An Irish Country Love Story (40 page)

She laughed. “That's right. Three. You, me—and Max.”

“Oh,” said Barry. “Yes. Max.” He switched on, put the car in gear, and drove off. “I'd quite forgotten about Max.”

 

33

You Are a Bachelor

Lars took a deep breath as he shifted uncomfortably in the hard wooden chair. “Bear with me, Finn. I need your advice on something and I will get to the point, but first remind me how long you and John MacNeill have been friends?”

“Since he and I both ended up on the rugby committee. Just after the war. We found we'd some mutual interests—rugby, shooting, both ex-servicemen—and once you get to know him, he's an all-round sound man.”

“So, you've known him almost twenty years. Long enough to feel comfortable with the man.”

O'Reilly nodded. “You know,” he said, “if you can forget, and it's not always easy in public, that he is a peer of the realm, sits in the House of Lords, in private he's one of nature's gentlemen. I am very fond of John MacNeill and I am delighted that you are being of such great help to him and his family. You've never mentioned before about feeling uncomfortable working with the MacNeills.”

“I know. They've been extremely gracious and genuinely kind. But there is that social gap.”

“There is, and it's a huge divide between a country solicitor or a GP and a marquis and his family. Kitty and I are aware of that. Try never to overstep the mark, but we are having them here for dinner on Tuesday and you're invited. Myrna was going to tell you when John had checked his diary to make sure he'll be free.”

“Thank you. I'll enjoy that.” Lars, who had been on his way to the big house, had arrived on the Number One Main doorstep saying he needed advice, and O'Reilly had led his brother into the surgery and shut the door.

Now Lars pushed his left fist against his closed lips, pulled it away, and repeated, “That social gap. They seem unaware of it, but I still feel uncomfortable not calling him ‘sir' or ‘my lord,' and I'll never get used to being waited on by his servants. I know I have a housekeeper, but I hardly think of her as a servant.” He got up, paced, turned, and said, “Finn, I don't know what to do. I think … I think … well, the truth is I think I've fallen in love with Myrna.”

“That's teetotally marvellous, or as one of my Dublin patients might have said, gameball and ter-feckin'-rific. I'm absolutely delighted.” O'Reilly reached for his pipe and before lighting up said, “Have you told her?”

Lars shook his head. “That's what I need advice about. Look. Myrna moves with the
Ulster Tatler
set, garden parties at Hillsborough Castle, and Buckingham Palace. Rides to hounds with the horsey mob. Royal Ascot. The Boat Race.” He looked into his brother's eyes. “She has a doctoral degree in chemistry, is a senior academic at Queens, mixes with some of the cleverest, best-educated people in Ulster. See what I mean?”

O'Reilly nodded and puffed his pipe. Good listeners did just that, listened. He said nothing.

“Who am I? I've a bachelor of law degree, work as a small-town solicitor, grow orchids, and work for the RSPB and the National Trust.” He collapsed into the chair again. “I know the queen's the RSPB's patron, but I'm never likely to meet her. Most of the members are ordinary folk. My life is ordinary.”

“And you're trying to say, sorry to be blunt, that you're not good enough for the daughter of the twenty-sixth marquis, is that it?”

Lars hung his head and said in a low voice, “Sounds pathetic, I know. I mean, it's 1967. She probably sees me as an equal, and yet I can't shake this feeling of, well, of, just not being good enough.”

“And you've not told her you love her?”

“Good lord, no. Wouldn't dare. You know how she is. Full of laughs and fun and flirting. But I just don't know if that's how she is with everyone—or just with me.”

O'Reilly got up, walked from the desk to his brother, and put an arm around his shoulder. “I've known Myrna almost as long as I've known John, and truly, Lars, she's come alive since you came to Ballybucklebo House.”

“Do you really think so? Sometimes I find it hard to trust my own judgement when it comes to women.”

“I do understand a little, big brother. You were sore wounded when Jeannie Neely turned down your ring on Christmas Eve years ago back in Dublin.” O'Reilly sat down on the wooden chair beside his brother.

