“You mentioned mice.”
“The mouse fungus is called Trichophyton mentagrophytes.”
“Colin has a white mouse.”
Barry whistled. “That’s probably where the whole thing started. Did he tell you about his pet?”
She chuckled. “He did better than tell me. He showed me. He brought it to school in his pocket four weeks ago. Held it up by its tail, poor wee thing. I had ten little girls all standing on their seats shrieking like banshees. He nearly scared the pants off them.”
“Sounds like something Colin would do,” Barry said. “He is an imp. I’ll need to look into it, but I’m sure the mouse will be the primary source. Maybe Colin let the boys pet the creature. It doesn’t sound as if the girls wanted to. Maybe that’s why only boys are affected.” He frowned. “It’s certainly plausible. I’ll follow up on that. You have been most helpful, Sue. Thank you. Sorry I’ve held you up.”
She looked at her watch. “Damn. I’ve missed my train to Holywood. No matter. It was fun being a medical detective for a few minutes, and there’ll be another train.”
“There are more fish in the sea” was how Jack Mills had expressed matters in a different context. “It’s my fault you missed the train, and Holywood’s no distance. I’ll give you a lift if you like.”
“Really? That’s sweet. I’m in no real rush”—she glanced at her watch—“but I’ve had enough of this classroom for one day and I don’t fancy hanging about at the station, so I’ll get a move on, try not to hold you up.” She made a grab for a stack of exercise books on the desk and knocked them onto the floor. She surprised Barry by laughing. “My dad, he was a terrible tease. When I was little, he used to call me T.A.O.”
“T.A.O.?”
“Mmm. The Awkward One. He said if there was only one tree in a field I’d find a way to bump into it. I was always dropping plates, knocking my head on things.” She pointed at the books. “Still am.”
Barry started to bend to help pick them up.
“Don’t you dare,” she said with a smile.
Barry stopped. “Why not?”
“Because if you do, guaranteed I’d bend at the same time and we’d clonk heads. I’ll get them,” she said and knelt. Her skirt rode up her thighs, and Barry had to force himself to avert his gaze from the reinforced tops of her nylons.
She stood and tucked the books under her left arm. The action lifted a pair of neatly formed breasts under her black blouse. “Come on,” she said. “My coat’s in the staff room.”
“Remember,” he said, “to wash your hands.”
* * *
Barry left the gents toilet. He too had needed to wash his hands. He waited outside the staff-room door for Sue to reappear. So, he thought, she’s clumsy—or believes she is, anyway. Perhaps having a dad who, not unusually for the times, had mocked her about it had made her try to be more considerate of other people’s feelings. Look how gently she’d handled a mischievious little boy. And how tactful she’d been in setting him at ease after blurting out that remark about her hair. She’d been quick off the mark with a riposte when he’d inadvertently suggested the children were hers. Barry smiled. The lass had a sense of humour.
The door to the staff room opened. “Sorry to keep you,” she said. She wore a powder-blue raincoat and carried her books. “No rest for the wicked,” she said. “I’ve last night’s homework to mark.”
“Poor you.” Barry had an urge to offer to carry her books, but thought better of it. “The sooner I get you home, the better. My car’s out on the street.”
Together they walked along the corridor. Jessie and her floor polisher had vanished. “What else do you do after school?” he asked.
“I’ve a gormless springer spaniel, Max. Dad gave him to me when I came up here. Thought I might need a bit of company. He needs lots of attention—and his walk every day. Keeps me fit.”
Barry smiled. “Dogs are good company. I had an Irish terrier when I was a kid. I wasn’t very original, though. I called him Paddy.” He shifted his bag to his other hand. “I’ll bet you do other things too.”
“I like music,” she said. “You remember the Christmas pageant, when I conducted the kiddies’ choir?”
“I do.” How could he forget that pageant and the Colin Brown episode?
“I particularly like choral music,” she said, “so I’m in the Philharmonic Choir in Belfast. We practice every week.”
“I remember my dad taking me to hear them do the Messiah. To tell you the truth it wasn’t my cup of tea,” Barry said, “but I did like the ‘Hallelujah Chorus.’”
