An Irish Country Wedding (35 page)

“We’ll try both,” Kitty said, “and I’ll take us to Isabeal’s for lunch. And you’ll not need to take the train up. I’ll be staying here until Monday so we’ll go up to town together after we’ve been to see Alice Moloney. I’m going to live here soon so I’d better get in the habit of doing my shopping in the village and I know Alice keeps some lovely things.”

Masterful, Fingal thought, and more so because of Kitty’s obvious sincerity. Well done, Kitty, my love. Now let’s see what Kinky says.

Kinky’s words were measured, chosen it seemed with great care. “That is a very thoughtful thing to do, bye. Miss Alice will be pleased.” Kinky cocked her head to one side. “I do believe, Miss Kitty,” she said, “that you are going to fit into Ballybucklebo very well. Very well indeed, so.”

37

Whose Dog Are You?

“Morning, Connie,” Barry said as she joined him in a short queue in front of the newsagent’s counter where Phyllis Cadogan was serving. “How’s Colin?” Barry was on his way to a nearby home to see a little girl with what, over the telephone, had sounded like German measles. June was late for these kinds of infections, which
were usually seen in the spring. It wasn’t an urgent case, and
Barry, while he was en route, was picking up a tin of Erinmore flake for O’Reilly, who was taking this morning’s surgery.

“Och,” she said, “his body’s rightly mended, but his wee heart’s broke, so it is.” She switched her wicker shopping basket to her other arm. “He’s done nothing but mope since Butch went away last week, you know. Mind you, he’s powerful grateful to youse,
sir. Colin and me both know that if Mister Bishop had got ahold of
the wee craythur
—
” She drew a finger rapidly across her throat then pointed in her basket to show Barry a comic book with a garish-looking six-armed alien pointing a ray gun at an Earthman wearing a space suit complete with goldfish-bowl helmet. “Colin’s been daft about science fiction, so he has, ever since he seen
Doctor Who
on the telly.”

“I’ll bet he was excited a couple of weeks ago when that American astronaut walked in space.”

“That was dead amazing, so it was. You’d not get me out there in a space suit. Next thing you know them Yankees or maybe the Russians’ll be putting a man on the moon. Unless
—
” She giggled. “
—
it really is green cheese. Anyroad, I thought a couple of these here comics might cheer Colin up when he gets home from school. He says when he grows up he wants to be an astronaut.” She grinned at Barry. “I told him if he did he’d better be very good at his sums and do his homework.”

“Good for you,” Barry said. “I hated maths at school, but I wanted to be a doctor, so I stuck with it.”

“’Bout ye, Doc.” Barry recognised Billy Brennan, a chronically unemployed labourer, who clutched a packet of ten Woodbine cigarettes. “Morning, Billy.”

The queue inched forward.

The next man, having paid, moved aside. “Morning, Doc.”

“Morning, Malcolm,” Barry said to Constable Malcolm Mulligan, who was not in uniform so must have the day off.

“I’m glad I’m not working there, so I am.” He showed Barry the
front page of
The Daily Mirror
for Monday, June 21—a picture of a
huge plume of black smoke and a banner headline screaming
RIOTING IN ALGERIA
. “Aren’t we brave and lucky to live here?”

“We are that,” Barry said. “Enjoy your day off.”

As he spoke, Cissie Sloan left the counter with this morning’s
Belfast Newletter
and a copy of the most recent
Woman’s Own
under her arm. “Morning, Doctor.”

“Morning, Cissie.” Barry could see Cissie taking a deep breath, ready to launch into some conversational gambit, but fortunately Constable Mulligan was still speaking, so Barry paid him attention and she left.

“I will, so I will,” said the constable. “I’m getting well rested for Doctor O’Reilly’s wedding, so I am. I think, by the number of folks that’ve told me they’ll be going to the party after the church, I’ll need to have a wee word with my sergeant about getting more officers for crowd control, you know.” He laughed. “There’ll likely be a bigger mob than you’d get for a Glentoran, Linfield match at Windsor Park.”

“Oh, I think you can handle us on your own,” said Barry with a
wide grin. He was still smiling after the constable had left and Phyllis said from behind the now-free counter, “Morning, Doctor.”

“Morning, Phyllis.” He put the tin of tobacco on the counter. “And two ounces of jelly babies, please.” It was a trick he’d learned from O’Reilly, having a bag of sweeties in his pocket. They often made paediatric consultations much easier, and little Joyce Cunningham might enjoy a jelly baby despite her German measles.

