An Irish Country Love Story (41 page)

“I'm inclined to agree, Fingal,” Kitty said. “I wasn't thinking when I invited them. I forgot we've no dining room. Should we perhaps not postpone?”

“I'd rather not,” O'Reilly said. “I've already been after John about finding that old lease and I know he's feeling responsible. I don't want to rub his nose in the situation by having to cancel because we have no dining room.” He turned to Kinky. “Come on, Kinky. I know you are the very divil for the social niceties and we all admire you for that, but it is our turn to have his lordship round, the dining room is still out of commission, and we certainly can't entertain in your kitchen and expect you to cook and serve…”

“Saving your presence, sir,” she said, squaring her shoulders, “but I do hear that the Culloden has a fine kitchen and private function rooms, so.”

“It does,” Kitty said, “but it doesn't have Kinky Auchinleck working the ovens and stove. I know Fingal's told you before how very much the marquis looks forward to your cooking.”

Kinky blushed and smiled. “Welllll,” she said, “maybe a slap-up feast would make up for the utterly throughother seating arrangements.”

O'Reilly chuckled. He'd have said “plebian,” but the Ulster “throughother” gave a much better sense of careless untidiness.

“Indeed,” she said, “I've had an idea. My dining room table seats six. It's not heavy bog oak like the one under wraps here, and a couple of men like Donal Donnelly and Dapper Frew could bring it round on Tuesday afternoon if Donal could get the loan of Mister Bishop's little lorry.”

“We couldn't possibly, Kinky,” said Kitty, “but it's a very generous offer.”

It was clear to O'Reilly that Kinky's mind was made up. He decided that discretion was the better part of valour and kept his mouth shut.

Kinky harrumphed. “It does not be the place of a part-time housekeeper to tell the mistress of the house her business, but, Kitty—”

At least she hadn't reverted to the formal “Mrs. O'Reilly,” for which he was thankful.

“I'd die of shame. My doctor and his family crammed round…?” She shook her head. “No. Archie and I can manage on a couple of shmall tables until ours is brought back on Wednesday.”

“Thank you, Kinky. I think it's a splendid idea,” O'Reilly said.

“It is, so,” Kinky said, clearly still not entirely mollified.

“And what would you suggest, Kinky, for the menu?” Kitty asked.

Kitty, you may like to speak your mind, but you can also be the soul of tact, O'Reilly thought.

“Well,” Kinky said, “let's see. I'd start with melon balls and ginger. Easy to prepare and have ready. Fish?” She tapped a crooked finger against her lips. “I do think fresh plaice—and Hall Campbell's the fisherman for them—lightly bread-crumbed and grilled. Main course?” She beamed and her dark eyes sparkled. “I've not done one for a while, but my friend, Emer Cullen, God rest her, who'd worked in the Café de Paris in London before she took service with the marquis's father, taught me to make beef Wellington. I'll have Mister Mawhinney get me a well-aged fillet steak, but he'll have to get the pâté de fois sent down from Belfast. I'll see him on my way in tomorrow. I'll make the
duxelles
and puff pastry myself. Roast potatoes, champ, and seasonal vegetables. And for dessert? Sure, that's wee buns. A good sherry trifle. I know for a fact the marquis loves my sherry trifle. It's not fancy, like crèpe suzette or crème brûlée, but when it comes to his puddings, the marquis is a simple man. I'll make that on Monday, and I'd want a few plates of After Eight chocolate mint thins to go with the coffee.”

“I'll buy some,” O'Reilly said, “and I'll look after the drinks.” He realised he was salivating.

“Kinky, how on earth can you manage all this by yourself?” Kitty asked.

O'Reilly knew Kinky could handle the cooking; he was more concerned about all the traipsing up and down stairs.

Kinky's snort was almost derisive. “I cannot, but I'll have a grand helper, so. I'll cook, but Archie will serve. I'll just come up once when the main course is ready. It does please me to examine the slices of beef to make sure I got them just right.”

“Kinky, you are a gem beyond price,” Kitty said. “I don't know what we'd do without you. Thank you.”

Kinky, all smiles, double chins quivering, could only say, “Och, get on with you, Kitty, flattering a poor Corkwoman,” but O'Reilly knew she was glowing with the compliment.

