Free An Irish Doctor in Peace and at War by Patrick Taylor

do that, sir,” Kinky said.
    â€œKitty? Packing of breakables? You’ve a softer touch than Barry or myself.”
    â€œI do have lots of newspaper and tissue paper for padding, so,” Kinky said.
    â€œAye, aye, sir,” Kitty said, and threw a mock naval salute.
    â€œDoctor Laverty, Donal Donnelly when he arrives with the van, and I will be the muscle, humping boxes out to the vehicle. But I think,” he looked at Archie, “I think, Archie, you should go home and be ready to meet us there. It’s not that long since you had a very bad back and I’d not want you to put it out again lifting boxes.”
    â€œThat’s considerate, sir. Is that all right with everybody?”
    â€œYou run along, dear,” Kinky said.
    â€œIf you’re sure I can’t help, I’ll be off, then. There’s still lots to do at the house,” Archie said.
    Kinky gave him a kiss and said, “I’ll see you soon, back at home, muirnín, and make sure the kettle’s on for I’m certain we’ll all need a cup of tea when we get there, bye. I’ll come in the moving van.”
    O’Reilly smiled to himself. It was the hallmark of all professional moving men that they seemed to run on a fuel of limitless cups of tea provided by the homeowners. “So,” he said, “lead the way, Mrs. Auchinleck.”
    *   *   *
    Kinky indeed took charge in her quarters. “Everything’s gone from the bedroom and I’ve washed the bed linen and made the bed for Doctor Laverty.”
    â€œThanks, Kinky,” he said.
    â€œBut all my pictures and ornaments have to go, and a couple of pieces of my own furniture like…” She pointed to a mahogany fire screen, embroidered with a galleon in full sail that she’d done herself in the late ’30s and early ’40s. It stood in front of the fire when not lit. “My books are in boxes already so, Doctors, if you’d not mind waiting for a shmall-little minute, I’d like to get Kitty started first then I’ll tell you what to do.”
    â€œOf course,” O’Reilly said.
    â€œAnd I’ll give you a hand, Kitty,” Kinky said, “but I’d like you to start with…” She pointed to two ornate brass candlesticks on the mantel and a glass, water-filled ball with a tiny village inside. “… the candlesticks. They were my own ma’s and she had them from her ma, and she from her ma before her. I do love them dearly, so.” She handed them to Kitty. “And Fidelma, my sister, gave me this”—she shook the glass ball and it looked as if the little village was in a snowstorm—“for my tenth birthday. It still delights me yet.” And she giggled like a little girl.
    O’Reilly swallowed. Hard. He’d given one just like it to Deirdre for Christmas 1940, and like Kinky she’d giggled in simple, unalloyed delight and clapped her hands. He glanced at Kitty and smiled when she said, “I’ll be very careful with them, Kinky, I promise.”
    â€œAnd I’ll pack this.” Kinky moved to a model in a whiskey bottle of a fully rigged Cutty Sark that sat on her sideboard. “My first husband, Paudeen Kincaid, God rest you, Paudeen, and if you can see me now…”
    O’Reilly felt the hairs on his forearms rise.
    â€œâ€¦ you’ll be happy to know I took your advice and have remarried. And your Cutty Sark is coming with me to my new home.” She lifted it. “It was two whole years in the crafting and Paudeen gave it to me as an engagement present.” She joined Kitty at the table, where they both bent to wrapping the treasures before putting them in boxes. “Gentlemen, could I ask you to take down those paintings first?”
    â€œCome on, Fingal,” Barry said. “We’ll start with this one.”
    â€œThat does be of the home farmhouse in Beál na mBláth,”