An Irish Country Love Story

  “Used to be a patient of mine,” O’Reilly said. “There are more civil men in the townland.” He curled his lip. “I’d not put it past him to have done that.”

  Sonny nodded, inhaled. “So I advertised in the Spectator,” he said, “but nobody claimed him. That was sixteen years ago now. I’ve had him longer than any of the others. Ordinarily I’d have gone looking for him by now, but…” He shrugged.

  “I understand,” O’Reilly said, and felt a squeeze in his heart for his old friend and patient. Sonny and Maggie had married late in life, too late to have a family, and the dogs were like children to them. It would be hard to be ill, forced to face your own physical limitations, and have the worry about a dog you loved.

  “We’ve phoned the police and the animal welfare folks, but we’ve heard nothing back,” Maggie said.

  “And we’ve rung up our friends and neighbours, of course, but no one’s seen him.”

  Sonny looked down at the little dog on his lap.

  “I suppose I could spread the word in the village and if any of the doctors are out on home visits to farmers we could ask,” O’Reilly said. “Would you like that?”

  “We certainly would,” Sonny said. “Doctor O’Reilly, you are a grand man for helping folks. That’s what twenty-one years here has made you. You’re our Doctor Fix-It, whether it’s medical or not.” The man grinned and reached up to dash a tear from one of his eyes.

  “I promise I’ll do what I can. Now I must be running along.”

  “I think, sir,” Maggie said a few minutes later when he was putting on his boots in the hall, “that you don’t care for my plum cake.” There was a pointedness in her voice and her look was stern.

  “Now that’s an awful thing to say, Maggie Houston. Look at me,” he said, patting his stomach. “Do I look like someone who would turn down good food freely offered? But it’s five thirty, nearly my teatime. We’re having one of Kinky’s beef stews with cobbler topping, and we’ve invited Doctor Laverty in at six for drinks before dinner. So I must be on my way.”

  As he walked to the car, a thought struck O’Reilly. Where else to spread the word faster about Jasper but in the Duck. A trip there before dinner was definitely indicated.

  * * *

  O’Reilly caught up with Barry halfway up the staircase.

  “Evening, Fingal,” Barry said. “How was Bangor?”

  “Got a couple of boxes of twelve-bore shotgun cartridges. Wildfowling season finishes at the end of the month and I’m hoping for one more day out on Strangford Lough with Arthur before then. I popped in with Sonny and Maggie. He’s not much changed, that’s no surprise, and their blooming dog’s still missing. Poor Jasper. I know how Sonny feels. I’d go daft if Arthur disappeared.” He preceded Barry into the upstairs lounge, where Kitty, back from her job as a senior neurosurgery sister at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Belfast, was already ensconced in her usual chair. “We’re home,” O’Reilly said, and brushed her shoulder with his hand. “How was work?”

  “Bloody,” she said, “if you must know. It’s so good to be home. I’m well and truly knackered. Thank God I’ve got a day off tomorrow. Your pal Charlie Greer can be a right old targe when things don’t go right. He always apologises afterward, but it was pretty fraught for a while. And today that combination of demanding families—and there were two today—and the regular needs of the patients was just too much. I know we’re meant to understand why they’re demanding—they’re worried, I do understand, of course. But honestly, sometimes.”

  O’Reilly leaned forward and began to massage her shoulders. “Kitty, you’re human, not a flaming saint. It’s all right to get irritated once in a while, isn’t it, Barry?”

  “Absolutely,” Barry said. “A good rant with folks you trust around you is very healthy. Excellent for bringing raised blood pressure down.”

  “Thank you both,” she said, slowly moving her head from one side to the other, “and don’t stop that massage, Fingal. It’s heavenly. We had a sisters’ meeting too. Interminable. You know how I hate meetings.”

  “I do indeed.” O’Reilly kneaded away. “What you need is a gin and tonic. Barry, will you do the honours?”

  “Of course.” Barry moved to the sideboard and O’Reilly heard the clinking of bottle and glass. “And as your medical advisor, I prescribe it be taken according to doctor’s orders … in a hot bubble bath.”

  “You are incorrigible, Fingal O’Reilly, and I know you. You’re taking Barry to the Duck, aren’t you?” There was no rancour in her voice. She chuckled.

  “Reads me like a book, Barry,” he said. “You’ll find out soon enough.”

