An Irish Country Courtship

  “I think,” he said to Arthur, “I’ll have a hot half-un when we get to the Duck. I’m bloody well foundered.”

  “Arrghhh,” Arthur agreed. The wind ruffled the fur of his back against the grain and made his ears flap.

  As they waited to cross the road O’Reilly noticed that the lights were on in the Ballybucklebo Boutique. That was odd. Alice Moloney, who usually closed at noon on Saturday, appeared to be working late. She was probably stocktaking so everything would be in order if she was admitted to hospital next week. He thought it was highly likely she would be. O’Reilly heard a series of bangs as the heavy wrought iron–framed sign for the Black Swan struggled against the gale.

  As he crossed the road, the sign succumbed to another blast of wind, and with an eldritch screech it was ripped from its hinges and clattered to the footpath.

  “Begod, Arthur, someone could trip over that in this murk,” he said. “Better get it out of the way.” Soon, with the sign, miraculously still intact, propped against the pub wall, O’Reilly shoved open the Duck’s doors and let himself and Arthur in. The warmth was welcoming, but the tobacco fug was like something from the set of a Hammer horror film. If Christopher Lee playing Count Dracula appeared clutching a pint of Guinness, O’Reilly would hardly be surprised.

  In the dim light he had difficulty identifying individual customers, but the place was full of men who recognised him and who, after a momentary hush, were not shy in greeting him.

  “It’s himself. Doctor O’Reilly, so it is.”

  “Evening, Doc.”

  “How’s about ye, sir?”

  “Brave shot last Saturday, so it was, at that pheasant Bertie Bishop made a right Henry’s of.”

  “Is wee Doctor Laverty all right?” That voice sounded concerned.

  “Where’s your lady friend, Doc? Blown you out, has she?”

  He didn’t know who’d enquired about Barry, but O’Reilly did recognise Archie Auchinleck, the milkman, who’d made the crack about Kitty. O’Reilly wasn’t letting those last remarks go. “Doctor Laverty is fine,” he said. “He’s up in Belfast. He deserves a break from the likes of you, Archie.” O’Reilly moved toward the bar, and Archie made room.

  “Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean to be rude. Just a bit of craic, like.”

  The craic (“crack”), for which there is no English word—the leg pulling, the friendly insults that to a stranger might sound hurtful—was all in good humour. The craic was what made an Irish pub what it was, a place where a milkman could suggest to a doctor that his girlfriend had dumped him. No offence was taken—as long as the doctor came back with a snappy riposte.

  Loudly enough for everyone to hear, he said, “Miss O’Halloran is spending a week with her mother in Tallaght. When she comes back, I’ll be seeing her again—often—because she enjoys my company.” If his remarks had let them understand that he and Kitty were walking out, should he care?

  “Good for you, Doc. She’s a cracker,” a voice said.

  “Thank you.” O’Reilly recognised Gerry Shanks. “She is, Gerry, very lovely, so I’ll not be exposing a lady like Kitty O’Hallorhan to a mob of bowsies like you lot. Talk about pearls before swine. She’s far too good for you.” He let it hang. His own first law, Never let them get the upper hand, was just as applicable to a crowd in a pub as to his patients. “Especially you, Archie Auchinleck, standing there with a face on you not even the tide would take out.”

  There was a gale of loud laughter, and a voice called, “Nice one, Doc.”

  O’Reilly put his hand on Archie’s shoulder and smiled at him.

  Archie shook his head and smiled back. “Nice one, indeed, sir. ‘Not even the tide …’ I’d not heard that one before.”

  “Pint, Doctor O’Reilly?” Willy asked from behind the bar.

  “Smithwick’s for Arthur and give Archie a half-pint of—?” His order signalled that the whole exchange had been just a bit of fun.

  “Guinness. Thanks, Doc,” Archie said.

  “And I’ll have a hot half. The wind out there’s like a stepmother’s breath. It would cut you in two. It just blew your sign down, Willy.”

  Willy switched on an electric kettle. He shrugged and said philosophically, “It’s not the first time. It won’t be the last.”

