An Irish Country Courtship

  You’re no oil painting, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, he told himself, then grinned. He would have come a very poor second in a sartorial elegance competition with John Roulston, and he hoped he’d not be vying with the man for anything more important.

  At the airport, it would have been churlish not to have offered him a lift into Belfast. His conversation in the car had been light, informed and witty. He’d certainly provoked several chuckles from Kitty and a sympathetic “Och, the poor wee man. He always looked so lost,” when Roulston had mentioned the recent death of Stan Laurel.

  When they’d arrived at Broadway Towers, Roulston had asked, “May I use your phone to call a taxi, Kitty?”

  “I’ll run you home,” O’Reilly had offered. Was he being polite, or did he not want John Roulston to go inside the apartment with Kitty?

  “Not at all. My place on Dorchester Park is away up at the top of the Malone Road, miles from Ballybucklebo—”

  In more ways than one, O’Reilly thought. The Upper Malone Road was the domain of la crème de la crème of Ulster society. Ballybucklebo was not.

  “But thanks for the offer.”

  “Come on then, John,” Kitty said. “I want to get unpacked.” She certainly seemed comfortable in the man’s company, but then Kitty was like that with just about everybody. “Coming in, Fingal?”

  “I’ll not, thanks.” He had no idea if there was anything between them, but if there was he’d be damned if he was going to set himself up to appear as if he were jealously overprotective. “I’ll see you on Friday for dinner. Seven at Number 1, and bring your toothbrush.” O’Reilly glanced at Roulston, but his face was expressionless. “Donal’s horse is running on Saturday at Downpatrick, Kitty. You’ll not want to miss that.” He hoped to God she’d not.

  “Friday at seven” was all she’d said.

  Seven was only a few minutes away. He let go a blast of smoke and paced to the window again. Through a dark clear Friday night, headlights were coming from the direction of Belfast. Maybe that was her? They sped on past the house.

  O’Reilly stood staring out into the darkness, past the steeple, over the rooftops to the blackness of Belfast Lough. At its head and to his left Belfast shone like a beacon, and ahead of him the myriad lights of Greenisland and Carrickfergus speckled the far shore and lower slopes of the Antrim Hills.

  They’d all have been out for the blackout during the war, he thought. Ulster would have been as stygian at night as the Mediterranean he had stared at so often from the bridge of the old Warspite.

  That gloom had been torn to shreds by the guns of the great superdreadnought in March 1941 at the battle of Cape Matapan, eye-searing cordite flames belching from the muzzles of her eight fifteen-inch rifles. A month later, the thunder of exploding bombs had echoed from the Cave Hill. Flashes of the high explosives and the flames of Belfast’s burning buildings had daubed the hillsides yellow and scarlet, and painted the undersides of the clouds in horrid reflections of the inferno beneath.

  God damn the Luftwaffe. God grant you peace, Deidre, my love, for I must surely do so, my darling girl. I must surely let you go.

  O’Reilly blew out his cheeks, rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, and was wandering back to his chair when the front doorbell rang. In his rush down the stairs, he almost trod on Lady Macbeth, who was clambering up from below. She leapt onto the banister and he heard her spitting at his retreating back.

  Kinky beat him to the door. “Come in, Miss Kitty. Himself will—”

  “Be right here,” O’Reilly said breathlessly. “Thank you, Kinky.” He grinned at Kitty. “And don’t bother taking off your coat,” he said. “We’ll be leaving for the Culloden straightaway.”

  “In which case, sir,” Kinky said, “I’ll go back to my kitchen and finish preparing the veal in aspic and Scotch eggs for our picnic for the races tomorrow.” She smiled at Kitty. “Doctor O’Reilly has invited me to come, so.”

  “Wonderful,” Kitty said. “I’m looking forward to going too.”

  She had brought her toothbrush. O’Reilly was delighted.

  “I do hear tell,” said Kinky, “that Cissie Sloan has a nice new dress for the occasion.” She lightly touched Kitty’s arm. “I’m sure it’s lovely, so, but I think my new handbag will take the light from her eyes.” She headed off along the hall.

  Vanity, O’Reilly thought, thy name is woman. “Come on, Kitty,” he said, relishing the faintest whiff of her perfume. “We’ve reservations for seven thirty and I’m quite looking forward to my dinner.”

