An Irish Country Village

  Barry had never understood why a sandwich would be called a piece—but in Ulster it was.

  “Aye, and with all the work they’re quare nor thirsty when they come in here.”

  “Good for them,” said O’Reilly, picking up his glass.

  Willy lowered his voice, and Barry had to strain to hear. “And that’s not the half of it. They even have Constable Mulligan giving a hand.” Willy’s grin was huge. “He comes in with them, and if the place stays open after ten o’clock closing time, him being still here and all, he’d have to arrest himself before he arrests me.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “what the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”

  “Aye,” said Willy, “and do you know something else, sir?”

  O’Reilly took a mouthful of whiskey. “No, but you’re going to tell me.”

  “Right enough. Donal says it’s the village’s wedding present to Sonny and Maggie, and he wants for it to be a surprise. He has everyone sworn to secrecy. It’s all right to ask somebody new to help, but they have to promise to keep their mouths shut even if they can’t turn up on the site. And you know how rumours usually fly round this place.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “it’s one of the miracles of modern communication. Telegraph, telephone . . . and tell a Ballybucklebo resident.” He drank again, as Willy laughed.

  Barry had to smile. O’Reilly was certainly spot on with that diagnosis.

  “Right enough,” said Willy, “but nobody’s let the cat out of the bag yet. Nobody’s said a dicky bird and . . .” He lowered his voice, and although Barry strained he couldn’t make out what was being said. Whatever it was it took some time, and O’Reilly finished his drink as Willy rattled on.

  Barry immediately assumed Willy didn’t want him to hear, and he wondered if that was a not-too-subtle indication that he still wasn’t fully trusted. He told himself to stop being paranoid.

  “Bloody marvellous!” O’Reilly roared. “That beats Banagher.” He hauled out his briar, lit up, and glanced at his glass. “Jesus, Willy. There’s a hole in this glass. It’s empty.”

  “Sorry, Doc. Will I . . . ?”

  “Of course you will; then bring it over to the table . . .” O’Reilly picked up Barry’s glass. “And seeing as how you’re not too busy, pour one for yourself . . . I’m pretending it’s your birthday, the way you did for me last week . . . and you come over and sit with us. Doctor Laverty and I have something to tell you.”

  He ambled over to the table and gave Barry his sherry. “Here. Get that into you.” O’Reilly hauled out a chair and sat.

  “Cheers.” Barry sipped. “I must say you’re being very generous tonight, Fingal. Drinks for Archie and his son. One for Willy.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “Rory was the first baby I delivered here when I took over the practice, and after what we’ve heard about the lease for this place, are you not in better spirits too?”

  “Yes. A bit.”

  “Aye, good,” said O’Reilly, turning sideways and stretching out his legs. “And if Arthur Guinness was here I’d buy him a couple of Smithwicks, but he’s on probation.”

  “For wellie-napping?”

  “Indeed,” O’Reilly said. He hunched forward. “You’ll never believe what Willy just told me.”

  “Go on.”

  “It’s the greatest project since Moses parted the Red Sea. Not only are the lads doing their damnedest to finish the repairs at Sonny’s by Saturday night, but Sonny’s got no furniture . . .”

  “A man who lived in his car hardly would have, would he?”

  “Not so much as a footstool, so the boys have got their heads together. Seamus and Maureen Galvin have a table and a clatter of cutlery they’re not taking to America. Mr. Coffin, the undertaker, has half a dozen chairs. This one has sheets, that one has a bed, the other one has pots and pans. The list goes on. I don’t know what Donal said to get them all fired up, but according to Willy they’re as enthusiastic about the whole thing as a bunch of Richard the Lionheart’s crusaders were to take Jerusalem. The plan is to have Sonny’s place ready to live in by the time the wedding’s over.”

  “Good God. That’s fantastic. What a lovely thing to do for Sonny and Maggie.” Barry knew he should be grinning, but for some reason he felt a prickling in his eyes and realized he was on the verge of crying. He was grateful for the dim lighting and hoped O’Reilly hadn’t noticed.

