An Irish Country Wedding Read online

  “There’ll be no one to answer if a patient calls here.” Barry frowned. “Any chance we could get a temporary receptionist?”

  “I doubt it,” O’Reilly said, “but you never know.” He took another swallow. “There’s one thing in our favour. By now everybody in the village, aye, and most of the townland, will know Kinky’s sick. They’ll probably understand if they phone and there’s no one here to answer.” O’Reilly finished his whiskey and handed the glass to Barry. “Get me another, like a good lad. I don’t want to disturb her ladyship.”

  Barry put his glass on a table and went to the sideboard. He sloshed a finger of whiskey into O’Reilly’s glass. “Here.”

  “Cheers.” O’Reilly raised his glass.

  The front doorbell rang.

  “Bugger it,” said O’Reilly, rising, decanting Lady Macbeth, and putting his drink on the sideboard. “My turn, and I want to see how my spuds are coming on anyway. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  Barry rose, sipped his drink, and wandered over to the bookshelf. It was all very well for O’Reilly to recommend a book about the charge of the Light Brigade. The man had absolutely no system of shelving his books. Two of Graham Greene’s novels were separated by The Wind in the Willows and, Barry had to tilt his head to one side to read the upside-down title of Rudyard Kipling’s Verse. Inclusive Edition 1885–1926. He scanned book spines until he saw, on a shelf he could only reach by standing on tiptoe, The Reason Why: The Story of the Fatal Charge of the Light Brigade by Cecil Woodham-Smith. He pulled it down and read in the Acknowledgement, This curious story has never been told before— Good start, he thought. The author’s got my interest. He was well into chapter one when Fingal reappeared.

  “Spuds are coming on a treat,” he said, “and I peeped in the oven. Talk about a scrumptious smell, and my egg yolk’s browning the pastry to perfection. We’ll eat in five minutes.”

  “Who was at the door this time, Fingal?” he asked.

  “Alice Moloney,” he said. “Bacon-and-egg pie for us and please give Kinky her love and wish her a speedy recovery. I put it in the fridge.” He picked up his whiskey. “Bring your drink. It’ll take me a minute to prepare things.”

  Barry rose and followed O’Reilly. As they reached the hall the doorbell and the phone rang. O’Reilly grabbed the phone and nodded to the door, which Barry, glass in hand, answered. “Cissie Sloan,” he said, slipping the hand with the glass behind his back. He could hear the cadence of O’Reilly’s voice, but not the words. Was it news about Kinky? “Come in,” Barry said.

  “I’ll not, thanks, but my cousin Aggie, you know, her with the six toes, says Mrs. Kincaid’s poorly and—”

  “She is,” Barry said, hoping to dam the verbal tide for which Cissie was renowned.

  “I mind the last time Kinky got sick. I was telling Flo Bishop about it just there now. I seen her when I was walking over here, like.”

  Barry reckoned the entire population of the village must know about Kinky now.

  “It was ages ago, so it was, 1954, the Coronation—” She stopped dead and tapped her temple with an index finger. “Amn’t I the right eejit? The Queen was crowned in 1953 … anyroad Kinky was taken sick when they opened the festival of Britain.”

  “That was 1951, Cissie.” Barry’d been eleven at the time and most impressed with the Skylon.

  “Right enough? Then she must’ve got poorly in ’52. Do you know, Doctor? See me? Some days my head’s a marley. Full of hobbyhorse shite, so it is. I’d forget my own name.”

  Barry had two choices. He could agree that Cissie could indeed be absentminded or draw from his stock of kindly white lies. He chose the latter. “Nonsense, Cissie. Now, what can I do for you?” He really did want to know who was on that phone.

  “Here y’are,” she said, thrusting forward a grease-proof paper-wrapped parcel. “I got this recipe from my ma, and she got it from an Englishwoman who was in Holywood in the last war because her husband was a soldier stationed in Place Barracks there for a while. He was with the Royal Ulster Rifles, you know, their nickname’s ‘The Stickies,’ so it is.”

  Barry accepted the parcel and quickly asked, “And this is?” He reckoned he had to distract her before she could launch into a telling of all the regiment’s battle honours since it was raised in 1793.