“What my father calls ‘a good sanctified shout.’ The Philharmonic’s been performing it every Christmas since 1886. I like that about Ulster,” she said. “There’s a great sense of history here … Some of my school friends emigrated.” She shook her head and said, “I’ll not.”
“Nor me,” Barry said, as he held open the school’s front door and let Sue pass. Together they walked down a short flight of steps onto the playground.
The gravel crunched under their feet, and the noise of distant traffic mingled with the high-pitched, happy cries of children playing tag over by the green-painted iron railings.
A shriek rang more loudly than the kids’ laughter. Barry spun to look for its source. The tag players were huddled around one of their number on the gravel. He dashed over and pushed his way through the knot of children. Art O’Callaghan sat howling and clutching his right knee. His wire-framed granny glasses lay on the gravel beside him.
“Let’s have a look, Art,” Barry said, kneeling by the boy.
“It hurts, so it does,” Art sobbed.
“I’m only going to look,” Barry said. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder and could feel the child heaving.
“Here, Art,” Hubert said, “here’s your specs.” He handed them to the seated Art, who clipped the frames in place, one bendy, curved wire earpiece at a time. Hubert’s words tumbled over each other. “We was playing tag, and he was it, so he was, Doctor Laverty, and he was chasing me, like, and he took an awful purler, so he did.” He paused for breath.
Barry was aware of Sue kneeling on Art’s other side, dabbing his tears with her hanky. She must have a limitless supply, he thought. The little boy had leant his head against her breast for comfort. Barry made a mental note to insist once more that she wash the blouse as soon as she got home.
He smiled at Art and bent further to look at the knee. Poor wee lad. He had a graze covering his right kneecap. The skin had been abraded, and the whole area was raw and oozing blood. Here and there, stones stuck up like chocolate chips in strawberry ice cream. The wound was going to have to be washed, and the pieces of gravel removed, before Barry could dust it with Cicatrin antibiotic powder, dress it with a Vaseline-impregnated nonstick gauze, and put on a bandage. At least that would reduce the risk of infection and make it a little less sore. They’d have to go back to Number 1 unless … “Where do you live, Art?” Barry asked.
“Up on the estate. Seventeen Comber Gardens. Next door to Mr. and Mrs. O’Hagan.” Art sniffed and drew the sleeve of his blazer from elbow to wrist under his nose.
“Here,” Sue said, handing the boy her hanky. “Use this.”
Kieran O’Hagan. Enlarged prostate, Barry thought. One on an increasing list of villagers he was getting to know. Comber Gardens wasn’t far. He knew he had all the supplies in his bag needed to deal with the abrasion. “Miss Nolan,” Barry said. Titles were always used in front of children. “I’m afraid we’ll have to make a small detour before Holywood.”
“That’s perfectly all right.”
Barry slipped his arms under Art’s legs and shoulders and stood. “Home with you, Art O’Callaghan. I’ll need to put a bandage on that for you. Can you bring my bag, Hubert?”
Art started to sniffle. “It’s too far to walk, so it is. My knee’s awful sore.”
“I know,” Barry said. “That’s why I’ll take you in my motorcar.”
&n
bsp; “And you can sit on my lap, Art. All right?” Sue said.
Hubert picked up Barry’s bag and waited.
“Come on then,” Barry said. But before he started to walk, he said to the children, “You other four I gave the letters to. Straight home. I told you that when I gave you your prescriptions. I don’t want you infecting anyone else.”
“You hurry up and get better, Art,” Hubert Flynn said. “And I am sorry, so I am, that I said you needed your head examined.”
Barry walked to his car. “It’s not locked,” he said to Sue. “Hop in and I’ll give you Art.”
When Sue was settled, Barry stooped and put the boy in her lap.
“Thank you, Hubert.” Barry took his bag from the boy. “Now straight off home.”
As he started the engine, he said, “I’ll not take long to fix you up, Art. Sorry about the detour, Miss Nolan.”
“I don’t mind a bit,” she said. “I can start marking the homework while I wait.”
“Terrific,” Barry said. “Then I’ll get you home.” He was looking forward to driving the schoolmistress from Broughshane back to her flat in Holywood.
