An Irish Country Wedding (22 page)

Charlie said, “McCluggage?” and frowned. “There’s a Robin McCluggage, a surgeon at the Belfast City Hospital. He’s a member of Royal Belfast Golf Club like me. Once in a while he brings his brother as a guest. I’ve a half notion his name’s Ivan. I could have a word with Robin. It’s pretty thin, Fingal, I’m sorry, but it’s the best I can do.”

“Och,” said O’Reilly, “every little bit helps. I’d be grateful if you would.” He finished his pint.

Someone must have told a good story out in the bar because a gale of men’s laughter swept through the place.

“Sounds like they’re happy at their work,” Cromie said. He drank and said, “You’d another question, Fingal. About scholarships?”

O’Reilly, his Guinness now finished, glanced longingly at the door of the cubicle. It did take time to pour a good pint. “About scholarships in general and to medical school in particular,” he said.

Cromie frowned. “In general you can win them in our national examination, Advanced Senior. I can’t remember the exact marks you need, but one level in a clatter of subjects earns you a County Scholarship, paid for by your county, and higher marks get you a State Exhibition, paid for by Her Majesty’s Government. That’s the one with the most money. My Jennifer
—
”

“Your daughter who married the pathologist?” O’Reilly said.

“Aye, she had a County. Saved me a few quid while she was getting her B.A.”

“Good for her,” O’Reilly said, “but I’m pretty sure my lass doesn’t qualify for either. She’d have told me if she had, but do either of you know of any ones aimed at less privileged kids?” He waited.

Finally Cromie said, “I think there are a couple. They’re not
awarded every year. I’ve not got a notion about the details, but I
know the bursar, chap called George Burland. I could find out.”

“I’d be grateful, Cromie.”

“I’ll ask next week. Call you.”

The door swung open and Knockers, bearing a tray of pints, came in and set them down on the table. “Here yiz are. Six shillings and sixpence.”

“My shout,” Cromie said, and paid.

As Knockers left, two pints were raised and Cromie said, “Here’s to you, Fingal and Kitty. Every happiness, you old bollix.”

“Thanks, lads,” O’Reilly said. “Now if you two will join me in our old goodnight blessing?”

In unison, three voices called, “Here’s to us. Who’s like us? Damn few and they’re mostly dead.”

“Aye,” said O’Reilly, wiping froth from his upper lip, and thinking fondly of the old days. “Damn few.”

“Do you remember a folk group called the Limelighters?” Charlie said.

“‘Wabash Canonball’? ‘City of New Orleans’?” O’Reilly said.

“That’s them, but I was thinking of another number. ‘Those Were the Days.’” He sat back. “Trinity 1931 to ’36, five years, but for us three those
were
the days. Five bloody good years.”

“I wonder,” said Cromie, “how many of the rest of the class feel that way?”

“We’re going to have to wait to find out,” Charlie said, “but as soon as we start getting replies to our letter to the class we’ll know.”

“Patience,” said O’Reilly, “is a virtue which I’ll try to exercise while I wait for any answers you two can get for me on those other matters, but for the meantime I’d like to propose another toast.” He raised his glass. “To absent friends,” and as the others repeated the toast and raised their glasses, Fingal O’Reilly thought with bittersweet fondness of Bob Beresford, the man who in Trinity had been the fourth member of their Fearsome Four, and, of them, O’Reilly’s closest friend.

24

Home Sweet Home

“Get a move on,” O’Reilly muttered as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. The car was becoming warm so he wound down the window. He knew he should be used to the inevitable delays of the Thursday cattle market in Ballybucklebo, but he wanted to get Kinky to Number One, and he understood how she was aching to be there. Seventeen days was a long time to spend in hospital. He turned and looked into the rear of the Rover. “All right in the back? Sorry about the holdup.”

Kinky, wearing a tartan dressing gown, lay across the seat, pillows propping her against one side of the car, fluffy-slippered feet sticking out from under the red rug that covered her legs. Her face,
though pale, was wreathed in a beatific smile. “I’m doing very
well, sir.”

An Aberdeen Angus bullock lowed as it and two companions ambled their way past the car. A cattle smell made more powerful by the mid-May heat drifted in through the car’s open window.