 

34

A Feast of Wine on the Lees, of Fat Things Full of Marrow

O'Reilly, his scuffed brown boots as highly polished as they could be, was dressed in his Sunday-best tweed three-piece suit. Two bottom buttons of the waistcoat were undone. He had decided to wait for their guests in the surgery and steal a few moments of peace after the excitement of the preparations. Last night Kitty, freshly coiffed and manicured, had sat him in a chair in the kitchen and done her best to trim his shaggy mop. And this evening he'd shaved for the second time today. Friends they may be, but there was still that lingering sense of a class gap, and Fingal O'Reilly wanted to make John and Myrna feel they were being treated with respect.

Kinky, God bless her, had run round like a bee on a hot brick vacuuming, polishing, and doing her cookery preparations. At the last minute she had changed into what must be her best dress, a string of pearls and a brand-new spotless white starched apron under her old pinafore. The apron was for her appearance later upstairs.

She'd been busy for the past two days preparing the feast, and in slightly more than forty-five minutes, Archie would be serving the first course on the Auchinlecks' dining table, which Donal and Dapper had lugged upstairs and set up in the lounge two hours ago.

He took a quick look at his watch, then bounced out of his chair and strode across the hall. The dining room door was resolutely closed and he pushed it open and peered inside.

The plywood and canvas patch still plugged the jagged hole in the brickwork where the lorry had come through, tearing up several floorboards in its passage. Dust sheets covered the old bog oak dining room table and the sideboard, both of which had escaped damage. The five undamaged chairs had been taken upstairs. The lorry had smashed chair number six to matchwood. The sheets, the carpeted floor, and the crystal chandelier were covered in a patina of brick dust and the smell reminded O'Reilly of the bombed streets of Portsmouth in 1940 after a Nazi air raid.

Would it stay like that until wrecking balls and diggers came and knocked the whole house over like a pile of children's wooden blocks? He hoped not.

The front doorbell rang and O'Reilly shook off the image of the house disappearing in a cloud of dust, backed out of the room, closed the door, and opened the front door to usher John MacNeill, Myrna, and Lars into the hall.

“Fingal,” John said, “grand to see you.” The marquis looked behind him, performed a nimble sidestep and, to O'Reilly's dismay, allowed Arthur Guinness, only recently banished to the backyard, to charge past and race upstairs.

“Damn that dog. I told him to stay in his kennel,” O'Reilly said.

“Don't be silly, Fingal,” Myrna said with a laugh. “It's cold out there. We've got our animals all over the big house. Please, we're all friends here. Don't concern yourself about Arthur. And that includes you too, your ladyship.” She bent and picked up Lady Macbeth, who had just appeared from the kitchen. The little white cat purred and immediately deposited a fine layer of snow-white fur on Myrna's black Persian lamb coat. “You'll not object, Fingal, if I bring her up? She's such a darling and there's something homey about having a cat in the room.”

O'Reilly felt himself relax. “No objections at all.”

As he took off his camel hair overcoat, John MacNeill nodded at the shut dining room door. “I hope we're not putting you to a great deal of trouble. I know the dining room is still, ahem, nonoperational.”

O'Reilly shook his head. “Not at all. I'll have to ask you to excuse us for feeding you upstairs, but I think you'll find Kinky's meal to your liking.”

“Anything Kinky has cooked,” said Myrna, who was being helped out of her coat by Lars, “I would eat from paper plates on my lap sitting on a chair in your waiting room, Fingal.”

Lars, shy, humourless Lars, laughed so hard he might have just heard a Bob Hope one-liner.

O'Reilly wondered if his brother had spoken to Myrna. Judging by the look that passed between them, he had his hopes. “Let's go upstairs.” He had promised Kitty earlier not to ask about the original lease, but John said, “And I must apologise, Fingal. Still no luck on your behalf.”

“I understand,” Fingal said, “and let's call that subject closed for tonight.” Disappointed as he was, there was no point raking over cold coals. He collected the three coats and hung them on the coatstand. “After you, Myrna. Kitty's waiting for us.”

