An Irish Country Love Story (44 page)

“I will.” Jack missed, dropped the ball, and had to chase it across the court.

Barry's breathing had now settled but he was happy to prolong his rest. “But you'll not be seeing her before?”

“Don't think so. I mean, if she wouldn't come out on Saint Valentine's…” He started bouncing again.

“Then get a florist to send her a big bunch of flowers—”

“Hey, I just sent her some chocolates this afternoon.”

“Doesn't matter. Send her the flowers and a good-luck card on the Friday before the exam. I'll bet she phones to thank you.”

“All right. You'll be bankrupting me, Laverty but, by God, I'll do it. I should have thought of it myself. Thanks, Barry.”

Barry shrugged. “When I think of how you've held my hand.”

Jack changed the subject. “But I'm not holding it now, brother. My serve, I believe. Right side.”

Barry moved to the centre of the back left. Jack's service was a screamer that Barry couldn't reach, never mind return. Perhaps the repressed energy of Jack's enforced celibacy was being directed into that hard little black missile. Barry gave the ball to his friend, vowing to be on his guard.

The returning bounce of Jack's second serve hit Barry's thigh. “Yeeeow. That bloody well stung,” he said. “I'll have a bruise like a soup plate tomorrow. You don't know your own strength.”

“Sorry,” Jack said, and sounded not the least contrite.

After eleven more rallies in which Jack had Barry scampering round the court like a liltie on amphetamine and twice having to make a dive to avoid being hit again, the score stood at nine to four in Jack's favour. Barry, bent over, hands on knees, was hauling in fiery lungfuls. “Enough. I'm whacked. Banjaxed. I couldn't go a third set. You win. Mercy.”

Jack held his hands aloft like a victorious prize fighter and announced, “The winnah,” and adopted a Muhammad Ali accent. “Float like a butterfly. Sting like a bee. I am the greatest.”

“Greatest … bollix if you … ask me,” Barry said, his breath slowly returning.

Jack laughed. “Och, Barry. Thanks for the game. It took me out of myself for a while. Gave me a chance to let off steam. And thanks for listening. No hard feelings. The pints are on me tonight after we've had our showers.”

“I'm your man,” Barry said.

“And,” Jack said as he opened the door out of the court, “in a couple of weeks I'll need some more moral support. How'd you like to come to the post-exam party with us? For old times' sake. I know you'll have to go stag, but…”

Barry laughed. “I don't mind going alone, just as long as you promise me that this time you'll not try to let down the tyres of a police car—with the rozzers still inside.”

It was Jack's turn to laugh. “They let me off with a caution, remember? I wonder if they would again, now that I'm a respectable doctor and all. But I do promise. I just want you there to celebrate if things go well for Helen, and, I hope, for Helen and me…”

The words “and try to cheer me up if Helen blows me out,” were left unsaid.

 

36

Desires and Petitions of Your Servants

The rotund Presbyterian minister wore his white dog collar under a dark pullover beneath a Harris tweed sports jacket. He managed to look both welcoming and apologetic when he held out a hand to O'Reilly at the door to the parish hall. “I can only say I deeply regret that, to date, my search of the church's records has failed to turn up any trace of the original lease. Perhaps tonight's proceedings might bring you a little comfort.”

“We hope so,” Kitty said. “The marquis still has had no luck either.”

And, O'Reilly thought, Bertie Bishop phoned last night to say that Hubert Doran has been canvassing like billyoh for the council to recommend compulsory acquisition of Number One.

“It's a shame,” said Mister Robinson, “but all's not lost yet. You have a lot of support.” He waved a hand to the packed room. “We've admitted as many folks as the hall will hold, but had to turn a lot of people away.”

Conversations buzzed, and heads turned to take notice of the newcomers. O'Reilly saw elbows nudging ribs and more heads turning to stare in his direction. There was a vague smell of dust and floor polish, but no hint of stale tobacco. Smoking was not permitted on church premises.

“It is quite the turnout, Reverend,” O'Reilly said. He could see over the heads of the standing-room-only crowd to a small stage at the far end. Seated on it behind a long table were Alice Moloney and Flo Bishop, the prime movers in organising the petition to “Save Our Doctor's Home.” Bertie Bishop sat with the platform party, his thumbs hooked behind his lapels, a look of satisfaction on his face as he surveyed the crowd.

