And why was Jack putting on that funny slurred voice? At least, it sounded slurred to Barry.
Barry found a glass of whiskey in his hand and by the weight of it knew it must be a double. He sipped. It didn’t taste like the occasional Jameson he’d learnt to drink. He held the glass at arm’s length and squinted at the amber fluid. “Wass is it?” he asked.
“Bushmills,” Jack said. “Black Bush.”
“Bushmills whiskey? And you bought it? The special Black Bush? You’re a good man, Jack Mills. A sound man. You’re a good friend to me.” He sipped. “I wish Patricia had been a good friend too. I do so. I still love her.” His voice cracked. He peered at Jack. “It’s time you were home, Mills. You’re pissed. Your face is getting blurred.”
Barry sat heavily on a half-tun and finished half the whiskey in two swallows. “Your face is all right. It’s my fault. I’m seeing things in a haze,” he said, “because you always do when you’re crying.” He dashed tears away with the back of his hand, sniffed, and swallowed. “I want her back, Jack. I love her.” He felt the glass being taken from his hand.
He heard a voice from somewhere so far away it seemed to be coming from the top of Malone Road. “All right, Barry. You’ve had the first half of Doctor Mills’s cure. Let’s get you back to my flat for part two—”
“A little shleep, a little sl … slumber, a little folding … folding of the hands …”
11
Your Name upon the Soft Sea-Sand
“Did you sleep well, Kitty?” Fingal left his accustomed place at the head of the dining room table. In the distance, he heard the 10:30 Sunday bell of the Catholic church. For more than two hundred and fifty years, its chimes had called villagers to mass, tolled the Angelus thrice daily, announced weddings, christenings, and funerals. In 1945 its bronze voice had sung out, “Victory”—in Europe in May and in Japan in August—just as it had hailed the armistice in November 1918, Waterloo in 1815. Timeless. The bell. The village. Home.
“I’ve been up and doing for an hour,” he said, as he pulled out the chair beside his. “I heard you clattering about upstairs for the last forty-five minutes.”
“Takes a girl a while to put her morning face on,” Kitty said.
She looked stunning in a simple, polo-necked, white cable-knit sweater and black slacks. She wore very little makeup. She didn’t need any, he thought.
“I slept like a log until Lady Macbeth decided to give me mouth-to-nose artificial respiration.”
“Bloody cat.”
Kitty sat and said, “She’s just being affectionate. Like other people in this house.” She blew him a kiss.
O’Reilly grinned. He was delighted that he no longer blushed when she teased him. He went back to his place. “Coffee?”
“Please.” She held out her cup. “What’s on the agenda for today?”
“After sitting round the house all day yesterday waiting for calls—”
“Which never came.”
“Apart from Colin’s mum phoning to say he was all right. Bloody good thing too. You never know. Barry’s had one case of meningitis already.” And selfish as he knew it was, he wasn’t only glad for Colin and the other kiddies. Because there’d been no calls he’d had Kitty to himself from the time she’d arrived, shortly after Barry had dashed off, until eleven at night when she’d gone to her bed, leaving him to finish his last pipe.
Kitty all to himself. And the hours had flown by. O’Reilly squeezed his elbows against his sides, a personal hug, and smiled. “I was in no rush to stamp out disease anyway, but we were in here all day. I think we need a bit of fresh air. And Arthur could do with a run. Let’s take him down to the shore.”
“Fair enough.”
“But before that I’m going to make us breakfast.”
“You’ve been up for an hour and haven’t eaten anything? Nothing?”
“There’s no need to sound incredulous. I thought I’d wait for you. That’s all.” You’re worth waiting for, he thought.
“That’s sweet, Fingal, but you must be starving.”
I have been, he thought, and not only for food. “I could force a bit of grub down. I’m going to cook us up a great big fry.” He felt his mouth watering.
“No you’re not. Too much fatty food’s bad for you. You should know that.”
“Women,” he said, with the tiniest edge in his voice. “First it’s Kinky telling me I’m too tall around and serving me rabbit food for lunch.”
“Salads are healthy.”
“Now you want to cut me off my Sunday fry, and I’m a grand man for the pan. Is it a conspiracy?”
“Not at all,” she said, “but Mrs. Kincaid and I do have something in common.”
