An Irish Country Courtship

  He passed the two-storey terraces on the inland side of the lough-shore road from Bangor to Ballyholme. Built in the 1850s to serve as boardinghouses in the summer, they had catered to the down-from-Belfast-for-a-week or over-from-Glasgow-to-be-beside-the-seaside holiday makers.

  The big attraction had been the sea, which lay to Barry’s left behind a stone wall. Belfast Lough was gunmetal grey, churning and bursting in sheets of spray on jagged, barnacle-encrusted rocks. Although the sky was dour and flat as the armour-plating of a battleship, it wasn’t raining.

  Halfway round the road, a single, L-shaped, two-storey building sat on a promontory that jutted into the lough. Barry knew it had been built in 1780 and later converted into flats. The building was a newcomer by Irish standards, where the megalithic passage tomb at Newgrange predated both the Great Pyramid at Giza and Stonehenge in England.

  A fellah called Patrick Taylor, another sailor, had been in the year behind Barry at Queen’s. His folks lived in the flat closest to the sea. Taylor’d be a houseman now—assuming he’d passed his finals last June.

  Barry turned right onto Ward Avenue past Kingsland Park and wondered what interesting buildings his classmates who’d emigrated might see. Nothing as old as things here, that was for sure. But although moving on might be in Barry’s plans, emigration, as he had tried to tell Sue Nolan, definitely was not.

  He pulled into the car park of Royal Ulster Yacht Club.

  Inside, the old building’s wood-panelled walls were adorned with pictures and memorabilia of five yachts, all named Shamrock. On those vessels, between 1901 and 1930, Sir Thomas Lipton, the multimillionaire tea merchant, had mounted five unsuccessful challenges for the America’s Cup. Royal Ulster had been his club because the aristocratic members of the Royal Yacht Squadron at Cowes on the Isle of Wight had blackballed his application for membership. Despite having been knighted, Sir Thomas was “in trade” and not the kind of person to be welcomed by the English gentry. But the Ulster folks were more interested in his abilities as a sailor and had been more than happy to have him.

  Barry walked on and immediately met a man coming out of the club.

  “Barry Laverty? My God.” He stuck out his hand. “Barry? How in the hell are you?” He wore a tattered Aran sweater that one day might have been white, paint-splattered jeans, and canvas gym shoes known locally as guttees. He was about Barry’s age but taller, and his sandy hair was receding so fast that Barry thought he could almost see the margin between shiny scalp and hair moving toward the back of John Neill’s head.

  “Hello, John. How the hell are you? It has been a while.”

  “Must be five or six years. And don’t ask how I am.” John pursed his lips and shook his head. “I should have taken your advice even more years ago when we sailed your dinghy. I can see you on the helm saying, ‘Go to Queen’s, John. Your school marks are great. Get a degree.’ Would I listen?” He shrugged. “Selling life insurance is about as exciting as putting antifouling paint on my hull.”

  Barry smiled. “I’ll bet you have a few quid saved up though. You’ve been earning good money since we left school. All the years I was a penniless student.”

  “And I’ve still no wife or rugrats to support, so I can afford a Glen-class keelboat.”

  “Good for you.”

  “What about you, Barry?”

  “Me?” He shook his head. “Debonair bachelor. Footloose and fancy-free.” And not happy about it either, but he’d not tell that to John.

  “You’ve not had much time to sail though, have you? Duty calls and all that?”

  “True.”

  “That’s why we’ve not seen much of you lately.”

  Barry nodded. “But you will. I’m working as a GP in Ballybucklebo—and my boss gives me every other weekend off.”

  “That’s not too bad.” John ran a hand over his head, looked hard at Barry, and asked, “Didn’t you sell your dinghy?”

  “Tarka? She went to a fellah from Carrickfergus. I needed the money to buy a car.”

  “So you’ve no boat?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “I don’t suppose you’d be looking for a racing-crew spot?”

  “On your Glen?”

  “Aye. Three of us can handle her, but a fourth man would be handy on spinnaker runs or in anything over twenty knots.”