“I'm chairing this meeting,” Mister Robinson said, “and I'd like you and Mrs. O'Reilly to join me on the platform.”

“It's very generous of you, Mister Robinson, considering that the probable decision to demolish Number One guarantees that your own property will be spared,” O'Reilly said.

“Doctor, we want to save both your house and the Lord's house. After all, as Bertie Bishop said, ‘People is more important than a few quid.' I concur, for, ‘The love of money is the root of all evil—'”

“First Timothy six verse twelve, I believe.”

Mister Robinson smiled sympathetically. “Och, Doctor O'Reilly, the stress of the situation is telling on you. It's six ten, but six twelve is good counsel as well. ‘Fight the good fight of faith, lay hold on eternal life, whereunto thou art also called, and hast professed a good profession before many witnesses.' The scriptures always show the way. What else are we doing here but fighting the good fight of faith for a good profession … before many witnesses.” He moved his outstretched hand, palm up, in front of him as if passing a benediction over the assembly. Mister Robinson had always had a touch of the theatrical about him and the evening's packed house was bringing it out.

“I do think it would be a sin to see you dispossessed for the sake of a small saving to the council's budget. And I am not alone in thinking so.”

“Thank you,” Kitty said. “It's certainly very gratifying to see all the people here.”

“If you'll follow me?” Mister Robinson began to walk along a central aisle between row upon row of folding chairs.

O'Reilly, Kitty at his side, followed.

Notice boards on one wall held announcements of meetings of the youth club. The local Wolf Cubs, Brownies, Boy Scouts, and Girl Guides used the hall for their weekly events, and posters of their activities added bright colours. Progress along the aisle was slow because they had to keep stopping to acknowledge greetings and expressions of support from well-wishers.

“How's about ye?” Donal and Julie Donnelly said together.

O'Reilly calculated quickly. Today was February 20, so she was twenty-one weeks. Her distended belly was obvious now. Barry would be seeing her for an antenatal visit soon.

“Evening, Doc and Missus,” said Gerry Shanks, Mairead by his side.

“Good luck, Doc,” said Lenny Brown.

“We're rooting for you,” added Connie, “and wee Colin sends his regards.”

“No surrender. Not an inch. This we will maintain.” Willie Dunleavy, a staunch member of the Orange Order, was using their slogans of stubborn intransigence to any suggestion of change. He stuck two thumbs up.

“Back on my feet now, Doctor.” Willie-John Andrews, his pneumonia cured, was sitting with his sister, Ruth. “Got home last Tuesday.”

As they neared the front of the hall, O'Reilly noticed a banner hanging from the front of the committee table. An embroidered bush in flames stood above the motto,
Ardens Sed Virens,
“burning but flourishing,” the emblem of the Presbyterian Church in Ireland.

Kinky and Archie were sitting in the front row. Kinky sported her favourite green hat. “In all the years I've been here,” she said, “I've not missed a Monday-night meeting of the Women's Union, except when I had that awful tummy trouble two years ago, so, but every member, every last one, agreed that having this meeting tonight to try to save Number One was more important than ours. They gave the place up for you and Kitty, and,” she stifled a small sob, “for me.” Her voice hardened and she set her jaw. “I do not want us to lose our home, sir, even if,” she clutched Archie's arm, “Archie and I do have our own home too.”

O'Reilly wasn't quite sure what to say to comfort her. He managed to pat her arm and murmur, “We're not going down without a fight, Kinky, and it looks like the whole village is fighting on our side too.”

“They are, so. And that awful Mister Doran shouldn't think he can go at us like a bull at a gate.” Kinky's agate eyes flashed.

O'Reilly felt choked. “I hope you're right,” he said. “Now Mister Robinson wants Kitty and me on the platform. Keep your chin up, Kinky. It's not over yet.” O'Reilly led Kitty onto the stage.

Bertie, who was sitting on the nearest chair, rose and indicated that O'Reilly and Kitty should sit to his right. Flo and Alice Moloney both gave the O'Reillys beaming smiles as Mister Robinson took his seat between Bertie and Flo Bishop.

