An Irish Country Village Page 39

  Donal’s hopeful look fled.

  “But I can tell you Miss Moloney was unwell, and she’s gone off to spend a few days with her sister.”

  Donal visibly brightened. “Right enough? Aye, well, I’m glad to hear that. I was never that fond of the ould biddy, but I’d not want her to go to the airport.”

  “The airport?”

  “Maybe you don’t remember, sir, but before they changed the name to Aldergrove, the Belfast Airport was called Nutts Corner, so it was. Anybody went crackers we used to say—”

  “They’d gone to the airport. I understand, Donal.” Barry had to laugh before he could continue. “Don’t worry about that. She’ll be right as rain in a day or two.”

  “I’m pleased,” said Donal. He started to close the door, obviously impatient to get home to pass on this fresh bit in the ongoing saga of Miss Moloney. “I’m away on,” Donal said, closing the door.

  “Donal?”

  “Aye?”

  “Would it be all right if Miss Spence and I had a look round inside?”

  “Aye, certainly. Help yourself; just don’t bother to snib the front-door lock when you leave.”

  “Fine.” When Barry had first come to the village after living in Belfast, the country habit of never locking doors had seemed strange. Now he found it reassuring.

  “Right,” said Donal. “I’m off . . . and if I don’t see you through the window . . . I’ll see you through the week, so I will.” He cackled at his own witticism.

  “Aye, and if I fall through the mattress . . . I’ll see you in the spring. Go on with you, Donal, and make sure the Highlanders do a good job.”

  “Right, Doctor.” Donal trotted off.

  Barry led Patricia into the hall. There was an overpowering smell of fresh paint. The walls were cream, and bare of any decorations. A rug covered most of the floorboards. The door to his left stood ajar. “What’s in here?” He pushed the door open.

  “The dining room,” Patricia said.

  Sun’s rays coming through the front windows made dust motes twinkle between a cut-glass chandelier and a pine table surrounded by four, wooden, hard-backed chairs. Two places were set on a chequered tablecloth. A vase of freshly cut flowers, their perfume rich and heavy, sat flanked by two brass candlesticks in the middle of the table. A hand-drawn card read, “Welcome home, Maggie and Sonny. Your dinner’s in the fridge.”

  Patricia stood wide-eyed. “It’s lovely. You told me the place was derelict.”

  “It was two weeks ago.”

  “If the rest of the place is like this, your friends must have worked like Trojans. It’s as if . . . as if the fairy godmother from Cinderella had waved her magic wand.”

  “Somehow,” he said, “I’ve a bit of difficulty casting Donal as the fairy godmother, but you’re right. And I’ll bet the rest of the place is—”

  He recognized a deep voice that came booming into the room. “Helloo. Anyone home?”

  What on earth was Fingal doing here? Probably, Barry thought, just as curious as I am to see the place. “Just us, Fingal. Come on in.”

  He heard boots clumping on the floorboards and then muffled by the rug. There were lighter footsteps. Someone was with O’Reilly.

  O’Reilly stood in the doorway, dressed ready for the wedding. He seemed uncomfortable in his morning suit, Barry thought, looking like a ploughman fresh from the fields, scrubbed, and shoved into formal attire. A tiny piece of tissue paper clung to O’Reilly’s jaw. He must have shaved more closely than usual this morning.

  “Morning, Fingal,” Barry said. “You’ve met Patricia Spence.”

  O’Reilly nodded in her direction. “And what the hell are you doing here, Laverty?” He didn’t seem pleased to see Barry.

  “Just having a look around.” Was O’Reilly disappointed because Barry wasn’t still back at Number 1 in case a patient needed him? “Kinky’s looking after the shop.”

  O’Reilly cleared his throat, shook his head, turned, and said, “It’s all right. It’s just young Laverty. Come on in, Kitty.”

  Caitlin O’Hallorhan walked through the doorway.

  Barry’s mouth opened. So that was who O’Reilly had been talking to on the phone the other evening. He’d told Barry it was none of his business who he’d gone up to Belfast to collect this morning. Well, well.

  “Sister,” Barry said with a small bow, “nice to see you again. I hardly recognized you—” He was about to say “without your uniform on,” but cut off the sentence. “This is Patricia Spence. Patricia, Sister O’Hallorhan.”