  O’Reilly didn’t mind that Willy had started Archie’s half-pint before making the hot whiskey. The water needed to boil, and Guinness needs to be poured slowly. Willy held the glass at a forty-five-degree angle beneath the spigot and pulled the pump handle until the upper edge of the stout had reached the top of the tilted glass. The black liquid frothed. Then the publican set the half-pint aside to settle before topping it off. He put sugar and cloves into a mug, squeezed in lemon juice, and added a measure of Jameson’s.

  “Make it a double,” O’Reilly said.

  The second tot went in. While they waited for the kettle to boil, Willy went to a beer pump and filled Arthur’s bowl.

  “How’s your soldier son in Cyprus, Archie?”

  “I’m quare and relieved, so I am. His regiment’s coming home next month.” A huge smile split his face. “They’re coming to Palace Barracks up the road a wee ways.”

  “I’m delighted,” O’Reilly said. The man had been worried sick about his only son, who was a member of a British peacekeeping force interposed between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots.

  He looked over to see how Willy was getting on. He’d finished topping off Archie’s Guinness. Once more the glass sat on the bar top settling.

  O’Reilly was aware of someone at his elbow. He half turned.

  “Could we have a word, sir?” Donal, glass in hand, stood waiting. “Fergus and me has a table, like.”

  “Grand,” said O’Reilly. “Enjoy your drink, Archie, and I am tickled that your boy’s coming home.”

  Willy set the half-pint with its ebony body and thin creamy head by Archie’s elbow.

  Archie lifted it. “Thanks, Doc. Cheers.” He drank. “Not even the tide—”

  Archie was still chuckling as O’Reilly paid. “Now, excuse me, I have to go and have a word with Donal.” O’Reilly was pleased to have run into Donal, who so far had not reported any progress on the Bertie Bishop front. Perhaps he had news today.

  “I’ll bring the drinks over for you and Arthur,” Willy said.

  O’Reilly followed Donal to a table where Fergus Finnegan nursed a pint of Guinness. “Under,” O’Reilly told Arthur. O’Reilly’s eyes had grown accustomed to the light in the pub, and he saw how Fergus was frowning.

  “How’s about ye, Doc? Dirty day,” Fergus said.

  “Evening, Fergus.” O’Reilly sat. “It’s as black as Old Nick’s hatband out there.” He unbuttoned his raincoat. “What is it you’d like to tell me?”

  “One of the stable lads, Henry Kelly, ran into the Cork jockey fellah at Leopardstown Races.”

  O’Reilly leant forward, thanked Willy when he delivered the hot whiskey and Arthur’s pint. The steam from the glass bore the scent of whiskey and cloves. O’Reilly turned back to Fergus. “And?”

  “Our Henry says he’s a decent enough wee lad—for a Corkman.”

  O’Reilly grinned. Regional rivalries were very much alive in Ireland. “Sláinte.” He sipped his whiskey.

  “Cheers,” they said, and they drank.

  “Come on, Fergus, what did Henry find out?”

  Fergus screwed up his narrow face. “Henry—and the price of ten pints—found out that your man, Eugene Power, rides for Mr. Bishop when he’s racing Flo’s Fancy. Eugene comes from Newcestown, County Cork; is related to the old Yankee movie star Tyrone Power and the family that makes Powers Irish whiskey. And he can hold his drink a damn sight better than our Henry.”

  “Ten’s a brave wheen of pints, so it is,” Donal said. There was a hint of awe in his voice.

  O’Reilly ignored Donal. “But …?” he prompted Fergus.

  “But as best as Henry can remember, when he asked your man Eugene straight out was he pulling Flo
’s Fancy, all he got was ‘Who’d do a thing like that, bye?’” Fergus screwed up his face. “Them Cork folks and their ‘byes’ and ‘sos’ at the ends of their sentences. Dead comical, so it is.”

  O’Reilly muttered, “Indeed,” managed to keep a straight face, and asked, “And that’s it?” No wonder Donal hadn’t been in touch. “You’re no further ahead?”

  “Not quite,” Fergus said. “When Henry kept at him, he winked; then he said, ‘And I’m saying no more. I’m going to hold my breath to cool my porridge, so.’”

  “Do you think when he winked he was trying to incinerate something, Fergus?” Donal asked.

  “Insinuate, Donal,” O’Reilly said. “Maybe, but it’s not much to go on.” He took a swallow of the Jameson’s.

