An Irish Country Wedding

  O’Reilly inclined his head.

  Barry grinned, and not only at Bishop’s discomfort. Two days ago O’Reilly had spoken to Dapper Frew, who had cleared things with the vendors, all hush-hush of course until after this meeting. They’d agreed that as they would be keeping the nonreturnable £150 from the deposit, they’d accept £1,550 from Donal and Julie instead of the £1,700 they’d originally offered.

  Bertie said sulkily, “But half of that refund’s mine. I should get seventy-five pounds.”

  “You can go and whistle for it, Bertie. Whose name’s on the offer? Who’s the refund cheque going to be made out to?”

  “But … but—”

  “And I’ll tell you one thing more, Bertie Bishop. You told me before council met that you’d slipped Councillor Wilson fifty quid for proposing the roadworks so you could play the innocent and I could put in the offer on a sure thing.”

  Bertie was squirming in his chair like a fresh lugworm that had been impaled on a fisherman’s hook.

  “You can foot the bill for that too.”

  So Bertie had set the whole thing up. Knew in advance it was a shoo-in for him and McCluggage to make a quick substantial profit. “But that means I’m going to lose two hundred pounds,” Bertie said.

  Barry thought he sounded like a man on the verge of losing his firstborn child.

  “Bertie,” O’Reilly said, not unkindly, “if I were you, I’d swallow your loss gracefully.” He nodded at Barry. “I have a witness to your scheme. I’ve no idea what the penalties are for breach of public trust, failure of fiduciary duty, bribing councillors for profit. Could be jail. And it wouldn’t do Councillor Wilson any good either.” He tutted. “I don’t think making it common knowledge would help your next election campaign much, but perhaps that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.”

  Bishop stuttered, “B-b-b-b-but you said at the very start today that not a word of this would get out.”

  “Sorry,” said O’Reilly, “but did anybody hear me say that?”

  All Barry remembered was a small inclination of O’Reilly’s head.

  After a suitable silence, Bertie seemed to rally. “Now, hang about, O’Reilly, youse doctors can’t give out confidential information about your patients, so youse can’t. I know that for a fact and I’m your patient, so I am.” He held up the finger from which O’Reilly had drained pus last July. A smile started.

  “True,” O’Reilly said. “Very true.”

  “So,” Bertie said smugly, “youse can’t say nothing about me. I’ve got you, so I have.”

  It was as if this partial triumph over his nemesis almost made up for Bishop’s impending financial loss. Bertie’s expression was that of a small boy about to stick out his tongue and say “So there. Nyah, nyah, nyuh, nyah, nyah.”

  “Indeed, Bertie,” said O’Reilly, “you are our patient and doctors must keep all medical information in confidence. But we’re not Catholic priests after confession. We have no obligation not to divulge your worldly sins.”

  “Och, no,” Bertie said, jerking an arm in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. “Och, no, youse wouldn’t. Would youse?” His smile had vanished.

  “Doctor Laverty?” O’Reilly asked.

  “We could be persuaded to say nothing,” Barry said.

  “I hope so,” McCluggage said. He scowled at Bertie. “I’ve my reputation to think of too, you know. I should never have let you talk me into this swindle.”

  Barry said, “You two are partners in the shirt factory?”

  “Aye,” McCluggage said, clearly ignoring Bertie’s scowl. “Bad cess to it.”

  “And eight weeks ago you fired a woman called Aggie Arbuthnot?”

  McCluggage nodded and said, “And you’re the doctor who wrote her a line, asking if she could have a job sitting down?”

  “I am, and I’m going to ask again.” Barry watched McCluggage’s face as he must be digesting the deeper implications of what Barry was suggesting.

  “And if I say yes, you two’ll keep your mouths shut about—?”

  “Naturally,” Barry said. “As long as there are no reprisals and you promise to treat her properly.”

  “I’ll do that.” McCluggage hadn’t hesitated for a second.

  Bertie snarled, “How can you, Ivan, you eejit? Where’s the money coming from, for God’s sake?”

