An Irish Country Love Story (36 page)

“He would have been heartbroken to miss that,” Mrs. Nolan said.

“And,” said Sue, “I'll be home from France for good soon. I can help out here in the Easter holidays, get down from Holywood for a few weekends during the summer term…”—her look told Barry that they would be the ones when he was on call—“and I'll be able to help with the wedding preparations when I'm on my summer holidays.”

Mrs. Nolan smiled. “The pair of you have thought this through pretty well. Thank you, byes.” She sipped her tea. “I'll call Reverend Wallace this evening. Explain about the change in plans. I'm sure he'll understand. Thank goodness the invitations havnae gone out yet, hey.” She drank more tea and said, “It does make a lot of sense. Coping with your dad's illness will be quite enough for us for a while.”

“But we'll all be fine, Mum. You'll see,” Sue said. “And we'll keep the farm going too.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, Barry, what size shoe do you take?”

Barry frowned. What on earth had that to do with the price of corn? “Eight,” he said.

“That's lucky. My brother takes eight and a half. They'll fit you. It'll soon be time to get the cows for their afternoon milking,” she said, “and I don't think you'd want to go tramping through any sheugh in your good shoes.”

As Barry put on the loaned Wellies, he again had the same feeling he'd had at the river with Sue. That what he was doing was the most natural thing in the world.

 

30

I Ofen Looked Up at the Sky an' Assed Meself the Question

Kitty looked east round the long crescent of golden sand lapped by the waters of Belfast Lough. Helen's Bay Beach was deserted, even on this sunny Saturday, and they'd had the place to themselves while Arthur had a good long swim in the chill waters. Fingal took Kitty's hand and they began to stroll back to the Rover.

“Hall Campbell brought us past here when we went mackerel fishing last year. Remember I showed you the old fort at Grey's Point with its six-inch guns? The battery's just behind where we're standing.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “The first little peninsula that way is Wilson's Point and away farther round is Ballymacormick. Bangor and Ballyholme lie between those two. I should have named them when we were walking toward them.”

“Fingal, sometimes people don't always feel like blethering. I understand.”

They hadn't spoken much as they'd strolled, hand in hand, along the quiet stretch of damp sand, Arthur running ahead and splashing into the lough, idly chasing the dunlin and ringed plovers that danced along the shoreline.

Now almost to the car, she turned to him. “Who was Helen?”

“Helen?”

“You're a million miles away, aren't you, love. Helen. Of Helen's Bay.” She was studying him intently. She probably suspected he was worried about not hearing from the marquis about the lease, and although he was grateful for her concern, it irritated him that he was letting it show.

“The wife of one of the marquis's progenitors. He wanted a village built here as a seaside resort back in the mid-1800s when sea bathing was becoming popular and the railway opened between Belfast and Bangor. Her son built a tower on the estate in her honour too. There's a replica of it at Thiepval in France as a memorial to the Ulstermen who fell at the Somme in 1916.”

“And speaking of the marquis,” said Kitty gently, “you're worried, aren't you, that we haven't heard from him since the council meeting?”

“I am. Bloody marquis,” O'Reilly mumbled. “I know we're close friends, but John MacNeill is not in my good books at the moment. It's three weeks since the lorry went through the dining room wall, five days since council made a decision in principle to expropriate our home. With a stay of execution while Mister Robinson and the marquis look for the original lease, I know, but that month will go by quickly.”

He held open the Rover's door for her. “Hop in.”

“And you, you great lummox,” O'Reilly said as he grabbed a towel from the backseat and began towelling the big dog dry. “You should know better than to be chasing those shore birds. This is a protected area. What would your uncle Lars think?”

Arthur's eyebrows peaked as if to say, “Ah, come on, boss, it was only a bit of
craic
.”

O'Reilly knew he sounded tetchy, he'd been growly all morning, but he was worried and had been getting progressively more so the last few days. He held the back door open and a sandy Arthur Guinness climbed in. O'Reilly shut the door.

