1
Diamonds Are Forever
“Kitty OHallorhan,” said Doctor Fingal Flahertie OReilly, looking into those familiar grey eyes flecked with amber, “you dont look a day over thirty-five, and youre lovely.” Her silver and black hair shone in the sunlight filtering down past the buildings on Belfasts Royal Avenue. Her tailored grey suit, with its slim, knee-length skirt, accentuated her figure. God, but she was looking well.
She shook her head. “Youre an old flatterer, Fingal, a soft-soaper. You know Ill not see fifty again, but thank you.”
“Ill always see you as twenty-two, the way you were when we were youngsters, always, and thats because,” he hesitated, “I love you.”
“Thank you, Fingal,” she said. “Thank you for loving me, and thank you for telling me. I do love you so much.”
He bloody well nearly bear-hugged and kissed her there and then. Instead, he continued walking with Kitty at his side and thought about how on the drive here from her flat theyd discussed the progress of Donal Donnelly, one of Fingals patients, who was being nursed by Kitty, a senior sister on the brain surgery ward of the Royal Victoria Hospital. It had made OReilly happy to discuss a patient with her. He was looking forward to these kinds of professional conversations when she became his wife, on July 3, 1965, and that was only a little more than two months away. He gave a hop and a skip, grinning as he did.
“Fingal,” Kitty said with a smile, “will you stop acting the lig?”
“Im happy,” he said, guiding her through the midmorning crowds of shoppers, office messengers, and delivery men. Traffic growled, and he heard the ting of the conductors bell as a red double-decker bus pulled away from a stop. The air was heavy with exhaust fumes. A flock of starlings wheeled and jinked in unison across the sky. He pointed to a glass door on which SHARMAN D NEILL. JEWELLERS AND WATCHMAKERS was etched in gilt letters. Watches, barometers, brass telescopes, and jewellery were displayed on velvet mounts in the window. “This is it,” he said.
The lighting was subdued, the carpet thick. Glass jewellery cases were arranged around three walls. A door at the back led, OReilly presumed, to offices or storerooms. The air had only a trace of mustiness. Two staff members wearing short black jackets, pinstriped trousers, and highly polished black shoes stood waiting. The place exuded the confidence of a business that had catered to the upper classes for decades. Young men, OReilly thought, probably felt intimidated here, and their immediate concerns would be whether their budget might stretch. He was worried himself.
He and Kitty were the only customers.
An assistant glided across to them. He wore rimless spectacles.
“Sir? Modom?” His voice was reverential, his accent affected. “May I be of assistance?”
“Rings,” OReilly said, surprising himself by lowering his voice.
“Certainly, sir.” The man glanced at Kittys gloved left hand. “Would that be dress or engagement?”
OReilly cleared his throat. His collar seemed to be tighter. “Engagement, please.”
“How lovely. May I wish sir and modom every happiness?”
“Thank you,” Kitty said.
OReilly wanted to tell the man to mind his own damned business and get on with selling them a flaming ring. He wanted to get this transaction completed. And it had been ages since, to his housekeeper Kinky Kincaids amazement, he had refused the mixed grill shed offered to cook and simply grabbed a quick cup of coffee and a slice of toast this morning in his hurry to get to Kittys flat. Now he wanted his lunch.
The shop assistant moved behind a glass display case. “If I might enquire, would we be looking for a solitaire, a cluster, a trinity or bezel setting, a specific precious stone … perhaps modoms birthstone? Something,” his lip curled, “semiprecious?”
Jasus, OReilly thought, in 1939 when I bought Deirdre her little ring it was just a gold band with one tiny diamond. Back then men bought the ring before they proposed, but today OReilly had brought Kitty to pick hers. He smiled at his soon-to-be wife and knew for certain that Deirdre OReilly, née Mawhinney, his young bride of six months who had died in the Belfast Blitz of 1941, would approve of Kitty, be glad for him and his newfound happiness. “Kitty?” he asked.
She smiled at him. “If its all right with you, Fingal, Id like something simple.”
“Its your choice.”
“It can be bewildering,” the shop assistant said. “Might I suggest a nice cluster with a central half-carat blue diamond?”
OReilly heard the condescension in the mans voice. “Kitty?”
“No, thank you. Ive really got my mind set on a well-cut solitaire, S12 clarity, I or J colour grade—”
OReillys mouth fell open.
