An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  Barry heard no warmth in the man’s voice and noted the formal use of her title. No smile. But at least he hadn’t refused to see her. Barry recalled how Jack had phoned his mum when he knew his father would be out of the house to arrange the invitations. “Dairy cows have very set routines,” he’d said. Denise Mills must have told her husband Jack was bringing Helen and, while he may have objected deep inside, he’d clearly acceded to the request. Could the man be softening?

  Helen smiled. “I’m sorry about that, Mister Mills. Both Jack and I have been very busy, but it’s lovely to see you again.”

  Since last Morris Mills had seen Helen Hewitt, the Twelfth of July riots had happened, and the Battle of the Bogside. Surely these events had intensified the man’s dislike of Roman Catholics. Barry tried to study Morris surreptitiously but couldn’t decide what he might be thinking or feeling. At least he was maintaining a civil façade.

  “And how’s Mrs. Mills?”

  “She’s in the kitchen getting lunch ready. She’s fine. Looking forward to seeing our son.”

  Inwardly Barry flinched.

  Morris avoided looking Helen in the eye. “If everyone’s got their gear hung up, let’s go through.” He led the way along the corridor from which doors opened to the flanking dining room on the left and lounge to the right.

  Barry and Sue followed Jack and Helen, Barry whispering to Sue as they walked, “Frosty, but polite, and he didn’t cut Helen dead.” At least, as Alan had predicted, the Ulster rules of hospitality were working in Helen’s favour, and the presence of Barry and Sue inhibited any unpleasantness in front of them.

  “I wonder,” Sue whispered back, “when Alan will appear?”

  The group entered the red-tile-floored kitchen that occupied the rest of the ground floor of the house.

  Denise Mills turned from the stove. “Hello, everybody. Just be a minute but these chickens need basting. Morris, get everyone a seat, please.” She opened the Aga range’s oven door, releasing a small cloud of steam and the smell of roasting chicken.

  Soon the little party was seated around the kitchen table, which sat beneath a mullioned window with red-checked gingham curtains giving a view over the farmyard. The panes rattled as the wind drove the rain against the glass. Barry positioned himself nearest to the corridor that led to the front door.

  “Ladies, would you care for a pre-dinner drink?”

  “Not for me,” Sue said, patting her now-obvious twenty-two-week-plus tummy, “but a glass of water would be nice.”

  Morris had soon poured drinks for everybody and Denise had joined the group. “If you don’t mind me asking, Sue, is everything going well?”

  “Mind? Not at all. We had a bit of a wobbly at the start, but it settled down. I saw my doctor a week ago and he says everything’s going very well.” She smiled.

  “Lucky you.” Denise inclined her head to Jack. “When I was carrying that great lump there, I didn’t stop throwing up until I was twenty-two weeks.”

  “Come on, Mum. You’ll be showing pictures of me naked in the bath next.”

  “Don’t be silly. All mothers talk about their children and you will too, Sue. You’ll see.” She sipped her wine. “And tell me, Helen, how are you enjoying being a doctor?”

  Barry had noticed how Denise was keeping the conversation on neutral subjects and Morris was keeping mum, looking down at the tabletop and not at anyone else.

  “I love it, Mrs. Mills, but it keeps me pretty busy. I don’t see as much of Jack as I’d like to.”

  Barry glanced at Morris, afraid there might be a growled rebuttal to that, something like “And a bloody good thing too.” But the man’s face was completely impassive when he said, “Whatever else I might feel, Doctor Hewitt—”

  Oh-oh, Barry thought.

  “I have the most sincere admiration that you, or indeed anyone from a wee place like Ballybucklebo or Cullybackey, could get into medical school, never mind win a gold medal too.”

  Barry looked at Jack, who sat opposite. He was frowning, but it faded to a small smile.

  He must be realising how big a concession that was, coming from a man with rigid views on Catholicism. Might there be hope of a reconciliation after all?

  “Thank you very much, Mister Mills.”

  “I try to be fair and look at the facts.”

  Sue said, “That’s very generous of you, Mister Mills. The whole village is proud of Helen, and her father was fit to burst with pride. She’s all he has.”

  “I remember how we felt when Jack graduated and again when you qualified as a surgeon, son.”