Phyllis took down a large glass bottle from among a shelf of similar bottles, each containing unwrapped sweets—brandy balls, butterscotch, dolly mixtures, and liquorice allsorts. She used an aluminium scoop to ladle jelly babies onto a scale before decanting them into a paper bag and crimping its top. “That’ll be two and nine altogether,” she said.

Barry counted out the coins, a half crown and a thruppenny bit. “Thanks, Phyllis.”

“Brave day, the day,” she said. “I hope it’ll be as lovely a day for the wedding. Miss O’Hallorhan popped in this morning with Kinky. They were on their way to see Miss Moloney, and then on up to Belfast. Miss O’Hallorhan wanted a magazine for Kinky to read on the train on her way home. She’s very polite, that Dublin lady, so she is. I think we’re going to enjoy having her living here. Mind you,” she lowered her voice, “we’ll have to get used to her
southern
accent.”

“Don’t you be so pass-remarkable, Phyllis Cadogan,” Connie said over Barry’s shoulder. “She’s going to make a lovely Missus O’Reilly, so she is.”

“Don’t I know that, Connie?” Phyllis said. “And there’s no harm in noticing her manner of speaking.”

Barry, not wanting to linger and quite happy to leave the ladies to their debate, said, “I’d better be running along.”

“And I hear you’ll be running further soon,” Phyllis said. “A wee birdie told me you’re going to be leaving us?”

Barry had learnt months ago that going to any shop here was as much a social outing as a buying trip, and a glance at Connie assured him she wasn’t in a hurry. “That’s right, I’m going to Ballymena to take more training.”

“Och, well,” Phyllis said, “maybe you’ll come back to us when you’ve finished?”

“I might,” Barry said.

“I think you should. If you don’t, that nice Miss Nolan’s going to miss you.” Phyllis winked at Barry.

“Well
 
… I
 
… that is
—
” Barry blushed. He’d not heard from Sue since last Tuesday.

“Run you on, Doctor dear,” Phyllis said, “sure I’m only pulling your leg.” She turned to Connie. “More of those comics? You’ll have wee Colin’s head turned. He’ll be seeing Martians dancing round our Maypole next, so he will.”

“Och,” said Connie good-naturedly, “if he does, he’ll likely think they’re leprechauns. Martians are green, you know.”

Barry heard the two women laughing and the little bell on the door tinkling overhead as he left the shop. He had only gone a few paces when he bumped into Maggie and Sonny Houston.

Sonny lifted his homburg.

“Good morning, Doctor Laverty, dear,” Maggie said, and smiled.

Maggie had her false teeth in and was wearing her usual long skirt and boots. Her flower of the day in the band of her straw boater was a red geranium.

“Morning,” he said. “Good to see you both.”

“And you, Doctor,” Sonny said. “And how is that nice Miss Nolan? I’ve some very interesting news for her.”

Barry shrugged. “I’ve not seen her for a few days. She’s very busy with some work she’s doing for civil rights.”

“Would that be that new group, the Campaign for Democracy in Ulster?” Sonny asked.

Barry shook his head. “No, it’s the Campaign for Social Justice.” And they’re more important than having dinner with me, he thought, trying not to feel bitter.

“I wish them all well,” Sonny said. “I do hope that both groups can succeed here in the north. I’ve been getting much more optimistic about the overall future for the two Irelands ever since Sean Lemass, the Taioseach, came up from Dublin and had lunch with our Ulster prime minister, Terence O’Neill, back in January.”

Maggie tugged at Sonny’s sleeve and said, “Sonny Houston. I’m sure Doctor Laverty is on important business. He’s not got all day to stand here, both legs the same length, colloguing about politics. And we’ve a clatter of beef heart to buy at Campbell’s butcher’s and then we’ve to take a run-race down to Bangor to the pet shop.”

Sonny smiled at his wife. “We do indeed.” He turned to Barry. “You’ll remember our Missy, who was expecting a litter of puppies when you and Miss Nolan visited at the end of May?”

Barry did recall the rotund little dog. “I do.”

“She dropped her litter the same day you and Miss Nolan came round,” said Maggie. “Four lovely wee puppies. They’re wee dotes, so they are. We started weaning them a couple of weeks back.”

“Five adult dogs and four pups eat a lot,” Sonny said. “Tom Campbell gets us beef hearts for next to nothing and we get puppy feed in Bangor.”

Barry glanced back through the door of the newsagent’s. He could see Connie and Phyllis still in deep conversation. “Have you found homes for the pups yet?” he asked.

Sonny frowned. “Not yet, but they won’t be ready to leave their mother for another week and a half.”

