An Irish Country Wedding (17 page)

“The wee place has a name, so it has. Just like the houses of toffs. Dawn Bwee? I like the sound of that, but I never heard of a yellow poem.” He grinned and showed his buck teeth. “I’ve heard some blue ones, with the lads, like.”

“Donal,” Julie said. “Eejit.”

He scratched his bandage under his cap. “Come on,” he said, “let’s take a wee dander round her before we go in.”

“Heel, Arthur,” O’Reilly said, and was happy to follow, listen, and watch as Donal pointed everything out to Julie. “That there gable end,” he said as they passed, “needs new pargetting, but Buster Holland’s a sound man with rough plaster, so he is.”

O’Reilly could see bricks exposed where the old plaster had cracked and bits had flaked off.

“The back of the house is grand, just the door needs painting and the window frames. I’ll do that, so I will. Do you see that there?” He pointed to where a spout ran from a roof gutter into a huge wooden tun. “That there collects rainwater, you know, and my ma says rainwater’s so soft it’s dead wheeker for washing your hair, so it is.”

O’Reilly saw how fondly Donal gazed at his wife’s waist-length blonde tresses.

“I can just see me giving you a hand with it on a summer’s night, love,” Donal continued, “out here in the back garden.”

Unkempt grass studded with buttercups ran for fifty yards from the back of the house to a tall laurel hedge. O’Reilly guessed the lawn was thirty yards wide, bounded on each side by fifty-foot-tall leafless linden trees, known as limes in Ulster.

“See them there limes?” Donal asked. “I’d put Bluebird’s run fornenst them to the right there.” He glanced at Julie’s tummy. “And when the leaves come there’ll be great shade when you can put the wee lad out in his pram. And when he’s bigger, him and me can kick a soccer ball about on the grass, like.”

Julie said, “He might be a wee girl, you know.”

O’Reilly watched the puzzled look on Donal’s face turn into a huge smile. “Right enough she might, so she might. She can lie in her pram, and when she’s bigger can’t I make her a doll’s house,
maybe even a Wendy house for her to play in out here.” He frowned.
“Mind you, I’d have to flatten that there mound.” Donal pointed to where a small hillock rose and fell, clothed in long unmown grass and a sunburst of myriad dandelions.

Donal laughed. “I’ll tell you one thing,” he said. “I never want to meet the mole that dug thon boy.”

O’Reilly pictured Donal’s supposed mole the size of a carthorse tunnelling under the lawn and throwing up the hill. “True,” he said, and glanced at his watch. “Come on, Donal. Let’s have a look inside the house. I’ll have to get back home soon.”

“Fair enough, sir.” Donal unlocked the back door and lifted the snib to let them in.

“Stay,” O’Reilly said to Arthur outside the door, and followed into a bright kitchen with a red tile floor. O’Reilly smelt the dry mustiness, but that wasn’t surprising. The place had been empty for a year. “It’s lovely, Donal,” said Julie. “If we can buy the house and there’s money left over, I could have a washing machine. I’ve never had one of my own and it would be great for doing nappies, so it would. I’d put it there.”

“Aye,” said Donal. “I’ll plumb it in for you, darlin’, but we’ll need a sparks for to wire it into the mains. Boggy Baxter’d be the man for the job. He done all the electrics at Sonny and Maggie’s house.” Donal headed for an archway. “Come on ’til we see the rest of it.”

O’Reilly followed them through the empty house. He held his peace, but watched and listened as Donal and Julie admired an alcove here, decided this wee room would be stickin’ out a mile as a nursery, thought the parlour suite her ma had given Julie as a wedding present would be dead on in the front room. He envied them as they planned, dreamed.

Kitty wouldn’t have that kind of pleasure—making a place her own. Not unless he sold Number One and let her start from scratch in her own house, but selling was not in the cards. No doubt she’d want to make some changes to their home, and Kitty O’Hallorhan was wise enough not to rush into that until she felt Kinky was
comfortable with the presence of another woman. But, and the
thought pleased him, handled in the right way, seeking Kinky’s advice on any suggested changes might well be another way of making her understand that she truly was needed.

O’Reilly was still puzzling over Kinky and Kitty when he arrived in the small front hall and Donal announced, “Here endeth the conducted tour. What do you think, Julie?”

She took a very deep breath, held it, exhaled, and said, “It’s lovely, so it is. I never thought in a million years, not a million, the likes of us could have a place like this. I love it. Are you sure we can afford it?” O’Reilly heard the longing in her voice.

