An Irish Country Welcome Page 31

  “Two rioters dead,” muttered O’Reilly. “But it’s been quiet for more than twenty-four hours, and our prime minister has said he holds out hopes of lasting peace.”

  “And that,” said Mister Robinson, “is something Father O’Toole and I want to continue to foster here. Lasting peace. The local churches will, of course, have their usual harvest thanksgiving services, but it was Father Hugh who thought we should also have a celebration open to all. We’d like to use the Bonnaughts’ hall as soon as possible.”

  “I cannot see any difficulties,” said the marquis. “I’ll make some phone calls, set up a working party, cancel Saturday’s dance, and make sure the Harvest Festival happens.”

  And now, three days later, O’Reilly was looking across their table in the hall to a smiling marquis, his arm protectively around the back of a chair occupied by Ruth Carson.

  “Your attention, please. Your attention, please.” Donal Donnelly was at the microphone.

  Conversations had barely begun since the blessing, so the packed room rapidly fell silent except for the occasional childish interruptions and parental shushings. This afternoon was one for families.

  “Right. First, thanks to you, Father, and to Your Reverence and to youse all for coming out to celebrate a great harvest in a spirit of friendship and tolerance.” He waved his arm round a hall decorated with sheaves of ripe yellow whiskery-headed barley, bowls of sweet red eating apples, and sour green Bramley cooking apples. Huge vases of Michaelmas daisies sat on every table. “Thank youse, Bonnaughts, for letting us run this event here.” He bowed to John MacNeill and applauded him. “Now, I’m going til tell youse what’s planned. For starters, as this is usually a religious event, the bar will be closed, and no strong drink will be sold—”

  There was a subdued muttering.

  “But”—he pointed at a low white-tablecloth-covered table upon which stood ranks of small glasses and many bottles—“we have five contestants in the dandelion wine competition.”

  A less subdued muttering and one loud, “Whoopee.”

  “Entry fee is two shillings per taster. Alan Hewitt will take yer money. The prize will be a gift from Lord MacNeill as well as half the tasting fees, so let’s have lots of tasters…”

  “Dead on.”

  “Bottles of the same wine will be on sale for those of youse with your tongues hanging out. If you’ll talk to Mary Dunleavy behind that other table, and—sit down, Mister Coffin. You’ll not die of thirst while I’m still speaking.”

  Waves of good-natured laughter.

  “And she’ll have soft drinks for the kiddies.”

  A high-pitched voice yelled, “Wanna Coca-Cola. Wanna Coca-Cola.”

  Donal continued, “There will be the same kinds of competitions for best plum cake”—all eyes turned to Kinky, whose plum cakes were famous—“and for the biggest vegetable marrow, and last but not least, Sonny and Maggie Houston, great dog lovers as you know, and Colin Brown, who’s going til be the first vet til come from Ballybucklebo, will judge the best-dressed dog or puppy competition.” He paused, then continued, “Victoria sandwich cakes, Madeira cakes, pickles and chutney, strawberry jam have been donated and all of these items will also be for sale, so they will.”

  More applause.

  “And we’ve donkey rides outside—”

  As if to punctuate the remark, one let go a deafening bray.

  Donal pulled himself up and stood on his mock dignity. “As I was trying to say when I was so rudely interrupted, all the money made today will be given to the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts’ fund for sending children to the cross-community summer camp next year.”

  The earlier bursts of applause had been a little subdued. This one raised the roof.

  Donal left the stage and rejoined Julie, little Tori, and the twins in their pram, as well as Dapper Frew and a young blond woman.

  “Barry, any idea who that is with Dapper?”

  Barry looked over. “When Sebastian and I visited him postop in August he was wearing a knitted hat. Said a Joan Eakin from his office had knitted it and that she was coming to his house later. You know, I’ll bet that’s her.”

  “Thanks.” That was August and here it was mid-October. Two months? Not like Dapper’s usual form with young women. Good for him. No question his recovery was complete. O’Reilly smiled. “I’m going to taste the wines, and I’ll bring a bottle or two back. How many glasses will I need?”

  Sue, now in her twenty-seventh week, shook her head. “No thanks, Fingal.”

  “For Ruth and me, please.”

