An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  O’Reilly shook John MacNeill’s hand. “Hello, John.”

  “Fingal. Good to see you, and I’m charmed to meet your Spanish guest. I’ve made sure she and Kitty have the best views, despite the weather.”

  They both sat.

  Fingal’s own prospect of the turbulent lough was nothing to complain about. This side was clear, but the far-off Antrim Hills were hidden behind rain squalls. “Heaven help the sailors on days like this.”

  John nodded. “The bigger keelboats have a race scheduled, and the race committee has agreed to let them start. The winds are force five gusting up to twenty-one knots from the southeast and not expected to freshen. It’ll be a tough sail, but they should be all right.”

  “I think, John—” Consuela said, looking out the window.

  So, titles had already been dispensed with.

  “—the sailors must be loco—crazy.”

  He laughed. “You may be right, but you’ve got a front-row seat for the craziness. Do you see down below, that long, whitewashed building with the convex roof? On the rocks at the very edge of the water?”

  She nodded.

  “We call that the Battery, because there’s a room on the seaward side that holds a miniature cannon pointing out to sea, and—”

  “Excuse me, my lord. I don’t mean to interrupt, but here are the drinks you ordered for you and the lady, the menus, and would the rest of your party care to order some refreshment?”

  “Thank you, Brian.”

  Orders were taken.

  “I’ll be back with your drinks and to take your meal orders, sir. Today the chef particularly recommends his fisherman’s pie. All the ingredients came in fresh this morning.”

  As Brian withdrew, O’Reilly heard the bang of the miniature cannon that fired blank twelve-bore cartridges.

  “That,” said John, “is the ten-minute warning. You can see the boats off to the right.”

  O’Reilly turned in his chair. Ten dark-hulled Glen-class yachts, white sails taut, heeling alarmingly, were jockeying for position downwind of the start line between the Battery and a wave-tossed white motorboat, a quarter of a mile offshore.

  “They’ll get another gun in five minutes, and five minutes after that a final gun will signal the start. Then they’ll have to cross the start line, round an upwind mark, sail to the downwind mark, then back to the start line to finish.” He looked up. “Ah. Here are your drinks.”

  The drinks were served, orders given, and a toast drunk. O’Reilly was particularly looking forward to his pie.

  “Do you sail, Fingal?” Ruth asked.

  He shook his shaggy head. “Not really, but when I was on Warspite—”

  “Please, what is a Warspite?”

  “A British battleship I served on during the war. Tom Laverty, Barry’s father, was a shipmate. He taught me to sail in one of the boats called whalers that we carried. I understand the principles enough to know I’d not like to be out there today.”

  A gust rattled the panes, immediately followed by the bark of the little cannon, and through the rain O’Reilly could see serried ranks of white horses advancing from left to right shedding spume as galloping horses shed sweat. He was quite happy to sit back, sip his pint, and listen to the conversation. He was glad John had invited Consuela. She’d be off home tomorrow, but he and Kitty still had a week’s holiday to look forward to. He glanced at her, seeing how the little bags that had been under her eyes last week had vanished, how relaxed she looked talking to her Spanish friend. He wished she looked like that every day, relaxed and well rested. She should slow down. God knows, he had been at her about it for two years now. He’d not mentioned it since he’d tried to get her to agree back in July. The time had never been right.

  He looked at John MacNeill, who seemed enraptured by Ruth Carson. The man’s gaze never left her face even though his remark was addressed to O’Reilly. “Ruth and I went to see Bullitt at the Tonic Cinema on Wednesday.”

  She smiled at him. “I thought Steve McQueen was very handsome, and that car chase. The cars bouncing up and down on San Francisco’s hilly streets. To use Consuela’s word—loco.” She took a sip of her sherry. “But very exhilarating.” She addressed O’Reilly but looked at John. “Fingal, John is doing me so much good taking me out of myself. We’re both at a time in our lives when we should be enjoying our leisure, and he’s certainly helping me with that. You really are a dear man, John MacNeill.” She reached across and squeezed his hand.

  “Thank you.” He kept her hand in his.

