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Authors: Patrick Taylor
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Kinky.”
“And don’t I know it very well? And haven’t I been housekeeping here since you got off that big battleship when the war was over and you came here?”
“You’re right.”
“Neither the one of us is getting any younger . . . and . . .”—she headed for the door—“neither is my chicken soup. I’ll have to tend to it at once.”
“Kinky?” O’Reilly settled back against the cushion. “Thanks for the beef tea.”
“It’s nothing.” She hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll be bringing your soup up on a tray. Would you like me to ask young Doctor Laverty to join you for his lunch?”
“I would.”
“I’ll see to it, so.” She left.
Fingal O’Reilly smiled. Not for the first time he wondered just how an old bachelor man like himself would have managed without her. She could be as fussy as a mother hen, authoritarian as a sergeant major, and diplomatic as an ambassador. Although
he
ran the practice, there was no doubt about who ran Number 1 Main Street, Ballybucklebo.
He cleared his throat, reached over to the coffee table, picked up his half-moon spectacles from where he had left them, stuck them on his nose, and opened the book. He hadn’t read the Hornblower stories for years, and when he saw the handwriting inside the front cover, he gasped.
To Fingal on our engagement. With all my love, Deidre
.
He let the book fall into his lap.
He swallowed hard. Closed his eyes and felt the prickling behind the lids. Christ Almighty, you idiot, he berated himself, how could you have forgotten
she
gave you that book? How could you have forgotten
when
she gave you that book? Of all the books on the shelves, why in the name of the wee man did you ask Kinky to get you that one, when you’re not at your best and the last thing you need to be reminded of is why you are still a bachelor. As if you didn’t remember every bloody day, the golden girl, your bride of six months, snuffed out by a German bomb in 1941. Twenty-three years ago.
What did Kinky call you last night? An
amadán
. She was right.
He opened his eyes, lifted the book, reread the inscription, and firmly closed the cover. He knew that amputees, years after losing a limb, could for a fleeting moment be vividly conscious of its presence. But they must accept it is gone, as must he.
And yet . . . and yet, he still thought of her. Deidre, named for the Celtic princess, Deidre of the Sorrows. On their honeymoon night she’d quoted a line from the
Táin Bó Cúailgne—The Cattle Raid of Cooley
—the first epic in European history. He could remember her every word. “Deidre saw a raven drinking blood on the snow, and shesaid . . . ‘I could love a man with those three colours: hair like a raven, cheeks like blood and body like snow.’ And I do love you, Fingal.”
Bugger it. It must be the bloody bronchitis that had knocked some of the stuffing out of him, letting in these melancholy thoughts. He’d be all right once this damn chest had cleared up and he was back in harness. If medical practice was no substitute for a wife, it was certainly a demanding mistress and had filled the empty spaces for him, along with his lifelong interest in rugby football and his enjoyment of a day’s wildfowling with Arthur Guinness for company.
He wriggled to a more comfortable position. As soon as his chest was better, he’d see if Barry would look after the shop for a day, and he, O’Reilly, would go down to Strangford Lough for a day’s duck hunting. When Barry had had his knickers knotted about his love life and his professional life the first month he’d been here, hadn’t O’Reilly suggested a day’s trout fishing to the boy as a good way of clearing his mind?
And maybe, just maybe, it was time to go and see Kitty O’Hallorhan again. Ever since he’d taken her to Sonny and Maggie’s wedding, they’d met once every week or so to rehash old times. He’d been a medical student and she’d been a student nurse back in Dublin, and he
“And don’t I know it very well? And haven’t I been housekeeping here since you got off that big battleship when the war was over and you came here?”
“You’re right.”
“Neither the one of us is getting any younger . . . and . . .”—she headed for the door—“neither is my chicken soup. I’ll have to tend to it at once.”
“Kinky?” O’Reilly settled back against the cushion. “Thanks for the beef tea.”
“It’s nothing.” She hesitated in the doorway. “I’ll be bringing your soup up on a tray. Would you like me to ask young Doctor Laverty to join you for his lunch?”
“I would.”
“I’ll see to it, so.” She left.
Fingal O’Reilly smiled. Not for the first time he wondered just how an old bachelor man like himself would have managed without her. She could be as fussy as a mother hen, authoritarian as a sergeant major, and diplomatic as an ambassador. Although
he
ran the practice, there was no doubt about who ran Number 1 Main Street, Ballybucklebo.
He cleared his throat, reached over to the coffee table, picked up his half-moon spectacles from where he had left them, stuck them on his nose, and opened the book. He hadn’t read the Hornblower stories for years, and when he saw the handwriting inside the front cover, he gasped.
To Fingal on our engagement. With all my love, Deidre
.
He let the book fall into his lap.
He swallowed hard. Closed his eyes and felt the prickling behind the lids. Christ Almighty, you idiot, he berated himself, how could you have forgotten
she
gave you that book? How could you have forgotten
when
she gave you that book? Of all the books on the shelves, why in the name of the wee man did you ask Kinky to get you that one, when you’re not at your best and the last thing you need to be reminded of is why you are still a bachelor. As if you didn’t remember every bloody day, the golden girl, your bride of six months, snuffed out by a German bomb in 1941. Twenty-three years ago.
What did Kinky call you last night? An
amadán
. She was right.
He opened his eyes, lifted the book, reread the inscription, and firmly closed the cover. He knew that amputees, years after losing a limb, could for a fleeting moment be vividly conscious of its presence. But they must accept it is gone, as must he.
And yet . . . and yet, he still thought of her. Deidre, named for the Celtic princess, Deidre of the Sorrows. On their honeymoon night she’d quoted a line from the
Táin Bó Cúailgne—The Cattle Raid of Cooley
—the first epic in European history. He could remember her every word. “Deidre saw a raven drinking blood on the snow, and shesaid . . . ‘I could love a man with those three colours: hair like a raven, cheeks like blood and body like snow.’ And I do love you, Fingal.”
Bugger it. It must be the bloody bronchitis that had knocked some of the stuffing out of him, letting in these melancholy thoughts. He’d be all right once this damn chest had cleared up and he was back in harness. If medical practice was no substitute for a wife, it was certainly a demanding mistress and had filled the empty spaces for him, along with his lifelong interest in rugby football and his enjoyment of a day’s wildfowling with Arthur Guinness for company.
He wriggled to a more comfortable position. As soon as his chest was better, he’d see if Barry would look after the shop for a day, and he, O’Reilly, would go down to Strangford Lough for a day’s duck hunting. When Barry had had his knickers knotted about his love life and his professional life the first month he’d been here, hadn’t O’Reilly suggested a day’s trout fishing to the boy as a good way of clearing his mind?
And maybe, just maybe, it was time to go and see Kitty O’Hallorhan again. Ever since he’d taken her to Sonny and Maggie’s wedding, they’d met once every week or so to rehash old times. He’d been a medical student and she’d been a student nurse back in Dublin, and he
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