“If we can get this house we’d be elected, so we would, and I
think we’ve enough of the ould doh-ray-mi. What do you think, Doc?”

O’Reilly saw the pleasure in Julie’s eyes. “It does need a bit of
work, but it would be ideal for you
 
… three.” He pointed at Julie’s
bump.

She and Donal laughed.

O’Reilly said, “And they were asking two thousand pounds?”

“Aye, and we don’t have it all, but what with Julie’s five-hundred-pound settlement from Mister Bishop last year, my winnings on Bluebird, Julie’s prize for nearly winning the hair model contest, and the dosh I got at the oul’ gee-gees in Downpatrick, we can come close.”

O’Reilly shook his head. “Hold your horses, now, even though I know it was a couple of horses, one called Arkle and the other Flo’s Fancy, that helped get you some of the money. Two thousand pounds is not all you’d have to pay if you give the full price.”

Donal frowned. “Why not?”

It was O’Reilly’s turn to inhale before he said, “You have to settle the estate agent’s commission, stamp duty—that’s a tax on all house sales—and you’ll need a lawyer to sort out the deeds.” For a moment O’Reilly thought of asking his brother Lars, a solicitor in Portaferry, to conveyance the house as a favour, but realised if he did they’d soon be flooded with requests for favours
every time someone bought or sold a house. “And you’ll need money to insure the place, pay the rates
 
… the county council
taxes
 
… and money to fix it up and finish furnishing it.” He saw the smile flee from Julie’s face and watched Donal put his arm around her. Uh-oh. O’Reilly hadn’t meant to discourage them, but they did have to face the facts.

“Thank you for being honest, Doctor O’Reilly,” Julie said. There was a catch in her voice. “It was nice to dream for a wee minute there, so it was.” She turned her face into Donal’s shoulder.

“Wait a minute,” said O’Reilly. “It’s not as bad as that. I didn’t mean you couldn’t afford it. I was trying to explain what it takes to buy a property. Now that’s one of the reasons you asked me to come, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Julie said. She looked at Donal for reassurance. “And we know you’re helping us, don’t we, Donal?”

“We do indeed,” Donal said.

“So,” said O’Reilly, relieved that his little faux-pas had been forgiven, “with what Donal earns working for Councillor Bishop, you can get a mortgage, a loan from the bank, if you don’t have quite enough money.”

“Honest to God?” Donal said. “Me?”

“You, Donal Donnelly. You pay it off every month, just like paying rent, but one day you’ll own the house lock, stock, and barrel.”

“Like buying on the never-never?” Julie asked.

“Like hire-purchase,” O’Reilly said, “and I’m not sure you’ll need to offer the whole amount the estate’s asking anyway.”

Donal frowned. “Why not?”

“The house needs work. Nobody’s bought it in a year. Maybe the people who inherited it are getting tired of paying rates and the upkeep and would be glad to get rid of it for a bit less. They’re already asking five hundred pounds below what’s called the ‘appraised value.’”

Donal’s frown vanished. “Do you think so, sir?”

“I do, Donal. Offer one thousand seven hundred but have a word with your bank manager about a mortgage first. What with the repairs and furnishing, things could be a bit pricier than you expected. The manager will look at what you’ve got, what you earn, and work out the details of financing

“That would be great,” Donal said, “and I would ask, sir, honest to God, but I don’t have a bank, never mind a manager.”

Donal wasn’t the only countryman who mistrusted banks and in truth rarely had enough money to need an account. “I’ll speak to Mister Canning at the Bank of Ireland,” O’Reilly said. “You go see him next week. He’ll take care of you.”

“By God, I will see him, sir.” He scratched his bandage. “First thing after this yoke comes off.” He spun to Julie, and Donal Donnelly’s words came tumbling out. “We’re going to get the wee house, Julie.” He grabbed her and waltzed her round the hall. “Our wee house. You, me, and the chissler.” He sang off-key,

—the roof was thatched with yellow straw,

the walls were white as snow.

The turf fire boiled the pot. I see it still
 
…

O’Reilly recognised “The Little Old Mud Cabin on the Hill.”

Donal stopped singing and released Julie. She stepped up to O’Reilly and kissed his cheek. “Thank you, sir. Thank you very, very much.” There were tears in her eyes. “I’m so happy.”

