An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War Read Free Page A

was patting her hair back into place and her breathing was slow and regular, but there was an attractive flush on her cheeks.
    Behind her, yachts made valiant endeavours to race across the waters of Belfast Lough on what was probably the only day of the year when they were so smooth they could reflect in mirror image the hulls and flapping snowy sails. On the far shore, even the usually brooding Carrickfergus Castle seemed to be a lighter shade of grey and much less menacing, and above the blue of the Antrim Hills melded gently as their colours softened into the cerulean of the sky.
    â€œAll right,” he said. “You win.” For a moment the place was deserted, so he picked her up and kissed her before setting her back on her feet.
    â€œI love you, Fingal,” she said, “and I know you were going to—”
    He laid a finger across her warm lips, fished out the little box, and flipped open the lid to reveal a simple gold band with a small solitaire diamond. “Deirdre, I love you. I always will.” He still couldn’t quite come to the point and instead said, “You know old Doctor Flanagan’s offered me a partnership?”
    â€œI do, Fingal,” she said.
    â€œAnd you know he’s going to give me a raise next January?”
    â€œI do, Fingal,” she repeated, quietly.
    â€œThen, will you marry me?” And bugger the stupid man and his Irish terrier emerging from the glen.
    â€œI will, Fingal,” she said, levelly. No screams of delight. No simpering. No histrionics. Deirdre Mawhinney wasn’t that kind of girl when it came to serious matters. “Yes, I will, Fingal. Gladly.” She held out her hand. “Please put it on for me.”
    He did, feeling the warmth of her hand and, glory be, it fit.
    He heard her deep indrawing of breath over the susurration of wavelets on the shingle and the piping cries of a small flock of oystercatchers flying along the tide line, skimming the washed-up brown sea wrack that in its dying gave the sea air its salty tang.
    â€œIt’s beautiful,” she whispered. “Thank you, darling.” She kissed the little stone and looked into his eyes. He saw hers sparkle and fill until a single tear, bright as the gem on her finger, trickled down her cheek. “I’m so happy,” she said.
    And Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, champion boxer, international rugby football player, tough as old boots, looked at this petite soft woman—and felt his own tears start and his heart swell.

3
    In Holy Wedlock
    No teams of wild horses had appeared and O’Reilly, Kitty, and Barry Laverty sat in the second pew of the bride’s side of the peacefully flower-bedecked little church. Today, Tuesday, the 26th of April, was the occasion of the nuptials of O’Reilly’s housekeeper of twenty years, the long-widowed Mrs. Maureen “Kinky” Kincaid née O’Hanlon, to the widower milkman Mister Archie Auchinleck.
    â€œI now pronounce you man and wife,” said Mister Robinson, with that lightness of voice common to all clergymen who are coming to the end of a wedding ceremony that has gone off without any calamities. No one had, for example, pulled a stunt like one a month ago. When a local lad had repeated, “With my worldly goods I thee endow,” someone yelled, “There goes his bicycle and that’s all she’s getting, for your man hasn’t a pot to piss in.” The story had gone round the village in record time.
    But today’s ceremony had contained no such outburst. “What God hath joined together let no man put asunder. You may kiss the bride.” Kinky, her silver chignon shining in the sunlight filtering through a window high in the nave, beamed at Archie Auchinleck. He, resplendent in a rented morning suit, his hair shiny with Brilliantine and precisely parted in the centre, bent, lifted the veil from his new bride’s face, and planted a resounding