He put the car in reverse and, staring over his shoulder, guided it along to where an open gate allowed him to back into a field. O'Reilly drove out through the gate and turned left, heading for the main road. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered under his breath, barely recognising he'd spoken. He turned right onto the main road where the traffic was much lighter than on a working day. “I've been cross as two sticks all morning. I'm sorry, Kitty.” He changed down and pulled out to pass a lorry, then tucked back into his own side of the road.

“And you didn't sleep well last night. I heard you get up twice.” She patted his arm. “It's not like the marquis to be inconsiderate. He knows how much this means to you—to us. Look out, Fingal. A cyclis—”

“I missed him,” O'Reilly said. “I always do.” In the rearview mirror he saw a man in a thick brown wool sweater and duncher wobble then straighten up. “No harm done. Keeps them on their toes.” He sighed. “I spoke to the reverend yesterday. He's not had any luck so far, but he's going back up to Church House on Fisherwick Place in Belfast next week to hunt about some more.”

“He's doing his best for us,” Kitty said. “Gives us something to hope for.”

O'Reilly liked the way she said “us.” “At least I know what's going on with the minister's enquiries, but John MacNeill hasn't phoned, and he promised he would, no matter what the news, good or bad.”

“And the uncertainty's killing you?”

“It is. And I of all people should bloody well know better. It's the same for every patient, every patient's loved ones. The not knowing before a diagnosis is made and a plan of treatment outlined drives most people up the walls.” He glanced to his left, saw they were passing the ornate wrought-iron gates of Ballybucklebo House, and instinctively slowed down. “I've seen it happen for thirty-five years and now I'm letting the same get to me.”

“My guess is that there's no news,” Kitty said, “and John knows how important this is and doesn't want to disappoint you. He's just like my father. Hates disappointing people. Why do you think the marquis sits on so many committees?” She laughed. “He's probably got Thompson and Myrna and old Mister O'Hally digging through dusty old boxes right now and only wants to give you good news.”

O'Reilly sighed. “You're probably right. What should I do? Just bide? Do a Mister Micawber and hope something turns up?”

“Welllll … You could.”

“Mmmmh.” His grunt was not one of acquiescence. “Why not take the bull by the horns?” he said. “I've been picking up the phone for the past couple of days, then putting it down. I don't want him to think—” O'Reilly shook his head.

“You don't want him to think you can't cope with not knowing and you don't want to offend him by making a move that he promised to make and hasn't.”

“That's right.” He signalled for the next left turn and then with a squealing of tyres made a tight U-turn on the deserted side road. “No time like the present.”

Kitty clutched the edge of the seat and said nothing.

Returning to the main road, he floored the accelerator, barely paused before making a right turn across the Belfast-bound traffic, and in moments was heading up the long curved gravel drive to Ballybucklebo House, past the lopsided topiary. He braked outside the great front door.

“Well, you seem to have made a decision.”

“I have. I see no reason not to drop by. John MacNeill is still one of my patients, and he has hypertension. Come on in with me. I need some moral support.”

They mounted the short flight of broad steps. “And if you keep driving like that he won't be the only one with high blood pressure,” Kitty said. But she was smiling. “As Cissie Sloan would have said, ‘I near took the rickets.' You must learn to slow down.”

“Sorry,” O'Reilly said, trying to sound contrite as he shoved on the brass bell-push, “but I was in a hurry.”

“Dear old bear,” Kitty shook her head, “whenever are you not?”

The front door opened. Thompson, his lordship's valet/butler, stood, firmly at attention, a silver tray tucked under his left arm.

O'Reilly half expected the old chief petty officer to salute. The man always used O'Reilly's naval rank.

“Surgeon Commander and Mrs. O'Reilly. How may I be of service? And please come in.”

O'Reilly, holding his ground, said, “Thank you, Thompson, but no. Is his lordship at home?”

“I regret that no, sir, the marquis and Lady Myrna are out at the moment.”

“Oh. I see.” O'Reilly now regretted his impetuousness. Face-to-face with John MacNeill he was sure he could have passed this off as a routine drop-in. The pressure didn't really need remeasuring for another two months, but it would have been easy enough to laugh, remark that he must have got the dates wrong, take the readings, and work the question about the lease into the conversation. Now he felt awkward and off-balance.

