An Irish Country Wedding Read online

  He felt a quick kick to his shin under the table. “Eejit,” she said.

  “Never mind blue speeches.” Fingal chuckled. “I’ve even been to country weddings where sufficient offence had been caused that in the immortal words of the old folk song, ‘Finnegan’s Wake,’

  … Shillelagh law was all the rage

  And a row and a ruction soon began.

  “But we’ll be having none of that today. I’ll have to say a word or two, but I’ll be brief, and I’ve given the other two speakers strict instructions, ‘Stand up, speak up … then shut up.’”

  “I have no doubt you have, Surgeon Commander O’Reilly,” she said as she touched the three broad gold rings on his cuff and chuckled. She lowered her voice. “I know how much you want today to be perfect for us. Thank you, Fingal.”

  “I do.” He glowed inside, swallowed a third of the remaining pint in one go, and said, “By Jasus, I can feel life returning.” He drank again. To the tune of “A Nation Once Again” he sang, “Rehydration once again,” and took another pull.

  The pride of the Ballybucklebo Highlanders roared into “The Miller’s Daughter,” a strathspey that by tradition would be followed by a reel. Children’s happy cries punctuated the piping.

  Fingal looked over his garden. “Filling up well,” he said to Kitty. He glanced at the marquee. Mary was helping her dad and so were Gerry Shanks and Charlie Gorman. Lines of men were queuing to buy drinks. “By the time the next pipe tune’s over I think we might get the meal started and the formal part of the afternoon under way and over.” He gasped and wiped sweat from his brow and said, “And then as soon as that’s over I can nip inside, get out of this bloody monkey suit, and come back and enjoy the hooley.” Sue, who must have overheard, said, “It is warm, but I think you’re going to have a lovely party.”

  “Glad you could come, Sue,” O’Reilly said. “He’s a good lad, young Barry.”

  “I know,” she said. “I do know.” And she smiled.

  “I’ll miss him,” O’Reilly said, “but he’ll be a damn fine doctor whatever choice of career he makes.”

  She half-turned to Barry, who was saying something to her. “Excuse me, Fingal,” she said.

  He felt a pushing against his shin. “Lie down, lummox,” he said. Arthur’s pink tongue lolled as he panted and flopped to the grass. “I know it’s hot. Your Smithwick’s coming.” Fingal looked up. The tune was now “The Walls of Limerick,” a rousing reel and, as he’d predicted, nearly everyone who was coming had arrived. It was harder to hear the pipes over the steadily rising noise of conversation.

  He picked out some faces from among the invitees at the front tables. Helen Hewitt was sitting with Doctor Jenny Bradley. Other folks he didn’t recognise, Kitty’s family and friends from the south, kept them company and overflowed to other places. Father O’Toole was deep in conversation with Sonny Houston and Maggie. O’Reilly grinned. From Maggie’s hat, two fresh red roses and a large ox-eye daisy waved from the hatband of what must be a special creation for the day.

  The rest of the garden was packed with friends and well-wishers. Laughter, voices, even a shout rising above the hubbub. “Jimmy, make it three pints, aye three, and a brandy and Benedictine for the missus.”

  Willie was heading toward the head table with a tray of Moët Chandon bottles and a bowl of Smithwick’s for Arthur. Ice buckets were stategically placed.

  “Good man-ma-da,” Fingal said to Willie, who had given Arthur his beer and was popping champagne corks. He finished his pint, listened to a happy slurping from under the table, and said to Willie, “When you get that done, nip back with another pint for me and when you notice Arthur’s bowl’s empty?”

  “Right, Doc,” Willie said.

  “And give you and your staff a jar on me.”

  “I will, so I will.” Willie left.

  The pipe music stopped. Fingal heard the ringing of a spoon on a glass. Mister Robinson was on his feet at one of the front tables. As silence fell over the garden, Fingal heard the far-away lowing of cattle, the distant notes of a cuckoo up in the Ballybucklebo hills, a ship’s siren out in the lough, and Mister Robinson saying, “I have been asked to compère. We intend to keep things simple.” He pointed to the marquee. “There will be three courses, starters or soup, main, and pudding. And there’ll be only three speeches—”

  Fingal thought it might be Constable Malcolm Mulligan who yelled, “And keep them short.” A man after my own heart, he thought.