32
Things Fall Apart
O’Reilly heard the front door closing. “That must be Barry,” he said to Kitty. “Just in time for dinner.” The prospect of tonight’s meal—braised shank of lamb with champ and roast parsnips—pleased O’Reilly. And sticky toffee pudding to follow. It sounded delicious. Kinky’d got the new recipe—it was English—from a friend at the Women’s Union just before Christmas and had waited until tonight to try it out.
“How’s Barry been managing?” Kitty asked.
O’Reilly shifted in his chair. His sprained back was definitely on the mend. It would be a lot easier getting downstairs to the dining room than it had been earlier in the week. “Barry’s a good diagnostician,” he said, “and he has a fine pair of hands.” After the way Barry had conducted the recent delivery of Hester Patton’s twins, O’Reilly had no trouble paying his assistant the highest of surgical compliments.
“Thank you, Fingal,” Barry said from the doorway. “I appreciate your saying that.” He came in. “Hello, Kitty. Good to see you. How’s your mum?”
“She’s fine, for a woman of eighty,” Kitty said. “She’s sharp as a tack and I still enjoy her company—in small doses. But it’s good to be back up north.”
O’Reilly saw the smile she gave him. “It is good to have you back, Kitty,” he said. “We missed you, girl, didn’t we, Barry?”
“Indeed we did,” said Barry, with only the slightest emphasis on the “we.”
O’Reilly noted that, as well as Barry’s smile. There was no sarcasm in it, and O’Reilly was convinced that Barry would understand that it was difficult for an Irishman of O’Reilly’s generation to tell Kitty, “I missed you,” in front of someone else. He cleared his throat, then said, “The sun is very definitely over the yardarm. Barry, will you do the honours?”
Barry went to the sideboard. “Gin and tonic, Kitty?”
“Please.”
O’Reilly knew he’d be getting a Jameson but wondered if Barry would settle for a sherry. “So, Barry,” he said, “while you’re pouring, tell us what you found at the school.”
“Six cases of ringworm. All boys. All sent home for two weeks. And a grazed knee. Now cleaned and dressed.” Barry came over, carrying two glasses. “Here you are, Kitty.” Barry gave her the G & T. “Fingal.” Another glass of whiskey waited for Barry on the sideboard. Barry wasn’t a drinker, but when he did take a drop these days it was usually whiskey. O’Reilly saw in that a small sign of young Laverty’s gradual maturation.
“Sláinte,” O’Reilly said and drank.
“Sláinte mHaith,” Barry and Kitty both replied.
“Six?” O’Reilly said. “That’s one hell of a lot.”
“And all in Colin Brown’s class,” said Barry. “I think I know the original source. Colin Brown has a pet white mouse.”
“Has he, begod?” O’Reilly said. “How do you know?”
“His teacher, Sue Nolan, told me.”
O’Reilly thought he heard something light in Barry’s voice, and his use of the Christian name rather than the more formal “Miss Nolan” was interesting too.
Barry laughed. “She told me he’d once brought it to school and scared the living daylights out of the little girls.”
“Charming,” said Kitty, but she too was smiling. “When I was a girl, my version of your Colin put a slug down the back of my dress.”
“And did you scream, Kitty?” O’Reilly asked.
“I did not.” Her grin widened. “He did.”
“Why?” Barry asked.
“Because I belted him one and made his nose bleed.”
O’Reilly choked on his whiskey, felt it burning the back of his throat. He could just imagine Kitty as a child. He looked at her appraisingly. As a boxer himself, he’d be prepared to bet she had a wicked right hook. “Good for you, Kitty,” he said, “and seeing as you mentioned slugs, I’d agree Colin Brown can be the living exemplar of, to quote Mother Goose, ‘Slugs, and snails, and puppy-dogs’ tails, that’s what little boys are made of.’ Colin was the first case, but I don’t think it gets us closer to understanding how the epidemic is spreading.” He sipped. “Any ideas, Barry?”
“Not really. I am pretty sure he caught ringworm from his mouse. But the animal’s not being taken anywhere else as far as we know, and now Colin’s full of griseofulvin I don’t think the wee rodent’s going to pass on any more fungus to Colin. I’ll maybe pop round and have a word with Colin’s mother.” He sipped. “There was one thing today …”
“Oh?”