“I was, and it hurt for a very long time. I'm pretty well over her now … I mean, of course I am. It's just that…”

“And I'm pretty well over Deirdre,” O'Reilly said, “but a taste still lingers. I know and feel for you, Lars.”

“I-I pretty much gave up on women, Finn, after that. I've got very set in my ways, happy with my own company, a few men friends, you and Kitty, my orchids, my birds, my dogs. It was hard to meet women. They were so often clients, or wives of clients, or daughters of clients. Now, thirty years have gone by. I don't even know how that happened.” He shook his head and smiled. “Time. It's healed the wound, but it's also made me, well, complacent really, content with my lot. I don't want to be rejected again, but I think I could face it. There's another thing though.” He hesitated.

O'Reilly said, “Go on.”

“I couldn't say this in front of Kitty, that's why I wanted to speak to you privately. I don't know much about the really intimate side of love. Jeannie and I never … well, you know. A lot of us when we were students went to Monto once or twice…”

“Dublin's red-light district. Rumour has it that when he was Prince of Wales, Edward VII lost his virginity there. You were in good company.”

“I suppose so, although wasn't he something of a ladies' man? I have to say I didn't much like it.”

“I imagine a lot of men feel that way about prostitutes and find it's different when they fall in love with the right woman.”

Lars nodded. “I did meet an English widow in Villefranche about ten years ago. We were both a bit lonely, attracted to each other, and she and I…” He hung his head.

“Um,” said O'Reilly, “it's our very Victorian upbringing showing. I don't think sensible people give a tinker's damn now what two unmarried adults get up to in private.”

“Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“Beatrice stopped coming to France six years ago. I did miss her and miss it, the sex, for a while, but…” He sighed. “Somehow it didn't seem very important to me. But now Myrna arouses feelings in me, she's been married, knows what to do … and I feel … I feel … damn it, I feel so bloody inadequate.” He spat out the last words.

“Hmm,” said O'Reilly, aching for his brother. “Listen.” For an experienced physician, no body function was embarrassing. “You already know what to do; you say Myrna gets you excited, she's certainly experienced. I reckon the pair of you won't have any difficulties in that respect.” He clapped his brother on the shoulder. “I don't really know what to say about the social differences. They are there. I'll admit barriers are breaking down, but old habits die hard. Even if John is my friend, there will always be that gap. But I'll also tell you that we get round it. Myrna might be willing to try. From a few things she's said to Kitty and me, I do believe she has feelings for you. Yes, she's animated and very friendly. But truly, brother, I think you've brought that out in her.”

Lars managed a weak smile. “Really?”

“Of course really.”

“Gosh. Thanks, Finn,” Lars said. “Thanks a lot.” He lowered his head again. “So you think I should take a chance?”

There's the rub, O'Reilly thought. He'd been taught in medical school that the first tenet of offering counsel is do not make others' decisions for them. Still, Lars clearly wanted direction, and his sister-in-law, as it happened, wasn't so squeamish when the truth was staring her in the face. “Tell you what,” he said, “I fully understand why you'd not want to mention sex in front of Kitty, but why don't we get a woman's perspective on the social side of things. She already suspects, just like me. Would you feel comfortable talking to her about how you feel?”

“Yes, Finn. Yes, I would.”

“Right,” said O'Reilly, “my belly thinks my throat's cut and she's making scrambled eggs on toast. When Kinky's off we use the kitchen for a dining room. Saves traipsing up and down stairs. Shall we?”

A smiling Lars nodded and followed his brother. “Suddenly I feel extremely hungry.”

*   *   *

“Help yourselves to tea,” Kitty said. “I've the eggs, butter, and milk beaten and the chopped chives and grated cheese ready to drop in.” She poured the scramble into a saucepan, put it on the range top, and with her back to them, began to stir. “So,” she said, “have the brothers O'Reilly solved the riddle of the universe?”

“Not quite,” said O'Reilly, “but Lars has confided something in me and asked me what to do and I'm not quite sure how to answer. We'd like your help. I'll let Lars explain.”

“Fair enough. If I can.”

Lars swallowed and said, “Kitty, I'm becoming very fond of Myrna.”

Kitty's voice was level when she said, “Fingal and I've suspected that and we think your feelings are returned. And we are very happy for you both.” She kept on stirring.