“I know. You’re bloody well bound and determined to starve me to death.” He tried to stop the frown.
“Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, don’t sulk. We are doing no such thing.” She stretched out one hand, put it on his arm, and lowered her voice. “But we are both fond of you.”
The frown stopped. A smile started.
“Very fond.” She squeezed his arm and looked him in the eye. “And neither one of us wants to lose you.”
This time he did blush.
“And to show you I mean it, if you’ll give me the run of Kinky’s kitchen, I’ll make us pancakes.”
“Kitty O’Hallorhan”—O’Reilly stood, hauled her to her feet, enveloped her in a great hug, and planted a firm kiss on those slightly-too-large lips—“for buttermilk pancakes, and another kiss, I’ll give you the run of the Kingdom of Heaven and I’d chuck in the Pearly Gates as a bonus.”
She kissed him again and he savoured her. “Now,” he said, a little breathlessly, “kitchen.” Holding her hand and feeling eighteen, he led her out of the dining room.
* * *
O’Reilly’s tummy was happily distended by buttermilk pancakes sweetened with Tate and Lyle’s Golden Syrup. He helped Kitty into her coat.
“Are you sure it’s all right to go out? There’ll be no one here if there’s an emergency,” she said.
“I don’t leave the shop unattended often,” he said, “but when I do, if it’s not really serious the customers call back later. If it is urgent they’ll assume I’m out making a home visit—I very well could be—so they’ll send for the ambulance to take them to hospital. That’s probably where they’d be going anyway.”
She nodded.
He handed her a thick woolen muffler. “Put that round your neck. It’ll be nippy out.” He couldn’t bear the thought of her getting cold.
“Thank you.” She wound the scarf around her neck and tucked her grey, black-streaked hair under a woolly toque.
“Come on. We’ll go out the back to collect the lummox.”
Kitty hesitated in the kitchen and pointed to where the breakfast dishes were piled in and beside the sink. “Fingal, we really should tidy up before we go.”
“They’ll not run away, and I want to be out before it gets colder.”
“All right, but I’ll do them the minute we get back.”
O’Reilly held open the back door.
Arthur came bounding from his kennel, his bottom swinging from side to side as he thrashed his tail. He skidded to a halt in front of Kitty, had a good sniff, and grinned his great Labrador grin.
O’Reilly thought the dog was saying, “Nice to see you back, old friend.” “Heel,” O’Reilly said to the dog. He grabbed Kitty’s gloved hand and strode through the back garden. The apple trees were leafless. Their thin branches waved good-bye to the breeze as it sped to the Ballybucklebo Hills, carrying to them a mixture of the scent of sea salt and seaweed and the plaintive voices of curved-beaked curlew. The short grass underfoot must have felt too tired to grow. Overhead a watery sun played peekaboo through strips of high clouds that patched the pale sky like gauze dressings.
“You’re not too cold?” he asked.
“I’m fine.”
They didn’t meet a soul until they’d crossed Main Street at
the traffic lights and were heading down to the railway bridge.
Gerry Shanks came out of the tobacconist’s, a copy of the News of the World under one arm. He stopped and smiled at them. “Happy New Year, Doctor … Miss.” Gerry lifted his duncher to Kitty.
O’Reilly stopped, dropped Kitty’s hand. He felt like a kid who’d been caught writing a note to a girl in Sunday school. “And to you, Gerry. This is Kitty O’Hallorhan, an old friend of mine.”
“Pleased to meet you, Miss. Gerry Shanks,” he said. “Grand day, for the time of year it’s in.” Social niceties discharged, he turned to O’Reilly. “Will you be seeing Doctor Laverty, sir?”
“I will.”
“Will you please say thank-you to him for me? Our wee Siobhan got home from Purdysburn yesterday, so she did. Your young lad was spot on, so he was.”
“He’ll be happy to hear that.”
“And he was right civil to me and the missus the night he come round for to see her.” Gerry slipped one hand into his raincoat pocket. “I hear tell he’s only temporary here?”
“He’ll be my assistant until July.”
“I hope you don’t think I’m being too forward, like, asking, sir, but will he be staying after?”
“That’s up to him, Gerry.” O’Reilly had learnt early on to keep important matters to himself.