  “We will. Two between the courses and the last after the dessert. After that, feel free to wander around, greet your friends and neighbours, and have a good time.”

  “We’ll do that all right, your reverence,” a voice called from the crowd.

  “I’m sure you will, Alan Hewitt. We’ll maybe get you to give us a song later, and anyone else who wants to do a party piece, but for now I’ll ask the head and first tables in sequence to go to the marquee for their starters and then each table in order of the numbers on your tabletop.”

  Fingal’s stomach growled and he began to rise. The thought of the feast awaiting was making his mouth water. Then he remembered and sat quickly in time to hear Mister Robinson say, “But before we put our trotters in the trough,” he gave O’Reilly a sideways glance and was rewarded by chuckles, “I call upon Father O’Toole to say grace.”

  The tall priest rose, bowed his head, and said in his soft Cork brogue, “On this wedding day of our dear friends, Fingal and Kitty O’Reilly, may this food restore our strength, giving new energy to our limbs, new thought to our minds. May this drink restore our souls, giving new vision to our spirits, greater warmth to hearts already warmed by the love here today. And once refreshed may we give new pleasure to Thee who gives us everything. Amen.”

  The chorus of amens sounded heartfelt.

  Well said, Fingal thought.

  “Now,” Mister Robinson said, “if the bride and groom will—?”

  Fingal rose, helped Kitty to her feet, and headed for the marquee and the wedding feast, Ballybucklebo style.

  45

  In a High Style and Make a Speech

  The first course of the feast was disappearing and the garden was noisy with craic, laughter, and kiddies’ shouts. Exactly as it ought to be, O’Reilly thought. That chilled homemade tomato soup had been refreshing. A grand wee sample of what was to come. He and the crowd had then sat respectfully through a succinct speech of welcome by the marquis to the bride’s family, wedding party, to all the women who had so generously provided the sumptuous repast, Willie Dunleavy and his helpers, and all the other attendees.

  Then came the main course.

  “Funny,” O’Reilly said, surveying the wreckage on his plate of the remains of cold salmon, roast ham, roast chicken, a lobster tail, potato and green salads, and two hard-boiled eggs, “I don’t think Alice Moloney let out my waistband far enough. These bloody trousers are still too tight.”

  “Must be the heat,” Kitty said, and laughed. “Don’t worry, you’ll be out of them soon.”

  O’Reilly was going to say something risqué, thought better of it, and quaffed his second glass of champagne. Not a bad drop, but to be honest he’d have preferred another stout.

  It would soon be his turn to get up on his hind legs. He felt Kitty’s hand, cool and smooth, creep into his. He squeezed and she squeezed back. Fingal, Fingal, he thought, you may be fifty-six going on fifty-seven, but Kitty makes you feel twenty all over again.

  The minister jangled his spoon, stood, and was concluding, “… and after that wonderful main course, our next speaker is the groom, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.”

  Fingal rose to a respectful hush. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, it falls to me on behalf of the O’Reilly family to offer words of thanks, and to toast the gracious lady who is now my wife, Mrs. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.” He could barely bring himself to look at Kitty, so full of her was he.

  “I would like to thank my father, Professor Connan O’Reill
y, and mother, Mrs. Mary O’Reilly O.B.E. Regrettably I cannot, but they loved Kitty from the moment they met a young Caitlin O’Hallorhan in Dublin before the war.” And although I’ll not confess to it in public, he thought, I like to believe that wherever they are, they are looking on today, hearing my thanks and smiling. “My brother, Lars O’Reilly, orchid breeder—those are his flowers you see today—wildfowl conservationist, and my oldest friend, has delayed his annual departure to Villefranche to be here. Bless you, Lars.” Fingal inclined his head to his brother, who smiled back. “To the rest of my supporters, Sir Donal Cromie and Mister Charlie Greer, old friends, good friends, thank you. No groom could have been more ably supported.” He hesitated, then continued, “And I can only applaud the loveliness of the bride’s party, Mrs. Maureen Kincaid, Mrs. Virginia Currie, and Sister Jane Hoey.” He beamed at the folks sitting at the head table and in the front row. “And finally, what groom could make it to the altar without a best man? Doctor Laverty has performed his duties admirably, not only today, but all through this year, as many of you can attest.”