  “And two for Kitty and me. That’s five.” He rose. “Come on, John, Barry. Come taste some dandelion wine with me. All in a good cause.”

  The three men began to cross the room, where the noise level was steadily rising in the now tobacco-hazed air.

  Sonny and Maggie—she with a huge purple dahlia in her hatband, he with a matching one in his lapel—were sitting with Archie and Kinky.

  John MacNeill said, “Good afternoon, all. Mrs. Auchinleck, Mrs. Houston. Will you be competing today?”

  Kinky said, “Yes, sir. I’ve my plum cake in, so. And I’ve donated pickled beetroot, tomato chutney, a Victoria sandwich cake, and strawberry jam.”

  Maggie giggled. “I’ve a plum cake in too”—she put her hand on Kinky’s—“but it’s Kinky’s recipe.”

  “Good luck to you both.” John MacNeill had to step back to let a little boy rush past, being chased by Tori Donnelly. High-pitched childish laughter and a baby’s cries rose above the hum of conversation.

  Barry made it to the wine-tasting table before Fingal, with John MacNeill bringing up the rear. A young, dark-haired man was smiling and chatting with Alan Hewitt.

  O’Reilly saw Barry half turn his head to eavesdrop and wondered what that was all about.

  Barry paid, and collected three cards. He turned and gave one each to Fingal and John. “My treat.”

  “I’m buying the wine for the table, “O’Reilly said. “And some lemonade for Sue.”

  In very short order Barry, then O’Reilly had completed their tasting, returned their ballots to Alan, and O’Reilly had bought two bottles of wine and a glass of lemonade from Mary. “You seemed to be very interested in that dark-haired young man immediately ahead of you, Barry? I don’t recognize him.”

  Barry nodded. “I was in the Duck last month. The lad’s a newcomer, a Protestant. He said something very foolish to a Catholic fellow in the pub and it almost ended in a fight, but Malcolm Mulligan intervened before anyone got hurt. Alan was there, and now, a month later, Alan and this Dempsey fellow are chatting away like a pair of old friends. If there’s a bit of goodwill, the gap can be bridged.”

  O’Reilly nodded. “That Alan’s one sound man.”

  “I know. I do know.”

  “Time to rejoin the ladies,” John said with a grin. “I inherited a substantial cellar from my father, full of vintage Bordeaux and clarets. I’ve never had dandelion wine before. It’s rather good.”

  O’Reilly sang softly as they crossed the room,

  Dandelion wine will make you remember

  The first days of spring in the middle of December

  Dandelion wine. Dandelion wine.

  “When I was fourteen and my uncle Hedley was teaching me about wildfowling, he took me along to look at a gundog he fancied. While he and the owner were appraising the dog, the woman of the house gave me a glass of her dandelion wine. When the men came back, I was legless. Uncle Hedley and the dog’s owner and I went straight to the car. ‘Be kind to him, sir,’ says your man. ‘Herself only lets me drink that wine—so I secretly fortify it with vodka.’”

  Barry laughed so much he nearly dropped the glasses he was carrying.

  “You’re in good form,” Sue said when they arrived back at the table. “Thanks.” She accepted her lemonade.

  Fingal poured, raised his glass, and said, “Cheers to this table.”

  Donal, back onstage, took the mike. “My lord, l
adies, and gentlemen, your attention. We have our first winner. At fifty-six pounds twelve ounces and grown from giant-marrow seed, Mister Desmond Johnson’s entry is declared the winner, beating the nearest competitor by eight ounces. Will you come up here and bring the beauty with you, please?”

  The farmer passed his prize squash up to Donal, climbed up himself, and cradled it across his body. O’Reilly reckoned the green-and-yellow-ridged squash was about three feet long.

  The applause was as big as the vegetable.

  A blushing Desmond accepted his prize and said into the mike, “Thank you all very much.”

  Between him and Donal, they maneuvered the monster off the stage. “Now, if you please, I’d like the competitors for best-dressed dog to come forward and the judges to come up here with me.”

  Sonny and Maggie Houston and Colin Brown joined Donal.

  Four dogs and their handlers waited their turns.

  O’Reilly could not stifle a guffaw when Mary Dunleavy’s Chihuahua, Brian Boru, tried to mount Donal Donnelly’s greyhound, Bluebird. The last time that had happened the offspring had been the oddest-looking creatures, which, naturally, Donal had conned people into believing were a rare Australian breed of quokka herding dogs and had sold them for a substantial profit.