  Jack, who Barry knew was an inherently modest man, shrugged. “Well, I—”

  Barry was on his feet by the second knock on the front door. “I’m closest. I’ll see who it is.”

  Mister Mills said, “Thanks, Barry, and don’t keep them hanging about on the doorstep in this weather.”

  Barry closed the kitchen door behind him, tore down the hall, opened the front door to Alan Hewitt, and closed it behind him.

  Off came Alan’s coat and cap. “How’s it going?” he said.

  “Hard to say, but Mister Mills has been gracious to Helen, if distant and cold.” He bit down on his lower lip. “He said something a minute ago that you might be able to use. ‘I try to be fair and look at the facts.’ Sue and I have read the Cameron Report. I think you’re right. You might be able to use it to argue your case.” He clapped Alan on the shoulder. “We’re all there to give you all the support you need.”

  “Thanks.”

  “How do you feel?”

  Alan’s smile was wry. “Like Daniel.”

  “Daniel?”

  “Aye. Before King Darius stuck him in thon lions’ den. Absolutely on eggs.”

  Barry forced a smile. “Aye, but Daniel got out in the morning. Come on.”

  As they headed for the kitchen, Alan muttered, “For Helen and Jack’s sake—here’s hoping.”

  Barry opened the kitchen door and ushered Alan in.

  All heads turned. Morris Mills’s chair scraped across the tiles as he rose, a puzzled look on his face. He extended a right hand to welcome the stranger.

  Barry said, “Mister and Mrs. Mills, may I introduce Mister Alan Hewitt, Helen’s father, from Ballybucklebo.”

  Denise Mills began to smile but Barry, who was holding his breath, recognized she was trying to maintain the fiction that she was surprised. She controlled herself.

  Morris withdrew his welcoming hand. His shoulders stiffened. His breathing quickened. The colour rose in his already ruddy, lined cheeks. “Mister Hewitt, I’ll not say welcome to this house and we both know why—”

  Alan nodded.

  “—but I have no doubt you have come on important business.” He glanced from Jack to Helen and back before looking Alan in the eye. “I will not ask you to leave. I’ll get you a chair—”

  Barry exhaled. His shoulders relaxed.

  A chair was brought to the table and set beside Morris’s own.

  “I will ask you to be seated, bye.”

  Alan crossed the floor and sat. Barry noted his pallor.

  “And I will ask you to state your business.”

  “Morris. Where are your manners? Please ask Mister Hewitt if he’d like a drink.”

  Morris’s nostrils flared, but he asked formally, “Can I get you a drink?”

  “I’d like a beer, please.”

  “I’ll get it,” Denise said.

  “Now, Mister Hewitt?”

  “Mister Mills, I’d prefer to keep this informal. I’d be pleased if you’d call me Alan.”

  Morris Mills frowned, rocked in his chair, pursed his lips.

  Barry waited. In Ulster, the use of someone’s Christian name was a privilege granted between close friends. Respect was also shown by use of titles like Mister and Mrs.

  “Surnames.”

  “Surnames it is then, Mills. You asked me why I’m here. Because I love my daughter very much and I am concerned for her happin
ess.”

  “Go on.” Morris leant closer to Alan.

  “I’d noticed how close she and your son’ve been for three years, so back in April I took him aside and asked him why didn’t he ask her to marry him, even if they were of different faiths?”

  Barry saw Jack and Helen exchange fond looks.

  Morris sat back, his eyes wide. “Never mind religion. What is your business? I want a straight answer.”

  A look of irritation and dislike crossed Alan’s face. “That’s all you’ll get from me, Mills.” He started to rise.

  “I’m sorry. Sit where you are. I didn’t mean it like that. I can see where this is going.” His eyes narrowed and his gaze went to Helen and to Jack before he shook his head and looked back at Alan. “There were clues I should have picked up on sooner. I’m a bit tense.”

  “You’re not alone.” Alan lowered himself into his chair.

  “So, never mind religion. Are you an Irish Nationalist?”

  “Are you a Loyalist?”

  “Would you shed blood for your cause?” Morris barked back.

  “Would you?”

  Silence.

  “Mills, when the majority of people living on this wee island agree to unite, I’ll be delighted, but not one drop, not one, would I shed to try to make that happen.”