“City folks might find that awful,” said Kinky. “But I’d rather get a whiff of a good beast in the country than the stink of motorcar fumes in the city, and I’ve had my fill of the smell of disinfectant, so. Don’t you fret, sir. Up ahead now I can see the Maypole so we’re nearly home.”

“We are that,” O’Reilly said, managing to edge past the last of the herd and accelerate through the traffic light just as it was chang
ing from amber to red. He parked outside Number One, came
round, and opened Kinky’s door. “We have arrived, madam,” said O’Reilly, bowing and extending his hand. “Can I help you out?”

“Take you this, sir.” She handed him the rug and her overnight bag. He noticed the toy hare’s droopy ears sticking out through the half-open zip. Puffing, and hauling on O’Reilly’s hand, she managed to slide out of the seat, get her feet onto the pavement, and stand.

With the rug and the bag tucked under one arm, O’Reilly offered her his elbow.

She took it and said, “I do be like a great lady being squired on the arm of a gentleman, so.”

“Hang on,” he said as he twisted, managed to slam the door, and turned back. “I’ll get the pillows later.” He took a deep breath. “Now, Kinky? Ready?”

She nodded.

He measured his steps to hers, feeling her weight as she leaned against him, and together they walked along the path, past the rosebushes, and up to the green-painted door. This wasn’t the old Kinky. She had to stop once to catch her breath. Her dressing gown seemed to be a size too big. O’Reilly frowned and sought for the right word. That was it. Kinky seemed to have shrunk.

But not, it seemed, when it came to accepting her responsibilities.

She stopped, pointed, tutted, and said, “Would you look at your brass plate, sir. Just look at it. Mother of God, but it’s a disgrace, so.”

He glanced at the offending object.

D
R.
F
.
F
.
O
’
R
EILLY,
M
.
B
.,
B
.
C
H.,
B
.
A
.
O
.

P
HYSICIAN AND
S
URGEON

“All tarnished. It should shine like
—
”

“Kinky Kincaid,” O’Reilly said, chuckling, “we are going to get you into the house, into your quarters, and tucked up. The bloody plate can wait.”

The door opened. Cissie Sloan stopped in the doorway, her
mouth opened, then she beamed and said, “Welcome home,
Kinky, and good morning to yourself, Doctor dear.”

“Morning, Cissie,” O’Reilly said. “Now, if you’ll give us room, I need to get Kinky into the house.”

“Certainly, sir.” Cissie didn’t budge. “I was just seeing that nice Doctor Laverty, so I was. I needed a prescription for more of them there thyroxine tablets to take care of the little thingys in my blood that
—
”

“Cissie.” It wasn’t his force-ten bellow, but O’Reilly spoke sharply.

“Right enough, sir. Sorry, sir.” She got out of the way. “Get you better soon, Kinky. All the ladies at the Women’s Union wants to see you. Flo Bishop says, so she does, says she
—
”

Cissie was still talking on the intake of breath as O’Reilly helped Kinky into the hall and closed the door. She stopped as soon as they were across the threshold and he heard her whisper, “Home. Thank you. Thank you.”

And Fingal O’Reilly knew to whom Kinky, who went to church every Sunday, was speaking. He nodded in agreement. “Not far now,” he said, and helped her down the hall. The surgery door was shut, but he could hear Barry’s tones. The door of the waiting room was open. Hughey Gamble, the octagenarian known to all as “Shooey,” who must have been in because of his arthritis, spotted them. “Kinky’s back,” he called, and from the waiting room came a solid and prolonged round of applause.

Kinky grinned. “Thank you,” she called, and said to O’Reilly, “I know Flo’ll have spread the word. I told her two days ago when I was getting home.”

O’Reilly stuck his head round the corner and, as always, admired the puce-coloured roses on the wallpaper. “Thank you all. It’s good to have her home.”

When they reached the kitchen, Helen Hewitt turned from the stove. “Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, “and Mrs. Kincaid. Lovely to see you home.”

O’Reilly saw Helen deliberately place herself between Kinky and the stove, where a saucepan filled with steaming water held a sealed jam jar. Something brown was being heated over a low flame. “Helen’s doing me a favour,” he said. “Before she goes back upstairs.”

