An Irish Country Wedding by Patrick Taylor Page B

breath. He’d been so sure she’d take the job.
    She cocked her head to one side. “Would it be all right if maybe I done a bit of dusting and hoovering too?” She pointed at the table’s mahogany top. “No harm to you, sir, but if you let all these here crumbs lie about,” she bent and looked under before straightening up, “and on the carpet it’ll be like sending the mice printed invitations.”
    O’Reilly guffawed then said, “No offence taken. I’d be more than happy to take you up on your offer.” He hesitated, did some mental arithmetic, after all Kinky would not be eating at Number One, and said, “You do that, Helen, and I’ll up your wages to two pound ten.”
    She shook her head. “I’d rather the two pounds and a wee favour, so I would.”
    “Go on.”
    “I’ll be looking for full-time work, you know, but if I’m here I can’t follow up on applications. I’d not tie up your phone, sir. I know it’s for the patients to call in on and all, but if mebbe I could enquire about jobs once in a while?”
    “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “If you land an interview, try to fix it for a morning when either Doctor Laverty or I are in the house and can answer the phone while you’re out.”
    “I could have the time off for to go for it?” She stood, beamed down on him, and said, “The whole village knows you pretend to be an ould targe — ”
    He didn’t pretend, he thought. He never hid his temper.
    “But we’ve seen through youse. I have, anyroad, Doctor O’Reilly, you’re the kindest man in County Down.” She was grinning from ear to ear.
    O’Reilly cleared his throat, blew out his cheeks, made a hah-hming noise—and blushed bright red. When he finally collected himself, he said, “Last details. You’re on duty now until five. After that we can manage. I don’t get too many calls in the evening, and we’ll not need you at weekends.” Kindest man? My aunt Fanny Jane. The cheek of the girl, and yet he really couldn’t be angry with her.
    Helen had returned to looking demure. “Yes, sir,” she said, and bobbed her head.
    “Exactly. Tomorrow I’d like you to start at eight. Surgery starts at nine so you give me a list before that of patients needing home visits from Doctor Laverty and myself. And bring it up to date at lunch time.”
    “I’ll do that.”
    “And now,” he said, “have you had your lunch?”
    She shook her head.
    O’Reilly’s stomach grumbled. Still, the ready-to-grill Welsh rarebits that the bachelor undertaker Mister Coffin had shyly brought round last night would feed three. “You’ll stay for lunch,” he said. It wasn’t a question.
    With her mouth slightly open, she looked round at the dining room’s elegant bog oak table and chairs, the matching sideboard, and then up at the cut-glass chandelier. Her voice was hushed when she said, “Oh, I couldn’t possibly, sir,” and he could practically hear her thinking, This is far too grand for the likes of me. It bloody well wasn’t and although he didn’t say it out loud, he was delighted by the chance of dining with a girl who had managed to rise above her station and qualify for university. The fact that she had worked so hard and wasn’t going struck O’Reilly as a waste. A bloody awful waste. “Rubbish, Helen Hewitt,” he said. “You’re staying, but I am going to make you sing for your supper   … or lunch.”
    “How?”
    “Can you use a gas grill?”
    She gave him one of those looks that say “Is the pope Catholic?” “Would you ask a ship’s captain if he could tie a reef knot?” she said.
    “Grand,” said O’Reilly. “Now, I don’t usually put my guests to work but, under the circumstances, let me show you to the kitchen.”

 
    10
    And O’er and O’er the Sand
    “Sure you don’t mind staying a bit longer, Helen?” Barry asked.
    She looked up from a leather-bound book. “Away you go, Doctor Laverty. I’m happy here in your lounge.”
    Helen Hewitt had