  Quite a show of public affection for two upper-crust people of over sixty, O’Reilly thought. Fair play to them both. He wished them well.

  Consuela, who had been chatting to Kitty, said, “I’m always interested in the history of things, John. Tell me a bit about this royal club? ‘Royal,’ meaning?”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Brian reappeared and set down everyone’s starters. “And would anyone care for another drink?”

  There were no takers, but John MacNeill said, “As everybody’s having a fish main course, I think a couple of bottles of the Chablis Premier Cru—and yes, Fingal, my reflux seems to have gone away—would suit, unless anyone disagrees?”

  No demurral.

  “Certainly, my lord. There are some chilled.” He left.

  “Now, Consuela, you asked about the club.”

  O’Reilly tucked into his melon balls with ginger, kept one eye on the heeling yachts smashing through the waves, and listened.

  “In 1866, my great-grandfather and a group of well-off gentlemen decided to reactivate the old Ulster Yacht Club, which had been founded in 1806. He became commodore and in 1870, presumably because of his connections from his previous employment as undersecretary of state for India, he was able to obtain a royal warrant—permission from Queen Victoria to add the title ‘Royal’ to the club’s name.”

  “I understand. I think before the Civil War we had something similar when organisations could, with permission, use the title ‘Real.’”

  “Exactly the same. Here in Bangor, our title was to become very important in 1898 because—”

  The simultaneous crash of the starting cannon and the arrival of Brian and a fellow waiter to clear the first course interrupted John’s brief history. All eyes stared out the window.

  O’Reilly leaned back to see past Kitty.

  Kitty said, “You understand these things, Fingal. All of the yachts seem to have very small sails and they’re leaning over quite far.”

  “The wind’s coming down the lough and they have to sail up it into the wind. To do that, they have to sail at an angle to it. The sails are trimmed to get the best from the wind, but that exerts a tremendous pressure on the rig, which if uncontrolled could capsize the boat. So, the skippers reduce it by flying smaller headsails called storm-jibs and making the main sails smaller by partially lowering them and tying the loose canvas to the boom. It’s called shortening sail or reefing.”

  “Look at them. They look like they’re about to fall over.”

  O’Reilly watched as the pack thinned out. Two boats, bows cleaving the waves and throwing up sheets of water, were already well ahead of the other eight. The leaders heeled to starboard and their crews huddled along the port rail to add their weight to counterbalance the wind’s pressure. He watched as yellow oilskin–clad figures ducked to avoid the flying spray. O’Reilly shivered. Bloody cold out there.

  “Excuse me, sir.” Brian set a plate of steaming fisherman’s pie in front of O’Reilly then showed the label of a chilled bottle to John, who nodded. Brian uncorked the wine and poured some to be tasted.

  “Excellent.”

  All glasses were filled.

  “Fingal, join me please.” John raised his. “To the ladies.”

  “To the ladies.” O’Reilly drank with his left hand and used his right to give Kitty’s thigh a squeeze. He savoured the warmth under his hand and the crisp cold wine in his mouth. He noticed how John and Ruth exchanged fond looks. O
’Reilly’s smile was vast. So was Kitty’s. One more squeeze. Damn it, he enjoyed his wife’s company and would have a lot more of it—if she’d slow down. He tucked into his main course, tasting a piece of halibut. Lovely.

  John had taken a few mouthfuls, then said, “To finish my story, Consuela, a rich tea merchant who had been knighted, Sir Thomas Lipton, was a keen sailor. He wanted to mount a British challenge for a very prestigious trophy, the America’s Cup.”

  “I have heard of this. My husband, José, is a keen sailor.”

  “So is Barry Laverty,” Kitty said. “Next time you come to visit, bring José, and I’m sure Barry, who’s a member of Ballyholme Yacht Club, will take him out.”

  “Good club. A lot of their members are members here too, but back in the 1890s, there was a lot of snobbery attached to who would be admitted to ‘royal’ clubs.”

  “Excuse me. Snobbery?”

  “Sorry, Consuela. Upper-class people looking down on those beneath them in rank.” He smiled at Ruth. “There’s not as much of that today.”