  “I’m sorry we can’t be more helpful, Doctor,” Fergus said, “but poor oul’ Henry got himself tight as a newt trying to get your other fellah stocious and talkative. Henry had a terrible strong weakness for a whole day after.”

  “I’m sure he did,” Donal said. “Who’d not have a hangover after ten pints?”

  “It’s all right, Fergus,” O’Reilly said. “Thank you and thank Henry for his noble sacrifice.” O’Reilly folded his arms. So the jockey angle had yielded a possible answer, but it was tenuous. Certainly nothing strong enough for him to beard Bertie Bishop with. Damn. He swallowed his whiskey, then grinned. If he remembered correctly, Newcestown was no distance from Beal na Bláth. Kinky or her folks living there might know the Power family, and if so, could they help?

  So that was one avenue to pursue. Donal might have news too. “Have you had any luck with McArdle, the bookie?”

  “Sort of,” Donal said.

  O’Reilly looked at his almost-empty glass and realized if he called another for himself he’d be duty-bound to buy for the others. Fingal decided to heel-tap and sip the rest of his drink more slowly. “So what did he tell you, Donal?”

  Donal shook his head and finished his pint. “I’ll explain in a wee minute, sir. Fergus?”

  Fergus nodded. “Pint.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly, would you go another wee half?” Donal grinned. “They’d another round of the shampoo judging this week. Julie’s photo’s in the last three now.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Aye. She’s guaranteed a hundred pounds now no matter what.”

  “I’m delighted,” said O’Reilly. With his own tightfistedness embarrassed by Donal’s generosity, he called, “Two pints on me and a half-un. Not hot this time, please, Willy. I’m warmed up now.”

  Willy pointed under the table.

  “No, thanks. Arthur’s on a diet.”

  “Thanks very much, Doctor,” Donal said.

  “Aye,” Fergus agreed. “Dead decent, sir.”

  “Come on, Donal,” O’Reilly said. “What else did McArdle tell you?”

  “Bertie Bishop’s not betting with McArdle, so he’s going to see who is taking the councillor’s money. And our money. McArdle also told me there’s a way Mr. Bishop could be cheating us. It’s so bloody simple I should have thought of it myself, so I should.”

  O’Reilly could sense Donal’s irritation for having missed a trick. His whiskey arrived. “The pints’ll be a minute,” Willy said.

  O’Reilly paid for all the drinks and took a swallow. “Go on, Donal.”

  “If somebody’s wagering for a syndicate, what’s to stop him telling his partners he’d laid the bets, but actually he didn’t give the bookies a penny, like? Then he can look all long-faced when the horse doesn’t perform, you know—and pocket the lot, and in our case that’s the shares.”

  “Jesus,” said O’Reilly. “The brass neck of the man. Do you think that’s what he is doing?” He drank.

  “Dunno.” Donal shrugged. “McArdle’s a right decent bloke so he’s going to put out the word among the other bookies. See who Mr. Bishop’s using. Find out how he’s betting, if he’s betting at all, but it’ll take a wee while. I just hope he can find out before next Saturday. Flo’s Fancy’s running at Clonmel.” He sighed. “It’d be great if she won, but she’ll not.”

  “Because—” O’Reilly, delighted he’d suddenly found another piece of the puzzle, leapt to his feet. His boot must have kicked Arthur, who sprang up, fetched his head a ferocious thump on the table, and gave vent to a loud strangled yodelling.

  O’Reilly bent and patted the dog’s head. “Sorry, pup,” he said. “Lie down.”

  The dog obeyed, but the look in his big, brown eyes would have softened Pharaoh’s hard heart.

  “Willy? When you bring the pints, Arthur can have a half-pint too.”

  “Right, Doc. I’ll just be a wee minute.”

  Now that order was restored, Fingal sat and felt as if he were Saint Paul on the road to Damascus suddenly seeing the light. “As long as she keeps losing, the odds get longer and longer, and I know—I just bloody well know—the minute he’s got rid of all the shareholders, she’ll start winning. He’ll bet a bundle on her just for himself and win at long odds. If she’s as fast as you say, Donal—”

  “She is that.”

  “Then she’ll keep on winning and the sale price will go up with only one owner. Bertie ‘The Great Panjandrum’ Bishop. Not only that, he’ll be an owner who only spent two hundred pounds in the first place. He’ll make fortunes on the bet and on the sale—by God, and on prize money too.”