  McCluggage’s pencil moustache went up at one side as his lip curled. “That’s not a problem, Bertie.” His voice was a low hiss. “As managing director, I’ve just made an executive decision, and seeing the secretary’s my wife, you’re out-voted.” He turned to O’Reilly. “Doctor O’Reilly. You said you came to save me money. You have, and you’ve made me see what a greedy, unprincipled skiver I’ve been. I’m sorry. I owe you one, sir. Doctor Laverty, you needn’t worry about Aggie. She’s a bloody good worker. Been with the firm for years. I didn’t want to let her go, but money is tight. All those man-made fibre shirts coming from overseas, you know.” He scowled at Bertie and Barry understood who had made the decision to fire Aggie. “She can have a job as a buttonholer. I’ll need to train her, but once she’s ready it’ll pay a bit more than a folder and she can work sitting down.”

  “Jesus, Ivan, where the hell are we going to get another hundred and eighty pounds a year? Use your loaf, for God’s sake,” Bertie said.

  “I have,” McCluggage said. “I told you I’d made a decision.” His voice became pontifical. “Due to falling revenue, but the pressing need for a buttonholer, the junior director … that’s you, Bertie, is reluctantly going to offer to take a pay cut of two hundred pounds a year, and the rest of the board, that’s me and the missus, is going to accept his offer … or we’ll vote him off the board. You and your bloody ‘It’s a sure thing as long as we keep our traps shut.’ You’re a right regal bollix, Bertie Bishop, so y’are. I’m only letting you stay on at all because I don’t want to spend months feeling guilty about firing you. And we do need your capital in the company.”

  Barry watched Bertie turn puce, but keep his counsel. There was nothing more he could say.

  “Now,” said Ivan McCluggage, offering his hand first to O’Reilly and then to Barry, “we’ve a deal. Can one of you tell Aggie to come in on Monday?”

  Barry nodded.

  “And you’ll say nothing about the house that we’re not buying anymore?”

  “You have our word,” O’Reilly said. “As long as you withdraw your offer first thing tomorrow.”

  “I’ll speak to your man Frew.”

  “Which’ll save us the trouble, Doctor Laverty. Dapper’ll know what to do.” O’Reilly smiled.

  “The vendors can keep half the deposit … one hundred and fifty pounds,” McCluggage said, and looked at Bertie. “No skin off my nose.”

  O’Reilly turned to Barry. “Thank you for your help too,” he said. “Now Bertie, Mister McCluggage, if you’ll excuse us, Doctor Laverty and I were going to pop over to the Duck, but we’ll not be offended if you don’t join us. I’m sure you’ll have other matters to discuss.”

  “Come on, Bertie,” McCluggage said. “It’s time we were going, and thank you both again, Doctors.” McCluggage bowed to O’Reilly and Barry in turn, then strode from the room, Bertie scuttling behind like a chastened hound at its master’s heels.

  O’Reilly collapsed into an armchair beside Barry and took a huge puff from his pipe, said, “Thanks be, but that all worked out very agreeably. And Donal and Julie won’t even need to know who fixed it. I prefer it that way.”

  “The Lord,” said Barry, “and Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly both move in a mysterious way their wonders to perform.”

  “More or less by William Cowper, 1731 to 1800,” O’Reilly said as he led the way to the stairs. “When are you going to tell Aggie? She’ll be coming to the do on Saturday. You could speak to her then.”

  “If you don’t mind. It’s your big day after all.” He went downstairs at Fingal’s shoulder.

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, ??
?wait ’til then, Barry. Probably not a bad idea to get things confirmed from Dapper that McCluggage is a man of his word before we tell her. Wouldn’t want to get her hopes up before we’re absolutely sure. Tell her at the wedding. There’ll be enough happiness to go round.” He waited then said, “How do you feel?”

  “About what?”

  “That’s the second nonmedical problem you’ve fixed all by yourself since you came here. Saving Butch was the first.”

  Barry mulled that over, then said, “Very good. So good in fact,” he held open the front door, “that when we get to the Duck, I’ll let you buy the first pint.”

  42

  Use the Gods’ Gifts Wisely

  Barry rose when he saw who Kinky was ushering into the dining room. Jenny Bradley remained sitting.

  “Doctor Bradley,” O’Reilly said, rising, “may I introduce you to Lord John MacNeill, marquis of Ballybucklebo?”