  “I’m looking forward to it,” Barry said, and handed Kitty her drink.

  “And we have a good reason to go.”

  “You always do,” Kitty said, still smiling. “Its name is Guinness. And the craic.”

  “No. Honestly. Not this time. The Houstons’ dog, Jasper, is still missing.”

  “Aah. Now that’s a shame,” Kitty said. “Poor old thing.”

  “I promised we’d spread the word and where better to start than—?”

  “—at the centre of the male universe of Ballybucklebo. You two trot along. I bought a brand-new bottle of Badedas last Saturday, but”—she inclined her head and fixed O’Reilly with her gaze—“please don’t be late for supper.”

  * * *

  Same old comfortable Mucky Duck, O’Reilly thought, as he and Arthur Guinness followed Barry inside. The warmth, the fug, the tobacco fumes, the beery smells and dim lights. Most of the tables in the single, low-ceilinged room were occupied. Men in Ulster overcoats, mufflers, dunchers, or paddy hats were lined up along the bar. A hum of conversation that sounded as if the room was filled with industrious bees rose and fell the while, punctuated by occasional caws of laughter, clinking of glass on glass.

  “… No harm til yiz, but away you off and chase yourself, Mister Bishop. See your man Colonel Hogan. See him? He’s never going to let the Nazis transfer Colonel Klink and Sergeant Schultz away from the camp, so he’s not. They’re far too important to Hogan’s plans. You mark my words.” Dermot Kennedy, who clearly took the TV programme very seriously, stabbed the tabletop with one index finger.

  Since his heart attack, Bertie Bishop had taken to dropping into the Duck for his daily permitted one pint. Constable Malcolm Mulligan, who must be off duty, and his friend Mister Coffin, the undertaker, nodded in agreement.

  “I’ve been watching Hogan’s Heroes since it started on BBC in ’65,” Bertie said. “And I think them two characters is gettin’ stale. That there Sergeant Schultz is a few too many clowns short of a circus if you ask me. I think Hogan needs more of a challenge.”

  “How’s your Bluebird, Donal?” asked Fergus Finnegan, the Marquis of Ballybucklebo’s jockey and captain of the Bonnaughts rugby football team. “I know you stopped racin’ her because you couldn’t get decent odds no more, but the word’s out you’re training her up again.” He, Donal, and Dapper Frew were sitting together.

  “Coming on a treat, so she is.”

  Donal winked at Dapper.

  What were they cooking up?

  Barry said, “Can you order the drinks, Fingal? I want a quick word with Dapper.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Barry made his way to the estate agent’s table.

  Lenny Brown and his pal Gerry Shanks were leaning against the bar where it turned at right angles near the door. “How’s about youse, Doctors?” Lenny called loudly.

  Conversation stopped as if someone had thrown a switch. All eyes turned on O’Reilly, who said, “Good evening to this house.”

  A chorus of greetings filled the room.

  “Don’t mind us,” O’Reilly said, “not until we’ve a jar in our hands and a drop into ourselves. But then I’ll want your attention.”

  “Don’t like the sound of that,” muttered Gerry Shanks.

  “Och, hould your wheest,” Lenny said. “If Doctor O’Reilly wants til te
ll us something I’m sure it’ll be all right. Now move over, you bollix, and let the doctor order.”

  Conversations were resumed throughout the room.

  O’Reilly moved to the bar, where Mary, the owner Willie Dunleavy’s plump daughter, was drying a glass. “Two pints, please, Mary.”

  “And a Smithwick’s for Arthur?”

  “Aye. Please.”

  “And there’s a wee table just come empty at the front there now, so if youse’ll have a seat, I’ll bring the drinks over,” she said.

  O’Reilly noticed that the table in question, which had been occupied when they’d come in, had been vacated. He grinned. Rank did have its privileges.

  “Under,” O’Reilly said, sitting and pointing to show Arthur the way.

  Barry came back and plopped into a chair with a sigh. “This place feels like home.” He unbuttoned his overcoat and pulled off his cap.

  “It is part of your home, you eejit,” O’Reilly said.

  Barry smiled. “That’s what I was talking to Dapper about. He says there’s a lovely bungalow that’s not even on the market yet. He’s going to phone me when I can see it.”