  “In the old days it was a bugger, pardon my French, boiling down the pigs’ trotters to make the gelatin for it, but you can buy that in the shops now.”

  “And it is?”

  She grinned. “A couple of Melton Mowbray pies. They go a treat cold with Branston pickle, so they do.”

  “Thank you, Cissie. I’m sure they’ll be lovely.”

  She dropped a tiny curtsey. “I’ll be running along, then,” she said, “but if there’s anything youse and Doctor O’Reilly need?”

  “Thank you, Cissie,” O’Reilly said over Barry’s shoulder, “and I’ll be seeing Kinky tomorrow. I’ll give her your love.”

  “Sir.” She left.

  “Good,” said O’Reilly, peering up and down the road, “I don’t see any three-legged asses, but that one could talk the hind leg off a donkey.” He headed for the dining room. “Food. I’ve taken it through to the dining room. Come on.”

  With the drink he’d been hiding from Cissie in one hand and the Melton Mobray pies in the other, Barry followed O’Reilly into the dining room, sat, and put the pies on the table. “From Cissie,” he said. “Pork pies. Now, who was on the phone?”

  “Not the hospital. I’ll tell you while we eat.”

  Barry glanced at his watch. Six ten. He should have realised it was too early to hear from the Royal. He looked at O’Reilly, who had put a tureen near himself. “Boiled spuds,” he said, lifting the lid, “should have been floury things of beauty, but that phone call and Cissie held us up. They’re a bit overdone now. Sorry.”

  Barry smiled. The big man was just like his mother, a superb cook who was forever apologising because she never felt her efforts were quite up to standard.

  “And, la piéce de résistance.” With a flourish O’Reilly waved his left hand above his head, wrist cocked, and with his right set a plate bearing the pie dish in front of Barry. “Voila. Note the brown beauty of the crust.”

  Barry thought perhaps the pastry should be a golden brown rather than deep mahogany.

  O’Reilly sat at the head of the table. He handed Barry a large knife and a silver triangular server. “Do the honours, lad, and get a move on. As an old Dublin patient of mine used to say, ‘I’m so hungry I could eat a farmer’s arse through a tennis racquet.’ I can taste those spuds soaked in the gravy from the pie.”

  Barry laughed as he sank the knife into the crust. A plume of steam escaped with the scent of cooked meat. Very well-cooked meat. He carved a wedge and placed it on Fingal’s plate, already half full of potatoes. He started to serve himself when he heard a strangled noise followed by a loud “Bloody hell.”

  “What’s up?”

  “Look in your pie,” O’Reilly roared. “Look in the bloody thing.”

  Barry peeled back the upper crust. Where there should have been tender steak and firm kidney surrounded by a rich gravy, only a few shrivelled pieces of meat sat beside black desiccated kidney slices. The gravy had congealed into lumps. “Oh dear,” he said, and recalled that P. G. Wodehouse had famously remarked, “It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine.” Much the same could be said about a hungry Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and a well-fed one.

  “It’s all Helen Hewitt’s fault.”

  Barry shook his head. Sometimes O’Reilly’s logic still lost Barry. “Helen Hewitt?” He remembered the young woman: pretty, green eyes, eczema—

  “If she hadn’t kept me on the phone so long. Still,” O’Reilly said, “she’s manna from heaven. We have a need and Providence has provided. You remember when Helen quit as Alice Moloney’s shop assistant and got a job in a linen mill?”

  “I do.”
r />   “The mill closed down last week. Helen’s out of work. She heard about Kinky from Mary Dunleavy, the publican’s daughter. Helen put two and two together and guessed we need someone to answer the phone—”

  “Brilliant,” Barry said, “and she was bloody quick off the mark. That shows initiative.”

  “I thought so too. She’ll start tomorrow at lunchtime. Now, speaking of manna,” said O’Reilly, “and in the culinary sense. Kinky makes her own Branston pickle.” He rose. “I’ll go and get some and we can eat up the pork pies. Starvation won’t be on our agenda and I’m sure Arthur will enjoy the burnt steak and kidney.” He took the remains of the pie and left.

  The phone rang. “I’ll get it,” Barry said, sprang to his feet, and ran.

  “Hello, Barry, just wanted to let you know the boss is starting to scrub. We’ll be operating a bit earlier than anticipated,” Jack Mills said.