  As the two women were exchanging the to-be-expected noises—“Please call me Kitty” and “It’s Patricia”—Barry had a good look at the ward sister, who’d known O’Reilly when he’d been a student at Trinity College.

  The first time Barry’d met her, he’d thought her a handsome woman. But out of uniform she was striking. She carried herself erectly. Her well-tailored, two-piece, maroon suit complemented her trim figure, and even if the skirt seemed a little short for most women in their fifties, her stiletto-heeled pumps and dark stockings accented a pair of legs that Barry reckoned were not bad at all. Not at all.

  Kitty’s hair, now freed from the confines of her starched uniform headress, was shining silver. Barry wondered if the darker patches had had a little help from a bottle of tinting. In the sunshine, the amber flecks in her grey eyes seemed golden, and the laugh lines in the corners of her eyes deepened as she smiled and said to Barry, “I see you’re a man of your word, Doctor Laverty.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You did give Fingal here my regards.”

  O’Reilly’s collar must be too tight, Barry thought, watching him tug at it with one finger. If anything, the big man’s florid complexion was a darker hue. “Well,” he said, “old friends from student days should keep in touch.”

  “Och, indeed, Fingal,” she said, with a wicked grin, “to be sure. What’s twenty-five years to old friends?”

  O’Reilly made another harrumphing noise, hauled out his briar, struck a match, hesitated, and then asked meekly, “Do you ladies mind if I smoke?”

  Patricia shook her head.

  “Go right ahead,” Kitty said. “I’ve always liked the smell of pipe tobacco.”

  O’Reilly busied himself, making sure the pipe was drawing well, puffing and belching streams of smoke.

  You don’t fool me, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, Barry thought. You’re at a loss for words, and I’ve seen you use that trick, just like your old Warspite laid a smokescreen. “We’ve only just got here and as far as we can tell, Donal and his merry men have done a superb job,” Barry said.

  “Have they, by God?” O’Reilly asked, with a look at Barry. “Is this all you’ve seen?”

  “So far,” Barry said.

  “Then lead on, Macduff,” he said to Patricia. “You show Kitty the rest.” He grabbed Kitty O’Hallorhan’s hand and pulled her aside. “You go with Miss Spence, please. I need to have a word with my young colleague.”

  O’Reilly had said “please”? Barry refrained from correcting O’Reilly’s misquotation from Macbeth. He didn’t want to embarrass the man in front of Kitty. He waited for the women to leave, and said, “Yes, Fingal?”

  But O’Reilly didn’t seem to be paying attention. He was staring at Kitty O’Hallorhan’s retreating back, saying quietly, “I haven’t seen that girl for years, and she hasn’t changed one scrap. Not one scrap.”

  Barry waited as O’Reilly tapped the mouthpiece of his pipe against his teeth. Then the big man remarked, “She’s one powerful woman.” His pipe had gone out, but he didn’t seem to have noticed.

  Barry coughed. “You said you wanted a word, Fingal?”

  “What?” He turned to face Barry. “Right. Yes. I’m glad I ran into you. I need a bit of a hand.”

  “What with?”

  “After the service.”

  “How?”

  “I should’ve asked you earlier, but it slipped my mind. Someone has to dri
ve Kitty to the reception.”

  Did it slip your mind, Fingal? Barry wondered. Or did you not want to tell me who you were bringing?

  “You see, Sonny’s still pining for his dogs. They’re at Maggie’s. I want to nip over and bring them to His Lordship’s . . .”

  “And you want me to bring Kitty?”

  O’Reilly nodded. “Aye, and I’d like you to pick up Arthur Guinness too.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good lad.” O’Reilly clapped Barry on the shoulder. “I knew I could count on you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  Faint giggles came from above, along with the sound of women’s voices. Both men looked up and waited as heels clicked down the stairs. Kitty and Patricia came in. Patricia was holding on to Kitty O’Hallorhan’s arm, as if the pair of them were old friends. Both were smiling broadly.

  “Well?” O’Reilly asked.

