had plenty of work, and that his support for the project was a simple discharge of his civic duty.”

  “I see,” said O’Reilly drily. He wasn’t impressed by Bertie’s “discharge of civic duty.” It was quite possible that Bertie had prior knowledge of Councillor Wilson’s motion. Or perhaps Bertie had nothing to do with McCluggage? One thing was certain, however: McCluggage was going to make a pretty profit when the cottage and land were purchased by council. It didn’t allay O’Reilly’s suspicions when the marquis continued.

  “He even asked why, if council had had notions to straighten the bend, they hadn’t moved sooner and bought it from the estate. The house has been on the market for a year and now some chap from Belfast has an accepted offer on the place.”

  O’Reilly frowned. Was that all smokescreen? And yet where was any real evidence to link Bertie to McCluggage?

  “Now,” said
the marquis, “I suppose the fact that his actions will be recorded verbatim in the public report and that council elections are not too far away—” He let the thought hang.

  O’Reilly inclined his head. “I knew Bertie would have an angle,” he said aloud, but thought to himself, I’m certain it’s more than simply playing for votes. Now, how can I get proof? O’Reilly finished his pint and nodded to the marquis’s glass. “One for the road, sir?”

  “Just one, and I think we should join the others.”

  They moved across to the table where the rest were finishing their drinks. “It’s all right, Father. Sit where you are,” O’Reilly said. “I can pour a pint and it’s still my shout. Anyone else?”

  “I’m fine thanks, Fingal,” Mister Robinson said, nursing his half-pint shandy.

  Both Fergus and Dermot held up nearly empty pint glasses. “Please, Doc,” they both said.

  “Right, and a half-un, Father?”

  “Please.”

  O’Reilly fished out his pipe and fired it up on his way to the bar. The tobacco was burning splendidly by the time he had seen to the whiskies and had three pints of Guinness on the pour. He released a huge cloud of smoke, relishing the flavour of the Erinmore flake tobacco. He’d smoked that brand ever since old Doctor Micks had given young Fingal a tin for a Christmas present back in 1934 when he was a student.

  O’Reilly turned the spigot’s tap and topped off the first pint, making sure the head was creamy smooth. Thinking of medical school brought the marquis’s news back to his mind with renewed pleasure. It was going to take all his willpower not to tell Helen until it was absolutely certain that she’d get the bursary.

  He topped off the second pint then his own, found a tin tray, and carried the drinks over to the table. “Here we are,” he said, “help yourselves.”

  He pulled up a chair and, pint in hand, sat. “Sláinte,” he said, and as the rest replied, drank deeply, quietly mulling over how to find out more about Bishop and McCluggage. If his and Barry’s surmises were right, he wanted to stop Bishop in his tracks right now, but anyone with the temerity to accuse the man without proof would be the recipient of a suit for slander. Even if it became common knowledge that the two men knew each other, tongues might wag, and public suspicions be raised, but it would be a nine-day wonder and soon forgotten.

  Fingal O’Reilly smiled and drank. “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “it will make that road a damn sight safer.” He lowered more of his pint. But he doubted very much if that civic-minded goal had even crossed the councillor’s small and narrow mind.

  33

  Visit Us in Great Humility

  Barry whistled off-key. Roger Miller’s “King of the Road” had topped the British pop charts four weeks ago. It was a catchy tune and its title suited what he was doing this Tuesday afternoon, driving round Ballybucklebo making follow-up home visits. He remembered the first time Fingal had driven them both round these bucolic byways familiarising Barry with the layout of the local roads so he could plan future visits with as little backtracking as possible.

  It was a straightforward route today, up to the estate, back down to a street running parallel with the main Bangor to Belfast Road, and finally on to Station Road to see Colin Brown, who had been up at the Royal this morning having his plaster cast removed, six weeks after its application.

  He parked outside a familiar council house, got out, and knocked on the door. A little girl with flaxen pigtails, cornflower blue eyes, and snot on her upper lip was pushing a doll’s pram that had, he noticed, several spokes missing from one of its wheels and a torn navy blue canopy. She paid no attention to Barry, but wagged an admonitory finger at the dolly inside and said with a lisp, “If youth’s not a good boy, Mammy will thpank your botty, tho she will.”

  “Doctor Laverty.” Barry turned to see Aggie Arbuthnot standing in the doorway holding a paperback copy of Philadelphia, Here I Come! “How’s about ye, sir?”

  “I’m fine, Aggie, but I thought I’d pop in. See how you’re getting on.”

  “Come on in,” she said, and led the way into her parlour. “Cup of tea?”

  “Better not. I’ve more calls to make, but thanks.”

  “Well, sit you down anyroad.” She lowered herself in an overstuffed armchair and put the book on a table. “I was learning my lines and my blocking, so I was,” she said. She’d told him on his last visit that she was to act the character of Madge in Brian Friel’s new play. Here she was rehearsing her part and the moves, her blocking, she would have to make on stage.

  Barry parked himself in another comfortable chair. “How are you?”

