An Irish Country Wedding by Patrick Taylor Page A

suddenly and must have caught something in O’Reilly’s expression.
    “Och, no, Doctor. Nothing like that,” Helen laughed. “He was the perfect gentleman. Just wanted to see me get on, you know. He give me no peace. I done science up to Junior Certificate. Got three distinctions, so I did. He kept after me until I said I’d do sci ence for Senior. I was only sixteen,” she said, “but anyroad, he gave me extra classes, kept me at it for two whole years.” She shrugged. “He wanted me to go to university, but I never did.” She shrugged. “That’s for highheejins, so it is. I could have gone for a secretary’s course, but, och.” She shrugged again. “I’ve done all right as a shop assistant and I liked my work at the mill, you know.”
    O’Reilly leant across the table. “Would you have liked to go to Queen’s?”
    She sighed. “Honest to God?”
    He nodded.
    “Aye. I would, but I’m the oldest. My da wanted us all to get our Seniors at least. Said with that none of us would have to do the kind of work he does. Me ma, she was a shifter in the mill. Brought in good money — ”
    And she died of ovarian cancer three years ago, O’Reilly thought. “I understand,” he said.
    “I know you do, sir. You were quare nor kind to her.” A tear dropped.
    He waited, sensing that Helen Hewitt would be offended if he tried to comfort her.
    She took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, sniffed, looked him in the eye. “We could use a bit of the ould doh-ray-mi while I’m looking for a proper job, like.”
    “You can start right now, if you like,” O’Reilly said. “The pay’s not a king’s ransom, but the work’s light. I’ll give you two pounds a week. Today’s Wednesday so it would only be one quid this week. Cash. I can’t afford to pay your benefits. I’m sorry. I still have to give Kinky her wages.”
    “That’s right decent, sir,” she said. “And we all want Kinky back. The job’ll only be for a wee while anyway, but it’ll help. I know that. Now, what does youse want me to do?”
    “The phone’s in the hall,” O’Reilly said. “When it rings, you answer it, then you have to decide, as best you can, if the caller needs to talk to one of us doctors on the phone, whether they need to come here to the surgery at once, come to the next surgery, or wait a wee while until Doctor Laverty or myself can get to their house. If they sound really sick, then one of us doctors will need to rush out at once. You’ll do no harm if you lean on the side of caution.”
    She frowned. “It doesn’t sound too tricky.” She puffed her Woodbine.
    “It’s not. Mind you, Kinky’s had thirty years’ experience and she knows everybody in the village and the townland.” He shifted in his seat. “Most of the time one of us will be here, and if you’re uncertain you can always ask. If we’re both out, it’s up to you to decide if the customer can wait or if you’ll have to get an ambulance to take them to the Royal. The number of the ambulance is by the phone.”
    Her frown deepened. She crushed out her smoke. “I thought you’d have to be a doctor or a nurse to do that there stuff.”
    “Not at all.” O’Reilly let his pipe go out. “If we’re not here, anyone who’s bleeding, having trouble breathing, vomiting, having pains in their chest, or severe pain anywhere goes to hospital. Most of the rest, flus, backaches, rashes — ”
    “Like my eczema?”
    “Exactly. They’ll have to wait.”
    She leant back in her chair. “Sure I can give it a try. Do you, Doctor O’Reilly, have any notion of how many calls you get in a day?”
    Fingal had to think. “I dunno. Half a dozen, maybe less, unless there’s a flu epidemic on, then it’s more, but this isn’t flu season. Just at the moment, the bloody thing’s hardly stopped ringing, but it’s folks asking after Kinky, wanting to know if we need anything. Why do you ask?”
    “I’m going to be bored stiff.”
    O’Reilly caught his