  “Aye,” said O’Reilly. “Everyone knows that the pair of them could squeeze into Maggie’s cottage at a pinch, but it’s really far too small for two people, five dogs, and Maggie’s cat. When Sonny proposed to Maggie years ago, they planned to move into his place, and they would have but for the row with Bertie Bishop about the roof.”

  “And the roof’s getting fixed now. It’s wonderful for the two old folks.”

  “It’s more than that,” O’Reilly said seriously. “The whole place’s boiling about Bishop’s takeover plans for the Duck, and they know he wasn’t overexerting himself to get the roof job done in any great hurry. I think it’s the village’s way of telling Bertie Bishop that they don’t need him. That they can manage perfectly well without him. He can, in a word, or rather a few words, stick it in his ear and—”

  “Sorry to interrupt, sirs.” Willy handed O’Reilly a full glass. “You said I was to join you?”

  “Sit down, Willy.” O’Reilly pulled his legs out of the way.

  Barry shifted in his chair as Willy sat.

  “It’s a wee drop of port, sir,” Willy said, nodding at his own glass. “Sláinte.”

  “Sláinte mHath.” O’Reilly sipped and then said, “Jesus Murphy, Willy, that’s Black Bush . . .”

  Barry knew it was the best whiskey produced by the Bushmills distillery in County Antrim.

  “That’s none of your cooking whiskey.” O’Reilly smacked his lips. “That’s what my old father, God rest his soul, would have called a real drop of the craythur.”

  “I’ll not charge you extra for it, sir. I’m finishing up my stock,” Willy said, and Barry could see the sadness in the man’s eyes. “I’m pleased Sonny and Maggie are going to have a place, right enough, but I still have to be out of here when the lease is up.”

  “Do you now?” said O’Reilly, leaning back in his chair and letting go a vast cloud of smoke. “That’s what Doctor Laverty and I wanted to talk to you about, Willy.”

  Willy sat rigidly. “Have you got Bishop to change his mind?”

  “No,” said O’Reilly, “not yet . . .”

  Willy’s shoulders sagged.

  “But by Jesus, we’re going to, aren’t we, Barry?”

  He said it so forcibly that Barry had no choice but to nod. He waited as O’Reilly explained the details of the stream under the pub, the fact that the marquis owned the salmon rights, and most importantly, that His Lordship felt strongly that the Duck shouldn’t be mucked about with by Bertie Bishop—and would make damn sure it wasn’t. How he’d do that wasn’t explained.

  All very well, but the marquis hadn’t actually promised to go to court. O’Reilly was gambling on Bishop’s being frightened off by the threat. But what if Bishop wasn’t? Barry knew O’Reilly liked to bet on greyhounds and horses, but here he was wagering with Willy Dunleavy’s future. Barry hoped to God O’Reilly was right in his judgment of Bertie Bishop.

  “You’re having me on, Doctor O’Reilly.” Willy’s eyes were wide. “It’s the truth? About the stream business and His Lordship. Honest to God?”

  “Honest to God, Willy. Cross my heart.”

  Barry hoped O’Reilly had his fingers crossed too. In Ulster, a promise made with crossed fingers wasn’t binding.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Ah,” said O’Reilly, “that’s exactly what I want you to do. Say nothing to anybody.”

  Willy nodded.

  “You see,” O’Reilly continued, “if you don’t mind, I think I should be the bearer of the glad tidings to the worthy councillo
r, and I don’t want him to get a whisper of what’s in store.”

  Right, Fingal, Barry thought, and you’d better make bloody sure he caves in.

  “I’ll houl’ my tongue, Doctor, but there is one wee thing.”

  “What?”

  “Can I tell my Mary?”

  “She’ll keep it to herself?”

  “Don’t be bloody silly . . . sorry, sir . . . but bartenders hear as many secrets as you doctors. We’d not last long if we couldn’t keep our traps shut.”

  “No need to apologize, Willy,” O’Reilly said. “It was silly of me to have asked.”

  “You see, Mary’s having a god-awful time with that Miss Moloney over at the dress shop. If I can be sure . . . You are absolutely certain, sir, that we’ll be able to stay on?”

  Barry waited to see how O’Reilly would answer.

  “Willy, nothing’s sure in this life except death and taxes, but the marquis says he’ll fight Bishop to the extent of his resources.”