  “A house? You mean for you and Sue?” said O’Reilly.

  “No, Fingal. I thought I’d do a spot of real estate speculating to augment my meagre income.”

  “Less of your lip, you young pup. If it suits, I hope you get it, but I have to say we’ll miss you around Number One, Main.”

  “And I’ll miss you and Kinky and Kitty, believe me. But it’s not far away, and I want Sue and me to start off our married life together in a bit of style.”

  “Fair enough. You’ll keep me posted?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your pints, sir.” Mary set two black Guinnesses with creamy heads on the table. “I’ll bring Arthur’s in a wee minute.”

  “Thanks, Mary. Here you are.” O’Reilly paid the six shillings and thruppence with exact change, hoisted his drink, said, “Sláinte,” and took a pull. “Mother’s milk,” he said, wiping foam off his upper lip.

  “Cheers,” Barry said, and drank.

  Mary reappeared and shoved Arthur’s bowl under the table.

  O’Reilly heard a rumbling “woof,” and a happy “yip.” He looked under to see Arthur lapping from one side and his friend, Brian Boru, Mary’s feisty and sex-mad Chihuahua, from the other.

  All right, O’Reilly thought. Let’s get this done. He rose, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let go a whistle that might have challenged one on a steam locomotive. “Listen, everybody—”

  “… and your man says—” Donal, the last to realise that O’Reilly was demanding attention, cut himself off in mid-sentence. “Sorry, Doc.”

  Silence. Every eye was on O’Reilly.

  “You all know Sonny and Maggie Houston. One of their dogs, Jasper, an old Labrador-poodle cross with floppy ears, has got himself lost. I’d like everybody to keep an eye out, ask their neighbours to do the same, look in your outbuildings.”

  A chorus of “Och, dear,” and “That’s ferocious, so it is,” and “Poor wee doggy.”

  “He jumped out of my car just before the hill up to the Houstons’ and took off like a liltie into the blizzard on Friday. No one’s seen him since.”

  Bertie Bishop rose, put his thumbs behind his coat’s lapels, and said, “Youse all know me and Sonny have had our differences…”

  O’Reilly heard the murmurings of assent.

  “… but we’ve buried the hatchet. Sonny Houston is very fond of all of his dogs. I think we need to do more than just look in our own backyards. I think we need a search party.” Bertie Bishop was a congenital organiser.

  The crowd roared approval. Voices clashed as suggestions flew.

  Now there’s an idea, O’Reilly thought. “I agree,” he said, and was happy to sit back and let the other men make the arrangements. O’Reilly reckoned he and Barry had time to finish their first pints and start on a second while matters were being sorted out.

  Finally Bertie said, “We’ll meet tomorrow morning, nine o’clock. Under the oak tree at the crossroads at the bottom of the Ballybucklebo Hills. Anyone with a dog that can hunt, bring it. Doctor O’Reilly, sir, I don’t know if you’ve been paying attention, but a lot of the lads would like for you to take charge.”

  O’Reilly smiled and bowed his head to Bertie. “Honoured to be of service. And thank you, Bertie, for the excellent suggestion of a search. Barry, can you and Nonie cope tomorrow?” O’Reilly said. “I’d like to go. Give Arthur a run.”

  “Sure.”

  “Then Arthur and I’ll be there at nine.”

  The room broke into applause and gradually the buzz of individual conversations resumed.

  O’Reilly glanced at the clock above the bar. “Plenty of time until dinner,” he said. “No need to rush our pints.” He sat forward. “Now we’ve done what I promised I’d do,” he said, “Barry, I’d like to ask your advice?”

  “Fire away.”

  “I’m sure you know that today’s not the first time Kitty’s come home banjaxed from work. I do worry about her.”

  Barry steepled his fingers, held O’Reilly’s gaze, and said nothing. The classic medical approach to counselling. His next move, according to the protocol, would be a sympathetic, “And how do you feel about that?”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “Son,” he said, “I recognise that expression. And the MO. But look, I’m asking you as my friend, not as a bloody shrink. I’m worried about Kitty. That’s hardly a psychiatric symptom.”

  Barry laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s force of, as Donal might say, force of rabbit. So you think Kitty works too hard?”