  As my brother, Lars, found out, O’Reilly thought, when he had an affair with John’s sister, Lady Myrna. In the end it hadn’t been the class thing that had broken them apart but simply two people with different ways of looking at life. He bit down. Gosh, that morsel of Dublin Bay prawn was really tasty. Another mouthful of Chablis complemented it perfectly.

  “Sir Thomas applied to join the Royal Yacht Squadron at Cowes because only members of royal yacht clubs could mount a challenge. But he was rejected because, despite his knighthood, he was merely ‘in trade,’ as the expression went, and not a proper gentleman.”

  “I believe,” said O’Reilly, finishing his last mouthful, “that Kaiser Wilhelm, a keen sailor, referred to Sir Thomas as ‘the boating grocer.’”

  “Well,” Kitty said, “we taught that nasty little man with his ridiculous moustache his manners in 1918.”

  While everyone laughed, O’Reilly thought, But at what cost?

  Consuela frowned and nodded. “In Spain we still have people who consider anybody below their rank of hidalgo very inferior.”

  “Well, here at the Royal Ulster, they took Sir Thomas in as an equal and a skilled sailor,” John said. “And a good thing, too. Between 1898 and 1930 Sir Thomas, a most persistent man, mounted five unsuccessful challenges, all in elegant yachts called Shamrock. There are photos and paintings of them, and of Sir Thomas, all over the place. I’ll take you round to look at them after lunch.”

  “I would appreciate that, John. I also admire persistence, but I believe there comes always a time to concede.”

  “Very good point, Consuela,” said O’Reilly as Brian started delivering orange and chocolate soufflés.

  Kitty said, “I see some of the racers have rounded the first mark.”

  O’Reilly peered out the window through the lashing rain. She was right, and the first four boats were altering their rigs. He watched storm-jibs come down and be replaced by regular ones. As reefs were shaken out, mainsails were hoisted to mastheads. All that took a lot of crew teamwork. He chuckled. At least the effort would warm them up a bit. Now with the wind on their sterns and sails set on to either side, the hulls had stopped heeling but were pitched and tossed as the waves passed under the keels. He hoped the crews had strong stomachs.

  Brian said, “Would anyone care for coffee? A liqueur?”

  John looked around. “Bit early in the day for liqueurs, perhaps, but I think we’ll take coffee in the lounge later. You can smoke your pipe, Fingal.”

  “Thank you, John.”

  Consuela stood. “I should like to thank you, and I wish to be formal, Lord Ballybucklebo, for a wonderful meal and a most instructive explanation of your club. And Fingal and Tia Kitty for a wonderful holiday, which I wish could last longer, but I must return to my husband and daughter. Thank you.” She sat.

  “It’s been lovely having you,” said Kitty, “and don’t be sad when good things are over. Fingal and I have to get back to work soon too.”

  “Good Lord,” said Ruth Carson. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Kitty, but are you still working full time? I don’t mean to intrude, but I think you heard what I said earlier about being at a time in our lives when we should be enjoying our leisure.”

  O’Reilly’s eyes widened.

  Kitty frowned. “I—well, I’ve always worked full time.” She sounded puzzled. “I enjoy my work.”

  Fingal decided to say nothing.

  “But do you really have to?”

  Kitty looked down to the table, then up. “Have to?” She glanced at Fingal, who cocked his head to one side as an unspoken “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Well, no. Not really, I suppose. No, in fact. I don’t.”

  Ruth took a deep breath. “I was married for thirty-five years. I was looking forward to spending a lot more time with my late husband. There were all kinds of things we wanted to do. I don’t want to be morbid and spoil a lovely afternoon, but I feel compelled to say this, Kitty. None of us know how long we have. You and Fingal are still quite young. I have to say,” she looked from one to the other, “make the most of however long you have left. Please.”

  Far from spoiling O’Reilly’s afternoon, Ruth had made it. He looked over to a thoughtful Kitty just as Consuela reached out her hands to her across the table. “You know, Tia Kitty, Fingal, that I lost my father three years ago. Perhaps it’s not my place, being much younger, but I agree with Señora Carson.”

