An Irish Country Wedding (15 page)

Kitty asked, “So what can we do?”

“I’m not sure, but I’m glad you told her, Barry. Honesty is always best, and this way it doesn’t look as if we’re trying to hide anything.” O’Reilly grinned and lit his pipe. “When she gets used to the idea that somebody else she can trust will be feeding me—you’ll be gone to Ballymena by then, Barry—I might even be able to persuade her to take some decent holidays.”

“That’ll be the day,” Barry said, but nodded and smiled. O’Reilly was relieved to hear him sounding more cheerful.

It was Kitty’s turn to nod, if a little slowly.

“So you two try not to let it upset you. I’m not quite sure how to go about pouring oil on Kinky’s troubled waters.” He felt his eyebrows meet as he struggled with possible solutions. Finally he said, “For the time being, I think we should be comforting to her when we go to visit, but I think we’re going to need a bit of action too. The Chinese say ‘Talk doesn’t cook rice,’ and they’re right.”

“So what should we do, Fingal?” Kitty asked.

Sometimes, O’Reilly thought, being the font of all wisdom could be draining. “Honestly?” He shook his head. “I haven’t the foggiest notion now, but I’m sure when we get her home, to her home here at Number One, we’ll come up with something,” O’Reilly said, then tipped his chair back on its two rear legs and looked at Barry. “Kitty’s not going home tonight until after suppertime. How’d you like the rest of the day off?”

“I’d not mind a trip back to the Yacht Club,” Barry said. “We start racing next month and there’s still work to do on the boat I’m crewing.”

He could have Kitty to himself with Barry away. “Off you
go then,” O’Reilly said, and rocked, teetering on the brink. Yes, something would come up. Kinky was feeling vulnerable now, but she was a sensible woman. A bit of reassurance and time to heal and the Corkwoman would be back in her rightful place here.

He took another long draw on the pipe and let himself relax. Something white landed on his chest, and he felt his chair going
backward, initially in slow motion but gathering speed. He
whirled his arms like the sails of a demented windmill and roared, “Bloody cat.”

Barry lunged forward. He missed.

O’Reilly clutched for Barry’s hand, but grabbed the tablecloth.

Lady Macbeth, emitting an eldritch howl, leapt to the curtains as O’Reilly’s chair hit the floor. His teeth rattled. Lady Macbeth continued up the curtains to perch on the pelmet and hurl feline vituperation. Her tail looked like a terrified cactus.

Above her spitting and yowling, O’Reilly could hear the clatter
ing of plates. Forgetting Kitty’s presence, he let go a stream of
blasphemy that would have made a sailor blush. He was happy enough to accept Barry’s hand and struggle upright.

“Holy thundering Mother of the Sainted Baby Jasus in velvet trousers,” O’Reilly spluttered. “I’ll marmalise that bloody cat. Jumping up on my chest and knocking me arse over teakettle. I’ll skin her ali
—
”

“You’ll do no such thing, Fingal O’Reilly,” Kitty said. “She was only being affectionate.”

O’Reilly glanced up to where Lady Macbeth sat. Her tail had subsided and the little cat was washing her backside. He took a deep breath. Kitty was right, and it wasn’t an angry owner her ladyship needed. She already had Bertie Bishop after her hide even if she did have an alibi.

“All right,” O’Reilly said. “You’re forgiven, your ladyship.” He dusted himself off. Nothing broken except a plate or two. Nothing wounded but his pride, and sure wouldn’t that recover? “We’ll say no more, and I think it would be pleasant to take our coffee upstairs. You can join us or go on any time you like, Barry.”

“I’ll be off,” said Barry, “unless you want some help clearing up this lot.”

“No need. Away you go.” O’Reilly bent beside Kitty, who had started to pick up bits of broken china. He said, “There’s a tray in the kitchen. I’ll get it.”

“Fingal. These plates are Belleek. Kinky’ll know there are two missing. She’ll never trust me in her kitchen again.” Kitty straightened, holding up a handful of china pieces etched in green and gold shamrocks. “There’s a shop in Belfast that carries discontinued patterns. I’m sure I can find replacements there.”

“You, Kitty O’Hallorhan, are a gem without price.” He straightened, still on his knees.

“She’s practically been all the family you’ve had for years, Fingal. I want to come into it in July as gently as possible.”