“How are youse both?” Bertie asked.

“Well,” O'Reilly said, “but anxious, and very gratified by the support that's been drummed up for us. We've had no luck finding the original leases. It looks like the petition will be our last chance.”

Bertie shook his head. “I think you've known me long enough, Doctor, to know that I usually like to have another card up my sleeve. But I'll say no more about—”

He was interrupted by Mister Robinson rising, banging a gavel, and calling, “Settle down now, please. Settle down. I'd like to call the meeting to order.”

“Like thon Yankee fellah said, ‘It ain't over til it's over,'” Bertie whispered as conversation tailed off in the hall. He winked.

“Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen,” Mister Robinson said, “I want to thank you all for coming out tonight in support of our senior and much-respected physician, Doctor O'Reilly, and his charming wife, Sister Kitty O'Reilly.”

There was a round of applause.

“Thank you. Now you may ask why did the committee call this meeting? After all, everyone knows that a petition has been circulating and those who have signed it are showing their support for the plan to bypass the village rather than tear down our belovèd doctor's home. Normally a petition is simply handed in for council's information, and we can only hope they'll take notice and act on it. But we decided we wanted a more tangible show of support for the O'Reillys, and we also continue to need your help.”

“Youse done good, so youse did, I think,” Mister Coffin, the undertaker, called from the floor.

“Thank you, sir, we appreciate that, but I'd ask the audience to keep questions or remarks until later when anyone who wishes to speak will be given the opportunity to do so.”

A subdued murmuring of assent.

“First, I'd like Councillor Alice Moloney to report to you on where the petition stands. Alice?”

Alice Moloney rose. O'Reilly could not recall her looking as well as she did this evening. It had taken her a while to recover from her illness of two years ago, but tonight, in a two-piece suit of palest blue, a ruffled cream blouse, and a matching blue pillbox hat, she looked ten years younger than her fifty-four years. Even in the garish light of the parish hall, he could see more than a glimmer of the girl who had fallen in love in India thirty-five-odd years ago with a subaltern in Skinner's Horse. “Good evening,” she said. “We of the committee want to thank you—you who are here this evening and all those who signed—we thank you from the bottom of our hearts. As of now we have collected one thousand, two hundred and sixty-two signatures. That's sixty-eight percent of our one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-six citizens of voting age, according to the 1961 census.”

There was much applause and cries of “Wheeker,” and “Dead on,” and, “Sticking out a mile.”

O'Reilly glanced at Kitty, who was staring, damp-eyed, at the enthusiastic crowd. She reached out her hand beneath the table and clasped his. He cleared his throat. A distinct lump had formed and he could feel the tears prickling in his eyes.

Mister Robinson—wisely, O'Reilly thought—let the expressions of pleasure continue uninterrupted. They subsided and Alice Moloney said, “We'd love it to be one hundred percent, although that's probably unrealistic, but we still need as many as we can get, so we want every one of you to have a word with your friends and neighbours. Copies for signature will be in my shop, Mister Bishop's building company's office, the Mucky Duck, the tobacconist's, and the newsagent's on the housing estate until the first Monday in March.”

“Mister Chairman,” Donal Donnelly called, “I think it's up til each and every one of us here til firmly grasp the thistle on this one…”

It took a second for O'Reilly to realise he meant “grasp the nettle.”

“… and do what Miss Moloney asks.”

Cries of “Hear, hear” followed, with one particularly loud voice saying, “Ouch, Donal. I don't know which would be worse—a thistle or a nettle. Good thing there's a doctor in the house.”

“Settle down now, settle down,” Mister Robinson said with a broad smile, “and thank you, Donal.”

Alice Moloney waited, then said, “Council have their meeting two Mondays hence, March the sixth, at seven o'clock in the evening, when the petition will be presented and given, we hope, due consideration. So we will keep it open until noon that day. The last decision taken on February the sixth was to postpone recommending the issuance of a compulsory acquisition order until the March meeting. As I said, that's still two weeks away. We do have time to get more signatures. Please all do your very best to get more signatories. Thank you all again.” She sat, to huge applause.