“Can you wait for just one minute?”

“Aye, certainly,” Maggie said. “If you can, sir.”

“Back in a tick.” Barry headed for the newsagent’s and had just reached for the door when it opened. “Connie,” he said. “I’m glad you’re still here. It might be a daft notion, but would you like a puppy for Colin?”

She frowned. “I never thought of that. Boys-a-dear, I know he’d love one, so he would.”

“You know Sonny and Maggie Houston.”

“Och, sure, Doctor, everybody does.” She waved at them.

“Their bitch has just whelped. Come and say hello.” Together they walked the few paces.

Sonny tipped his hat. “Good morning, Mrs. Brown.”

Maggie grinned.

“I’ve been telling Connie about your pups.”

“My wee boy, Colin,” Connie said, “he just lost his
—
” Connie glanced at Barry long enough for him to give a small warning shake of his head. The fewer people who knew about Colin’s ferret the better, he thought. “Och, it’s a long story,” she said, “but I know he’d love a puppy.”

“And we’d be quare nor happy for to give him one
 
… or two. Their ma’s just a wee dog, so she is,” Maggie said.

“I’d surely like one,” Connie said, “but I’d have to ask his daddy, you know. Lenny’d have to make a kennel, and a pup would have to be looked after proper. Colin’s going on ten, but he’d need our help, and Lenny’s dead busy just now, you know.”

Barry glanced at his watch. German measles wasn’t a life-
threatening emergency, but it was time he was getting on. “Can I
leave the three of you to sort out the details?” he said.

“Of course,” Sonny said, “and Doctor Laverty, when you and Miss Nolan are free, please bring her round. I got my cross bearings yesterday and I’m close to being certain I know where to find a Neolithic structure not far from here.”

38

The Wreck of the Hesperus

“Staaaarboaaaard!” The helmsman of the little red-hulled racing dinghy shouted across the choppy waters of Ballyholme Bay.

Barry turned and yelled from where he’d been sitting on
Glendun
’s deck, peering past the bows. “In case you didn’t hear, skip
per, he’s letting us know he has the right of way.”
Glendun
’s
skipper, John Neill, was going to have to give the smaller boat sea room and
Barry, Barbara Orr, and her husband, Ted, and the rest of the
crew would have to be ready to change course. The “rule of the road” was absolute if collisions were to be avoided.

As John changed
Glendun
’s direction, Barry felt the heeling lessen, heard the sails flap as they spilled wind and the boat slowed. Now the sail no longer shaded him from the sun and he had to squint to see in the glare.

A gorse-scented breeze was coming across from Ballymacormick Point and according to the wind gauge was blowing at ten knots, gusting to fifteen. The short choppy waves were limned with white. Barry felt the sting of spray on his cheek and could taste the salt.

The whole of Ballyholme Bay was alive with yachts of various shapes and sizes, multicoloured sails jockeying for position, try
ing to be first across the start line when a miniature cannon
signaled the start of each class’s race. Thursday, June 24, was a racing night.

Spray flying from her bows, waves slapping against her, the little red-hulled dinghy’s course never varied, tearing toward
Glendun
. Barry could see the class symbol, a bell, and her number on the mainsail. The little boat’s helmsman and crew both lay backward, their feet in inboard straps, bodies out over the side of the boat as they used their weight to counter the force of the wind. The small craft heeled alarmingly. Barry remembered with fondness his own dinghy,
Tarka
, which he’d sold shortly before he qualified in order to raise the money to buy his secondhand Volkswagen. He grinned. He’d tipped
Tarka
over more than once, but capsizing was part of the dinghy sailor’s lot. And serious racing sailors had no time for the encumbrance of bulky, kapok-stuffed life jackets. You had to be a good swimmer or trust in nearby boats.

“Fair winds, Dennis,” John bellowed. It was then that Barry recognised Dennis Harper’s
Wave Dancer
. With spray flying in iridescent sheets from her stern,
Wave Dancer
sped past the bigger yacht’s bows and Barry caught a glimpse of Sue Nolan. Locks of
her hair had escaped from under a toque and were streaming aft,
telltale indicators of the wind’s direction. He swallowed. All through this past winter and spring she’d been taking a learn-to-sail course with Dennis, a lawyer and a friend of her older brother. Now she was crewing on
Wave Dancer
. Barry wondered, a little bitterly, if Dennis had taught Sue about banjo bolts recently. Then he remembered O’Reilly trying not to laugh when he’d been told
about Sue’s remark. Barry had laughed—then, but somehow
couldn’t bring himself to smile now.