He bent and kissed her, an urgent yet tender kiss amid the plates and cutlery, the overturned chair and the sounds of Lady Macbeth purring from the pelmet. “Thank you, Kitty. Thank you for helping me try to put Kinky’s pieces together again.”

16

I Have a Dream

“You’re sure you’d not want to get home now, Helen?” said O’Reilly. “It’s Friday afternoon. You stayed late last Friday. We can chance not having anyone here to answer the phone for a little while.” Helen, who had been washing and ironing all after
noon, was now in her favourite chair by the fire, and Lady
Macbeth was in her usual position, curled up by Helen’s right hip. He noticed she wasn’t reading Dickens. “What have you got there?” he asked.

She held up a magazine.
Popular Science
. “There’s a great article here about Professor Dorothy Crowfoot Hodgkin.”

“Didn’t she get the Nobel for chemistry last year?”

“Aye. Only the third woman to do it. She does this thing called X-ray crystallography and figures out the three-dimensional structure of molecules. It’s very, very interesting stuff, so it is. Them two fellahs Watson and Crick would never have figured out the structure of DNA without it.”

He heard the enthusiasm. And Helen did have Advanced Senior physics and biology. She probably understood the principles of the subject better than him, although he had been fascinated when the news broke that the two scientists and a Doctor Wilkins had unraveled what the press called “the secret of life” back in the early ’50s. They’d got a Nobel in 1962. “I thought your interests were more literary,” he said.

“I love reading, but I like science too.”

“Good for you,” he said, and meant it, “and you really should go home. The word’s out about Kinky and most of the folks’ll understand if there’s no reply.”

“Och, Doctor O’Reilly,” Helen said, “I’m in no rush. My boyfriend,” her lip curled, “the gurrier, took himself off a couple of weeks ago with a wee tramp from Turf Lodge up in Belfast.” She
shrugged. “I’d just be sitting at home helping my da watch TV. I
really don’t mind staying on here. Away you on off to see Donal and Julie, and give them my best.”

“Bless you, Helen. It’s important for the Donnellys. I’ll try not to be too long.”

“Can I ask you a question, sir, before you go, like? Do you have time?”

“Of course.”

“You asked me a while back if I’d like to go to university.” She gripped the fingers of her left hand with her right.

“I did.”

“This last couple of weeks when you and Doctor Laverty have been out I’ve been phoning round, looking for a proper job, like you said I could.”

“And?”

She shook her head. “I never knew you could be too qualified, but when I tell people I’ve my Advanced Senior?” She scowled and shook her head. “They all say I’d cost too much. So I’ve been thinking.”

“Go on.”

“You’ll not laugh?” Her tones were as serious as a priest giving the last rites and he saw the knuckles of her left hand blanch as her right tightened its grasp.

“Of course not.”

“How’d I set about going to Queen’s?”

“Queen’s?” O’Reilly said. “And why the hell not? You have the marks, so you’ll have no trouble getting admitted.”

“I rung up yesterday,” she said. “My subjects are enough all right, I could get in, but,” she sighed, “people like me
—
”

“You mean women?”

“Naah. There’s lots of women at Queen’s. I mean
 
… my da’s a labourer and all.” She looked into his eyes.

“And you think you’re not good enough? Balls.” He’d hated the class system since his student days. “Utter bloody balls. You, Helen Hewitt, are as good as the next man
 
… or woman.”

“Thank you,” she said quietly, “thank you for saying that, but even if I am, it’s going to be dear. I asked my da and he says if I really want to go I can live at home for free, but I’d have to travel to Belfast, buy books, clothes, and there’s the fees. Seventy pounds a year.”

“A lot of money. I know.” He vividly remembered his own student days when he’d had to live on the smell of an oily rag, count his pennies at every turn.

“I hear tell that in America you can get a loan to be a student. You’ve to pay it back after you qualify, but
—
”

O’Reilly frowned. “I don’t know if you can here, but we can find out, or maybe you could work your way through. I have a
friend in Belfast. His boy went to England last summer, to
Grimsby. Worked in a frozen pea factory and made enough in his summer holidays to pay his fees.”

“I’d not mind working,” she scowled, “if I could get a bloody job.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Pardon me, sir. I shouldn’t have said that.”

O’Reilly chuckled. “Never worry. I used to be a sailor. I’ve heard a damn sight worse.”

“A sailor? Like on a big ship?”

“After I left school. I was in the merchant navy for three years and spent another year on a Royal Navy warship.” He grinned. “I needed money to go to university too. Just like you.”