  She laughed. “Was there ever a time you weren’t?”

  “Ah,” he said, “but this is special. Tonight I want to hear if your break did you good.”

  * * *

  They chatted on the short drive down about the weather, how much she’d enjoyed the play, the Victoria and Albert Museum, her trips to the Tate and National Galleries. He’d enjoyed listening to her talk enthusiastically about Stubbs’s horses, the Turner sunsets, and one of the English painter’s most famous works, The Fighting Temeraire. He wondered if she’d spent any time admiring Rodin’s The Kiss.

  O’Reilly led Kitty into the Culloden’s entrance hall, helped her off with her coat, and gave their coats to the cloakroom attendant.

  “That,” he said, admiring her cerise, knee-length, short-sleeved dress, sheer stockings, and new patent-leather stilettos, “is some outfit. And you’ve had your hair done. You look absolutely stunning.”

  She made a mock curtsey. “Thank you, Fingal. I hoped you’d approve.”

  “I do. I think,” he said, “we’ll go through to the bar. It used to be a chapel when this place was a bishop’s palace.”

  “Was it?”

  “The widow of the man who built it gave it to the Church of Ireland in the 1880s. Three or four bishops used it as their palace before the church sold it to a gynaecologist in the 1920s. It became a hotel in 1962.” O’Reilly took her elbow and steered her across the hall. A small plaque read: Jeremy Taylor Bar.

  A fire blazed cheerfully in a huge fireplace. The tables were far enough apart for the other patrons to be unable to overhear each other’s conversations. He noticed two small groups and acknowledged bowed greetings from members of both, who clearly recognised him.

  Kitty sat in a wingbacked armchair and crossed her legs.

  Fingal sat opposite. He admired the curve of her calf. “G and T?”

  She shook her head. “Are we having wine with our meal?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then why not start it now?”

  “Fair enough.” He sat back in his chair and pursed his lips. O’Reilly hoped his next remark might catch her a little off guard so her reply would be completely spontaneous. He’d been patient in the car, but he wanted to know what had happened in London. He said, “He seems like a decent sort, your Mr. Roulston.”

  “John?” she said and laughed. “He certainly is.” She smiled at him and waited.

  O’Reilly laughed. Damn you, Kitty, you’ve turned the tables perfectly. “Kitty,” O’Reilly said, “I’ve missed you—dreadfully. You went away and left me with a lot to mull over.”

  She leant forward and put her hands on the polished mahogany tabletop. “I wanted you to think, Fingal. I really did.”

  “I wondered how you and Roulston were getting on.” He started to reach out to cover her hand with his own, but a waiter in a dinner suit and black tie came to the table.

  “Doctor O’Reilly. Nice to see you again, sir. Your table will be ready whenever you are.” He handed Kitty a leather-bound menu, and O’Reilly a menu and a wine list. “Would sir and madam like a drink while they decide?”

  “Yes, thank you, Bernard,” said O’Reilly. He glanced rapidly at the menu. “And we’ve decided already.”

  Kitty frowned and raised one eyebrow.

  He knew she was too much of a lady to argue in front of a waiter.

  “You have a good Bâtard-Montrachet?”

  “Yes, sir. A ’
56 if memory serves.”

  “Good. We’ll have a glass here. For our meal, the lady will start with escargots and follow with a filet steak, medium rare.”

  “And for sir?”

  “Scampi and lobster thermidor.”

  “Certainly. I may have to go to the cold room for the wine, sir. We don’t have a lot of orders for the Montrachet.”

  “Take your time,” O’Reilly said.

  The waiter left.

  Kitty said quietly, “Fingal, that’s far too extravagant. Montrachet is horribly expensive.”

  “And the last time we tried to have a bottle we had to rush off and deliver a baby. Remember?”

  She nodded.

  He leant forward, put a hand on hers, and looked straight into her grey eyes flecked with amber. “I reckon some things if you’ve tasted them once are worth a second try.”

  She smiled. “And that’s why you’ve ordered our meal the way you have? The same menu as the one we didn’t finish that night too?”