  Barry swallowed. “Has she got worse?”

  “No. Sir Donald, and God knows how many of these things he’s seen, feels we’re on a hiding to nothing waiting for this to cure itself. We might as well get on with it.”

  “But at least she’s no worse. Is she awake?”

  “Anaesthetised, and I’d better trot. I’m assisting.”

  “Will you see her postop after she wakes up?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell her O’Reilly and I wish her—”

  “Done, and I’ll give you a ring once we’ve finished. Let you know what we found.”

  “Thanks, Jack. I’ll go and tell O’Reilly.” He hung up.

  “No need to go. I’m here. I heard you and can work it out.” Barry hadn’t been aware of the big man’s approach. “She’s no worse, but they’re operating,” O’Reilly said.

  “Right.”

  O’Reilly nodded. Pursed his lips. “I don’t know if you’re a praying man, Barry. I’m not, but if you are, say one for Kinky, and if you’re not, close your eyes and think hard about her for a little while and I’ll do the same.”

  Barry bowed his head. When he looked up, O’Reilly was standing stock still, eyes closed. He opened them. “Good luck, Kinky Kincaid,” he said softly, and Barry silently mouthed, “Amen.”

  6

  Under the Knife

  O’Reilly heard the blue plastic doors slap shut behind him. The ward smells of human effluent, powerful disinfectant, and floor polish must be universal, he thought. If he closed his eyes, Fingal O’Reilly could have been back thirty years ago in the teaching hospitals of Dublin. He strode along the hall to the long, narrow, twenty-four-bedded ward as a door to his left opened and a short man in a long white coat appeared. He was bald save for a fringe round the back and sides. He wore a Trinity College Dublin tie and his green eyes were smiling. “Doctor O’Reilly. Good to see you,” he said, offering his hand.

  “Sir Donald.” Fingal shook the hand. They’d been Fingal and Cromie for thirty-odd years, but in public the professional niceties had to be observed.

  “Before you ask, she’s doing fine.” He nodded to the door. “Seeing she is who she is, I put her in the side ward by herself and she’s out of bounds to the medical students.”

  O’Reilly knew that each unit had a single room, the side ward, where very seriously ill patients or those who needed to be isolated were nursed. By putting Kinky in there, Sir Donald was giving her a free private room. “Thanks for that, Cromie,” he said. “I appreciate it and I know Kinky will.”

  “I’m pleased with her,” Cromie said. “The surgery was straightforward and we’ll keep a close eye on her postop. Should get her out by next week.”

  O’Reilly had already had a blow-by-blow description of the operation last night from Jack Mills. He was quite content to take his old friend’s word for it today. “Thanks for looking after her—”

  “It’s what I’m here for.”

  “You and Charlie Greer.”

  “What’s old Charlie been up to?”

  “Did an extradural for a patient of mine. I’m going to see the man when I leave here. And that reminds me, I need to talk to you about something Charlie brought up about a class reunion next year, but I’ll give you a call in a day or two to see if the three of us can get together to start planning it. You’re busy now and I really want to see Kinky.”

  “Fair enough.” Sir Donald looked at his watch. “Got to run, and don’t worry, I’ll have young Mills give you a daily update until she’s ready for discharge.”

  “Thanks.” O’Reilly turned to the door, let himself into the side ward, and closed the door behind him. “Mrs. Kinky Kincaid,” he said, “good morning.”

  Kinky stared at him, blinked, and on her dry lips a tiny smile played despite the plastic tube that was taped to the side of her forehead and curled into a nostril. “Doctor O’Reilly, sir. Good of you to come.” She was propped up on pillows and flapped one hand in the direction of a hard wooden chair. “Please sit down, sir.” Her voice was weak and she was pale. As he sat, O’Reilly noticed that her silver hair had been neatly brushed and hung to her shoulders. He studied her pupils. Both were tiny, a sure sign she’d been given morphine. A red rubber intravenous line ran to a needle in an elbow vein from a glass bottle of saline suspended on a pole. “Well now, Kinky Kincaid,” he said, “how are you feeling?”

  “I am all the better for seeing yourself, sir, so. Thank you.”

