An Irish Country Village

  “I can understand why Charley’s in no tearing rush to operate.”

  “So can I. A cure’s not guaranteed, and some of the patients are much worse off than before they had the surgery.”

  “That’s what makes Charley Greer such a damn fine surgeon.”

  “What is?”

  “He doesn’t just know how to operate . . . he knows when to operate and that’s important. Some of the younger surgeons are far too quick off the mark.” O’Reilly headed for the door. “He’s not sure what day he’ll do it, but he’s agreed to keep Declan in. Mélanie needs the rest. That’s one call we’ve to make this afternoon.” He opened the door. “We’ll go round and let her know, deal with whatever’s on Kinky’s list, and finish up out at Sonny’s. I’d not mind seeing how Donal and his merry men are getting on.”

  As O’Reilly had promised, they’d visited a grateful Mélanie Finnegan to explain about Declan, then made three other calls at houses in the estate. Myrtle MacVeigh, fully recovered from her pyelonephritis, had asked for Barry to have a look at young Peter, who’d twisted his ankle jumping down from Paddy’s tractor. Barry had assured her that no bones were broken—it was only a minor sprain that would heal with a few days’ rest.

  By the time O’Reilly had driven to Sonny’s house, the mid-August sun was casting long shadows.

  O’Reilly had to leave the Rover some distance from the house. Parked cars, vans, and a milk float straggled along the verges of the narrow road.

  “Come on,” O’Reilly said, striding off.

  As Barry followed he heard the squabbling of a flock of jackdaws. They wheeled and tumbled over three ivy-covered elms that grew behind the wall on the opposite side of the road from where O’Reilly had parked. He noticed how dull the trees’ spearhead-shaped leaves looked. Several at the top of the centre elm were already turning. It was early for that, he knew, but it had been a drier than usual summer.

  The evening air was buttermilk warm, scented with mown hay and musk mallow. Swallows dived and soared, wings flickering, forked tails never still, feeding on early evening moths. A cloud of midges swirled beneath one of the elms, each insect a tiny stitch in the gossamer fabric of the dancing swarm.

  A pied wagtail bobbed along the top of the roadside drystone wall, his black-and-white evening dress bright in the sunlight. The bird scolded Barry: “Tchizzick, tchizzick.”

  “Come on,” O’Reilly yelled, holding the creaky old cast-iron gate open.

  Donal’s Abstract Expressionist bicycle was propped against the gatepost. Barry hesitated and stared at the scene ahead. “What did Willy call them?”

  “The Rooftop Rangers Regiment,” O’Reilly said. “But I think he underestimated. It’s more like the whole bloody army’s in there.”

  Men worked in the garden, shifting Sonny’s collection of junk to one end beside his dogs’ caravan. Shouts and sounds of hammering rattled down from above where Barry could see five men lying flat on ladders with special flanges hooked to the ridge line of the roof. They called to each other and whaled away, driving nails through holes in the grey-blue slates. Among them he recognized Archie Auchinleck and his son Rory. Most of the roof was finished.

  Seamus Galvin was climbing a ladder with a hodful of slates over his shoulder.

  As Barry and O’Reilly walked along the path, Barry noticed the weeds that had been growing in feral splendour the week before had been trampled flat by the comings and goings of the workers. He wondered if the crew would have time to work on the garden as well as the house.

  A group of women, clearly being directed by Maureen Galvin, who had baby Barry Fingal slung in a tartan shawl on her left hip, clustered round a makeshift table set up outside the front door. Planks had been laid across two sawhorses. The boards were covered with damp tea towel–draped plates of sandwiches. Rows of thermos flasks, bottles of milk, and saucerless teacups were arranged in ranks.

  “Hello, Doctors,” Maureen said, hitching the baby higher. “Grand evening for the job.”

  “How are you, Maureen?” O’Reilly asked, chucking the bairn under his chin and being rewarded by a crow of laughter.

  “Grand,” she said. “Would you like a sandwich?”

  “Now there’s an idea,” said O’Reilly. “It’s well past my teatime.” He helped himself.

  “Doctor Laverty?”

  “No, thank you, Maureen. If I don’t eat up all my supper when we get home, Kinky’ll not be too impressed.”

  “Maybe a cup of tea?”