  “No.” O’Reilly sat back. “Not exactly. It’s because—”

  Kitty started to smile. “Before you go any further, Fingal. I want you to know John Roulston is a decent man. He took me to that play and to the Tate.”

  O’Reilly said gruffly, “No reason why he shouldn’t. None at all.”

  “He did not take me to his bed.”

  O’Reilly knew he was blushing. “I … that is … well—”

  “But you were worried he might have.” She turned her hand under his, held and squeezed it. “Fingal, you’re jealous and that means you care. Please understand I didn’t deliberately set up that refresher course. I did enjoy John’s company, and I saw no reason to lie to you about it, but I didn’t do any of it to make you jealous.”

  “Thank you,” O’Reilly said, “and thank you for setting my mind at rest. I apologise, but I was worried.”

  “You’d no need.” She uncrossed and recrossed her legs. “Now tell me why you ordered what you have, although”—she looked at his eyes—“I have a pretty fair idea.”

  “Because it was the first dinner out in Dublin a medical student bought for a student nurse the night she qualified.”

  “I thought so,” she said. “That is sweet.” She puckered and blew him a kiss.

  O’Reilly rose and walked to her side of the table. He looked down on her shining silver-tipped black hair, her eyes wide and looking up into his. “Stand up,” he said.

  She stood.

  To hell with the other patrons. O’Reilly put his arms around her and pulled her to him. He put his mouth beside her ear and whispered, “When I bought you snails back then, I was in love with you, Kitty O’Hallorhan.” He held her at arm’s length. “You’ve been very patient—”

  She shook her head.

  “Kitty,” he said, “I think I’ve known it since last August. It’s just been—”

  “Hard for you to spit it out. I think,” she said, “you are such a brave man in so many ways you have to have an Achilles heel. In your case, it’s your heart. You are terrified of being hurt again.”

  He hung his head.

  “So,” she said, “I’ll make it easy for you. Fingal O’Reilly, I still—”

  He put his great paw gently over her mouth. “No, Kitty,” he said. “There’s no need. I don’t need prompting. I love you and I always will.” He let his lips touch her forehead. In such a public place, he had been demonstrative enough.

  “Thank you, Fingal,” she said, letting her lips brush his cheek. “Thank you very much.” She sat gracefully once more and inclined her head to where the waiter was approaching, carrying an ice bucket and two glasses.

  She didn’t need to say any more, and O’Reilly, now the dam had burst, could no more restrain his feelings out of respect for social convention than a child holding its halter could stop a stallion determined to gallop away. His voice didn’t quite reach its quarterdeck volume, but it was loud enough for the other patrons to turn and stare. “Bernard,” he roared, “take that away and bring a magnum of chilled Möet Chandon and a tray of champagne flutes.”

  “Fingal. Ssssh,” Kitty said laughing. “Everybody’s looking.”

  They were indeed, so it was too late for ssssh. “Miss O’Hallorhan here and I,” O’Reilly said, addressing the other diners, “have something very special to celebrate, so anyone who’d like a glass of bubbles with us, come on over.”

  To O’Reilly’s surprise there was a round of applause as men and women started rising and making their way over to his table. One voice said, “Bravo, Doctor.”

  O’Reilly lowered his voice and bent to Kitty. “I’m so bloody happy,” he said, “I could burst. I need to celebrate—and I need to tell you, and go on telling you, I love you, Kitty O’Hallorhan. I really, really do.”

  44

  Le Déjeuner sur l’Herbe (or The Car Boot Lid)

  Barry was trotting downstairs to join the race party, but stopped outside the upstairs lounge. “I see you’ve made a friend, Jennifer.”

  Doctor Jennifer Alexander, ex-classmate and the trainee cardiologist who had been sent by the Contactor’s Bureau, was sitting in an armchair, petting Lady Macbeth. The petite white cat was curled up in the young woman’s lap.

  “She’s a pretty wee thing, Barry,” Jennifer said.

  “Her name’s Lady Macbeth,” Barry said, “because she reckons she owns this place.”

  “Typical cat.”

  “And if you want any more animal company there’s a bloody great Labrador in the back garden called Arthur—”

  “Barry. The races are today. Get a move on,” O’Reilly bellowed from the hall.