  Willy brought the pints and Arthur’s drink.

  Above the sound of lapping from under the table, O’Reilly heard Fergus say, “Cheers, Doc. Begob, I believe you’re right, sir. You can win on the swings and on the roundabouts.”

  A neat reversal, O’Reilly thought, of the old adage “What you gain on the swings you lose on the roundabouts.”

  Fergus sipped his new pint and sighed. “And I don’t see what we can do to stop him—unless McArdle can come through.”

  O’Reilly drank again. He’d keep his notion about talking to Kinky to himself. No point giving Donal false expectations. Instead he said, “Perhaps he will but until we hear, Donal—and I know it’s no great comfort—you’ll just have to hope for the best and prepare for the worst.” O’Reilly reckoned that when old biblical Job had needed a bit of comforting and all he got was gloom from a bunch of miserable pessimists, he, Fingal O’Reilly, could have filled that bill too. He wished he had better ideas for Donal.

  “Thank you, sir. I suppose you’re right.” Donal sighed and raised his pint. “I’ll give you the nod the second I hear from McArdle, so I will, sir.”

  “Good. Maybe you’ll hear soon.” He looked at his watch. Kinky’d be getting ready to serve dinner. O’Reilly finished his drink. “I’m off. Come on, Arthur.” He waited for the dog to emerge from under the table. He raised his voice. “Night, all.”

  “Night, Doctor O’Reilly” came back in chorus.

  As he pushed through the doors he saw the lights still on in the boutique across the street. O’Reilly remembered he’d promised to buy a handbag from Miss Moloney for Kitty to give to Kinky. He was sure if he knocked on the door she’d serve him. He crossed the road and peered through the shop window.

  Dear God. History was repeating itself. Alice lay on the floor curled up like a scared hedgehog.

  23

  Dangerous to the Lungs

  O’Reilly shoved the door shut, told Arthur to lie down, and knelt beside Alice Moloney. She lay on her side. Her eyes were closed and her breathing came in short gasps. Her hair, usually in a tight bun, now lay splayed out on the floor like a salt-and-pepper fan. “Alice?”

  No reply.

  “Alice?” He put his fingers beneath the angle of her jaw. Her skin was afire, and her cheeks were feverish blotches on a grey, earthy face. The carotid artery pulse was racing. She tried to sit up, but he laid his hand on her shoulder. “It’s all right, Alice.”

  She rolled onto her back. Her eyelids fluttered, opened, closed. She blinked, then rubbed her eyes with her hands. “Doctor O’Reilly?” Her voice was weak. “What happ
ened?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me.”

  “I … must … I must have fainted.” She was racked with a fit of coughing. Her eyes rolled up and the lids closed.

  “Alice?”

  Only her rasping breathing and the battering of the storm against the windows replied.

  O’Reilly felt for her pulse once more. Fast, thready, and weak. She needed to be in hospital—and soon. He stood. No phone on the counter. How about through that bead curtain? O’Reilly crossed the floor, thrust the beads aside, and ignoring their clattering, found a wall-mounted telephone. He needed no notebook to remind him of the ambulance dispatcher’s phone number, so he quickly dialled, spoke to the woman on duty, and was relieved to be told a unit taking a patient home to nearby Cultra would be diverted to Ballybucklebo on its return journey.

  When O’Reilly went back to the shop, he found Alice’s colour had improved a little, but he saw the sheen of sweat on her ashen brow. He knelt beside her.

  Her eyes opened. She coughed—a dry rasping sound—then tried to inhale, but she caught her breath and grimaced. “Aaah … ah. It’s sore. There,” she said and put a hand to her lower right ribs. “When I take a deep breath.” She panted, then whimpered. “And my right shoulder hurts.”

  “It’s all right, Alice.” O’Reilly brushed her hair from her forehead and squeezed her hand. “The ambulance will be here soon.”

  Her eyes sought his, and he saw the trust in them. “I’ve … I’ve to go to hospital?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  She nodded and closed her eyes.

  O’Reilly thought the pain in her chest would be coming from the pleura, the nerve-rich, double membrane that clothed the lungs. The diaphragm, which lies on top of the liver, shares a nerve supply with the shoulders. Something irritating the diaphragm could be experienced as referred shoulder pain.