  Jenny, blushing, scrambled to push back her chair and stand.

  “Please, sit where you are, Doctor,” the marquis said. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Jenny subsided into her seat, bowed her head, and said, “My lord.”

  “May I?” The marquis indicated the last vacant chair.

  “Of course. Today’s the first of July. I take it you are going to give Helen the scholarship, John? I’ve been on eggs for the last three weeks.”

  So had Barry, ever since O’Reilly had confided the news about Helen’s chances for the MacNeill Bursary and told Barry to keep it to himself. He said quietly to Jenny, “Doctor O’Reilly’s trying to get Helen a scholarship to study medicine.”

  Jenny said, “Good for him. We need more women in the professions.”

  “I came to put you out of your misery,” the marquis said. “I’m happy to interpret ‘By July the first’ as meaning past midnight of June the thirtieth, last night. You two medical men will attest that the candidate ‘is of sufficiently robust spirit’?”

  “We can manage that, can’t we, Barry?” Fingal said, and grinned.

  Barry laughed. “I don’t think the question, my lord, is can Helen ‘stand the rigours of the aforesaid faculty.’ Can the faculty stand the rigours of having Helen. She is a very determined lady.”

  “She’ll have to be,” Jenny said quietly.

  “It’s hers,” the marquis said.

  “You,” said O’Reilly, “the most honourable Lord John MacNeill, marquis of Ballybucklebo, are a gentleman and a scholar, and the more so for coming round in person to tell us.”

  “Least I could do,” the marquis said. “Now do sit down and don’t let me interrupt your luncheon.”

  Barry sat and watched as O’Reilly danced a little jig. He was beaming. “Thank you, John. Thank you so very much,” he said. “I’ll have Helen in in a minute. Let you tell her.” He sat. “In the meantime, would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Thank you,” the marquis said. “I’ll help myself, and this, Fingal,” he handed O’Reilly a parcel wrapped in silver embossed paper, “is a little something for you and Kitty.”

  “Thank you, John.” O’Reilly gave the package a playful shake, smiled, and then looked round.

  Barry could tell his friend, for he no longer thought of Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly in any other way, was searching for somewhere to set the gift. Barry rose. “If you like, I’ll trot it upstairs.”

  “Please do,” said O’Reilly, handing it over, “and while you’re at it, ask Helen to come here. And there’s a brown paper parcel in the bay of the right bow window. Bring it too like a good lad.”

  Barry went into the upstairs lounge where Helen was dusting. “Another prezzy?” she said.

  “Aye,” said Barry, and set it on the carpet beside the brown-paper-wrapped one he was to take to Fingal. “Doctor O’Reilly would like you to come downstairs for a minute, Helen. He’s got something to tell you.” As Barry lifted the parcel he had to struggle to keep his face expressionless, his voice flat, but he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

  “Fair enough,” she said.

  Barry followed her into the dining room.

  Helen curtsied and said, “My lord.” She glanced at O’Reilly as if seeking reassurance.

  O’Reilly said, “This is Helen Hewitt, sir.”

  “I’m delighted to meet you, Helen,” the marquis said.

  Barry could see that she was quite overawed.

  “His lordship has something to tell you, Helen,” O’Reilly said. “Please come and sit here.” He indicated what had been Barry’s seat.

  She sat as if the chair were made of delicate porcelain and not sturdy bog oak.

  “Doctor O’Reilly has told me, Helen, that you have the necessary entrance requirements and you’d like to go to Queen’s medical school.”

  Jenny Bradley whispered, “Good for you, Helen.”

  Helen nodded and said, “Yes, sir. I would.”

  “He also tells me, and please don’t be embarrassed, that money is holding you back. That’s a shame, but I can do something about it.”

  Barry watched Helen’s smile flash and as quickly be replaced by a frown. She took a deep breath and brought both hands up to lie on the tablecloth, one clasping the other so tightly that her knuckles blanched. Dear God, she’s going to refuse, he thought. He knew how fiercely proud Helen was.

  She said levelly, “That’s very generous of you, my lord, and no harm to you, and I don’t mean to be rude, but, aye, it is true we are short of cash.” Barry could understand how she must be struggling. Finally she said, “It is very kind, but I couldn’t accept your money, sir. My da would kill me if he thought I’d taken charity.”