  Cruising boats would sensibly reef down in winds like that. He knew the heavy Glen could be a beast to handle under those conditions, and only racing sailors would even think of hoisting the spinnaker, a great balloon of a sail, in high winds, but that was what made racing so exhilarating.

  Barry thought for a moment. He’d agreed to stay with O’Reilly until July. He missed his sailing. John Neill was a good head. “I might,” he said, “but the skipper would have to be pretty understanding.”

  “Why? Have you forgotten how to sail?”

  Barry laughed. “Not at all. Maybe I’m a bit rusty, but I can still tell a sheet from a halyard. The trouble is, I can’t always be free when I want. Do you still race on Thursday nights?”

  “Aye.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly’s pretty decent about time off. I can ask for every Thursday, but there are things he might want to do once in a while. I couldn’t always guarantee to be here midweek for club races, and it’ll be only every other Saturday for regattas.”

  “That won’t be a problem as long as you let me know. I can always find a youngster hanging about the clubhouse, hoping for a ride, but it’s good to have a semipermanent crew. You and I’ve raced together. You’re a good tactician, good helmsman. I can often use a break in a race.”

  Barry hesitated. He wanted to keep his uncertainties to himself, but he had to be fair to John. Losing a crew member, even a part-time one, spoiled the harmony of the teamwork that developed over time. “I might not be available after July,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “I’m still making up my mind. I might want to specialise, and trainee specialists work bloody awful hours.”

  John clapped Barry on the shoulder. “You will make up your mind one way or the other. You never wavered for one minute about wanting to be a doctor. And sure July’s months away. We could still have three good months racing.”

  “In that case—”

  “Welcome aboard.” John stuck out his hand and Barry shook it. “Now, crew …” John hunched his shoulder, screwed up one eye, and in a faithful imitation of Robert Donat’s Long John Silver, growled, “Aaaar, Jim lad, us’ns ’ave a job to do. Waas you ever at sea, Jim lad?”

  Barry laughed. “I left myself open for that, didn’t I?” And fair play. If he expected to enjoy the pleasures of sailing on somebody else’s boat, he’d have to do his share of the chores. Hadn’t he been hoping to be asked to help out today? “What’s the job?”

  “Antifouling. And Barbara and Ted Orr, the rest of my crew, can’t get down today. Kid’s birthday party.”

  “So old Ted did finally marry Barbara?” Barry asked, once more realising how out of touch medicine had made him.

  John lowered his voice. “Had to, two and a half years ago. Michael’s two today.”

  “Oops,” Barry said, doing the necessary subtraction. “Bit premature was he?”

  John laughed. “You could say that, but the pair of them seems to be happy as pigs in shite.”

  “Lucky them,” Barry said quietly. Barry, I made a mistake. She would never have settled for domesticity. He saw that now. The letter had made it plain. If he’d been less besotted, he would have seen that.

  “And lucky me,” John said. “I’ve got help with the painting after all.”

  “I’ve a pair of wellies in the car. I’ll get them.”

  “Better still, if your car’s handy, Glendun’s up on the hard standing at the Ballyholme Shipyard, so run us down and you can run us back up here about one. I’ll buy lunch.”

  “Super.” Barry led the way. Kinky, as she so often was, had been right. He was enjoying the company of his no
nmedical friends. It sure as hell was better than sitting feeling sorry for himself when he was off duty.

  He’d always liked being around boats, even if he was only there slapping special paint on the underside. It was applied annually to inhibit the growth of sea plants during the summer, when the boat would be on a permanent mooring in Ballyholme Bay. And at least until July, he’d be going out on the club launch to Glendun to race in a crew of old friends.

  * * *

  Next door to Caproni’s ice cream shop and ballroom on Seacliffe Road, the shipyard’s workshops and their extensive forecourt were connected to the waters of Ballyholme Bay by two iron rails. The slipway crossed the road and ran down a gently sloping concrete slab beside a dinghy park. Here boats were hauled ashore or launched.