  John said, “And I think it’s a lovely thing for you both to suggest.” He looked over at Kitty and raised his hands in supplication. “Kitty, my dear, this is not a conspiracy. Fingal and Ruth and I are not trying to get you to retire, I assure you. I had no inkling Ruth was going to say anything like this, and I applaud you, my dear.”

  O’Reilly kept his counsel until Kitty finally said, “I’m touched. Truly I am. Thank you both. Fingal has been asking me to slow down for some time now and I’ve kept putting him off. But this last week has been a lesson, a lovely lesson, and we’ve still a week to go.” She took a deep breath and Fingal felt her hand reach for his under the table. “As soon as I’m back to work, I will ask Matron about the possibility of a part-time job next hospital year, I promise, Fingal.”

  Fingal’s heart soared. “Thank you, Kitty. Thank you.” He tightened his grip on her hand. “And I’ll try to slow down too.”

  “We shall hold you both to that,” said John. “What are friends for, after all?” Something out on the lough grabbed his attention. “Good Lord. Look at that.”

  All eyes stared out to sea.

  As best as Fingal could determine, one of the lagging skippers, in what must have been an ill-advised attempt to catch up, had tried to hoist his spinnaker, the great, multicoloured balloon of a sail that under kinder conditions was a terrific adjunct to sailing downwind. Today the wind was too much. The mast and sails had collapsed in a tangle of snapped rigging and torn sailcloth. It would be panic stations on board trying to rid the vessel of all the wreckage. Already the club rescue launch, always on standby for races, would be on its way to tow them in. He hoped the crew would be all right.

  Consuela’s earlier words came back to O’Reilly. “I admire persistence.” Any skipper who tried to fly a spinnaker today was persistent, all right, but, like Consuela had said, there comes a time to concede. For racing yachtsmen, who must protect themselves and their craft, conceding had been forced upon them and he was sorry for it. For a certain beautiful nursing sister who had persisted a bit too long and for whom the concession had been voluntary, Fingal O’Reilly’s big heart swelled.

  28

  Fight like Devils

  Barry sat at a table in the Duck, nursing a pint. The tide mark was less than an inch down. Five days after Bill Howard had suggested it, Barry, not without protest from Sue, was waiting for Bill and Jack Mills. Mid-pregnancy was beginning to take its toll and she was now experiencing both urinary frequency and the promised backache. Barry cou
ld tell she was trying to be stoic about the physical symptoms but emotionally she was on edge. “Do you really have to go out?” had been her petulant question as he’d picked up the car keys from the hall table.

  “Come on, Sue,” he said. “I’ll not be gone long. It’ll be a reunion for me and Jack with Bill Howard.” He’d kissed her. “And you usually do your marking on Saturday evenings if we’re not going out.”

  “I do, don’t I?” She’d managed a small smile. “Off you trot. I didn’t mean to be snarky.” She put a hand on her tummy and patted it. “This little one is playing with my hormones.” She’d kissed him back. “But don’t be too late.”

  “I’ll not.” He glanced over at the exercise books on the dining room table, accompanied by a pot of tea and Sue’s favourite Belleek mug, the delicate white porcelain stamped with a raised design of shamrocks. “What’s the subject tonight?”

  “Geography. They’ve each drawn a map of one of the six counties, complete with topographical details and historical sites. I’ve had a quick look and, you know, I think we have some budding cartographers and surveyors in there.” She looked fondly at the pile and waved her hand at him. “Now, off you go. I’ve got to crack on with these. Enjoy your pints.”

  The noise in the Duck interrupted his reverie. He glanced at his watch. As usual, his lifelong habit of punctuality meant he had ten minutes to spare before his friends arrived.

  He looked around through the haze of tobacco smoke. The Saturday-night crowd was here in force. He didn’t get to the Duck as often as he had when he’d been single and living at Number One. The regular suspects were all in attendance: Gerry Shanks, Lenny Brown, and Alan Hewitt at one table, Constable Mulligan and Mister Coffin at another. Most tables were taken, and ten men lined the bar, some standing, others sitting on barstools.

  He overheard Lenny say to Gerry, “I see Independent TV in the U.K. made its first broadcast in colour earlier this month.”