Free An Irish Country Wedding by Patrick Taylor Page B

“Sure the craic ’s powerful with the other girls, and after a while you could fold shirts with your eyes shut, so you could. It’s wee buns.”
    “I wish you could sit down,” Barry said.
    She sighed. “I’ve kept asking for a job as a stitcher. Youse get to sit down to do that, but och, there’s always some excuse. Mind you,” she scratched her cheek, “at least I still have a job. Poor Helen Hewitt. Her mill closed down.”
    “I know,” Barry said. Fingal was going to interview her at twelve thirty. Barry decided to get a move on. There were other patients waiting. “What’s your boss’s name?” he asked.
    Her lip curled. “Mister Ivan McCluggage. He owns the place along with some fellah he calls a ‘silent partner.’” She lowered her voice. “Us workies call your man McCluggage ‘Ivan the Terrible.’”
    Barry didn’t bother to hide his grin.
    “Aye, I thought you’d like that,” chuckled Aggie, “you being a learnèd man and all.”
    “I’ll write to Mister McCluggage and tell him you need three weeks off, and I’ll ask him to reassign you to a sitting job—you called it stitching?”
    “I did.” She smiled. “That’s quare nor decent of you, sir, but I’ll not hold my breath. You don’t know our Tzar of all the Russias.”
    “It won’t hurt to try, Aggie. We have to get you off your feet. And you’ll need to stay off even after you’ve had your operation. We’ll not want the veins coming back.” Barry started to write.
    He handed Aggie the sick line and letter. “Here you are.” Barry stood. “Can you get home all right?”
    “Aye, certainly. Archie Auchinleck, him what delivers the milk, lives fornenst me, you know. He has a wee motorcar. He give me a lift here and he’s not working in the afternoons so he’s in the waiting room ready to take me home.”
    “Good. I’ll pop in to see you in a day or two, but if you get any pain in your calf or you’re short of breath, no more of this ‘tholing it.’ You phone here at once.” Barry wasn’t overly concerned about the possibility of complications, but you never could be sure with veins.
    Usually patients left by the front door, but he walked with her to the packed waiting room. Archie, who was standing because all the chairs were taken, said, “’Bout ye, Doc.” He offered his arm. “Come on, Aggie. Let’s be getting you home.” He turned back to Barry. “How’s Mrs. Kincaid, by the way?”
    “She should be on the mend,” Barry said.
    “I’m main glad to hear that,” Archie said. “Main glad, so I am. I’ve been dead worried.” There was no doubting the man’s sincerity.
    Barry surveyed the waiting room. A heavyset man wearing a duncher was snorting into a pocket handkerchief. A recently born baby in its pram mewled gently. The God-awful roses on the wallpaper glared at him. “Safe home, Aggie,” he said. “Right. Who’s next?”

 
    9
    And a Good Job, Too
    O’Reilly answered the door to a radiant Helen Hewitt. “Come in, Helen.” He’d forgotten the sheen in her hair, the openess of her face. “Go on into the dining room.” He inclined his head and followed, admiring the sway of her hips under what must be her Sunday-best skirt. By God, he may be past fifty and soon to marry the love of his middle-aged life, but he could still appreciate the sight of a pretty woman. “Have a pew.” He pulled out a dining room chair, waited until she was seated, then sat opposite.
    “How’s Mrs. Kincaid doing?” she asked. “I’m desperate sorry to hear she’s poorly, so I am.”
    “I’m just back from the Royal. She’s doing well.” He fished out his briar. “Mind if I smoke?” It was the accepted polite question, particularly in mixed company.
    “I don’t mind one wee bit. And I’m dead pleased to hear about Mrs. Kincaid getting better, so I am.” She rummaged in her handbag. “Can I smoke too?” A smile played across her lips and lit up her startling green eyes.
    Helen pulled out a