“I never knew.” There was a hint of awe as she spoke.

“It’s not important. What is is finding out about Queen’s for you. There might even be scholarships.”

“Will you help me, sir? Find out, like?”

“Damn right I will, but it’ll take some time, that’s all.”

“Would you, sir?” Her eyes shone. “Honest?”

“Cross my heart.”

“And we’ve lots of time. Applications don’t close until September.”

O’Reilly cocked his head on one side. “You’ve been doing your homework, haven’t you?”

“My da says if you want something bad enough it’s up to you to work hard enough to get it.”

“Your da,” said O’Reilly, “is a wise man.” And this is one very determined young woman. “I will help you as much as I can, and we’ll be keeping you busy here for a while longer while I do. We hope Mrs. Kincaid’s coming home next week, but she’ll still be taking it easy.”

“I’m glad she’s on the mend,” Helen said, “and I can use the money until she gets back to her work.”

O’Reilly grinned. “I’ll start asking as soon as I can. Now, what would you like to study?” She had Advanced level passes in sciences, so what would suit a young woman with that background? Botany? Zoology?

Helen blushed, glanced down at the floor, then, straightening her shoulders, looked O’Reilly straight in the eye. Her voice was barely above a whisper. “I
 
… I’d like to be a
 
… I’d like to be a doctor.” The last words came in a rush. “I’ve been watching you and Doctor Laverty and
—
”

“By God’s Holy trousers,” O’Reilly roared, and slapped his
thigh. “A doctor? Sweet Jasus. I don’t believe it. You, Helen
Hewitt, really take the biscuit. I’ve not heard anything so bloody marvellous in years.”

She blushed. “Someone’s got to find out what cures cancer. If that Professor Hodgkin can do research, maybe I could too. For my ma, like.”

Oh, Helen, Helen, he thought, it’s far too early for you to be thinking about that kind of thing. Let’s get you into medical school first. After six years and your houseman’s year you’ll be like Barry, trying to decide what you want for a career. One step at a time. He hugged her, held her at arms’ length, and said, “You have the Advanced entrance requirements, you told me you’d got Junior Latin too, so there’s not a reason on God’s green earth why you shouldn’t go to medical school as long as we can raise the money.”

“Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, darted forward, pecked his cheek, and stepped back. “Thank you.” Her smile was vast and from the corner of each green eye a single silver tear slipped. “Thank you very much.”

O’Reilly took a deep breath before saying, “I’ll do everything I can. That’s a promise.” He’d not tell her now, but almost certainly Cromie or Charlie Greer would know about scholarships or funds to help students from working backgrounds. When he met with the lads to discuss the reunion he’d find out. “I’ll be back as quick as I can.”

*   *   *

O’Reilly, still marvelling at Helen’s determination, let himself into the backyard to be greeted by a joyous Arthur. “Come on, lummox,” he said, looking up at the hospital-blanket-grey May sky and turning his collar against the steady drizzle.

He drove to Donal and Julie’s rented cottage along the Shore Road. Oily rollers marched across a leaden lough. It had been a busy week, but he’d managed to run up to the Royal on Wednesday afternoon to see Kinky, whose daily progress reports from Jack had been, and continued to be, of steady physical improvement. She’d certainly looked much better, was eating solid food, and had only five more days of antibiotics to take. He hoped she would get home next week. Perhaps once she was home, he’d think of something to let her see how much she was needed.

He parked outside the Donnellys, told Arthur to stay, and headed up along the gravel path. He noticed that there were no weeds, which, given Ireland’s climate, was remarkable. Someone had done the weeding. Donal and Julie were two house-proud people, considering they’d only been living here since they’d been married last Christmas and now were hoping to move out very soon into their own home. Lots of folks, he knew, would have let the path go for the landlord to sort out.

“Doctor O’Reilly.” Julie smiled and said, “Come in. We’re both ready.” She was wearing a pac-a-mac, a plastic see-through raincoat. It could not hide her belly, neatly rounded with a—he had to think—a twenty-eight-week pregnancy. He followed her into the
hall. Donal’s bicycle of many colours, which he’d painted from the
leftovers in half a dozen paint pots, stood propped against the staircase. A sleek greyhound pushed a questioning muzzle against O’Reilly’s hand. “How are you, Bluebird?” O’Reilly stroked the dog’s head and wondered when Donal would implement the plan to race her again. He’d mentioned it when he was in the Royal.