Kitty stood by the sideboard, a gin and tonic in her hand, his Jameson on the sideboard's top beside a row of decanters and a Waterford cut-glass water jug. O'Reilly again admired the knee-length black sheath dress he'd zipped her into only half an hour ago, sheer dark tights, black patent leather pumps. Sexiest woman in the six counties, he thought as she and the guests exchanged greetings and he took their drinks orders; dry sherry for Myrna, whiskey and water for both Lars and John.

“Come and sit down,” Kitty said, inclining her head to a semicircle of chairs arranged around the fireplace. Arthur Guinness had made himself at home in front of the fire. “And please excuse Arthur, but I hadn't the heart to chase him.”

“Perfectly all right,” John said. “Finn McCool, my red setter, thinks he has squatter's rights on that piece of territory in our house.”

There was laughter and as the usual formalities were seen to and Myrna set Lady Macbeth on the carpet, Kitty waved a hand to encompass the room. “Kinky has done a wonderful job.”

Wine tables stood between each of five armchairs, their surfaces dotted with small dishes of almonds and potpourri. Later there would be After Eight chocolates for when the company returned to the fire to take their coffee and after-dinner drinks.

Lars sat on the extreme left, with Myrna next to him. O'Reilly sat in the middle, already helping himself to some almonds. He was flanked by Kitty and John. “So she has. I've always liked this room,” said Myrna, taking a sip of her sherry and studying the marble chimneypiece, which glowed in the firelight.

“Do tell, John,” said Kitty. “Did the folk museum accept your cottages?”

John MacNeill smiled. “They did indeed, and they'll look after the disassembly, transport, and reconstruction on their premises. One less thing to worry about.”

Myrna looked at Lars. “And your brilliant brother, Fingal, has tied up everything to do with giving the estate to the National Trust at the appropriate time. The paperwork will be all signed, sealed, and delivered by next Monday.”

“It is a very great load off one's shoulders,” said John MacNeill, “and it is panning out just as we described the night three weeks ago when you and Kitty came to us for dinner.”

“We are delighted,” Kitty said, “aren't we, Fingal?”

O'Reilly, who had just popped another almond into his mouth, nodded.

“And,” said Myrna, “we're going to celebrate. Tell them please, Lars.”

Lars's thin moustache curved up as he smiled, before saying, “Myrna, and Simon O'Hally, and I have been nose to the grindstone since last December. You all know I have a place in Villefranche-sur-Mer?”

“I didn't know that, Lars,” John said.

“I went there for a holiday fifteen years ago. I just fell in love with the place. It was small, only about five thousand people lived there then, and I found a seafront apartment not far from the old Chapelle Saint Pierre. Wonderful views of the harbour.” He looked down. “Finn can tell you I don't usually act on impulse but … I bought the flat and I've been going there every year since.”

“And Fingal and I intend to come and visit you someday soon,” Kitty said. “Both of us need to slow down a bit.”

O'Reilly registered Kitty's comment with pleasure but didn't let his eyes leave Myrna's face. There was such delight, excitement, and fondness there, he felt fully convinced that matters really were moving ahead. He snaffled another almond.

“You'll be most welcome,” Lars said, “but not until later in the year, because Myrna and I are going there to take a fortnight's break soon after her Hilary term is over at Queens in March and before Trinity starts in mid-April.”

“That's wonderful,” Kitty said.

“It is a bit risqué, we know,” Myrna said, “but we're not children, no parents to worry about upsetting, and we're only telling our families. Damn it all, it's not 1867. It's 1967. We want to get to know each other better, don't we, Lars?”

“Very much so,” Lars said, smiling.

“Fair play to you both,” O'Reilly said, “and you're right, the Puritans are long gone.” Something caught his attention. He looked over at John MacNeill. His face was puce and he was emitting strange strangling noises. Was the marquis having apoplexy at the thought of his sister going off with a country solicitor? Then he realised the man was choking. O'Reilly leapt to his feet and slapped John MacNeill firmly between the shoulder blades. He coughed mightily and a soggy spray of petals flew across the room. He dragged in a great gasping breath.

O'Reilly was getting ready to clout John again when the man held up his hand.

“I'm … I'm all right,” John managed, and hauled in another lungsful. “Sorry about that,” he said, rising, heading to the sideboard, and pouring himself a glass of water. “I ate a handful of potpourri thinking it was almonds. Silly me.” He effected a weak laugh. “I'm fine. Thanks, Fingal.”