  “It’s wonderful,” said Patricia. “The kitchen’s all set up. Two of the bedrooms are unfurnished, but the third has a huge brass bed, chintz curtains, and a lovely view down over the fields to the lough away in the distance. Sonny and Maggie’re going to get a great start.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly, avoiding looking directly at Kitty O’Hallorhan. “It’s bloody well time the pair of them finally got together.” He struck another match, then fixed Barry with a glare. “Now,” he said, “plans.” He sounded more like the old O’Reilly. “I’m sure, Barry, you and Miss Spence would like to have a bit of time on your own . . .”

  And even if we didn’t, we’re going to get it, Barry thought.

  “I’m going to take Kitty to the Old Inn in Crawfordsburn for lunch.” His stomach growled.

  “That’s fine,” Barry said, looking at Patricia with a tiny shake of his head. “I’m not hungry, are you?”

  “Not a bit.” She smiled back at him. “There’s sure to be enough to eat at the reception.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly, “that’s settled then. We’ll be off. We’ll see you in the church.” He held the door wide open, bowed slightly to Kitty, and waited for her to precede him through the door.

  Barry took Patricia’s hand and led her to the front door. He held his finger to his lips. He was dying to ask Patricia what she thought of Kitty, but he wanted to wait until O’Reilly was out of earshot.

  He watched O’Reilly hold the car door open and saw Kitty climb in. Then he distinctly heard her saying, “Now you will drive carefully, won’t you, Fingal? You know you nearly hit a cyclist on the way down here.”

  Brightly Dawns Our

  Wedding Day

  Sonny and Maggie were now man and wife ’til death did them part. Sonny kissed the bride; the minister, his right hand raised, gave the benediction; and the bridal procession headed past the congregation and down the aisle to the thunderous organ chords of the “Wedding March.”

  Barry glanced up to the roof beams of the old church, where octagonal lanterns hung on chains and multihued sunlight, tinted by its passage through a stained-glass window, sparkled from the lanterns’ glass and made the spiderwebs in the ceiling’s corners shine. He wondered how many weddings the church had seen. It had been built in 1743.

  He let Kitty and Patricia precede him as they left their front pew to head for the porch. By the time they were outside, much of the rest of the congregation had already vanished. They would be hurrying to the reception at the marquis’ estate.

  Barry was blinded by the sunlight and deafened by the roaring of the great Highland bagpipes. Two columns of Highlanders, distended bags under their arms, drones on their shoulders, flanked the pavement. Donal Donnelly stood at what he probably considered to be attention. His kilt drooped to midcalf, his sporran was askew, and his caubeen was pushed to the back of his head. He held a silver-headed mace aloft, clearly not discomfited by the cast on his index finger. He was revelling in the exalted position of drum major.

  Barry stepped in front of the two women and beckoned. It was useless trying to make himself heard over the racket. He skirted the ranks and headed for the back lane where Brunhilde was parked. At least behind Number 1 the sounds of the pipes were muted, but in the back garden Arthur Guinness sat, head thrown back, yodelling horribly out of tune with the band.

  “I’m sorry,” he said to Kitty, “but Fingal told me to bring the beast. I’m afraid one of you is going to have to share the backseat with the Hound of the Baskervilles.”

  “I’ll do it,” Patricia said. Barry held the seat forward and helped her climb in, unable to keep his eyes off the length of thigh exposed as she scrambled aboard. He remembered last night and wished they could have the car to themselves for the drive.

  “Come on, Arthur,” he called, holding the gate open. “Heel.”

  The dog glanced at Barry’s new pants, shook his head as if deciding that having a go at Barry wasn’t worth the effort, and climbed in beside Patricia.

  He flipped the seat upright. “You’re next, Sister O’Hallorhan.”

  “It’s Kitty,” she told him, getting in.

  He ran round the car, got in, and started the engine. “Next stop, the reception.”

  Well-wishers, those perhaps in less of a hurry to get to the reception, stood cheering on both sides of Main Street. Up ahead Barry saw a small jaunting car. Maggie, Sonny, and the marquis, as best man, were perched on its benches. A becapped Fergus Finnegan sat in the driver’s seat, urging a small donkey to plod along. A sign on the back of the vehicle said, Just Married.