  Mills nodded. “And I’m a proud British subject and I intend to remain one, but I’d only fight in self-defence of me and mine.”

  “So, we are of one mind about violence.”

  “I hate it.”

  “Now, I’ve a question. There’s been a deal of it this year. Three major outbreaks. Who started them all?”

  Morris hung his head.

  Again, the man’s earlier words, “I try to be fair and look at the facts,” came back to Barry.

  “Excuse me.” Denise Mills rose quietly and went to her stove.

  Ignoring her, Alan asked, “Have you read the Cameron Report? I have. It came out two weeks ago.”

  Morris Mills nodded. “I have. It was…” He paused, choosing his words, it seemed, with care. “… disturbing reading.” He glanced round the table. “Does everyone know what we’re talking about?”

  Sue spoke up. “Mister Mills, I was with the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association from the beginning. We’re a mix of Protestants and Catholics trying to put an end to discrimination against Roman Catholics. We had no Republican or Loyalist agenda. We wanted equality and fairness. I’ve read the report from cover to cover on the causes of violence since the fifth of October last year. It confirms everything we’d been fighting against. It is a very damning document, stating that the root cause of the violence was organised discrimination by the other community against Roman Catholics abetted by the Ulster Special Constabulary, the B-Specials, a partisan paramilitary force.”

  Morris clasped his right hand with his left and looked down. His voice was low. “I know, lass. I know. And I’m not sure it’s fair to tar all Protestants with the same brush. Discrimination in jobs and housing has always been accepted by people like me as being in the normal way of things, and that was wrong. But the recent violence? That’s due to a group of extreme Loyalists who fear being a minority in a United Ireland. Frightened people do incredibly stupid things.”

  No one spoke. Sue leaned forward and then leaned back again as if deciding not to comment. The sound of a clock ticking, a pot boiling on the Aga, a beast lowing outside intensified the silence around the table.

  “I’ve lived here in Cullybackey all my life. It’s a Protestant town. Our family has always been Loyalists. Part of my rearing was to hate the pope and all of his flock. And for no logical reason except my side have been doing it for generations.” He grimaced. “Hating Catholics is still being preached from some pulpits: ‘From thieves and popery, and wooden shoes, good Lord deliver us.’”

  Alan Hewitt spoke quietly, as if only to the man in the chair beside him. “‘Love thy neighbour’ goes right back to the book of Leviticus, and Christ called that the ‘Greatest Commandment.’”

  “You’re right—Alan,” Morris said, “and don’t anybody think this is some kind of Road to Damascus experience for me.” He looked from Jack to Helen. “Ever since Jack told me that cock-and-bull story about a ‘friend’ who wanted to marry a Catholic lass and I lost my temper, I’ve been trying to come to terms with who you were really talking about, and it didn’t take me long to puzzle that out. I felt like Spencer Tracy in Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner.” He turned to Alan Hewitt. “How do you feel about your daughter wanting to marry a Protestant, and the son of a Loyalist at that?”

  Alan shrugged. “I love Helen. I don’t like mixed marriages either, but her happiness is all I want. It’s all her late mother would have wanted. I’ve already given my blessing.”

  “And it’s what I want,” Denise Mills said.

  Morris shook his head. “Already? Already, Hewitt, you’ve given your blessing?” He turned on Jack. “Are you two already engaged? Without talking to your mother and me? How dare you, Jack Mills.”

  Barry had been delighted by the way matters had been progressing but now felt a lump in his throat and swallowed. Hard.

  Denise Mills was trembling as she spoke. “Please, Morris. You’ve just talked about when you lost your temper. Jack has talked to me. We both wanted you to calm down a bit before he spoke with you about it again. All his life, Jack’s always obeyed us. How do you think he’s been feeling?”

  “How do I think—?” Morris Mills buried his head in his hands, raised it, shook it, and stared at his son. “I don’t imagine it’s been easy for you, Jack. I really don’t.” He looked Alan Hewitt right in the eye. “And you disapprove—like me—but you’ve given them your blessing?”

  Alan nodded.

  “You’re a man with a big heart, Alan Hewitt—”

  Jack interrupted. “I’m sorry, Dad. I really am, but Helen and I…” He took Helen’s hand.

