An Irish Country Love Story (22 page)

“I was just eleven,” said O'Reilly, “and…” It was impolite to discuss a lady's age, “Kitty was even younger.”

He was rewarded with a smile.

“More than three hundred.”

“Holy O,” O'Reilly said.

“Holy O's right,” the marquis said, “but ours was left alone. I certainly don't want to give up all our money, but I find the irony hard to take. The MacNeills have held on to most of what they fought for during all of Ireland's many upheavals, but now we're in danger of losing the lot by—”

“Legal government robbery,” Kitty said, her face flushed. “I'm sorry to interrupt, John, but yes, I do see now that it simply isn't fair.”

“Thank you,” he said, “and Lars is being very helpful.”

Lars nodded. “It's all coming together rather well. “Myrna and I have worked with Simon O'Hally, the family's solicitor, to sort out all the deeds and titles we need.” I've had some help from the legal department at Queen's University. We all know about the concept of ‘gifts with reservations of benefit,' where essentially you can give away your house, but reserve the benefit to go on living in an apartment, give away your estate and grouse moor, but keep some of the fishing rights on the Bucklebo River and the shooting rights.”

“It's what we've decided to do,” John said. “The physical estate must go to the National Trust after I'm gone.”

“I'm sorry that it's the best we can do,” said Lars. “At least it brings the value of the estate to just that of your stocks, shares, and cash. It's a level at which we can make certain it'll be able to hang on to a goodly chunk. We'll be meeting with the trust in the next couple of weeks.”

“I truly appreciate all that you have done, Lars, and you, Fingal, for suggesting your brother might be able to help,” John MacNeill said. “I've not been entirely idle while you've been beavering away. I've looked into the situation at Castleward on the Strangford Town side of Strangford Lough. When the sixth Viscount Bangor died in 1950 the house and estate, all eight hundred and twenty acres of it, were given to the Government of Northern Ireland in lieu of death duties and then passed on to the National Trust in 1952. It's open to the public now. A Mister McCoubrey from Ballynahinch and his syndicate rent the shooting rights. Myrna and I know McCoubrey. We've had him at our grouse moor and he's had us at Castleward. Typical upstanding country merchant. Straw on the soles of his boots, taciturn. Slow of speech. Looks a bit dim, but it's all an act. Inside he's sharp as a tack, not a man to underestimate, as some of his business competitors have come to rue. And he's a bloody good shot. Do you know him, Fingal?”

“I'm afraid not.” O'Reilly shook his head. “I shoot on the other side of the lough.”

The marquis walked to the sideboard. “I'm greatly relieved to hear that Myrna and my son, Sean, are almost certainly going to be able to live here and farm here and, I believe, so will his descendants, if, of course, he has any, and at the moment he doesn't seem to have any inclination.” He lifted the whiskey bottle. “My goodness. All this unburdening of the family skeletons has left me feeling like a celebratory tot. Anybody else?”

Before his marriage to Kitty, O'Reilly would not have hesitated to have a third before dinner, but the city girl from Tallaght was working her influence on him in subtle ways—and he was looking forward to dinner. “I'll pass,” he said, “but I trust, John, you'll be having one of your fine clarets with our feast.”

“Actually I do. It's a Rothschild '61, but we'll be starting with a Bâtard Montrachet.”

“Yum,” said O'Reilly. “Sounds perfect. Your cook's a patient of mine and a bosom pal of Kinky's. A little bird told me, John, that you're kicking off with mulligitawny, then smoked trout, plaice, squab, beef Bourguignon, a baked Alaska, and finishing with fruit and nuts.”

“Well, yes,” said the marquis, somewhat apologetically. “One does still like to entertain properly.”

“And here,” said O'Reilly, “was me thinking, seeing you're going to be such a poor man, it would be gruel, bangers, and mash.”

And John MacNeill, Marquis of Ballybucklebo, slapped his knee, nearly choked on his whiskey, and laughed like a drain.

 

18

Hunting and Shooting

O'Reilly opened the front door of Number One. “Jack Sinton. What in the blue blazes are you doing on my doorstep? Come in. Come in.” O'Reilly had finished the Friday-morning surgery and was on his way upstairs for lunch in the lounge, which now doubled as a dining room. “Good to see you, Jack.”