“There’s a brave wheen of folks here hoping he will stay, so there are.”
They could count Fingal O’Reilly among them. “I’ll tell him, Gerry. I’m sure he’ll be pleased.”
Gerry turned back to Kitty. “I seen you at the rugby match, Miss, the Gallowglass game. Not to speak to, you know, but I seen you there with himself here.”
“Did you?”
“Aye.”
O’Reilly couldn’t be sure, but he thought Gerry’s left eyelid had flicked shut and as quickly reopened before he said, “My Mairead’s of the opinion we should be seeing a lot more of you, too.”
And your Mairead’s right, O’Reilly thought. Then, smiling to let Gerry know he wasn’t cross, he said, “That, Gerry, is for me to know—and you and Mairead to find out.” He sought Kitty’s hand, held it in his.
“Right enough, Doc,” Gerry said, and this time there was no mistaking his wink. He touched his cap. “Got to be trotting. Enjoy your walk.”
O’Reilly set off at a brisk pace. Kitty must have sensed he wasn’t feeling talkative, for she strode along at his shoulder saying nothing. Enjoy your walk. How could he not? He had Kitty’s hand in his, and he was pleased by how much sympathy was forthcoming, unasked, for young Barry. Gerry’s words should bring comfort to him, and Fingal hoped Jack Mills, a very solid citizen, would be helping the young man too.
He had to smile at the way the villagers were matchmaking. Tongues were wagging. That was no different from the way things were in every village in the thirty-two counties. He was well used to it. And if his seeing more of Kitty was what Mairead Shanks wanted, he’d be happy to oblige.
He took the path through the dunes. It provided shelter from the onshore breeze, which was strong enough to blow streamers of yellow sand from the crests and whisper to the marram grasses. He stopped, forcing Kitty to. It was private among the dunes. She made no demur when he bent his head and put his lips to hers. “Thanks for coming down, Kitty. It’s been a wonderful weekend.”
She put her arms around him and kissed him again. “It’s not over yet. And I hope there’ll be more.”
O’Reilly’s laughter was so loud it startled a flock of tern. The birds sprang scolding from among the grass and flew away on narrow wings, their forked tails twisting this way and that as they coasted down the wind’s path.
“There’ll be more, all right, Kitty O’Hallorhan. A lot more. And more of these.” He kissed her. “Now come on,” he said. “We’ll take Arthur down to the water. Give him a swim.”
* * *
O’Reilly opened the back door and immediately heard the rattling of dishes. Kinky stood at the sink, beefy forearms half submerged in soapsuds. “Kinky, Happy New Year. How was Cork?”
“It was grand, so. Fidelma and hers are all well.” She sounded tired.
“Long journey?”
“Long enough. I went up to Dublin last night and stayed with a school friend so I could get the early train back up here today.” She scrubbed a bowl fiercely. “I’d not want to leave things unattended for too long, so.”
Kitty said, “Mrs. Kincaid, Happy New Year.”
“I do hope so.” She set a mixing bowl on the draining board. “I’d not expected to be tidying up the minute I came home.”
O’Reilly inhaled deeply. “I’m sorry. That’s all my fault, Kinky.”
“I didn’t know you could cook pancakes, sir, for that was the mix left in the bowl.” She stared at Kitty.
“You’re right,” O’Reilly said. “Kitty’s the cook. And a—” He was going to say, “and a very good one, too,” but bit off the words. Kinky rarely got irritated, but already O’Reilly had grasped the reason. Another woman in her domain, cooking for her doctor … there was no need to rub salt in an open wound by praising Kitty’s cooking. “And I’m the one who left the dishes. Kitty wanted to wash up. I wouldn’t let her until we’d had our walk.”
“It would not have hurt to soak them at least.” Kinky sniffed. “It’s only a shmall little job.” She lifted out two plates.
“I’m truly sorry, Mrs. Kincaid,” Kitty said.
“Aye, so.” Kinky scrubbed the frying pan.
Kitty looked at O’Reilly, who shrugged.
“Doctor O’Reilly, sir, go you and Miss O’Hallorhan on up. I’ll bring coffee and biscuits in a while, so.”
O’Reilly glanced at Kitty, who mouthed, “Say, yes.”