  The applause was even louder and longer lasting.

  In the moment of silence that followed, a child, Fingal thought it might be Angus Shanks, yelled, “I want to go potty.”

  There was a sympathetic outburst of laughter and while a blushing Mairead hustled her son to the house, O’Reilly scanned the crowd and found Alice Moloney: Barry had done a masterful job of diagnosing her obscure tropical disease. Two tables over was Colin Brown: Barry had sewn up his hand, understood his role in a ringworm outbreak, arranged to have his broken arm set, and rescued his ferret, Butch. Then there was Fergus Finnegan, the jockey: Barry had cured his eye infection. And Aggie Arbuthnot: Barry had dealt professionally with her deep vein thrombosis and would be telling her later that he’d helped get her job back. The young man had learnt that there was more to being a country GP than simply dealing with the aches and pains of the body.

  The laughter died.

  “And now,” said Fingal, “are your glasses charged?”

  “They’re not charged to you, sir,” a voice said. “We’d for til pay for them ourselves, so we had.”

  “Jasus, Jeremy Dunne, for a man who had an ulcer, you should be on orange juice,” O’Reilly countered.

  “And the doctor’s not made of money,” Donal chipped in.

  There was a mumbling of agreement.

  And a row and a ruction then began, O’Reilly thought. “You bide, Jeremy,” he said, “and Donal? Houl’ your wheest.” He’d try to thank Donal later privately for his support. Country GPs weren’t rich no matter what some folks here might think. “So fill your glasses.”

  There was a great clinking of bottle necks.

  “Grand,” he said. “Now rise with me and toast my family and the wedding party.”

  He watched everyone get to their feet except Bridget Doherty, whose arthritis kept her chairbound. A couple of chairs were overturned, but a myriad voices roared, “To the doctor’s family and the wedding party.”

  A single voice yelled, “May they be half an hour in heaven before the divil knows they’re dead,” and among general laughter and murmuring of voices everyone was seated and eventually silenced so he could continue.

  “I’ve been saving the best for last, of course. It is my privelege to thank the girl I met in Sir Patrick Dun’s Hospital in 1934. The lovely woman who came back into my life last year, to whom I proposed in April, and who, God bless you, Kitty, consented to becoming Mrs. Caitlin O’Reilly, my wife. With no disrespect to any of the other lovely ladies here, will you all please rise again and raise your glasses to Kitty O’Reilly, the true shining Star of the County Down?”

  The crowd rose and the response chased a flock of starlings from one of the elm trees. Arthur stuck his head out from under the table to see what was going on, muttered, and retreated to his second bowl of Smithwick’s.

  Fingal bent and firmly kissed Kitty and tingled from head to toe when she flicked her tongue on his and said softly as they parted, “I love you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly. Thank you.”

  * * *

  As soon as most of the crowd had finished dessert, Mister Robinson again signalled for silence. O’Reilly surreptitiously undid his top trouser button. That sherry trifle—Kinky’s he was sure—had been blissful. With just one speech, Barry’s, to go it wouldn’t be long until he could get out of this damn uniform.

  “It is time for me to call upon the best man, Doctor Barry Laverty, to propose the health of the bride and groom.”

  Applause as Barry rose and pulled papers from his inside pocket. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen,” said Barry, glancing at his notes, “it is the task of the best man to toast the bride and groom. Nothing could give me greater pleasure. I’ve been here for one year, and no young doctor could have asked for a better teacher. For this I must thank Doctor O’Reilly. Where else could I have learned that the correct treatment for a sprained but dirty ankle is to hurl the patient bodily into a rosebush?” Chuckling started.

  “Who else could have taught me that the term ‘The quick and the dead’ might be applied to unwary cyclists who don’t know to take avoiding action and head for the ditch when a certain doctor is driving by?” O’Reilly joined in as the chuckling grew into roars of laughter.