  Barry tensed. The only sound now was the gentle bubbling of spuds boiling on the range top.

  “Before you go any farther, son, I want to finish. Those months of puzzling, and then these last couple of weeks after learning the facts in that report about how wrong us Loyalist have been. Well, they’ve changed me, and they’ve changed my mind. If you and Helen are in love…”

  “We are, Mister Mills,” Helen said.

  “And if you two are determined to get married … I heard you there now, Denise; you’ve been working on me for months to see sense.”

  “I have, you stubborn oul’ eejit.”

  “Then you have our blessing, son, and Doctor Helen Hewitt, welcome to the Mills family. And Hewitt—it’s Morris from now on.”

  Helen was weeping through her smile.

  “It’s Alan. You called me a ‘man with a big heart’—Morris. Well, you sir, you are a man with an open mind. On behalf of us Hewitts”—he offered his hand, which Morris Mills shook—“thank you.”

  Jack said, “Thank you, Alan, for having the courage to enter the lions’ den today. And we’ll never be able to thank you enough, Dad and Mum, for being open to what Alan had to say.” His voice cracked. “Now there’s something I’d like to do in front of my two families and my best friends.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket, produced a small, velvet-covered box, took out what Barry knew was a round-cut solitaire-diamond ring. “You accepted my proposal back on New Year’s Eve, and now with your blessing, Alan, and yours, Dad and Mum…” He slid the ring on Helen’s third left finger. “I love you, Helen Hewitt, and here is the outward sign that in the not-too-distant future, my love, we will be man and wife.”

  30

  The End Is to Build Well

  “Good Lord,” said Sebastian as O’Reilly parked the Rover at the corner of a large cleared building site. “I thought dropping in on Mister Johnson to let him know we’d got his final report from Doctor Montgomery was our last home visit today.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “And I thought we’d got long past your urgent need to get
home to your mum now she’s spending time with John MacNeill and seems to be getting her feet under her.”

  “Actually, I am exceedingly happy about that.” Sebastian smiled. “And touché about my wanting to gallop off before, but not anymore. Well, I’m more likely to want to get away to see a certain blond physiotherapist.”

  O’Reilly glanced at Sebastian as the two men began walking toward the building in progress. The lad looked well. He’d lost that slightly harried expression and there was some colour in his cheeks. As a physician, O’Reilly approved.

  Sebastian was surveying the buzz of activity before them. “I must say I do enjoy home visits a lot more than the typical hospital outpatient clinic routine, get ’em in and out as quickly as possible. But I didn’t think GPs practised industrial medicine on building sites too.”

  “We don’t. I’m merely here to satisfy my innate curiosity. I don’t think you’ve met Bertie Bishop, senior partner of Bishop’s Building Company?”

  Sebastian shook his head. “I’ve yet to have that pleasure.”

  “But you have met Donal Donnelly?”

  “Red hair? Buck teeth? In the Duck a couple of weeks back when Barry and I popped in for an after-work pint?”

  “That’s him. He’s Bertie’s junior partner. Bertie and his wife are off on a world cruise.” O’Reilly pointed ahead to where concrete foundations lay in straight lines, bricklayers were building walls, a forklift truck juddered maniacally around the site, and tools and building materials were stockpiled. “This is going to be a three-storey block of fifteen flats. It’s a big job and Bertie has said he’s comfortable leaving Donal to look after the project. I know for a fact Donal’s a wee bit nervous about the responsibility. It’s the first big job where he’s in charge. I’d like to see how he’s managing.”

  Sebastian tilted his head to one side. “Fingal, you, and I’ve noticed Barry too, you don’t only see to the illnesses of your—damn it, if you were a man of the cloth I’d say your flock—you take an interest in every aspect of the lives of people here, don’t you?”

  O’Reilly, who for many years had cultivated the façade of being a gruff old ogre, got ready to bluster but changed his mind. “When I came back here after the war and opened my practice, I had no intention of doing anything of the kind, but”—he held his forearms wide, hands palms-up—“the bloody place grows on you. I’ve had, and am still having, a wonderful time. If work is doing something for money when you’d much rather be doing anything else, I’ve not done a day’s work since 1946—except when it comes to filling in bureaucratic forms.”