An Irish Country Wedding (33 page)

“I think, Councillor,” Barry said as stiffly as he could manage, “you may have been right about Butch. But if the animal has disappeared, you won’t be able to prove it, ever, so I am afraid, just like Shylock, you won’t be able to collect your pound of flesh.”

Bishop spluttered, veins standing out on his forehead. “If that bloody ferret shows up here again and I find out, Mrs. Bishop’s going to have a white fur trim on her best coat collar, so she is.”

Colin howled on.

“I think,” Barry said, “you’ve caused quite enough upset for one day. The little lad’s heartbroken. Making threats doesn’t help. Perhaps
—
” He indicated the hall to the front door.

“And I suppose you think I’m laughing my leg off because the damn thing killed a wheen of my birds?” Bishop thrust his face into Barry’s. “If you do, Laverty, you’re a feckin’ bollix, so you are.” Spittle flew.

Barry recoiled and as he did he saw that his bag was mysteriously jerking across the tiles and moving out from under the table. He had to distract Bishop before the man noticed. Barry stepped closer to Bishop. “Mister Bishop, there is a lady and a child present. I’ll thank you to moderate your language.” He grabbed Bishop by the elbow and hustled him across the room so the bag was no longer in the councillor’s line of sight. “Out,” he said as soon as they reached the kitchen door. “Out.”

He closed the kitchen door. As Bishop came to a halt his bowler fell to the floor. His face was puce as he roared, “Who the hell do you think you are?”

“Mister Bishop, I know you are upset, but there’s no need to scare a little boy, swear in front of his mother.”

“Aye. Well.” The councillor’s voice had returned to nearly normal.

“I think,” said Barry, “you should be running along.” He bent, retrieved the hat, and handed it to Bishop.

“Good afternoon,
Doctor
.” The councillor crammed his hat on his head and stamped away.

As Barry turned to go back he heard the front door slam. He opened the kitchen door and saw Connie standing with her arm round Colin’s shoulder. Colin had stopped crying and held the bag to his chest. “Sorry about that, Connie,” Barry said.

She smiled. “I don’t know how youse done it, Doctor Laverty, but I knew by the way youse looked at me youse was up to something.” She bent to Colin. “Here. Blow your nose,” she said, and gave him a hanky. “Colin told me while youse was out of the room, but I didn’t let him open the bag in case the wee craythur got out and Mister Bishop came back and seen him.”

“Very wise,” Barry said, “but we can take a peek now.” Barry opened his bag a fraction and a small black nose peeped out. “I’ll not let him out, Colin,” Barry said.

Connie laughed. “That was dead brill, so it was, hiding Butch in there.”

“Our fugitive ferret may be safe for now,” Barry said, “but it’s only half the battle won. You heard what Mister Bishop said. If he ever hears that Butch has come home
 
… I didn’t like what he said about fur collars.”

Colin sniffed and blew his nose.

“We’re going to have to arrange for Butch to disappear. He’d never be safe here, you understand, Colin?”

“Yes, Doctor Laverty.” The little boy took a couple of deep breaths. “Can I hold him just once, like?”

Barry felt the lump in his throat. “Mammy, can we shut the kitchen door?” He had visions of an all-out ferret pursuit if Butch tried to escape.

Connie shut the door, and Barry held his bag close to Colin and opened it more widely. Colin reached inside and withdrew the ferret from the folds of the towel. He wrapped the little animal in both arms and held it to his chest for a long minute, without speaking, then he gave Barry a wistful look and put the creature back in the bag.

Barry shut the clasp.

Connie moved to Colin and put her hand on his shoulder. She too was crying.

Barry came close to tears himself, but managed to say, “I’m sorry Butch has to go, but I promise I’ll find him a good home.” He touched Colin on the head. “You’re a very brave boy,” he said. “Very brave.” And as he turned to go, he hoped to God that O’Reilly would know where to lodge a fugitive ferret so Bertie could never find the animal.

35

Be Bruised in a New Place

“Get down, Arthur.” Barry let himself into the back garden. He had forgotten about the dog’s extraordinary sense of smell. “Down.” Arthur stood, put his paws on Barry’s shoulders, and tried to grab
the medical bag Barry held above his head. “
Down
, you great lum
mox.”

Arthur subsided, sat, threw back his head, and yodelled.

Barry was amazed by the noise coming from the Labrador and gave thanks for the small mercy of now being unencumbered. He scuttled for the back door, let himself into a kitchen redolent with the scent of boiling ham, and slammed the door.