That was twice in an hour he’d made a woman cry and been kissed. O’Reilly stepped back, cleared his throat, and said, “I didn’t do anything, Julie.”

Her look said “Like hell you didn’t,” and he imagined Julie Donnelly, née MacAteer, rarely swore. All very embarassing, this effusive thanking. “And there’s one other thing, Donal.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You go to Dapper Frew, tell him you want to offer one thousand seven hundred pounds. He’ll present that offer to the sellers. Dapper’ll make all the arrangements, get you a solicitor, that kind of stuff. If they make a counteroffer and want more money, or if there are any complications, come and talk to me.”

“I will, sir. In soul, I will.”

“And Donal? Julie? Keep this all to yourselves. I don’t want to spoil your day, but buying a house is a complicated business. It’s not guaranteed until contracts are exchanged and a deposit’s paid. Before that someone else might bid more.”

“I’d not like that,” Julie said.

“On principle then, the less anyone knows the better, and you know how the word gets out around here,” O’Reilly said. “Now come on. Lock up. I have to fetch Arthur from the back garden. I want to get you two home and then get to Number One Main and sort out what Barry and I are going to have for our tea.”

“I don’t know what you’re having for yiz tea, Doctor, but I do know what you’re having for pudding. Cissie Sloan said Aggie baked one of her cherry cakes this morning for the doctors. She’s quare nor clever with preserved fruit,” Julie said.

“Did she, by God? That’s very kind of her. In that case I’ll nip down to Bangor before going home. I’ve a notion that Doctor Laverty and I’d appreciate ice cream with Aggie’s cherry cake.” The Mencarellis’, Capronis’, and Togneris’ sweetie shops all made wonderful ice cream, but no one, in O’Reilly’s opinion, made it quite like Paola Lucchi and her sister Ada.

19

The Time Has Come to Talk of Other Things

O’Reilly was sipping his pre-dinner Jameson and listening to
Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony when Barry walked into the upstairs lounge. “So, what’s the word on Aggie?” O’Reilly said,
then, pointing at the sideboard, “Help yourself. He was delighted how things were going for Donal and Julie Donnelly and his mood was light.

“Aggie’s on her way to the Royal,” Barry said, pouring himself a whiskey. “Deep venous thrombosis. I gave her heparin.” He sat in the other armchair. “
Sláinte
.”

“
Prost
,” said O’Reilly. “Did you know
prosit
is the third-person singular present active subjunctive of the Latin verb
Prosum
, or the Maltese
prosit
, meaning bravo.”

“No, Fingal, I can say with an absolute degree of certainty that I did not know that. How do you?”

O’Reilly chuckled. “I learnt the Latin grammar at school, and a good thing too, because when I was a student at Trinity some lectures were delivered in Latin. I picked up the Maltese word when I was in the local equivalent of a pub in Grand Harbour in the war.” O’Reilly raised his glass. “Aggie’ll be all right once they get her stabilised on warfarin.”

Barry shook his head. “Your eruditon, Fingal, is astounding.” He put his glass on the coffee table, scratched his chin, and said, “And medically you’re probably right about Aggie, but damn it, Fingal, it’s not fair.”

Was Barry going to object to having to refer all interesting cases? O’Reilly hoped not.

Barry said, “Half the reason the woman has varicose veins is
because she’s had a job for years where she never got a chance to sit
down. I wrote a letter to her employer asking if she could be switched to something sedentary and do you know what he’s
done?” Barry’s face had reddened. One hand was clenching and unclenching and O’Reilly was sure the lad was unaware he was doing it. “He’s given her notice. He’s laying her off. That’s not bloody well fair.” Barry lifted his whiskey.

“No,” said O’Reilly, “it’s not.” He waited. Six months ago Barry’d probably have thought that people losing jobs was no concern of their physician. Nor would he have sworn. Now?

Barry stood, paced, and turned back. “Something’ll have to be done about it, that’s all.”

O’Reilly set his drink aside, rose, clapped Barry on the shoulder, and said, “Good lad. I hoped you’d say that. And you’re right.” He fished out his pipe. “Any suggestions what that ‘something’ might be?”

Barry shook his head. “At this moment? No. Apparently her employer is quite within his rights legally.” He swallowed whiskey. “All I know is that the shirt factory is owned by a Mister Ivan McCluggage and a partner.”

O’Reilly frowned. He lit up and puffed out a cloud of blue smoke. His pipe always gave him time to think. “Seems to me there’s a couple of options
—
”