  Mary lifted Brian Boru, set him on the stage, and followed him up. The little dog with great bulging brown eyes wore a wide-brimmed sombrero held on by a tie under his chin, a black Pancho Villa moustache drooping over his muzzle, and a red, blue, and green serape draped across his narrow shoulders.

  As Mary paraded Brian in front of the judges, Donal announced, “Mary Dunleavy and Brian Boru.”

  Next up, with her mum, Julie, hovering in the background, was little Tori Donnelly leading Bluebird, Donal’s racing greyhound, in a white frilly chiffon tutu around her rear end, a sparkly paste tiara on her head, and satin ballet slippers with bows on her hind feet.

  Both groups had been widely applauded.

  “The next competitor is Billy Singleton and his British bulldog, Winston.”

  A middle-aged man led a snuffling liver-and-white, bandy-legged bulldog wearing a London bobby’s helmet with a huge silver star on its front, a dark blue tunic with silver buttons in the middle, and a small black truncheon on one side.

  As more applause bounced around the hall, the dog responded with a gruff bark.

  “And, finally, Mrs. Fitzpatrick and her Pekinese Fu Manchu.”

  “Good Lord,” said Kitty to O’Reilly, “I didn’t know Ronald and Alice had a dog.”

  “More to the point, Alice is a dressmaker and, boy, what a costume.”

  The pug-faced, hairy little dog wore a conical blue hat with an attached pigtail and a magnificently embroidered long overcoat with baggy sleeves covering its forelegs and long skirts, split so his bushy tail stuck through.

  “That’s a mandarin’s outfit,” Ruth Carson said.

  “I’m certainly glad I’m not judging,” John MacNeill said as the applause died down and Alice and Fu Manchu hopped off the stage.

  Donal turned to the judges. “Have you picked the winner?”

  Sonny, Maggie, and Colin all nodded.

  Colin Brown, smart in a two-piece dark suit, Bangor Grammar School tie, and highly polished black shoes, stepped forward. “We have, Mister Donnelly.”

  All attention was fixed on Colin.

  “We congratulate all the competitors. Every costume is outstanding.”

  “Hear, hear” from someone in the crowd.

  “The prize is a giant bag of Bonios. And as we were so impressed with every competitor, we have decided not to award a first place but to divide the prize between all four. There’s plenty of Bonios for everyone. Well, the dogs, anyways. If you’ll please take your canines to the committee room.” He pointed to a door.

  The applause was deafening, and the judges had left the stage by the time it had subsided.

  “That leaves only the dandelion wine and the plum cake prizes to be awarded,” Donal said, “so those of youse still wanting to taste either, I’d ask you to get a move on. The rest of youse—talk nicely among yourselves.” He left the stage and rejoined his group, spoke to Dapper, and came over to O’Reilly’s table. “My lord, and everyone else, good afternoon. I don’t mean til intrude, but Doctor O’Reilly, could Dapper and me maybe have a wee short word outside?”

  “Of course. Excuse me. I’ll be back.” O’Reilly ignored questioning looks, rose, and followed Donal and Dapper. Outside the air was cool, but the sun shone down on children enjoying donkey rides on the rugby pitch.

  “Sorry til drag you out here, but this is private, like.”

  “Fair enough, and by the way, you’re running a good show, Donal.”

  “Thanks, Fingal, and Dapper and me’s all set to run a better one on Monday and we’d like you to be there on the building site at three when Finlay makes his next delivery.”

  Dapper said, “That’s right, sir. Thanks a million for talking to your brother and telling Donal about that there Weights and Measures Act. Donal and me has it all worked out, we just need someone with a position in the village there as a witness.”

  O’Reilly grinned. “I know. Lars told me. I’ll be there.”

  “Dead on,” Donal said. “That’s all we need to know. Go you on back and join your friends. I’ll be in soon to start giving out the last prizes.”

  O’Reilly retook his seat and waited for Kitty and Ruth Carson to finish their conversation. “Sorry about that,” he said to Kitty. “The boys need my help with something on Monday.”

  “You’re forgiven,” Kitty said. “We all know there’s no rest for the wicked.”

