An Irish Country Wedding (19 page)

He inhaled that soft attar she wore and tingled when she kissed him.

“We had such a marvellous dinner at the Crawfordsburn,” she said. “I certainly had fun.” She kissed him again. “And I found out when you said goodnight, that for such a shy boy, you’re not a half-bad kisser.”

Barry blushed and wondered if he’d ever be able to be relaxed around any girl until he’d got to know her properly, but he hugged
Sue and returned the kiss, tongue on tongue. He trembled and when they parted his breath came in short gasps. “Can I
 
…
um
 
… can I show you around the place?” he said.

She laughed. “I think you’d better.” Her colour was high and her eyes bright. Sue Nolan was no demure schoolmarm, but this was O’Reilly’s home, and certain social conventions should be maintained. Still, Barry knew that much more of her nearness and her kisses and— He imagined a fragment of a song, “
—
as I lifted her petticoat easy and slow.”

Sue was wearing snugly fitting black Capri trousers.

“Penny for them?” she said.

“What? I’m sorry. You know the way, for no good reason, a tune pops into your head?” He didn’t want to tell her exactly what the tune was and the images it had brought forth.

“And won’t go away?”

And in his mind he heard,

Girls … are well made for holding, and most of them are

But any young fellah is only a fool

If he tries at the first time to go a bit far.

And Barry knew it was going to be difficult not to try to with this sexy young woman. He swallowed and said, “Our prof of ENT said it’s called an earworm.”

“I never knew it had a name, but I read a short story once called
Rum-Titty-Titty-Rum-TAH-Tee
where someone wrote music so powerful it took over the whole world until somebody else developed a counter rhythm.”

“Easy and Slow” was the old Irish tune, and described exactly in three words how he knew he had to behave. After all it was their second date, and ten in the morning, but, Lord, not only was Sue Nolan easy on the eye, she was lovely to hold and to kiss. He inhaled, pointed, and said, “Right, then, there’s the phone.”

“And I know what to do if anyone calls. You explained last night.”

“Great.” He opened the door. “And this is the dining room.” He crossed the floor. “And this
—
” He shooed the cat from where she was perched on the sideboard tucking into the remains of a kipper Barry hadn’t had time to clear away. “
—
this, in the absence of our housekeeper, Mrs. Kinky Kincaid, who really runs the place, is the other mistress of the domain, Lady Macbeth.”

“Purryeow,” said her ladyship. The “yeow” was accentuated as she landed on the carpet, arched her back, stuck her tail straight up, and wove around Sue’s legs. She bent and stroked the cat. “Pretty wee thing,” she said, and straightened.

The animal left white hairs on her black pants.

“I,” Sue said, “am a human magnet for hairs.” She laughed.

Barry piled the dirty breakfast plates on a tray. “I’ll take these to the kitchen. Follow me. Surgery’s in there,” he said as they headed down the hall. “And that’s the waiting room,” he added, rebalancing the tray while she peered in.

“Good Lord, who on earth chose the wallpaper? I’ve never seen roses like that in my life.”

Barry chuckled. “It was here before my time. I saw it first when I came for the job interview. I couldn’t believe anyone could pick such a dreadful pattern. That, of course, was before I got to know O’Reilly. ‘Orthodox’ and ‘Doctor O’Reilly’ don’t always fit in the same sentence.”

“But you do like the man?”

“Very much. He’s hard not to like,” Barry said seriously, “unless you’ve crossed him.”

“I’ll try not to,” Sue said, and chuckled. She followed him into the kitchen. He put the dishes in the sink and then, reaching for her hand, said, “Come on, let’s go upstairs.”

“Doctor Laverty,” Sue said. “I’ve my reputation to think of.”

“Huh?” Barry frowned, then it dawned on him exactly what he’d implied. Who’d said that a double entendre only ever had one meaning? He knew he’d turned beetroot red. His hand, as it always did when he was embarrassed, flew to his tuft and smoothed it down. “I didn’t mean to go to
 
… that is I
—
” First law of holes again, he thought. Don’t say “bed,” idiot.

Sue Nolan was now heaving with what must be suppressed mirth. “Oh, my,” she said, and then laughed out loud. “I am sorry, Barry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you. Honestly.”

Barry could feel his colour fading. “And I didn’t mean what it sounded like. That I was suggesting, well, that I was trying to
—
”

Sue was still smiling at him.