“Colin’s being kept home from school, but one of the boys in his class knew what I’d advised Colin’s mum to do with his cap. I suppose he’d been over to see Colin. We didn’t put the boy in isolation.”
“No need to really,” said O’Reilly, “if you told Colin’s mum all the steps to take. She’s a smart woman. He shouldn’t be too contagious unless there is real contact with the fungus. It’s only a precaution keeping him at home.”
“I certainly told her about his cap.”
“To burn it, I hope?”
“Burn it?”
“That’s what we were taught to do. And the bedclothes.”
“Fingal, Colin’s folks aren’t the Rothschilds, and we do have griseofulvin now. I told her to boil his cap and wash his sheets and pillowcases every day.”
O’Reilly thought for a moment. Barry’s argument was perfectly logical—but Fingal recalled an outbreak he’d had to handle nine years ago. “That’s sound common sense, Barry,” he said, but still he was thinking of a case where a boy who could have been Colin’s twin brother in the mischief stakes had been the first to be diagnosed. O’Reilly decided to say nothing about it now. He’d wait until they’d had a word with Colin. “Maybe next week, when my back’s recovered, we might pop in on the Browns. See how Colin’s getting on,” he said.
“I was going to go over after dinner,” Barry said.
O’Reilly shook his head. “I don’t think there’s any rush, and I want to come with you.”
“Fair enough,” Barry said.
O’Reilly sensed movement. He turned and saw that Kinky had come in. “Yes, Kinky?”
“I’m here to tell you the lamb’s coming on a treat,” she said. “It’ll be ready in ten minutes.”
O’Reilly felt his mouth start to water.
“I’d like you all down in eight minutes,” Kinky said, “and seeing you’re here, Miss Kitty, I’ve a nice bottle of claret breathing on the sideboard.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Kincaid,” Kitty said.
She was still minding her p’s and q’s, O’Reilly thought. Taking no risk that offence could be taken because she was too familiar. He was delighted when Kinky looked straight at Kitty and said, “The wine does be a very lovely colour. Deeper red than my new handbag, so, and that will be very much envied by my lady
friends, Cissie Sloan and Flo Bishop.”
“Och,” said O’Reilly, “you’ll be the fashion plate of Ballybucklebo, Kinky Kincaid.”
“Go on with you, Doctor O’Reilly. I’ll be no such thing.” She was blushing. “But I am most grateful for the present.”
“You deserved it, Kinky,” Kitty said. “You really did.”
“Thank you,” said Kinky, “thank you very much, Miss Kitty.” She turned to O’Reilly. “And my lamb shanks do deserve to be eaten at their best, so.”
“Come on then,” said O’Reilly, managing to lever himself out of the chair without too much discomfort. “And the sticky toffee pudding will get its just desserts too.”
“That, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly,” said Kitty, “is the worst pun I’ve heard in a month of Sundays.” She took his arm and O’Reilly was grateful for her help and warmed by her touch.
* * *
“That was wonderful,” said O’Reilly, from his place at the head of the table. Barry sat to his left, Kitty to his right. He pushed aside his dinner plate and swallowed a mouthful of claret. “That’s not a bad drop either. What do you think, Barry?”
“It’s lovely; mind you, I’m not what one senior gynaecologist in Belfast calls a connooser. I think he means connoisseur.”
“It is very good,” Kitty said. She turned to O’Reilly. “You surprise me, Fingal. I know you’re not much of a wine drinker.”
“True,” he said, “but I know you like it.” It was pleasant when she reached over and squeezed his hand.
He caught a whiff of caramel sauce a moment before Kinky appeared with the sticky toffee pudding. “Wonderful,” he said, and grabbed his spoon and fork in his fists.
Kinky cleared the plates and served the dessert. As she set his before O’Reilly, she said, “I did have a word on the telephone with my sister Fidelma this afternoon, so. She says Tiernan says your man Eugene, the jockey, will be riding for Mr. Bishop two weeks from Saturday at Downpatrick. I thought you’d like to know, sir.”