  True, Barry thought, but those resources weren’t as limitless as Willy must believe, because Willy said, “Then I can give her a full-time job and she can get away to hell out of that place. Jesus, the number of times the wee girl’s come home in tears. She says Miss Moloney gets so angry she goes up and down like a hoor on hinges.”

  “I know what you mean,” Barry said, thinking of how she’d taken him to task when he’d tried to ask her to go a bit easier on Helen. “She went up one side of me and down the other last week.”

  O’Reilly glanced at Barry. “Willy, you go right ahead and tell Mary.”

  Willy stood, sank his glass of port in one swallow, and said, “Get those into you, Doctors. There’s more coming.” He turned and spoke to Archie and his son. “Are youse two on for another pint . . . on me?”

  “Aye, certainly,” Archie said. “What’s the occasion?”

  Willy beamed down on O’Reilly. “Doctor O’Reilly here says he’s pretending it’s my birthday.” He winked broadly. “What he doesn’t know is that thanks to him and Doctor Laverty . . . it bloody well is.” He headed for the bar.

  “We shouldn’t really be doing this, Fingal,” Barry said. It wasn’t having another drink he was thinking about.

  “I,” said O’Reilly, who by his scowl had followed Barry’s line of reasoning perfectly, “could not disagree with your diagnosis more, Doctor Laverty. We bloody well should. And we’re going to drink to it and to you know what else?”

  “No.”

  “To the good ship Ballybucklebo and all who sail in her. She’s a grand wee place.” He finished his drink. “I for one wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on God’s green earth.”

  Barry hesitated. Then he said, very seriously, “You know, Fingal, I could drink to that myself.”

  “Right,” said O’Reilly, “but it will be the last one.” He glanced over to a circular clock hanging behind the bar. “Quarter to six. One’s all we’ve time for before we head home. Kinky’ll read us the riot act if we’re late. And you,” he said, stabbing at Barry with the stem of the briar, “have to phone your Patricia.”

  “I don’t bloody well believe it.” O’Reilly opened the back gate. “Where are you, Arthur Guinness?”

  It was a question Barry would be happy to be answered. He was wearing one of his new pairs of pants, and he did not want to have them muddied by the Labrador’s amorous advances.

  “Jesus, Barry, would you look at that?” O’Reilly pointed to a heap of freshly excavated earth beside the back fence. “Either we’ve got the biggest mole in Ulster, or Arthur Guinness has been watching that film The Great Escape, with him cast as Charles Bronson, ‘The Tunnel King.’ ” He bellowed, “Arthur?”

  The dog did not appear.

  “Damnation.” He strode off towards the kitchen door, calling over his shoulder, “Come on, Barry. Arthur had better pretend he’s one of Bo Peep’s sheep and make bloody sure when he comes home he’s dragging his tail behind him.”

  Barry followed O’Reilly through the door and into the kitchen where Kinky stood wiping flour from a pastry board. O’Reilly was nowhere to be seen.

  “Doctor Laverty,” she said.

  Barry sniffed. “What’s that you’re cooking, Kinky?”

  She smiled. “ ’Tis a beef stew with suet dumplings, and it’ll be ready in twenty minutes, so.”

  “Lovely,” Barry said. Then he asked, “Kinky, have there been any phone calls for me?”

  “Not the one.”

  “Damn.” It was six fifteen now so he could forget about hearing from Harry Sloan. If Harry didn’t have results by now, he’d not be calling first thing in the morning. Barry’d have another day of uncertainty to face, another day to try to simply get on with his job, as if the bloody thing wasn’t in jeopardy.

  “Were you expecting to hear from somebody?” Kinky asked.

  “Not really.”

  “I think,” she said, “if you don’t mind me saying, you were.” She stopped and looked him straight in the eye. “You will hear,” she said, “and you’ll hear exactly what you want to. I don’t know what that is . . . but it’ll not be for a day or two yet.”

  “How do you know, Kinky?”

  She smiled. “I can’t tell you that. I just do. You mark my words, so.” She crossed the kitchen and stood on tiptoe to return the pastry board to its place on a top shelf. “Now, I’ve work to do so trot along and get ready for your supper like a good lad.”