“Oh, hell,” he said, laughing at himself now. “The lounge is upstairs. It’s where we’re going to be for most of today until Doctor O’Reilly gets back home.”

“Well, let’s get up there,” she said. “Which way?”

Barry led her up the stairs. She hesitated in front of a photo on the landing. “Is that
Warspite
?”

“How did you know?”

“My dad was a junior gunnery officer on her in 1940, then he went to destroyers.”

“I don’t believe it,” Barry said. “Doctor O’Reilly was one of her medicos during the war and my father served on her in 1939, before we were born.” He opened the door and said, “The lounge. Make yourself at home.”

“My dad’s pretty sure he knows yours,” Sue said. “He and your mum are in Australia, aren’t they?”

“They are. He’s on sabbatical in Melbourne. He’s a mining engineer.”

She dropped into the armchair nearest the unlit fire and set her attaché case on the floor. “I told my folks about you after you took
me to the Inn. Dad reckoned there could only be one Doctor
Barry
Laverty of your age from Bangor. My dad had a letter from his
friend Tom when his son graduated from medical school in 1963. And that had to have been you.”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” But actually it wasn’t. Ulster was small and within half an hour of their meeting any two native strangers could usually find they knew many people in common. “Before I park myself,” he said, “can I get you anything? Tea? Coffee?”

“No, thanks, Barry. This is fine.”

He was halfway into the chair when the phone rang. “Bugger,” Barry muttered, well aware that the longer he stayed working here the more he grew like his mentor. “I’d better see who it is.”

21

Not Ecstasy but It Was Comfort

“Doctor O’Reilly,” Kinky said with a smile when he arrived at her bedside, “it’s very decent of you coming to see me. And on a Saturday too.” Her oxygen spectacles and the IV line had been removed. Wearing a pink crochetted bed jacket over her nightie, she sat propped up on her pillows reading a copy of last night’s
Belfast Telegraph
.

O’Reilly noticed the headline,
Chinese Detonate Second Atom Bomb
. The world was going to hell in a bucket, but there was bugger all an Ulster country GP could do about it. He could, however, help his friends, friends like Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid. “How are you today?” he asked.

“I’m a deal more at myself, so, and I’ll be shot of those needles tomorrow,” she said. “And thank the Lord because they sting sore even if they are doing me good. Penicillin’s not too bad, but that streptomycin.” She grimaced. “At least they are feeding me more than gruel now, but to tell you the truth, sir, and I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” she lowered her voice, “when I was a girl on the home farm in Beal na mBláth our pigs were fed better, so.”

O’Reilly chuckled. “I know.” He handed her a bottle of Lucozade. “Here you are. Tonic drink for those recovering.” He was willing to bet there wasn’t a bedside locker in any hospital in the British Isles that didn’t have a bottle of Lucozade on it, such was the faith of the populace in the drink’s restorative powers. He also gave her a parcel wrapped in greaseproof paper. “Sister says you can have these.” Today the senior nurse on duty was a woman
O’Reilly hadn’t met before. A narrow person—narrow-nosed,
narrow-lipped, probably narrow-minded—she’d been as starched as her apron, and when he’d asked if Kinky could have a food parcel had refused to allow any such breach of rules. “She can have the Lucozade, that’s permitted, but food from the outside on my ward? Nonsense. Take it away. Now. At once.”

Despite a chill feeling in his nose tip, a sure sign of its blanching, O’Reilly had reminded himself that “a soft answer turneth away wrath,” and had explained how Miss Florence Elliott, the matron of the hospital, was his personal friend of long standing. And if the sister subsequently discovered that it was quite untrue, that he didn’t know the most senior nurse in the hospital, would it matter? Not at all, but by invoking her name and explaining how upset she would be if she thought a sister had interfered with the care of one of his patients, he’d been able to overcome the resistance and get the grub to Kinky. The poker table wasn’t the only place where bluffing was a winning tactic.

As Kinky unwrapped the paper he noticed that her cheeks were pale, but her eyes were bright, and her hair was up in its usual chignon. O’Reilly’s first law of medicine was,
Never let the pa
tients get the upper hand
. His second law was,
When patients
who’d been seriously ill start taking trouble about their appearance they’re on the mend
. He was delighted. “I like your jacket,” he said.