  O’Reilly nodded. “I do. And now with you and Nonie aboard, and Doctor Fitzpatrick from the Kinnegar going to join the rota in February when he’s fully recovered from his surgery, I’ll have a lot more leisure time. I’d like my wife to be able to spend some of it with me.”

  “Why not ask her to retire or go part time? I imagine the pair of you could afford it.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Kitty’s supported herself all her life. I’m not sure she’d be happy with nothing to do but be the doctor’s wife.”

  Barry stroked his chin. “See what you mean. I can tell how Sue would react. She’d tell me to take a lengthy walk off a tiny pier. She’s very proud of the job she does, as she should be.” He sipped his pint. “And I suppose Kitty wouldn’t be interested in helping out with the practice. We could use some administrative help. Those medical service forms are getting more complicated every year and there are times when a nurse on staff would be invaluable. Still, she’s a highly trained neurological nursing sister. She probably wouldn’t think much of that kind of work.”

  “She might find it a relief after days like today.”

  “I’m no great student of military history, but at school we learned about the Ulstermen at the battle of the Somme. If there was a lesson, it was try to avoid frontal attacks. Try outflanking the obstacle. She said she’s off duty tomorrow, didn’t she?”

  O’Reilly nodded.

  “Do you think she’d enjoy a day out in the country with you?”

  “She always has,” O’Reilly said.

  “Why not bring up the question gently while you’re out walking. And make sure she has a good day, so she can see what she’s missing.”

  “It’s worth a try,” O’Reilly said. “And I’ll take her on holiday again once you’re safely married off.” He chuckled. “A couple of years ago I advised you, ‘Softly, softly catchee monkee,’ now it’s your turn to tell me the same thing, and I think you’re bang on. Thanks, pal.” O’Reilly looked at the clock above the bar. “Right,” he said, finishing his pint, “drink up, and home to Kinky’s beef stew with cobbler topping.”

  8

  I Did Search for Thee

  Kitty and O’Reilly stood beneath the bare branches of the three-hundred-year-old oak tree at the foot of the Ballybucklebo Hills, Arthur between them. His tail pumped back
and forth, hitting their blackthorn walking sticks with a series of thwacks.

  Kitty inhaled a great lungful of air and clapped her mittened hands together. “I love the way people here pull together when someone needs help.” She squeezed his arm. “In fact, I love it here just for being with you.”

  O’Reilly grinned. Dear Kitty. He thought she looked well today in her olive green three-quarter-length Barbour coat, her animated face peeking out from the false-fur-trimmed hood. She’d been back to her old self at dinner last night, but today there were circles under her eyes, and her sleep had been restless. How he loved her. He’d try to grant her anything she wished for—except perhaps new curtains in the dining room.

  He surveyed his assembled troops. “Yes, it’s a good turnout,” he said with satisfaction. They stood in front of a group of twenty men, each stoutly booted, warmly clad, some smoking, all chatting, joking, clearly in good spirits and looking forward to the day’s outing. Eight other dogs of various breeds were darting among the crowd, wagging tails and sniffing noses.

  “I didn’t know your brother Lars was a horseman,” Kitty said.

  “Neither did I,” O’Reilly said, “and judging by the way he keeps shifting in his saddle, I’m damn sure he’s not at home up there. But he phoned last night to say that Bertie had been in touch with the marquis and that he and his sister and Lars were able to take the day off and were coming today. Occasionally Lars works too hard. He needs to take it easier.” He glanced at Kitty sideways, but it didn’t seem as if the remark had registered.

  Lars, looking awkward in riding boots, jodhpurs, and a Donegal tweed hacking jacket, reached up to adjust the velvet-covered peaked riding helmet perched on his head. He sat astride a small chestnut mare who was contentedly cropping the grass where she stood. Beside them, a tall bay gelding bore the twenty-seventh Marquis of Ballybucklebo, Lord John MacNeill. The man looked as if he’d been riding since infancy, which he probably had. Perhaps before. His mother, by all accounts, had been mad for the hunt, and the marquis may have spent his first months in utero jostled up and down, over fences and ditches.

  John had sent word last night that he would meet the foot party and bring the ten couples of hounds of the Ballybucklebo Hunt. The marquis’s widowed sister, Lady Myrna Ferguson, was here too, and like her brother sat her black mount as if to the manner born. She must have had no classes scheduled at Queen’s University today, where she was a lecturer in inorganic chemistry.