“It’s yourself, is it, Doctor Laverty? And in a powerful rush, so.” Kinky turned from a bubbling pot. “And Arthur sounds beside himself.” She opened the door and said, “Do you be quiet now, Arthur. There’s a good dog. Go back to your kennel, bye.”

The yodelling stopped as if turned off by a switch.

She closed the door. “Whatever can have upset him?”

“I’ve got a ferret in here.” Barry set his bag on the table. “Arthur wanted to get at it.”

Kinky chuckled and her chins wobbled. “Don’t be teasing a poor Corkwoman, sir. I know you youngsters listen to that silly BBC program
I’m Sorry, I’ll Read That Again
with that John Cleese who’s always going on about ferrets.”

It was Barry’s turn to laugh. “You’re right. And he sings that song about having one sticking up his nose. But I’m not teasing you. I really do have a ferret in there and I need Doctor O’Reilly’s advice about what to do with it.”

She frowned. “And may I ask how, sir, did it come to be in your bag?”

“It’s a long story, Kinky.”

“Well, I have nowhere to go, Doctor dear, and I think it will be worth hearing how a wee wild craytur came to be inside your medical bag, so.”

“It’s not wild, Kinky,” Barry said, eyeing the bag, “although it may well be by the time it gets out. It’s Colin Brown’s pet. It killed some of Bertie Bishop’s pigeons, and Bertie wanted his pound of ferret flesh. I stuffed it in my bag to get it out of the Browns’ house before Bertie found it.”

She took a step back. “I’m sure that was very kind of you, sir, but I’d rather it was not in my kitchen. You’ll find himself in the dining room.” She frowned. “He’s not in his best of moods.”

“Oh?”

“I’m behind in my wedding arrangements so he’s doing me a favour by completing and addressing preprinted invitations, and you know how he hates filling in forms.” She raised her eyes to heaven.

“I do,” said Barry, “but I’ll risk bearding the lion in his lair.” He lifted the bag.

“I’m sure Doctor O’Reilly will be able to help. Himself is al
ways at his best in a crisis.”

The lid of the saucepan rattled.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, the hambones are knocking to get out,” Kinky said with a sniff and a sidelong glance at the medical bag. “I’m making stock.”

Barry felt his mouth water. Kinky’s soups were delicious. “You carry on, Kinky. I’ll go and see what Doctor O’Reilly thinks.”

As he walked down the hall Barry smiled to see how Kinky, now seven weeks postop, had bounced back to being her old self, albeit pounds lighter. Keeping Helen on to answer the phone in
the daytime and help with the heavier chores had certainly
speeded Kinky’s recovery. Pity Helen would have to be let go at the end of the month, and Fingal hadn’t mentioned anything more about getting help for her to go to Queen’s.

Barry had only half-opened the dining room door when he heard O’Reilly roar, “Go away.” He did not look up from where he sat writing at the head of the dining room table. “I’m busy. Go
 
… away.”

To O’Reilly’s right was a box of embossed cards. The top one was tucked under the flap of its envelope. To his left was a smaller, untidy heap of what must be completed invitations. “I’m sorry about this, Fingal, but it’s urgent.” Damn it, Barry’d just stood up to Bertie Bishop, and he wasn’t going to let Fingal O’Reilly get away with yelling just because he was feeling grumpy. Barry sat along the table to the man’s right, and set the bag on the table.

“Christ on a crutch, what’s urgent?” O’Reilly lowered his voice a little, lifted his shaggy head, and pointed to the uncompleted cards. “I have to get this bloody lot finished tonight and then I’ve to go up to Belfast to see Cromie and Charlie about the reunion.”

“It’s not bleeding-to-death or having-a-heart-attack urgent,” Barry said. “I only need a quick bit of advice, but I’d like to get it sorted out now.”

“Can’t it wait?” O’Reilly sighed. “I do have to finish this bloody
paperwork.” He blew out his cheeks. “I’d rather muck out the Au
gean Stables.”

Barry saw a way to divert O’Reilly. “Heracles’s, or if you prefer Hercules’s, fifth labour, I believe, before he went off to kill a lot of birds and then start up the ancient Olympic Games.”