  Barry wondered as he climbed the stairs what the blazes Kinky had meant by “you’ll hear exactly what you want to”? How did she know what he wanted to hear? That Major Fotheringham’s postmortem had turned up the needle in the haystack? That his future was assured in Ballybucklebo? He sighed. But then, he banged his hands off the banister, would he stay if Patricia had won the scholarship?

  He went into the bathroom. As if those questions weren’t enough to gnaw at, could O’Reilly really coerce Bertie Bishop into giving up his notion of taking over the Black Swan? Perhaps, Barry thought, he himself had enough on his plate. He’d leave that one to O’Reilly.

  He washed his hands, was troubled by a fleeting image of Pontius Pilate, realized he must support his older colleague, and headed downstairs into the hall.

  O’Reilly was talking on the telephone. “. . . right. I’ll pick you up at ten thirty on Saturday. Bye.” He replaced the receiver with a loud ting, rubbed his hands, smiled broadly, turned, and saw Barry. “None of your business,” he said.

  Barry held up both hands. “I wasn’t going to ask.”

  “Good,” said O’Reilly. “Now. I’m off for a widdle—”

  “Into the Rover’s petrol tank?”

  “Ha bloody ha. “ But O’Reilly was grinning. “No. Upstairs.” He nodded at the receiver. “Your turn.” O’Reilly started to climb.

  “Thanks, Fingal.” Barry lifted the receiver, dialled Kinnegar 657334, and waited. “Hello. Patricia?”

  “Barry?”

  He thought she sounded tired. “How did it go?”

  She sighed, then said, “It was bloody awful. I told you in the Chinese place that I hate architectural drawing. Two of the six questions involved drawing up plans. They were horrid. I made a complete mess of both of them. I can’t have won. I can’t.”

  He thought she sounded close to tears. He knew he must say something, but what? “Patricia, listen. I’m an expert in sitting exams . . .”

  “Not in civil engineering.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I took them for six years. An exam’s an exam, and I’ll bet you’re going through exactly what I did, and what all my friends did.”

  “What’s that?”

  “If we hadn’t learnt much about the subject, we were always sure we’d passed. We were too ignorant to know how much we didn’t know.” She’d not appreciate being reminded that failure was always a possibility, but he ploughed on. “Those were the exams some of us failed.”

  “That’s a great comfort.”

  “Now just hang on. The
re’s the other side. Once in a while some of us really did have a firm grip on the subject.” He had to smile. In his own case and in Jack Mills’s, that hadn’t been too often. “Immediately after those tests we were convinced we’d failed because we were acutely aware that no matter how much we knew, there was always a hell of a lot more we should have known. But that didn’t mean we hadn’t done well.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Of course. I’ll bet you’re doing the selfsame thing; indeed I’ll bet you’ve aced it.”

  He heard her sigh. “I’m not so sure.”

  “Come on. Cheer up. Even if you’re right”—he glanced around to be sure he couldn’t be overheard—“I’ll still love you . . . darling.”

  “I know and . . . I love you, Barry.”

  He pursed his lips, grinned, and made an okay sign with his finger and thumb.

  “Barry . . . ?” He heard the hesitation. “I’d like to see you soon, but I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Dad and Mum think I should be home in Newry now to wait for the results.”

  Damnation, he thought. But he said, “It’s maybe not such a bad thing to head home.” At that moment he’d not mind being able to have a few words with his folks about his own troubles, but they were in Australia. Although what his dad would say if Barry ended up in court was not something he wanted to think about.

  “I knew you’d understand.”

  “There are times families come in handy, and this is one of them.”

  “Dad’s picking me up here at seven, but I’ll be back on Saturday morning, and I promise if I get any results before that, I’ll phone you at once.”

  “I’ll never speak to you again if you don’t.”

  “Barry!”

  “I’m as anxious as you to hear.” Even, he thought, if my reasons for anxiety are a bit different from yours. “Listen,” he said, “you go home. Try not to worry too much. Worrying won’t change anything . . .” A fine one you are, Barry Laverty, he thought, to be giving that advice. “And I’ll see you on Saturday. I’ll pick you up at one. The wedding’s at two.”