  “Speaking of rest,” Ruth said, “I haven’t seen you, Kitty, since we had dinner together at the yacht club with your delightful Spanish friend. I’m incurably curious. Did you have a chat with your matron? I hope you don’t mind me asking.”

  “Mind? Not at all.” Kitty laughed. “I did, and Fingal and Barry and Sue all know. When the next hospital year starts, in August 1970, I will be going part time.”

  “Wonderful. I congratulate you.”

  “And your next job, Ruth, is to try to persuade old Hippocrates here”—she nudged O’Reilly—“to slow down too.”

  Everyone laughed.

  Before O’Reilly could reply, Donal spoke into the mike. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, it now falls to me to announce the winner of the dandelion wine contest.” He waited for quiet. “Bottle number five is a clear winner. Will the maker of number five please come forward?”

  John MacNeill smiled. “I picked that one.”

  “Me too,” said O’Reilly.

  Barry shook his head. “Number three.”

  To increasing applause, Archie Auchinleck was making his way to the stage. He climbed up.

  “Here y’are, Archie. A cheque and a very special bottle of claret presented by Lord MacNeill.”

  Archie accepted and, leaning forward to the mike, announced, “Thank you all, and thank you, my lord.”

  John MacNeill lowered his head.

  “And finally,” Donal said, “it’s time to announce the winner of the plum cake contest—and all the tasters had to work very hard”—until recently, the most appropriate adjective for Maggie Houston’s version—“because we had eleven entrants. Now, if this was the Oscars, like, I’d be given an envelope and youse would all hold your breath while I opened it, read the card inside, and announced, and the best picture award goes to…”

  “It was Oliver last year, and you’re making this presentation as long as the Oscar ceremonies, Donal. Who the heck won?” Gerry Shanks was getting impatient.

  “Whoever baked cake number seven.”

  O’Reilly glanced at Kinky’s table, confidently expecting to see her rise, but instead a grinning but tearful Maggie was struggling to her feet. She planted a kiss on the top of Kinky’s head and walked, head erect, to the stage. “I’m too old to climb up on that stage, Donal.”

  Donal, grin
ning hugely, handed her prize down to her. “Congratulations, Mrs. Houston. Very well done.”

  The room erupted, people stood, whistled, yelled, and clapped, O’Reilly among them.

  Eventually it was quiet enough for her to speak. Her voice was shaky but loud enough to hear with the microphone Donal had passed down. “I don’t know what to say. Thank you, Donal. Thank you, tasters who voted for my cake. But it’s not really my cake.” She pointed at Kinky. “Stand up, Kinky.”

  Kinky stood, grinning from ear to ear.

  She’s the most generous woman I’ve ever met, O’Reilly thought.

  “It’s Kinky’s recipe. She stood over me and taught me how to make it. Thank you, Kinky. Thank you.” She handed the mike back up to Donal.

  Cissie Sloan was on her feet. She yelled, “I was a contestant too. And Kinky gave me her recipe, and I’ll bet she gave it to the other eight entrants too. Put up your hands if she did.”

  O’Reilly counted. Eight hands were in the air.

  Cissie called, “Let’s hear it for Kinky!”

  O’Reilly did think the roof was going to come off.

  Kinky, now also in tears, bowed to the four corners of the hall. And still the cheering continued.

  32

  Crime and Punishment

  O’Reilly half opened two of the Rover’s windows and addressed Kenny in the backseat. The dog had immediately stood as soon as the car had stopped. “You’ll get your run later, sir. I’ve business with Donal Donnelly, Dapper Frew, and a certain Mister Finlay, a builders’ supplier with a squint in his left eye.”

  Kenny grunted, shrugged as only a Labrador can shrug, and curled up on his tartan rug with a sigh.

  O’Reilly had parked beside the delivery area on the building site, and a quick glance assured him that the weight-supporting cavity walls were growing taller and several teams of men were busy. Since he hated unpunctuality, he was five minutes early for the three o’clock meeting. He looked around. The weather had improved from the drizzle of seven days ago when last he’d been here. He heard cries of pee-wit, pee-wit, and looked up to see a large flock of lapwing, their white undersides, green-crested heads, and dark green finger-feathers etched against the blue sky. Probably migrating south, he thought.