She stopped unwrapping and glanced at it. “It was a present from Flo Bishop. She’s a mighty crochetter. Now,” she said, “that’s a thing I cannot do. I’m a dab hand with the knitting needles, and I can tat, but I’ve two left thumbs with a crochet hook.”

O’Reilly nodded. “We can’t be experts at everything, Kinky. That gansey you knitted for me years ago still keeps me warm when Arthur and I go wildfowling.” Her smile pleased him.

Kinky finished unwrapping. She sat rigidly. “And who made these sandwiches?” she asked. “Miss O’Hallorhan in my kitchen, I suppose?” She started to hand them back.

Uh-oh. “Not at all, Kinky.” He pushed them to her. “Kitty
hasn’t been near Number One since last weekend and she’s down in Tallaght in Dublin today visiting her mother. Alice Moloney gave us another ham and Mary Dunleavy from the Duck brought slices of a roast of beef she’d cooked. Barry made the sandwiches for you.” O’Reilly winked. “He said they’d be all the better because he’d put on some of your homemade mustard.”

“That’s all right, then,” she said, patting her chignon. “Please thank Alice, and Mary, and Doctor Laverty.”

“I will.” It was O’Reilly’s turn to lower his voice. “You know, Barry lived in this hospital when he was training, and the students’ mess was supplied by the same kitchen that’s feeding you. I’ve worked with the lad for ten months and we’ve been through some dire emergencies together, but the only time I’ve ever seen him shudder was when he mentioned the hospital’s Cornish pasties and mashed turnip. He said he’d bet you were famished and would appreciate a change.”

“That was very thoughtful.” She set the package on the narrow Formica-topped table on casters that spanned the bed. “And how are you both managing, sir?”

“We’re getting by, but we miss your cooking.” He laughed. “By now I think we’ve sampled the cuisine of everyone in the village. They’ve all been kind, but there’s not the one of them can hold a candle to Kinky Kincaid in the kitchen.”

Kinky smiled. “Get on with you, Doctor O’Reilly, sir. You’re an old soft-soaper, so.”

“Flattery’s nothing to do with it,” he said, “and we need you back. You hurry up and get better.” He touched her hand. “I miss you, Barry does, and I’ve a special job for you.”

She cocked her head. “Special job?”

“You know how busy the practice is. And Kitty’s working long hours here at the hospital
 
… and will up to and then after we’re married.” He stole a glance to see if that news had had any effect, but Kinky’s expression was deadpan. “Someone’s going to have to be in charge of arranging the wedding.”

Kinky narrowed her eyes.

“Will you take that job on, Kinky, once you’re better and back home?”

She pursed her lips.

“I know it would be a big load on top of cooking
—
”

“I’ll manage,” she said quickly, and a small smile played on her lips.

“And you’ll have to put up with Helen Hewitt underfoot. I’m keeping her on to answer the phone and do a bit of dusting.”

The smile fled.

“Now, Kinky, I’ve told you Helen lost her job.” He decided not to tell Kinky about Helen’s aspirations yet, and ploughed on. “Two pounds a week for her won’t bankrupt me, but it means an awful lot to her, until she gets settled. And once the wedding’s over and you have more time to take up all your old jobs, we’ll not need her, and by then you’ll be completely your old self.” He chuckled, then said, “And Mrs. O’Reilly’s going to be far too busy nursing here to help you with your work.”

“There does be truth in what you say, sir, and keeping Helen on is a Christian charity, so.”

“Nothing of the kind. She earns her keep.” While O’Reilly enjoyed performing acts of kindness he preferred for them to go unremarked upon by other people, but, he smiled, Kinky could see through him every time.

“When I was a girl I helped with my sister Sinead’s wedding, aye, and Fidelma’s. I’d enjoy the planning of yours. I would, so. Menus, and flowers, and seating, and the like, but I think you and Miss O’Hallorhan should pick the hymns, so.”

He’d sown the seeds, now he wanted to let them germinate without more discussion. “It’s a great relief to hear that you will.” O’Reilly lifted the chart from the end of her bed. “Let’s see how you’re doing.” The inky lines crawling across graph paper showed him that her temperature, pulse, and respiratory rate were all normal and had been for two days. “I think, Kinky,” O’Reilly said with a grin, “we’re going to have to shoot you.” This was a very different woman from the seriously ill patient who had been admitted twelve days ago. “You’ve made remarkable progress. I’m delighted.”