Kinky smiled and cast a searching eye round her kitchen. “I approve, Miss Hewitt. And thank you for helping out while I was away. Doctor O’Reilly has explained, so. I will be pleased to have you in this house until I’m back on my feet, and I do hope you find the perfect job soon.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Kincaid,” Helen said. “I hope so too.”

O’Reilly heard how flat her voice was. So far she’d had only one interview, for a salesgirl position at Robinson and Cleaver’s department store in Belfast. It had been unsuccessful. They were looking for someone younger and, of course, cheaper. Helen, with her Junior, Senior, and Advanced Senior certificate subjects was entitled to a higher starting wage than someone younger who’d left school at fifteen with no qualifications. He wished Cromie would call again, but on Monday he’d rung to explain that the bursar was away until next week so Cromie had no news about any potential scholarships. “You’ll be with us for a few more weeks,” he said. “Isn’t that right, Kinky.”

“If you say so, sir.” But Kinky was smiling. “That pneumonia does knock the stuffing out of a body. We’re happy to have you here, Helen, to help my doctors, so.”

And O’Reilly was delighted to hear that, and pleased by how quickly Kinky had moved from the formal “Miss Hewitt” to an informal “Helen.” “Come on,” he said, “let’s get you settled.” He steered her through the kitchen and into her tidy sitting room. “Where would you like to sit?”

Kinky didn’t answer.

O’Reilly waited as she looked round the room—at the black enamelled fireplace with its crenellated semicircular arch over the top, at the brass fender round a tiled hearth, at the fire screen with its tapestry behind glass standing beside the fire. O’Reilly knew Kinky had embroidered the galleon in full sail. And she’d tatted the lace antimacassars on the two maroon armchairs. They were arranged near the fireplace but angled so she could watch her TV, which sat on a mahogany table. Both armchairs were flanked by circular wine tables, each with three legs and a spiral pedestal. A brass handbell sat on one table. On the far wall, beside the door to her bedroom and bathroom, two framed prints of Percy French watercolours depicting the Mountains of Mourne hung over a mahogany tallboy with ash trim and brass drawer handles. It shone in recently polished splendour, courtesy of Helen Hewitt, and was topped with a vase of freshly cut red, yellow, and maroon tulips, beside which a large placard announced,
WELCOME HOME, KINKY KINCAID
.

“I
 
… I’ll sit here, please,” she said, starting to lower herself into an armchair. “Oh, my,” she said softly, “but it does be very, very good to be home.”

He could tell by the way her voice and her lip both trembled that Kinky was having to fight back her tears.

“And I do so love tulips. Did yourself do the card, sir?”

“You’ve seen my handwriting, Kinky Kincaid,” said O’Reilly
with a smile. “No, it was Barry who did the lettering, but it
was Kitty’s idea. So were the tulips.” She’d told him when they’d last spoken on the phone, although rather than specifically mentioning tulips she had suggested “Kinky’s favourite flowers.” O’Reilly had known of the Corkwoman’s fondness for their bright colours.

“Well,” she said, “Miss O’Hallorhan is a thoughtful woman, so.”

O’Reilly was disappointed at the formality, but he knew that it was going to take more than a hand-lettered placard and a bunch of flowers to restore Kitty to Kinky’s good graces.

“Please thank her for me, sir. In fact, I’ll thank her myself when next I see her, which I hope will be soon if we’re to get this wedding planned.”

That was promising, he thought, but said, “Kinky, I am delighted you’re going to work on that, but you’ve to get your feet under you first.” He put her bag on the floor and tucked the rug over her knees. “Are you warm enough? I could light the fire.”

“I’m toasty, sir, thank you.” She frowned. “And planning can be done without getting out of a chair. I am not as strong as I was, not yet, but I’m not an invalid, sir.”

“Kinky, you’re wonderful.” O’Reilly then laughed before he
said, “No one thinks you’re an invalid, but, and I’m speaking as a doctor, people who overdo things after an illness can have relapses. I’m delighted to have you home and I want to keep you here so I’ll be the judge of when you can start work.” He nodded at her TV. “And it won’t be until after you’ve had a chance to see your favourites on Saturday night.”

Kinky’s frown fled. “I’ve missed two whole episodes of
Z-Cars
,” she said, “and I want to know what’s happening to that nice policeman from Belfast, Bert Lynch.”

Someone knocked on the door.