“You’re right, and his fifth labour didn’t count because he got paid for it. Not like me scribbling away.” O’Reilly chuckled and,
speaking normally, said, “I’m sorry I growled, Barry. I wasn’t re
ally angry.” He smiled. “It’s a long time ago, but I still remember getting anxious and a bit short-fused immediately before my first wedding
—
”

No question, Barry thought, Fingal O’Reilly is mellowing, or he’s come to trust me a lot more. Six months ago he’d not have apologised or confessed to that.

“I think prenuptial collywobbles must affect every groom-to-be. Marriage makes a hell of a lot of changes in people’s lives
 
… and it will in my life too,” Fingal said, finally laying down his pen and sitting back in his chair.

“But you’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

“Like a kiddie to Christmas morning.” He fished out his pipe. “And on the subject of romance, it’s really none of my business, but how are things going with you and Sue?” O’Reilly struck a match and puffed.

Barry hesitated. For years, ever since they’d been boarders together at Campbell College, Barry had only ever exposed his
deeper feelings to Jack Mills, his best friend, but Fingal O’Reilly, Barry’d come to learn, was the kind of man in whom confiding was natural. “We’d a row last Tuesday.” He pursed his lips. “Stupid misunderstanding about her civil rights work.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” O’Reilly lit his pipe.

“Now that Kinky’s able to answer the phone in the evenings, I’m going to take Sue to the Inn tonight. Candlelight, bottle of wine
—
”

“Good for you. Kinky can find you if you’re needed.” O’Reilly let go a blast of blue tobacco smoke then asked, “You in love with the girl?”

Barry sat back. He’d not been expecting O’Reilly to be so blunt. Was he? Was he in love with Sue Nolan? Certainly he’d not been swept off his feet, not the way he had been with Patricia Spence, but yes, he was feeling a very great deal for Sue and it was growing every time he was with her. Perhaps it was more solid than his earlier infatuation. And yet—

“I think I could be, Fingal,” he said very quietly, “but I’m not sure how she feels.”

“Go on,” O’Reilly said.

“First time I took her out she was late because she had been at a CSJ meeting.”

O’Reilly shrugged. “Being late’s no great sin.”

Barry frowned. “I thought so too, but then
—
” He shook his head. “The Saturday she came down here to keep me company she said something that I took lightly at the time.” He inhaled. “It’s silly. Probably means nothing. Forget it.”

“If it’s bothering you, it’s not silly. Come on, spit it out. You’ll feel better.”

“Well, she’d cut a sailing class to be with me, and she said being with me ‘beats skinning your knuckles on a banjo bolt.’”

“A
what
?”

“A banjo bolt. It’s a hollow perforated bolt that’s to transfer oil in maritime diesels and it’s used in hydraulic systems
 
… Fingal, you’re laughing!”

O’Reilly was pursing his lips and doing his best not to laugh but smoke was seeping from his mouth and suddenly he let out a loud guffaw and coughed. “I’m sorry, Barry, I’m not really laughing, it’s just that, well, oh my, it’s not the most romantic thing a woman can say to a young fellah.” O’Reilly bit down on his pipe. “So what did you say to her?”

“Nothing. I changed the subject.”

“And now you’re wondering if you’re important to her or not?”

Barry nodded.

“Have you asked her?” O’Reilly said.

“Whether I matter to her? No. But I’m going to tonight.”

O’Reilly leant forward and put his hand on Barry’s arm. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” he said, and his words comforted Barry. He half-turned. Lady Macbeth had leapt up on the sideboard and was slinking along, belly low. As she came abreast of Barry’s bag, she hunched her shoulders, thrashed her tail, and sprang, missing the bag because as she leapt it hopped and then slid up the table to dislodge the pile of finished invitations.

“What the hell’s going on?” O’Reilly, pipe clenched between his teeth, grabbed the cat and set her on the floor, then picked up the envelopes, straightened, and pointed. “Is that bag possessed? What in the name of the wee man’s in there?”

“I almost forgot
 
… it’s what I came in to get your advice about, Fingal. It’s Colin Brown’s ferret.”

“How the hell did it get in there?”

“I’m afraid
it’s
the white animal that’s been getting Bertie Bishop’s pigeons. I was checking on Colin after his cast was removed, and Bertie arrived like a one-man execution squad demanding Butch
 
… that’s the ferret’s name
—
”

“And you pulled a quick Scarlet Pimpernel.” O’Reilly chortled. “Well done.”

Barry grimaced. “Maybe in the short term, but now I need ad
vice. Where can I find a home for the wee creature?”