An Irish Country Wedding Read Online Free Page A

minutes since the ambulance had left. The house had felt hollow and empty to Barry without the stoic Corkwoman in her kitchen. He welcomed O’Reilly’s expansive presence now, even if he wasn’t taking the news in exemplary fashion.
    “Blue blazes. A bowel obstruction? Holy thundering Jasus, poor Kinky.”
    “I’m sorry, Fingal.” His senior’s nose tip had blanched, a sure sign the man was furious.
    “No need for you to bloody well apologise.” He hung up his coat so forcibly that Barry thought the coat-peg might be torn off the wall. “You didn’t make her sick.”
    Barry said, “I wasn’t apologising, Fingal. When I said ‘sorry’ I was expressing regret that Kinky’s sick, not accepting blame for anything.”
    “I know,” O’Reilly said. “I know, and I’m not angry with you, Barry. It’s not your fault. You’ve got her in good hands, and I understand why you didn’t take her to Belfast yourself. You could have panicked, but you didn’t. Mind you, I’m not surprised you did the right thing. You’ve learnt a lot since you came to work here. I trust you, son. Implicitly.”
    “Thank you, Fingal.” And he’s right. I could have panicked, Barry thought. Seeing Kinky so sick and feeling helpless was scary, and I didn’t let it beat me. Being scared by illness in others wasn’t an emotion allowed to doctors.
    O’Reilly continued, “I’m fit to be tied because she’s sick. Poor woman. Kinky’s had her share of grief.”
    “I know.” Barry swallowed. “She asked me to pack a bag for her and put a stuffed toy bunny in it. I never knew she had one. She called it her gorria mór .”
    “Irish for ‘big hare,’” said O’Reilly. “I suppose it’s a comfort to her for some reason. None of our business.”
    But Barry knew the reason. He’d gone to her tidy room and seen her gallery of faded photographs—family, friends, a farm house. On her bedside table a book lay open to where a rosebud had been pressed between the pages, and done so long ago, judging by its dryness. Next to it, two sepia-coloured pictures shared a silver frame. In one, a grinning young man with long dark hair parted to one side sat in a small boat, holding two salmon. In the other, coatless, shirtsleeves rolled up, he stood on a road between blackthorn hedges, right arm hanging low, ready to loft a “bullet”—a road bowling cannonball. The inscription was fading, but Barry could read it. To Maureen from your gorria mór, with all my love . It must have been the man’s pet name. The lump in Barry’s throat had nearly choked him. Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid, née O’Hanlon, had indeed had her “share of grief.” He understood now why she’d wanted the toy, but decided O’Reilly was right. It was Kinky’s business alone. No need to explain even to him. “She should be at the Royal by now,” Barry said. “I wish we knew what’s happening. My pal Jack Mills is going to admit her.”
    “The rugby player?”
    “That’s him. He promised to phone after he’d assessed her. Said he’d get an opinion from your friend Sir Donald Cromie too.”
    “In which case you and I must bide contented until we hear. I know you’re concerned for her, Barry, damn it all so am I, but worrying never changed the price of turnips.” O’Reilly turned. “Come on up to the lounge. I want to put my feet up.” He headed for the stairs and Barry followed.
    O’Reilly dropped heavily into an armchair by the fire and lit his pipe. Barry took the other comfortable chair. “You’re right about being patient, but it’s hard not to worry. I’d really like to hear what the surgeons think.” Did he, he wondered, want to hear purely from concern for Kinky or was there an element of needing to know if his diagnosis had been right? He said, “I saw her into the ambulance, gave her her things. She looked me straight in the eye and told me, ‘I’m going to be grand, so, never fear. Don’t you worry your head about me, but I do