  He took her free hand in his. The skin felt cool and dry. “You’re not looking too bad yourself, Kinky,” he said, “considering you’ve been through the wars.” He took her pulse. It was normal.

  “I’m mending now, sir. And those awful spasms have gone away, so. I don’t miss them one bit. Not one bit. My tummy’s sore where they cut me—” She winced. “—but sure you can’t pickle a herring without killing the fish. That nice surgeon, Sir Donald, says I’ll be charging ’round like a liltie in no time. I’ll be back to running Number One before you and Doctor Laverty starve or run out of clean socks.”

  “Kinky Kincaid,” O’Reilly said, “Sir Donald’s idea of ‘no time’ doesn’t mean in a day or two.” O’Reilly didn’t want to discourage her, but he didn’t want her to have unrealistic expectations. “You were a very sick woman last night. You’ve had surgery. That knocks the stuffing out of anybody. It’ll be a week before you’re even out of here. And if you’re worried about our socks, there’s always Lilliput Laundry. They pick up and deliver.”

  “But,” she said, struggling to sit straight up, “what’ll you eat?”

  “Not our socks, anyway,” he said, and was pleased to see a smile return. “You lie still now.” He laid a hand gently on her shoulder.

  She sank back on her pillow, closed her eyes, and gasped.

  O’Reilly waited until she looked at him again, then said, “We’re managing fine. That steak and kidney last night? Delicious.” Liar, he thought, but in a good cause. “And you know what Ballybucklebo’s like. You’d need to beat our neighbours off with a big stick.” He saw her relax and wondered if he could make her smile again. “I know what hospital grub’s like. You’re not allowed to eat yet, I understand, but when you are, I’ve two slices of Maggie MacCorkle’s plum cake I could bring up.” He heard a faint chuckle.

  “Doctor O’Reilly, sir,” she said with a little grin, “you do be a terrible one for taking a hand out of a poor Cork widow woman.”

  O’Reilly noticed that the toy hare Barry had mentioned was on the pillow beside her. “Doctor Laverty sends his love, says please get better soon.”

  “He’s a nice young man.”

  “He is that,” O’Reilly said, then, “I spoke to your sister Fidelma last night and Sinead was there too. She and Malachy send love. Fidelma said to tell you she’s getting Eamon to drive her up.”

  “Thank you for letting them know. I’ve not seen them for a while.” She frowned. “It’s a brave stretch of the legs from Beal na mBláth.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Your sister said you’d say that and to tell you to pay no heed. They’re com
ing and that’s that.”

  “Fidelma and me were always close.”

  “I think,” said O’Reilly, “they’ve a half-notion to take you down to Cork to convalesce.” He knew that six weeks was the generally recommended term, but he’d keep that to himself for now. “Let’s see how you are next week, all right?”

  She struggled forward. “But, sir, who’ll look after Number One?” He heard her anxiety.

  “Kinky Kincaid,” he said firmly. “You will, but only when you’re on your feet. In the meantime, Barry and I can manage and I’ve already told you about the neighbours. We’re coming down with pies, stews, roast chickens.”

  She lay back on her pillows. “I suppose.”

  “And I’m sure Kitty—”

  “Miss O’Hallorhan?” She frowned. “In my kitchen?”

  “Not at all.” O’Reilly had been going to say, “will help.” As tactful as a blow to the head with a ball-peen hammer, he thought, and instead said, “will be distressed to hear you’re not well. I’ll tell her when I see her.” He rose and squeezed her hand before releasing it. “Now Kinky,” he said, “I mustn’t tire you out. You need your rest.”

  “Thank you for coming, sir, and please thank Doctor Laverty for seeing to me yesterday,” she said. “Please look after yourself. All I’ve got here in the north is yourself and Number One.” A tear trickled.

  “We’ll have you back there in no time,” O’Reilly managed, but only just. His throat was tight.

  Kinky lay back on her pillows and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed and in moments she was snoring gently.

  Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly bent and gently kissed her forehead. “Sleep well, Kinky Kincaid,” he said. “Sleep well.”

  7

  I Am Getting Better and Better

  “Have you come to see Donal?” Sister Jane Hoey was sitting by herself at the Ward 21 desk in Quinn House, the neurosurgery unit of the Royal Victoria Hospital. The normally serious nurse smiled.