  “Och, Doctor dear,” she said, “I’m bravely, so I am. No more pain in the oul’ hind leg.” She pulled up her skirt and turned her lower leg so Barry could see the calf. Apart from the old varicose veins, it looked healthy. “I was up at the Royal last week, you know. I’d more blood tests.”

  “I do know,” Barry said. “I’d a letter from your specialist, Doctor Crozier, saying your prothrombin time is spot-on. Keep on taking the warfarin, and you’ve nothing to worry about. You’ve not noticed any bruises?” Warfarin interfered with the body’s clotting system and bruising was a sign of overdose.

  “Not a bit,” she said. “I’m right as rain, so I am, but—” She shrugged and sighed. “Only, my ‘sick’ runs out July fifth. Then I’ll have to go on the burroo and they cut your benefits in half.” She sniffed. “I’ve still a bit of the severance doh-ray-mi, you know, but I’m not sure how I’ll get by when it runs out.”

  Barry pursed his lips. Since he’d written that letter to her employer when first she’d come in with superficial thrombophlebitis he’d not done much to help her find a job, despite his protestations of good intent to O’Reilly. Aggie had been receiving state sickness insurance, but now her illness was better she was expected to go back to work or sign on for benefits at the Unemployment Bureau, or “burroo” as the locals called it, where the weekly payments were less. There was one option, but it was a slim one. “I could send a recommendation to the medical referee, see if we could get you more time on the ‘sick.’” The referee’s main function was to weed out malingerers who were abusing the system, but he could also grant extensions of benefits.

  She shrank in her chair. Her eyes widened. “The Big Doctor?”

  “Aggie, you know your ‘sick’ is finished soon anyway. I’d be asking for an extension, trying to get you a bit more cash. That’s all.”

  She frowned. Seemed to be mulling it over.

  Barry knew that patients hated having to see the physician employed by the Ministry of Health and Welfare to resolve questions about who really was sick and who was well enough to return to work. This removed the onus for making such decisions from GPs, who stood to deal with a great deal of anger from patients they refused to certify as sick. For many, a trip to “the Big Doctor,” meant being cut off from benefits and was regarded with trepidation.

  “If you say so, sir,” Aggie said, “but I’ll not count my chickens. I’m still looking for work, so I am.”

  “I do understand,” Barry said and, remembering one of his father’s adages, “Never promise unless you know you can keep it,” made no further unrealistic offers. “If the referee decides to see you, you’ll get a letter and an appointment. He may even simply write and say your request has been approved,” he said. He rose. “Time I was off.”

  “Thanks for coming,” she said, and picked up her book. She smiled at him. “Learning these here lines puts in the day, so it does,” she said, and smiled. “Good afternoon, sir. I’ll be fine, so I will.”

  Fine? With no job and her money running out? Barry shook his head. As he drove to his next call he wondered if it might be worth going to see Mister Ivan McCluggage despite O’Reilly’s warning that Barry would almost certainly be told to “go and feel his head.” And if, as O’Reilly also suggested, McCluggage was in cahoots with Bertie Bishop? Not promising. Not promising at all. They were probably two o
f a kind. Mercenary and as hard-hearted as Pharaoh in his dealings with Moses.

  * * *

  Barry parked on a street of semi-detached houses behind the main road, got out, and knocked on the door. Overhead a flock of starlings darkened the azure sky as the birds, whistling and chirping, made their way to their roosts on the gantries of Harland and Wolff’s shipyards. From not far away, he could hear the burbling engine of the little diesel train rattling over the rails beside the Shore Road and see the faint blue cloud of its exhaust.

  He turned. “Hello, Mairead,” he said when Mairead Shanks opened the door. “How are you today?” He was pleased to see that she was dressed, a good sign she was not feeling sorry for herself and slopping about in her dressing gown. It was two weeks since her surgery and she’d been discharged three days ago.

  “Doctor Laverty, how nice,” she said. “Come on in. Come in.”

  “Who is it, Mammy?” Barry recognised Angus’s high-pitched voice coming from the kitchen.

  “It’s the doctor, so it is.”

  “Is he going to send youse away like the last time?” Barry heard the concern in the little lad’s voice. “Me and Siobhan don’t want him to, so we don’t.”

  “Not this time,” Mairead said. “He’s come for to make sure Mammy’s all right, isn’t that right, Doctor?”

  “It is.”

  “Come into the parlour then,” she said, and called, “You two run out and play now.”

  Barry heard the slam of what must be the back door and followed her into the front room.

  “They’re two great wee nippers, so they are,” she said. “Gerry and me was all tickled when we thought I was up the spout with number three … but, och, it wasn’t to be. Not this time.”

  “I’m sorry, Mairead,” Barry said, “but you’re feeling well now?”

  “Och, aye. Bit tired. They give me a blood transfusion in the ambulance, and when I was getting discharged they said it would take a wee while for my body to make up the blood I’d lost so they prescribed me a wheen of iron pills for to take.” She sat on the sofa. “Sit down, Doctor. Take the weight off your feet.”