  In the forecourt, John’s boat, deep-wooden-hulled and beamy, squatted on the legs of a cradle beside several other vessels. Barry, who was working on her keel, stood up, paintbrush in one hand, the other hand massaging the small of his back. Across the road, skippers and their crews were sandpapering or painting the bottoms of upturned little craft. The rasping of rough paper and the scratching of paint scrapers could be heard over the noise of the occasional passing car. The annual refurbishing ritual was a reminder that spring was not so very far away.

  Past the park, on the far side of Ballyholme Bay, whins grew dark green and chrome yellow on Ballymacormick Point. There were quiet places among the gorse there, hidden paths where a young man could kiss his girl in private. I wish everything good for your career and you. Could he think it so soon after Patricia had gone? Could he think of kissing a girl in the quiet places on the point?

  Barry pursed his lips and turned back to the boat. Glendun was one of a number of identical yachts, all of which had been built near Strickland’s Glen. The early ones had been named for the Glens of Antrim. Glendun, he knew, meant “the glen of the river Dun.” John had told Barry that her leading rival was Glenariff, “the glen of arable land.”

  He dipped his brush into a can of red antifouling, squatted, and went back to painting the cast-iron keel. The fumes stung his nostrils. He could see John’s guttees and the legs of his paint-spattered jeans on the other side of the keel.

  “It’s quarter to one,” John yelled. “Ten more minutes, then lunch. My back’s bollixed.”

  Barry’s own back was stiff. “Right.” He slapped on more red paint.

  From behind him a woman’s voice said, “It’s hardly the Sistine Chapel, Michelangelo.”

  He recognised the tones, and turned. “Sue … Sue Nolan. What are you doing here?” He started to stand. “Hang on.” Was it the effort of standing up that had made his pulse a little fast?

  “I noticed your car five minutes ago, then I saw you stand up, so I came over to say hello and to thank you again for looking after Art and taking me home.”

  “Taking you home on Wednesday was my pleasure.” It had been. She had been easy to talk to on the run up to Holywood. He’d almost accepted her invitation in for a cuppa, but at the time O’Reilly was pretty much hors de combat and Barry had pleaded the call of duty. “What brings you down here today?” he asked.

  “I was over in the dinghy park doing the same as you,” she said, “only on a smaller boat.” Her one-piece brown dungaree was liberally splattered with white enamel. Vagrant copper wisps of hair, piled under a man’s floppy cap, escaped at the nape of her neck and over her forehead. They fluttered in the breeze like ribbon telltales from the shrouds of a yacht. She used her left hand to brush away a thin lock hanging over her right eye. “You remember in the car the other day I told you I was learning sailing theory?”

  Barry nodded.

  “Do you know Dennis Harper?”

  “Dennis? I’ve known him for years. He has a GP14. Nice little dinghy.”

  “He went to Queen’s with my older brother, Michael. They’re both lawyers, and I’ve known Dennis for years too. He’s been coming to Broughshane with Michael since I had pigtails. Been like a big brother.”

  She’d have suited pigtails, Barry thought.

  She pointed across to the dinghy park. “He’s over there. He’s an instructor on the sailing course. That’s why I’m here today. He needed his bottom scraped. I offered to give a hand.”

  Barry chuckled. “Did he indeed? Scraped? And did it hurt him much?”

  “Barry.” She grinned at him. “Eejit. I meant Dennis’s dinghy needed—”

  “I know. Just like I’m giving my skipper a help with the antifouling.” He enjoyed the easy familiarity of a young woman who at their third or fourth brief meeting would let him tease her and would not be one bit reticent about calling him an eejit.

  “I must say,” she said, “you look more relaxed than you did when I saw you last. You look like you belong here.”

  He had to laugh. “Well, it beats looking at little heads being attacked by a fungal infection, and patching up skinned knees.” He scratched his cheek. “I’ve sailed for years. Now I sail when I can get time.”

  “When did you learn? Did you take a course?”

  Barry shook his head. “When I was twelve I lived beside the shore. I was fishing for crabs in the Long Hole—”

  “The harbour at the start of Seacliffe Road?”

  “That’s right … and this little dark man came up to me. He was olive-skinned, had a hooked nose like Mr. Punch, and he was hunchbacked. He spoke to me in a thick foreign accent and asked me if I knew how to sail.”