“And you, Fingal.” Jack Sinton took off his cap with a flourish and stepped over the wide wood threshold. “I was down in Bangor doing a favour for a pal of mine, Jamsey Bowman. He has the flu and because he has, now I need a favour and thought you might be able to help. So I nipped in to ask.”

Doctor Jack Sinton, a Trinity graduate though not a classmate, was an old shooting friend who had a general practice on the Stranmillis Road. It was the one Jenny Bradley had thought of working at when she was considering moving back to Belfast last year. Jack, his brother Victor, and two Bangor men, all doctors, owned the Long and Round Islands on Strangford Lough, about a mile southwest of the Blackstaff where O'Reilly usually shot. O'Reilly had several times been Jack's guest gun on the islands. “Come into the surgery,” O'Reilly said. “I'm afraid a lorry remodelled my dining room.” His grin was rueful. “But don't worry about it. No one got hurt.”

“I'm very glad to hear it. I hope you get it fixed soon, but let's chat here. I'm in a bit of a rush. Maybe I can cheer you up. Fancy a day with me on the Long Island tomorrow?”

O'Reilly frowned. A day on Long Island. The shooting was good out there. Very good. But he was on call.

“The greylag geese are in,” Jack said.

“The geese, by God?” O'Reilly knew that the greylag, which bred in Norway and Spitzbergen in the summer, was one of the last species of waterfowl to migrate south for the winter. When they arrived, they preferred the grassy islands of Strangford to the shore. He'd never shot one.

“Victor and Jimmy Taylor aren't free tomorrow and like I said, Jamsey Bowman's got flu, poor divil, and he's the only one of us with a retriever now. If I have to make a water retrieve without a dog…” He grimaced. “How would you like to join me and bring your Arthur Guinness? I'll need a hand to launch the inflatable too, and I'd enjoy the
craic
.”

“Arthur and I'd love to come,” O'Reilly said, “but I am on call.” Surely either Barry or Nonie would be willing to swap. How often did O'Reilly get an invitation like this? “I've two juniors in the practice, so hang on. I'll nip up and ask.”

“Can't wait,” Jack said. “I've a woman in labour on Riverview Street. She's in the first stage, the midwife says, but it's her second. Ring me later or leave a message with my wife, and if you can make it tomorrow, I'll meet you and Arthur in Greyabbey an hour before dawn. Say quarter past seven?”

“You're on, Jack,” said O'Reilly with a massive grin. He opened the door. “I'll ring,” he said, and waved as Jack Sinton headed for a slate blue Morris Minor parked in front of the house. What a great invitation, O'Reilly thought as he closed the door. He took the stairs two at a time. The wildfowling season ended next Tuesday. This Saturday would be his last chance until September. And he might get his first goose.

Nonie was speaking as O'Reilly entered the lounge. She and Barry were sitting round a collapsible card table.

“I'm off this weekend, thank the Lord. I'm knackered.”

“Come on, Nonie,” Barry said. “One in three's not bad, and Doctor Fitzpatrick'll be in the rota in a week. Then it'll be one in four.”

“Roll on with the change in the rota,” she said. “I really don't like night work.” She pursed her lips. “But I'm looking forward to the weekend. My boyfriend and I are going to a theatre matinée tomorrow. A revival of Sam Thompson's play
Over the Bridge
at the Empire.”

That's one possible cover gone west, O'Reilly thought, reluctant to barge into the conversation.

She looked up. “Hello, Fingal. Surgery over?”

“It is,” he said, sitting. “
Over the Bridge
? I seem to remember some fuss in 1959 when the Group Theatre agreed to stage it.”

“Their board of directors refused to produce it,” said Nonie, picking up her napkin and spreading it on her lap. “They wanted to avoid the controversy. There were mass resignations by the director, James Ellis, and the cast and it was eventually put on at the Empire.”

“Not my cup of tea,” said Barry, “a play about sectarianism in the Belfast shipyards. To each his own, I suppose, but there's enough of that rubbish under the surface of real life in the Wee North.”

“I hear you, Barry. Still, it's a part of life here. I saw the play then and I thought Thompson was right on about bigotry,” said Fingal, “and Ellis and company were gutsy to stage it. As I recall, it was pretty good stuff.”

“And there does be good stuff for your lunches, Doctors,” Kinky said as she came in accompanied by clouds of fragrant steam escaping through the lids covering three hefty casseroles. “Stuffed beef olives, champ, and Yorkshire puddings.” She set the tray on the sideboard and whipped off the lids. “Nice and hot.”