  Barry softened his voice. “Who, but Doctor O’Reilly, aching to watch his belovèd rugby football on the telly, would ignore that and rather than wait for an ambulance load a little girl with appendicitis into his car,” O’Reilly heard the affection in Barry’s voice, “and run her up to the Royal?”

  Jeannie Kennedy was sitting with her parents, smiling at him.

  “Or wait the night through at that hospital to be sure a patient with bleeding into his skull was going to be all right?”

  The laughter had gone and remarks like, “Right enough,” and “He’s a sound man, our doctor,” could be heard. “You should buy himself a jar, Jeremy, so you should.”

  Fingal recognised Dermot Kennedy’s voice.

  “And contrary to popular belief, Doctor O’Reilly can admit he’s wrong. Last year I advised him research suggested smoking is dangerous. He pooh-poohed that and on the same day went wildfowling. He’d run out of matches so he took the gunpowder from a cartridge, put it on a flat stone, stuck his pipe in it, struck a spark from a flint … and blew his eyebrows off. When he came home, looking like he’d just spent the weekend mining coal in Wales, he had the courtesy to say to me, ‘Begob, Barry, you might just be right. Smoking can be bloody dangerous.’”

  The laughter was so deafening that as it subsided not only was Arthur howling, but at least ten other dogs were joining in.

  Eventually all was calm enough for Barry to continue. “Doctor O’Reilly, you may not be gentle, but in my book you are a perfect knight—”

  A nice twist on Chaucer’s “He was a veray parfait gentil knight,” O’Reilly thought.

  “And every knight errant must woo and win a fair lady. You, Doctor O’Reilly, have found her. Since last year I have been privileged to know the woman who was Kitty O’Hallorhan. She is lovely, as you all can see—”

  There was quiet applause and at least two wolf whistles.

  “As fine a nurse as there is anywhere in Ulster—”

  “In Ireland,” Charlie Greer roared. “And I should know, she works with me.”

  “And a complete woman, who as a skilled oil painter has her Shannon in Flood hanging in the Royal Hibernian Academy in Dublin. Her Donegal Peat Bog series graces the Ulster Museum.” He looked straight at O’Reilly. “You, Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, are a very lucky man.”

  Be God I am, and be damned to the throng. Fingal leant over and planted another kiss on Kitty’s lips.

  “Fingal, to cite sixteenth-century writer John Ford, ‘The joys of marriage are heaven on earth, life’s paradise.’ May it ever be so for you both.” Barry raised his glass and said, smiling at Fingal and Kitty, “Will the company charge their glasses, rise, a
nd with me drink the toast, ‘Long life and happiness to the bride and groom, Doctor and Mrs. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.’”

  The toast was so loud and the applause so strenuous that not only did the starlings, which had resettled in the elm tree, take wing once more, but the azure sky above the Ballybucklebo Hills was alive with the cawing of startled jackdaws and rooks.

  46

  Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

  Thank goodness that was over. Barry sat and took a deep breath. This public speaking was not his idea of the best way to enjoy a party. He could sympathise with Lars. Barry’d spent hours poring over O’Reilly’s Oxford Dictionary of Quotations to find les mots justes. He hoped his speech had been all right.

  One look at Sue Nolan told him that at least one member of the audience had thought it was. “You were wonderful. I’m proud of you.” Her face, beneath the tiny pillbox hat that perched on her upswept copper hair, was made lovelier by a wide smile, and her eyes sparkled.

  “Thanks, I’d like you to be.” He smiled back at her. He meant that. This schoolmistress had struck a chord with Barry, one he’d not fully recognised, even before Patricia had announced that she was finished with him. He was beginning to understand why since their dates had become more intimate after her near drowning. There were real depths to Sue Nolan, and that they ran under a sexy exterior was no hindrance to his increasing feelings. He was looking forward to having time alone with her after the party, but for now he’d have to bide.

  “I think that’s it as far as speeches go,” he said, “and with a bit of luck we can take it easy now, but I need to have a word with one or two folks first. Tie up a few loose ends.” Barry looked round to see Fingal on his feet.

  “I’m going in to change,” he said. “Back in a minute.” And holding his jacket closed in front made his way to the back door. Kitty had turned and was deep in conversation with Jane Hoey.