  Barry passed them. As he did, he saw the cross of black hair on the donkey’s back, reminding him of the Irish belief that all donkeys were so marked to remind their kind forever of the part one of them had played in bringing the Virgin Mary to Bethlehem.

  There was a distinct attar of dog coming from the backseat. Barry wound down his window.

  He heard Patricia say, “Who’s a good boy then?” and a glance in the rearview mirror showed the big black Labrador curled up in the seat, head on Patricia’s lap and a look of besotted adoration in his brown eyes. Barry knew how the dog felt.

  Soon he came upon a cyclist retrieving his bicycle from the ditch. He was not one bit surprised. O’Reilly may well have succumbed to Kitty O’Hallorhan’s request to drive more carefully, but Fingal himself was fond of referring to the inability of leopards to change their spots.

  He wondered if the wedding reception would be a match for the party in O’Reilly’s back garden two weeks ago. He’d find out soon. It would certainly be of a different tenor to the solemnity of the just-concluded wedding ceremony. Barry was not a religious man, but the words, going back to the time of James I, were familiar and their cadences a comforting reminder of the permanence of a place like Ballybucklebo.

  The gates of the estate were wide open, and Barry could hear the distant noises of a crowd. He drove slowly along the gravelled drive, past the topiary animals, smiling at the one that looked to him like a deformed duck, the one he’d first seen when he’d come here to go fishing on the Bucklebo River.

  He found a place to park, got out, and then opened the passenger door. He yelled over the racket, “Let’s go and see if we can find Fingal.” As soon as Patricia climbed out, Arthur followed and galloped off, ignoring Barry’s cries of “Sit, sir.”

  He took Patricia’s hand and nodded to Kitty. “Come on. It’s not going to be easy finding him in this mob.”

  Half of the lawn was occupied by a head table that ran at right angles to several other long tables. Some of the dining area was in bright sunlight, while some was dappled by the shadows of the old elms that grew inside the wall of the demesne.

  The rest of the lawn was packed with a milling scrum. Never mind the whole village—the entire townland must be here. Everybody seemed to be yelling at the top of their voices. Dogs barked, children screamed and laughed, and snippets of conversation assailed Barry’s ears.

  A huge monkey puzzle tree, its downward pointing branches dark green and prickly, was surrounded by a ring of chil
dren, circling it and loudly singing,

  “Ring around the rosies,

  A pocketful of posies . . .”

  Something nudged Barry’s leg. He glanced down to see Arthur Guinness, looking up as if to say, “I’ve found the boss. What’s keeping you?” Arthur was, after all, a gundog. He turned and started to weave through the legs of the revellers.

  Barry looked ahead in the direction of the dog’s progress and spotted O’Reilly chatting to the marquis’ gamekeeper.

  “There he is,” he said, and lengthened his stride.

  “Take your time, Barry,” Patricia called. “Heels and grass are not the best combination.”

  Barry took her hand and slowed his pace. He heard snippets of conversation as he passed groups of neighbours.

  “And wee Colin’s hand’s healed up a treat, and he never felt the stitches . . .”

  He smiled at Mrs. Brown as he moved forward, holding onto Patricia’s hand and hoping Kitty was able to keep up.

  “Not at all, Myrtle . . .” He overheard Finnoula Robinson speaking to Myrtle MacVeigh. “Aggie seen Miss Moloney lying on the floor until the doctors come. She was white as a sheet. No one’s seen hide nor hair of her since.”

  Barry smiled. The information he’d given to Donal earlier this morning didn’t seem to have percolated too far. As he moved past, he enquired, “Feeling better, Myrtle?”

  “Och, aye. Them nighties-fer-aunties was cracker.” She grinned broadly and turned back to Finnoula. “Go on. I want to hear more. What do you think happened to the ould biddy?”

  Barry could smell meat cooking. He craned over the throng until he could see that a curl of smoke wafting past the Georgian facade of the Big House was coming from a whole pig being roasted on a spit. Kinky was keeping a watchful eye on the proceedings. He could make out the bright green of her new hat. He waved at her, but she mustn’t have seen him. Oh, well, she was here, and he’d catch up with her soon enough to ask if Jack Mills had called.