“Smells heavenly, Kinky. Thank you,” said Nonie. “I'm famished.”

“You're welcome. And there's some of my coffee cake for dessert, and a pot of coffee to go with it.” The plate and pot went onto the sideboard. “I know you're partial to that, Doctor Stevenson.” Kinky put a hand to the small of her back. “I think you've added an extension to the stairs, sir. They do seem to get higher every day,” she said, and puffed before serving. “I was wondering, and there's lots of room, so, I was wondering, until the dining room's fixed if you'd all like to take your meals in my kitchen?”

Kitty came in. She had a half day today. “Hello, everybody. Don't mind me. I'll just get some coffee. They gave us sandwiches at the committee meeting before I left the Royal.” She helped herself. There was a chorus of “Hi, Kitty” as she sat at the last empty chair opposite O'Reilly and said, “I heard that, Kinky, and I think that would be a great idea, at least for breakfast and lunch. Doctor O'Reilly and I can worry about dinner. It's been thoughtless of us not considering all the traipsing up and downstairs you've had to do since the crash.”

“Thank you, Kitty. It would be greatly appreciated. I'll leave the tray now.”

“And don't worry about the dirty dishes,” Barry said as Kinky left. “One of us will bring them down.”

*   *   *

O'Reilly took his last mouthful. Delicious. Conversation had been desultory during the meal and he'd been in no rush to make his request. Now that everyone was silent, it seemed like an opportunity. “Actually, there's something I really want to do tomorrow, Kitty. Jack Sinton's invited me down to shoot on the Long Island. I'd love to go.”

He saw Nonie frown and open her mouth, but before she could speak, Kitty said, “Go right ahead. I'd planned to go shopping in Belfast, because I thought you were on call this weekend and I know how much you love shopping.” She smiled. “I'm meeting Jane Hoey for lunch.”

“I'm supposed to be on call, but I was wondering if someone…” and he meant Barry, “could cover—”

“You can count me out,” Nonie said with emphasis. “I'm off duty as of right now.”

“I shouldn't have put it that way,” O'Reilly said. “I'm sorry. I know you have plans.”

“I certainly do,” she said. “I often have. Medicine's not all of my life. I like the theatre and the cinema and I always need two nights' sleep in a row to get over my last on call. I'd be grateful if you'd both remember that.” She rose, lit a cigarette, and grabbed her handbag from a nearby armchair. “I think I'll have to take a miss on Kinky's dessert. Have a lovely time. I'll see you on Monday.” And with that she swept out of the room.

O'Reilly glanced at Kitty, who was frowning and raising an eyebrow.

O'Reilly shook his shaggy head. He pursed his lips. “I've not seen that side of her before, Barry. She seemed to be fitting in well, but of course it's only been four weeks.”

Barry shrugged. “I did mention before we hired her that as a student she could be a bit tricky when it came to swapping call.”

“I remember.”

“But we agreed that with three of us, four when Fitzpatrick joins the evening and weekend rota next week, it shouldn't be a problem.”

O'Reilly nodded. “True, but I thought she was a bit…” He looked for the right word. “Bloody rude” came to mind, but, least said, soonest mended. “… brusque in the way she left.”

“She was,” Kitty said.

O'Reilly, who was considering what should be done, guessed that by the way Barry was frowning and repeatedly using his hand to smooth the tuft of hair at his crown that always refused to lie down, the lad was trying to decide what he should do too.

“Some of the girls in my year did get a bit, as you said, brusque after six years of having to fight their corners. It's not so long ago that the Debating Society entertained a motion—I remember the words clearly: ‘This house does not consider that women possess the necessary emotional stamina to study medicine.' Quite a few of the lads felt that way.”

“It was the same in my day, but not all the girls were so prickly. I'll never forget wee Hilda Manwell. And Jenny Bradley, your contemporary, certainly wasn't.” He exhaled through his nose. “We can't just let it pass.”

“No, you can't, Fingal,” Kitty said. “I know she's perfectly within her rights, but I'd not have said brusque. I'd have called her downright rude.” She cocked her head. “You're a doctor, Barry, and a friend, so you'll not be embarrassed by what I'm going to say. I'm well past it, but there is a time of the month for younger women…” She let it hang.