“—of slightly less than half a carat.” She turned to him. “Blue diamonds are the most expensive. Prices rocket at the half- and full-carat mark. It takes a hell of an eye to tell the difference between a smaller stone and I dont want to bankrupt you, dear.”
OReilly grinned. Hed ask her later where shed learnt her gemology.
“Modom … modom knows her diamonds.” There was awe in the shop assistants voice.
Kitty inclined her head and said, “And Im not fussed about the setting as long as its platinum, the ring is gold, and the stone is good quality.”
The man leant sideways and grabbed a set of sizing rings from the top of the case. “If I may?”
“Certainly.” Kitty removed her left kid glove and gave him her hand. After using two rings the assistant said, “Size A and a half.” He smiled. “I believe I have exactly what we need. If youll excuse me?”
The second hed left, OReilly asked, “Where in the hell did you—”
“Dublins National College of Art and Design, remember? I was there before I started nursing, and I took a course on jewellery design.”
He hugged her. “Do you know,” he said, “Id completely forgotten youd been there. It is a year or two back.” A year or two? More like thirty, he thought, but said, “And thank you for thinking of my wallet too.”
“Fingal OReilly,” she said, “not being extravagant on a ring doesnt mean you love me any less. You cant measure love in carats or colour. Pounds and shillings.”
His throat felt tight and he swallowed. “Thank you, Kitty. Thank you for that.” And he wasnt sure if he was thanking her for her understanding of how much he loved her, her solid business sense, or both. He heard a discreet cough and let Kitty go.
“I think this may be what modom requires.”
OReilly watched as a ring was slipped on Kittys finger. It fitted perfectly. He swallowed. From now on, Fingal would be the only man to put rings on Kittys finger. Size A-½ at that. The second one, in July, would be plain gold. Hed pick that himself. Mrs. Kitty OReilly. He liked the sound of it.
She took it off. “Its absolutely beautiful.”
“Thats the ring you want?” OReilly asked.
“Yes, please. Its exactly what I had in mind.”
“You dont want to look at any others?”
She shook her head.
“Well take it,” OReilly said.
“Just a minute, Fingal.” Kitty spoke to the assistant. “May I borrow your loupe?”
“Certainly.” He gave her a monocular magnifying eyepiece, which Kitty screwed into her right eye socket.
What the hell now? OReilly wondered.
She scrutinised the ring. “Theres a tiny flaw in the stone,” she said, handing the loupe and the ring to the man.
He examined the diamond. “Modom is right. I do apologise. Shall I—?”
“No need. I love the ring. Well take it.” She looked him in the eye. “But Im sure youll adjust the price.”
“Of course.”
“Good,” she said. “Now, Ill wait outside while you take care of paying, dear.” She lifted her glove and left.
Typical. OReilly had been going to suggest she go. He didnt want her to know what he paid.
“Ill box and wrap it, sir.”
“Please. And the bill.”
“Of course, and there will be a twenty percent discount because of the flaw.”
“Thank you.”
“And if sir doesnt mind me saying, he is a very fortunate man.” The assistant looked at the door through which Kitty had vanished to a jangling of bells. “Your fiancée is a remarkable and very beautiful lady.”
“I know,” said OReilly, trying not to sound smug. “By God, I do know.”
He paid, took his little parcel, thanked the assistant, and left.
Kitty linked her arm through his. “Thank you, darling. Thank you.”
“Not yet,” said OReilly. “Were going to Mooneys on Corn Market. Its not far. You can thank me after Ive given it to you properly, youve put it on, and Ive toasted you with a pint of black velvet.”
“Black velvet?”
“Guinness and champagne. Youll love it.” He set off at a brisk pace. “Im buying lunch too.”
“Sounds wonderful.”
They crossed Royal Avenue and headed along Castle Place. “By the way,” he said, “are you free this weekend?”
“I am.”
“Id like you to come down, show your ring to Barry and Kinky,” he said, “the rest of the crew at Number One, Main Street, Ballybucklebo.”
“Id love to.”
“Great.” He pushed open the door to Mooneys Pub. “I know the barmen here,” he said.
The place was packed, smoky, and noisy. “Black velvet. Two pints, Andy,” OReilly roared in his quarter-deck voice, “menus, and a dozen oysters on the half shell to start with. My belly thinks my bloody throats cut.”
Copyright © 2012 by Ballybucklebo Stories Corp.