“Will there be a message or would the surgeon commander prefer to leave his visiting card?” The silver tray was proffered.

O'Reilly shook his head. “Left my cards at home, Thompson. Off duty today. Actually I'd prefer it if his lordship didn't know I'd called.” Standing on the man's doorstep, he suddenly appreciated that not only did he not want the marquis to know how agitated he was, he didn't want John MacNeill feeling under pressure to find that damn lease.

Thompson frowned. Swallowed. Then took a deep breath, obviously steeling himself to face the unexpected situation. O'Reilly took in the man's usually neat appearance and noticed a small smudge of dirt on his forehead and the faintest tracery of a cobweb on the shoulder of his black coat. “It is a somewhat unusual request, sir. I am expected to notify his lordship of all callers. All callers.”

Bloody hell. He was putting this man on the spot, but it couldn't be helped. “Thompson, you and I are both old
Warspites
.” That was how men who'd served on the same naval vessel referred to each other, regardless of rank. “As one to another, I'd rather he didn't find out I'd been here.”

“May I be so bold, sir, as to inquire whether this has to do with the lease situation?” Thompson's face was expressionless.

“It has, Thompson, and I know what I'm going to ask might contravene the butlers' code”—If there was such a thing. O'Reilly had no idea—“but Mrs. O'Reilly and I are eager to speak to the marquis. I don't suppose…”

A small smile began on the butler's lips. “They have to attend a meeting at the Ulster Folk Museum in Cultra. They just left a few minutes ago, sir. The meeting's not until three, but I believe there was some horse demonstration they wished to observe.”

“Thank you, Thompson. I think perhaps Mrs. O'Reilly and I will just nip round to the museum. See if we can bump into the marquis there, accidentally, on purpose, as it were. And if you don't mind—”

“Mum is the word, sir.” Thompson's smile had reached his eyes. “As one old
Warspite
to another.”

“Thank you,” O'Reilly said. “Thank you very much.”

Thompson nodded. “And if that will be all, sir, I'll return to my duties. Good day, sir, madam.” The butler retreated inside, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.

It wasn't until they had reached the main road and were heading for Cultra that Kitty said, “I seem to remember Bob Beresford calling you ‘The Wily O'Reilly.' Appealing to the man's loyalty to an officer? That was a pretty impressive display of thinking on your feet.”

“Perhaps not the best use of rank, but it had to be done. I just hope to God we see John and Myrna,” O'Reilly said. “Old Number One's been my home since before the war. More than twenty years.”

“And mine since we got back from our honeymoon. I know that's only seventeen months, three weeks, and four days…”

She'd been keeping count too? Dear Kitty.

“… but I love the old place. I don't want to leave it, not one bit, and nor does Kinky, but I suppose if we must…” She touched his shoulder.

“I've been thinking about the plan B we talked about last Saturday and how I feel about Number One. It was the place I yearned for as a safe haven all through the war.” A snatch from a tune called “The Enniskillen Dragoons” flitted through his mind.

when these cruel wars are over, I'll be home in full bloom …

And the wars had been cruel. Planes ablaze tumbling from the skies, ships blowing up victims of shells, torpedoes, bombs. Huge warships sinking into the sea. Men on both sides maimed, burned, dying. O'Reilly had not returned to civvy street in full bloom. He'd returned a changed man. A scarred man, a grieving man, his new bride dead and five years buried. But at least Ballybucklebo had provided him with a calm refuge and Number One and dear old Kinky their safe place.

He indicated for a left and turned into the drive to the Ulster Folk Museum, pulled into the car park, and stopped the Rover. “It's not quite as cut and dried as I first thought.”

“It rarely is. You having mixed feelings?”

He nodded. “There are memories, of Ballybucklebo and Number One, that involve Deirdre and old Doctor Flanagan, and a young Kinky Kincaid. Bittersweet memories. Then, my love, you came along and filled the place and filled me and made me happy, but sometimes I wonder, does the thought of those memories of mine not bother you?”