  “You’re not making this up, are you? His name wasn’t Quasimodo by any chance?”

  Barry chuckled. “No, it was Joe, Joe Bellini. His folks had come over from Italy after the war. Opened an ice cream shop here. Joe’d had TB of his spine as a child.”

  “That’s sad,” she said. He heard the compassion in her voice.

  “When Joe left school at sixteen he couldn’t work because of his handicap. His dad bought him a clinker-built dinghy so he’d have something to do. He’d been sailing that boat single-handed for ten years. He kept her in the Long Hole.”

  “With the fishing boats.”

  “Right. Anyway, when I told him I didn’t know how to sail, he asked me if I’d like to learn.”

  “You said yes?”

  “I told him I’d have to ask my dad. He agreed, and I spent five summers sailing with Joe.” Barry could feel a lump starting. “Those were the happiest summers I’ve ever spent.”

  “Why?” Her question was gentle.

  “I don’t think Joe had any friends his own age, but he had his boat. He loved her; he loved the sea, the birds. He’d put her on course, hold the tiller, and roar out a sea chantey or a come-all-ye.” Barry, who couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket, warbled:

  Come all ye dry-land sailors and listen to my song.

  It’s only a hundred verses so I’ll not detain yiz long.

  Sue bent over laughing. “Barry, that’s terrible.”

  “I know,” he said, “but it’s one of the songs I learned from Joe.” His smile faded. “It wasn’t the only thing he taught me. He could see beauty in the most ordinary things. He once showed me a simple jellyfish and asked me to admire its exquisite filigree architecture. I’ve never forgotten that phrase.”

  “Filigree architecture,” Sue said. “I like it.”

  “I’ve a lot of memories of that little, bent man. He taught me to sail all right, and he taught me to love it as much as he did. For him, sailing was freedom and it came to mean that for me too.” Barry was surprised to feel Sue’s touch on his arm. He looked into her eyes and felt he could trust this young woman. “I loved Joe like a brother, and it’s to my shame I’ve not seen him in years. Medical school, moving to Ballybucklebo—”

  “Barry, that kind of thing happens. We grow up, grow apart. I’ll never forget the groom who taught me to ride when I was little, but I moved away, went to Stranmillis Teachers Training College, got my job in Ballybucklebo …”

  “Do you still ride?” he asked, happy to change the subject. r />
  “My uncle has horses. When I’m home, if I get the chance I’ll exercise them for him.”

  “I’ve never ridden.”

  “And I’ve never sailed—not yet.”

  “And I’ve never had a more useless painter, standing there blethering away while the antifouling dries.” A grinning John Neill appeared from around the other side, rubbing his paint-splashed hands on a piece of turpentine-soaked rag.

  “John,” Barry said, “meet Sue Nolan from Broughshane. She teaches up in Ballybucklebo. Sue, John Neill.”

  The two nodded at each other. Ulster men and women rarely exchanged handshakes, and anyway John’s hands were still smeared with paint and turpentine.

  “Aren’t you one of the students in Dennis Harper’s ‘Learn to Sail’ class?” John asked.

  “I am.”

  “Thought I’d seen you about the place.” He looked around. “With Dennis today?”

  Even though she’d said Dennis was like a big brother, Barry was surprised that the question “With Dennis today?” could make him feel envious.

  “He’s over in the dinghy park,” she said. “We were just going to walk up to the club.”

  “I’ll give him a yell,” John said. “Barry has his car and we’re going back up to Royal Ulster for lunch. Barry, you won’t mind giving Sue and Dennis a lift, will you?”

  “Not at all. Why don’t you two join us for lunch?” It slipped out, but he knew he wanted to spend more time with Sue Nolan today.

  “Love to, and I’m sure Dennis would too,” she said.

  “Right,” said John. “I’m going to go find the worthy Harper and invite him to join us.” He started walking down to the road.

  Sue looked up at Glendun again. “What kind of boat is this, Barry?” she asked. “If I’m going to be a sailor, I need to know things like that.”

  “Doesn’t it feel funny? You, a teacher, learning in a class?” he asked.