  “… Arthur Guinness.” Barry laughed. “His bark’s worse than his bite,” he said quietly, “and I mean O’Reilly’s, not Arthur’s,” then he yelled, “Coming.” He hesitated. “Thanks for coming down, Jennifer. It’ll be good for us to get away for a day.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, “and I can use the money.”

  “Baaaarry.”

  “I’m off,” he said, and he ran down the last flight to join Fingal, Kitty, and Kinky for the drive to Downpatrick.

  O’Reilly drove over the Ballybucklebo Hills to Comber, then along the west side of Strangford Lough through Balloo and on to Killyleagh. Green islands, brown pladdies, and low sea wrack–covered reefs studded the calm waters. In the distance, the granite-grey Mourne Mountains tumbled to the shores of the Irish Sea.

  Fingal was full of the joys of spring, and in his kamikaze motoring approach of old, he hurled the Rover along the narrow winding road. Fortunately they did not encounter a single cyclist.

  As Kinky and Kitty chatted in the back, O’Reilly sang snatches of “Camptown Races,” pounding a fist on the steering wheel to accompany each “doo-dah, doo-dah.”

  His good humour was infectious, and Barry found himself joining in the chorus—that is, when he wasn’t clutching at the dashboard while the car took corners or sped up and over the drumlins and became momentarily airborne. He wondered if it was only the prospect of Bertie Bishop’s downfall that had O’Reilly so excited.

  They crossed the gently flowing River Quoile, where weeping willows lining the banks bowed to a pair of swans gliding sedately past. O’Reilly drove through the ancient cathedral city of Downpatrick—in Irish, Dún Pádraig, Patrick’s fort—the saint’s burial place. He was in good company. Saints Comgal and Bridget were also interred there.

  A little more than a mile past the southwestern outskirts, O’Reilly parked in a field beside the racecourse. A drystone wall separated the far end of the temporary parking lot from a pasture, where a herd of black-and-white dappled Friesians stood in a row, heavy heads hanging over the wall. They were, Barry thought, a mute spectators’ gallery that, in dim incomprehension, regarded with soft brown eyes the antics of the creatures next door.

  Cars were ranked in rows, and many racegoers, like O’Reilly’s party, were having picnics. The lunch Kinky had prepared was eaten as they stood around the
open car boot. It was superb: cold chicken, ham sandwiches, veal in aspic, Scotch eggs, potato salad, green salad. The two large thermoses of her beef barley soup, brought along in case the day turned cold, lay unopened in the picnic basket. The weather was perfect. Blue skies, puffball clouds, a light southerly wind.

  Barry had not been surprised when Fingal produced a bottle of Entre-deux-mers from a portable icebox, but why did the chest also contain two bottles of champagne?

  “Doctor O’Reilly sir,” Kinky said. “I do think, and I’m sure Miss Kitty will agree, that after veal in aspic one Scotch egg is quite sufficient, so.”

  “Kinky’s right, Fingal,” Kitty said, grasping his wrist. “Put it back.”

  O’Reilly grumbled, set the savoury in the basket, and said, “Lord, preserve me from this ‘monstrous regiment of women.’”

  “John Knox,” Barry said, quite happy to play along. He was going to say, “in 1558,” but the fond look that passed between O’Reilly and Kitty pulled him up short. Barry wondered exactly what had transpired between them last night.

  “Good afternoon, gentlemen,” said O’Reilly heartily.

  Mr. Coffin, the Ballybucklebo undertaker, tipped his bowler hat, and Shooey Gamble lifted his duncher. The old gentleman was getting along well with the help of a blackthorn walking stick.

  “How are you two?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Very well, thank you, Doctor,” Mr. Coffin replied and touched a finger to a small scar beneath his Adam’s apple. “Thanks to you two.”

  “And I’m getting better use of the knee, Doctor Laverty,” Shooey said. “Thon heating pad’s a godsend on a cold night, so it is.” He winked at O’Reilly, then said, “We’re off to the races. We want to see how Mr. Bishop’s wee horse does. I think everybody in the whole townland wants to.”

  As they left, O’Reilly turned to Barry and explained, “Mr. Coffin’s late father was Shooey’s best friend. Mr. Coffin keeps a filial eye on the old boy. Takes him to the odd soccer game, the races. They keep each other company, and speaking of keeping company—”