“Thanks, Kinky, we’d like that,” he said. Then he jerked his head toward the hall.
Kinky was reaching for a towel as O’Reilly led Kitty into the hall.
Once up in the lounge, with Kitty ensconced in one armchair and O’Reilly in the other, she said, “I’m sorry if I’ve upset Kinky.”
“Och,” said O’Reilly, “maybe she’s just tired. It takes a lot to bother her.”
“She was pretty sharp.”
O’Reilly sighed. “Leave it to me. I’ll get her calmed down.”
“Please try, Fingal. I like her. I really do, and I want her to like me. I’d not want any friction if I come down again.”
“Not if, girl, when. And I will pour oil. Kinky’s had her rough patches in this life. I’ll not see her have any more if I can help it. Damn it, Kitty, for more years than I care to remember, she’s been like a mother to me.”
Kitty pursed her lips. “And do you think Kinky’s like lots of other mothers?”
“In what way?”
“Frightened of losing her boy to a woman—any woman?”
O’Reilly cocked his head. He thought about that. Maybe Kitty was right.
“And is she going to?” she asked.
O’Reilly looked deeply into those amber-flecked grey eyes. “She might very well, Kitty O’Hallorhan,” he said softly. “She might indeed.” He fished out his pipe, lit it, and puffed out a cloud. “But I’d like to have my cake and eat it too.” Please don’t tell me, he thought, that I’ll be healing a rift between Kitty and Kinky, never mind sorting out whatever pickle Donal Donnelly’s got himself into, and worrying about Doctor Barry Laverty’s love life—or lack of same. He said slowly, “We’ll just have to see what the rest of 1965 brings, won’t we?”
12
My Bones Are Out of Joint
Barry showed Cissie Sloan out. She’d come in to have her prescription for thyroid medication renewed. The writing of it took two minutes. Dealing with Cissie’s well-meant enquiries about Patricia had consumed a good five minutes more. Another easy-to-deal-with patient who put the first few working weeks of 1965 in Ballybucklebo into perspective. Plenty of work, but very little in the way of interesting cases. “Bye, Cissie.”
“Bye, Doctor Laverty, and you
just keep your chin up. My cousin Aggie says—you know, the one—”
“With the six toes. Bye, Cissie,” Barry said and shut the front door. Shaking his head, he walked along the hall to the waiting room. The first weeks of 1965 might have been dull for him, he thought, but they’d brought their own drama to the world stage. Sir Winston Churchill, aged ninety, had suffered a stroke the previous week. He was not expected to survive. On a more positive note, on the same day Churchill fell ill—January 15—there had been an historic meeting in Belfast between Captain Terence O’Neill, the Northern Ireland prime minister, and the Taoiseach of the Irish Republic, Sean Lemass. This was the first time two Irish premiers had met since the country had split asunder in 1922. The hopes raised for cross-border cooperation had been a glimmer of sunshine in an otherwise politically grey climate.
The month’s weather had been unremittingly gloomy, the days short, the nights long, and for Barry the time dragged. The usual winter ailments in droves, one broken leg, and a case of whooping cough. It was all very well O’Reilly saying there was solace to be found in the work. There was boredom too.
He collected another mother and her child with a cold, examined the child, recommended fluids, rest, and aspirin, showed them to the door, and headed back to the waiting room. How many coughs and colds did he have to see? Where was the challenge in another old patient with creaky joints? Maybe Jack Mills was right, that a specialist’s work was more fun.
O’Reilly was making home visits. It was Barry’s turn in the surgery today, Thursday. He opened the waiting room door. By this point in the late morning, the rows of plain wooden chairs were almost empty. The awful, bright, blooming roses on the wallpaper mocked the downpour he could hear outside. “Who’s next?”
A man who must have been in his eighties rose clumsily to his feet. He pulled off a damp duncher, shook it, and said, “Me, sir.” His pate was shiny-smooth as an egg. A thin, grey, circumferential trim could be seen above his two large cauliflower ears. Yellowed by tobacco, his moustache had all the attributes of a walrus’s; and half a century earlier, it would have been called an Old Bill.
“Come on then.” Barry led the way back to the surgery and sat in the swivel chair. “Please have a seat, Mr.—?”