An Irish Country Love Story (10 page)

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
thwack
s.

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.

O'Reilly knew this might be her and the marquis's last chance to ride to the hounds. “John told me last autumn when he and I were snipe shooting that he was being forced to sell his thoroughbred hunters. The family will keep on a couple of hacks like Lars's mount. John'll continue to provide kennels for the hounds because it's the annual subscriptions of the members of the hunt that pay for them and the hunt servants. It's sad,” O'Reilly said. “They both love hunting, but it's a huge expense running the estate.”

“I didn't know about the horses,” Kitty said. “It is a pity, but I suppose the days of keeping a stableful of hunters is over for the MacNeills. Life is changing for the aristocracy.”

The three equestrians were surrounded by the pack of liver, white, and black hounds that milled round the horses' legs, barking and baying, legs stiff, tails erect.

“The dogs are raring to go. I'd better get things moving,” O'Reilly said. He raised his voice and called, “Right. Let's get ourselves organised. You all know the hills, and we don't want to be tripping over each other. We need to cover as much ground as possible.” He turned to the marquis. “So I propose, my lord, that you, Lady Myrna, and Mister O'Reilly take the centre section, which is about a quarter of a mile wide and mostly heather and bracken. Better going for the horses. But please hang on here until the rest of the search party's in place.”

“We'll do that,” the marquis said. “Let the hounds quarter it. If the dog's there they'll find him and they won't hurt him. They like other dogs.”

“Thank you, sir.” O'Reilly turned back to the others. “I need you folks to space out at equal intervals from both sides of the area the hunt will be covering to the far edges of the woods and thickets.” The group were all experienced outdoorsmen and needed no further instructions from him. Surely if poor old Jasper were out here he'd be found? He might even remember the culvert he'd taken cover in as a puppy where Sonny had found Jasper sixteen years ago.

“Now,” said O'Reilly, “this morning we'll be climbing up to the crest, where Mister Bishop will have lunch laid on beside the old watchtower. Let's hope we've found Jasper by then. If not, we'll take a break and then cover the other side of the hills as far as the Comber Road in the afternoon. At least it will be easier going downhill.”

A piped series of
pee-wit, pee-wit
came from overhead and he looked up. “Green plover, also called lapwing,” he said to Kitty, who had been a city girl until she'd married him. The birds, with their green-tinted backs, white bellies, and black breasts, throats, crowns, and crests, tumbled across the cold, eggshell-blue sky.

“They really are pretty,” she said. “I've never seen them before. I remember how much your father loved birds. How you and Lars set up a feeding table right outside his window in Dublin.”

O'Reilly smiled. “Father did love his birds,” he said. “Bless him. So does Lars.”

Lars's mare whinnied loudly. O'Reilly looked over to see her tossing her head and mane, Lars with eyes wide, clenching his teeth, his hands clutching the reins, and Myrna sidling her horse over and calming the animal.

“I think,” O'Reilly called, “it's time to get moving. Any questions?” He waited, but none came. “Let's get started.” He produced a referee's whistle. “I'll give us a wheep on this when we're all ready so we can start together.”

There were general mutterings of assent. O'Reilly waited as searchers strode past him to take up their positions. Patches of snow were scattered on the lower slopes, and the ridgeline was covered and glistening in the weak morning sunlight. The breath of horses, dogs, and people hung on the crisp, still air.

“So, big brother,” O'Reilly said as he moved to stand in front of Lars's mount and stroke the horse's soft cheek, smelling her hay-sweet breath, “since when have you been riding?”

“Since he started coming to Ballybucklebo House to help us give most of our lands to the National Trust,” said the marquis.

“Your brother, Fingal, is working like a demon for us,” said Myrna. “And we're so grateful. It looks as though we'll still have the rights to live there, farm there, and shoot there. He is remarkably industrious and creative.” She looked at him and nodded her head. “But he's shy, and does not get nearly enough exercise. I've taken him in hand.”

Lars sighed and smiled. “She insists we go riding twice a week, and talked me into coming today. I've learned how to get on—”

“Mount,” Myrna said. “Mount. Let's get the terms right. I'd have thought solicitors were sticklers for exactitude when it comes to language.” She shook her head but was still smiling. “You, my dear Lars, may know about tort and
res ipsa loquitor,
and the names and breeding habits of hundreds of orchids, but when we started you couldn't tell a cannon from a pastern or a hock from a gaskin.”

“Those are parts of a horse, but I won't tell you which ones,” Lars said, glancing at Myrna with a grin.

“I'm sure I hardly know one end of a horse from the other.” Kitty smiled and winked at O'Reilly. “But I'm impressed. And you're learning, Lars?”

“So far, Kitty, I can walk and trot and we're working on my cantering…” He laughed.

Goodness, O'Reilly thought, my usually reserved brother seems to be coming out of himself.

“And so far—so far, I haven't fallen off.”

“There are only two kinds of horsemen,” said Myrna. “Those who have fallen off and those who are going to. You will, someday. But not today.”

This coming from a woman who not so long ago had been thrown and had fractured her now-healed femur. She'd been very brave throughout the whole thing and O'Reilly had got to know and like Lady Myrna Ferguson better and better.

“You'll be fine, Lars. This is Rubidium, thirty-seventh element in the periodic table. Ruby for short. She's as good a horse as there is. Gentle as a kitten. You'll be perfectly safe with Ruby.”

A voice O'Reilly recognised came from the left. Donal Donnelly had been released from work today by his boss, Bertie Bishop, to take part. “All set this side, sir.”

“Same here,” came from Lenny Brown on O'Reilly's right.

“Right, come on, Kitty. See you all for lunch,” O'Reilly said. “And no galloping, Lars. Kitty and I are off duty and don't want to be setting any broken bones.”

The marquis saluted by touching his crop to the peak of his hard hat.

O'Reilly took Kitty's hand and together they trudged fifty yards from the open area. Donal stood fifty yards farther out.

O'Reilly put his whistle between his lips, looked to each side, nodded to himself, and blew a long blast. “Hey on out, Arthur,” he said, and the big dog obeyed.

The small ploughed field smelt of earth, and mud clung to his boots. He didn't expect to find Jasper here. There seemed to be nowhere to hide, but they wouldn't know until they'd walked it. “Not finding the going too bad, pet?” O'Reilly asked.

“Not one bit,” she said, matching him pace for pace. “It feels so good to just walk in the open air. I wish I could take a walk when I'm at the hospital, but it's so darn busy I usually just grab a bite at mealtime and keep working.”