An Irish Country Wedding by Patrick Taylor

packet of Wills Wild Woodbine. They were, along with Park Drive and Strand, the cheapest cigarettes available.
    O’Reilly laughed. Not one patient in ten would have had the temerity to ask permission to smoke in his house. He admired her self-possession. But then he and Barry had known all about how feisty Helen Hewitt was ever since her run-in with Alice Moloney over some new hats. “Go right ahead,” he said, “although I’m supposed to tell you that doctors think smoking’s bad for you. That’s what my research colleagues say.” He struck a match, lit her cigarette, and fired up his pipe. “Didn’t used to be a bad thing. Folks thought you were odd if you didn’t smoke. Och well, ‘Times they are a changin’.’ They’ll be picking on the drink next, or a good Ulster fry.” He grinned at her and she grinned back, taking a quick draw on the cigarette. “You’ll not remember, Helen, but years ago there was a song about life’s good things called ‘It’s Illegal, It’s Immoral, or It Makes You Fat.’ I think we’re getting there. Soon some eejit’s going to start saying kiddies shouldn’t have sweeties.”
    “Aye,” she said. “They told us when we were wee smoking would stunt our growth, so it would, but sure I couldn’t wear high heels if I was any taller. And I do remember the song, sir. Them Beverly Sisters sung it, so they did.”
    “Good for you, Helen, and you’re right about the song,” said O’Reilly, and rose. “I’ll get you an ashtray.”
    “I hope, sir, you didn’t mind me phoning up to see if you might need a bit of help, but I’d only just found out about my job as re ceptionist at the Belfast Mill. I’m used to answering phones and I know that’s one of the things Mrs. Kincaid did here, so I thought there might be a temporary vacancy. And the gentlemen buyers seemed to like talking to me when they called.” She frowned. “I suppose I’m easy to talk to.”
    O’Reilly put a cut-glass ashtray on the tabletop beside her, sat, and looked hard at the young woman. He was sure the gentlemen buyers enjoyed chatting with such a good-looking girl, and probably not entirely because of her riveting conversation. And yet Helen seemed surprised that it should be so. “We could use help,” he said, “at least until Kinky gets back on her feet, so it’s likely you could be here for a couple of months.”
    “I didn’t know she was that sick,” Helen said. “If I’d known — ” She sighed. “God, I feel like a vulture, so I do.”
    O’Reilly said, “No need, Helen. Kinky’s fine. Honestly, but she’ll need time before she can get back to work, and I need someone to answer the phone. You couldn’t have come at a better time.”
    “Honest to God?”
    He nodded.
    “That would be great,” she said.
    “Just a couple of quick questions.”
    “Fire away.”
    “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-two this August.”
    “Did you finish school?”
    “Aye. Three years ago. I got my Junior Certificate in eight subjects.” She screwed up her face. “I hated Latin, but it was compulsory. Anyroad I went on and got Senior Certificate, and three Advanced levels too, in physics, chemistry, and biology.”
    O’Reilly whistled. He knew her widowed father was a builder’s labourer with a big family. Helen was working class. Usually such girls left school at fifteen, but Helen had stayed long enough to complete university entrance requirements, and in science at that. “Did many girls do sciences at your school?” he asked.
    She laughed. “At Sullivan Upper Grammar School in Holywood? Not at all. Most finished after Junior Certificate, one or two stayed on and did arts. Girls don’t do science.”
    “Sooo?” He let the question hang. This was fascinating.
    “There was this here science teacher — ”
    He heard the softness in her voice, saw a hint of mistiness in those green eyes.
    “Mister Wilcoxson. I think I was a wee bit in love with him, so I was.” Helen looked up