“I really wasn't sure if she cared for me, but you and Fingal have helped me to hope. The other trouble though is she's noble and I'm a commoner. I haven't dared to speak to her about it.”

Kitty turned from the stove, nodded, then said, “I know what you mean. The first time Fingal took me to Ballybucklebo House I confess I was overawed, but both John and Myrna have a happy knack of putting folk at their ease. Tallagh in Dublin, where I was reared, is not Belgravia in London. My dad was a scholarship boy. Pulled himself up by his bootstraps.” Kitty went back to her stirring, mixing in the cheese and chives. “Sorry. Can't have it burn,” she said, then turned back. “I'm a bit of a socialist at heart. I had a discussion three weeks ago with John MacNeill about how, as my dad says, ‘It's ill divid,' meaning there is quite a distance between the rich and the poor. You were there, Lars. Remember how charming John was? Didn't rear up one bit.”

“But,” said O'Reilly, “you, dear Kitty, do have a habit of speaking your mind and then regretting it later.”

“Ooh,” said Kitty, “you mean like when I said yes when you asked me to marry you?”

O'Reilly laughed. “Nice one. See, Lars, how a happily married couple can enjoy slagging each other?”

Lars laughed. “I've got to admit she did get you with that one.”

“It's all right. I still love her.”

Kitty laughed. “I'm not worried about Fingal taking offence, but I was worried about John,” she said. “And now with this lease situation. Well, I just want to be sure the friendship is unharmed. So we're going to treat the MacNeills and you to a special dinner on Tuesday.” She pushed the bread into the toaster and pulled three hot plates from the oven. “But that doesn't answer your question, does it, boys?”

“'Fraid not,” said O'Reilly, “and we'd like a woman's perspective.”

Kitty kept stirring. “I truly don't think the divide will matter that much. It's not as if you were not a professional man, respected in Ulster. The nobility don't always have to marry their literal peers. Princess Margaret married a commoner.”

“But if it all pans out, Lars, I don't think Her Majesty will make you an earl like she did Lord Snowdon,” O'Reilly said.

“Good thing too,” Lars said. “I'd always be feeling sorry for the poor ermine that was used to trim my robes.”

The toaster popped and Kitty put the toast on three plates and buttered it. “I'll not tell you what to do, but I'll say this…” She started spooning the scrambled eggs onto the toast. “Fingal and I came to love late in life and it's wonderful.” She set plates of lunch before each man, went and brought back her own, and sat. “I've no regrets.” She leaned over and kissed Fingal. “And I know very well neither does your brother.” She picked up her knife and fork and said, “I know I said I'd not tell you what to do, but I do think it's worth the risk, Lars. Now let's tuck in before it gets cold.”

*   *   *

“Just what the doctor ordered,” O'Reilly said, still savouring the tang of the old Cheddar cheese.

The back door swung open and Kinky, propelled by the stiff northeasterly, was blown into the kitchen, her best hat askew. “Whew, that's a ferocious capful of wind out there. I believe the geese will be flying backward. Good afternoon,” she said, “and hello, Mister Lars. I'll not disturb you. I've just popped in after church. I want to collect some pots of strawberry jam I made last summer, so.”

“Help yourself,” O'Reilly said, “and while you're at it, Kitty and I have a great favour to ask. Will you sit for a minute?”

“I will,” she said, and shook her head when Kitty gestured to the teapot.

“We've invited the marquis, his sister, and Lars for dinner on Tuesday. Drinks at six thirty, sit down at seven fifteen. I'm sorry about the short notice, but we'd like you to cater it for us.”

Kinky sat back, frowned, and put a fist on one of her not inconsiderable hips. “I don't know at all, not at all, so, but I suppose if it's what you truly want, sir, I will stay and cook.” By her tone she'd rather have faced the Spanish Inquisition, but loyalty even in the face of the perceived idiocy of her employer had always been her long suit. She tutted and said, “But a real lord and lady should not be taking their tea with yourself and Kitty and your brother Lars crammed round a couple of collapsible card tables in the upstairs lounge. It won't do, sir. It will not do at all, so.”