  O’Reilly started, “It’s not like—” but the marquis leant forward and put his hand over hers. “Helen,” he said, and he spoke to her as if there was no one else in the room, “I can understand how much you want to go. Your trying to refuse charity is one of the bravest things I’ve ever heard, but no one is offering you that.”

  Her gaze never left his. “I … I don’t understand.”

  “I am able to award a MacNeill Bursary to qualified residents of County Down. You will receive sufficient money to pay your tuition and cover your living expenses. Here,” he offered her a buff envelope, “that’s the certificate of award.”

  She frowned, drew back like a cat sensing danger. “So, it’s not you, personally, being generous, sir? I’ve heard of lordships doing kind things like that. It’s the estate, like?”

  He chuckled. “I wish I was so rich. But you’re right, Helen, it is the estate,” the marquis said. “It is in what’s called ‘the gift’ of the head of the family. And that’s me. My great-great-grandfather, Richard O’Neill, set up the bursary in 1849, but in 1899, my great-grandfather, William MacNeill, changed it so it could be awarded to young women as well as young men. He was wounded during the seige of Sevastopol in the Crimean War and was extremely impressed by the work being done in the barracks hospital by Florence Nightingale and Mary Seacole. He thought they should be doctors.”

  He advanced the envelope. “And so, in that fine tradition, Helen, you have earned this by your own efforts, and your candidacy has been advanced by someone I trust. It is not charity.”

  Barry looked at Fingal, who was studying his fingernails.

  “Well done, Helen,” Jenny said quietly.

  Helen screwed her eyes tight shut, blew out her breath, and opened her eyes. “I don’t believe it. Me?” She pointed at herself. “Wee Helen Hewitt from Ballybucklebo’s going to Queen’s for to study to be a doctor?” She grinned and accepted the envelope. “Dear God,” she said, “it’s a miracle, so it is.” She beamed at the marquis. “I never knew about a thing like this, and I never asked no one, so I didn’t.” She stared at the envelope. “Why me, sir?”

  Barry saw O’Reilly put his index finger over his lips and look at the marquis, who shook his head. He turned to Helen. “You come recommended by Doctor O’Reilly. That’s enough for me.”

  “You done this,
sir?” She turned to O’Reilly. “Thank you very, very much.”

  He shook his head. “No, Helen. You did. You stayed on at school. You worked hard. You passed the exams. I merely spoke to his lordship.”

  Not quite, Fingal, Barry thought. I know you chased your surgical friends for information, pulled all the strings you could, but the knowledge goes no further than me.

  “And … and I can go to Queen’s this September and study medicine? Just like that?” Helen’s smile at O’Reilly was radiant.

  The marquis chuckled. “Not quite,” he said. “You’ll have to apply, show my letter to the right people, and I’m not quite sure how the actual application to the faculty—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Barry said, “I had to do it in 1957. Doctor Bradley started in 1956. The procedures won’t have changed much, will they, Jenny?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said. “It was pretty straightforward. Fill in forms, show your exam marks, pay a registration fee—”

  The marquis said, “The scholarship takes care of it.”

  Barry said, “No time like the present. If it’s all right with you, Fingal, and you don’t mind covering, Jenny, if I can have the afternoon off?” He looked at O’Reilly.

  “Of course.”

  “Fine by me,” Jenny said.

  “I’ll run you up to Queen’s, Helen. We’ll have to see the bursar, get the forms filled in. Show him his lordship’s certificate. Maybe I can speed things up a bit.”

  Helen looked from face to face, tears streaming down her own. “I don’t know who to thank first.”

  “Huh,” said O’Reilly, “you can thank me—”

  Barry was startled. His boss always shrank from profuse thanks.

  “—by passing every exam first go. Not like some people I once knew.”

  Barry wondered what that was about.

  “I will, sir,” she said, and sniffed. “I feel such an eejit blubbing like this, but … oh dear—” She dashed her hands across her eyes. “Thank youse all. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy in all my whole life.”

  “Not quite,” Jenny said. “You’ll discover that feeling when you open the letter telling you you’ve been accepted. It’s still tougher for women to get in.”