  “Now there’s a notion,” a voice said. Barry turned to see a smiling Donal Donnelly stretch out his left hand and accept a cup from Maureen. His right arm was bent across his chest, the plaster cast on his finger grey-white against the blue of his collarless shirt. “Evening, Doctor Laverty,” he said, “the roof’s coming on a treat.”

  “I can see that . . .”

  “Scuse me. Jesus Murphy, Andy,” Seamus yelled up to a young man Barry didn’t know. “If you were laying sod, I’d have to tell you to put it down green side up. Them joists go the other way round.”

  “Sorry” came drifting down from the roof.

  “Reminds me,” said O’Reilly, swallowing the last of his sandwich and eyeing the plate, “of the English builder who told Paddy he was so bloody ignorant he couldn’t tell the difference between a joist and a girder.”

  Donal grinned. “Doctor O’Reilly, that one has whiskers, so it has. ‘Ignorant is it?’ says Paddy. ‘Joist and a girder?’ says he. ‘I can so tell the difference . . . Joyce wrote Ulysses and Göethe wrote Faust. There’s the odd scholar in Ireland, you know.’ ”

  Barry, who hadn’t heard the old chestnut, laughed.

  “Scholars?” O’Reilly helped himself to another sandwich. “I don’t remember who called Ireland the land of saints and scholars . . .”

  “Neither do I,” Barry said.

  “And I’m not so sure about the scholarship,” O’Reilly said, “but you’ve put together a right saintly bunch out here, Donal. I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Doctor,” Donal said shyly. “Maybe it’ll make up a wee bit for what I did to that Captain Kelly fellah?”

  “Your sins are forgiven, Donal,” O’Reilly said, grinning and eating half his second sandwich in one bite. “How’s Julie?”

  Donal ran a hand through his carroty hair. His smile was so wide his buckteeth shone whitely. “I got her out of the Royal this morning, so I did. She’s a wee bit peaked, but”—he turned to Barry—“your lady doctor friend said that’s to be expected. She’s back home having a wee rest. I wanted to stay with her, like, but she told me to come on out and get on with the job. You’ll get to see her on Saturday, Doctor Laverty.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.”

  “Scuse me,” Donal said, frowning, setting his now empty cup on the table and pointing with his injured finger to the path. “Here comes trouble.”

  Barry turned to see Councillor Bishop stamping towards the house. Willy Dunleavy and an out-of-uniform Constable Mulligan followed in Bishop’s wake, pushing a wheeled trolley, perched on which were two large kegs. He could hear the trolley’s wheels bumping over the paving stones and a clinking of glass that must be coming from a crate beside one of the kegs.

  The councillor wheezed to a halt in front of the table. There were beads of sweat on his forehead. “Who’s in charge here?” the tubby man demanded.

  Donal swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed in his scrawny neck. “I’m the Hat, sir, so I am.”

  The Hat, Barry knew, was the term used in Harland and Wolff’s shipyard for the foreman.

  “Are you?” said the councillor. “Well, tell these men where to put the kegs.”

  “Right, sir.” Donal turned and shouted, “Mickey, grab a couple of the lads and get another table made. I want it done in two shakes of a duck’s tail.” He glanced at Bishop. “You’d know all about ducks, wouldn’t you, Councillor?”

  Bishop growled.

  Barry watched as a second trestle
was jury-rigged. As soon as it was done, Bishop clambered on top and held up his hand for silence. “All youse men,” he roared, “pay attention, now.”

  Heads turned. Men on the roof stared down.

  “I never give no permission for any of youse to be working here, so I’m not paying youse nothing, so I’m not . . .”

  Barry heard a dull muttering.

  “But I was having a wee word with Doctor O’Reilly, and he come up with the notion . . .”

  Barry’s mouth opened. Bishop wasn’t going to take all the credit?

  “The doctor reckons a couple of pints on the Bishop Building Company Limited wouldn’t hurt. Willy here will pour as soon as the kegs is ready.”

  The cheer sent the distant jackdaws clattering into the blue sky.

  “And don’t none of youse forget it when the council elections come round.” Bishop jumped to the ground. He spoke quietly to O’Reilly. “I’ve told Dunleavy on the q.t. he can stay, but I’m saving the announcement for the wedding.” Bishop turned to Barry. “And I’ve not forgotten you did fix Flo, Doctor Laverty, and I should be grateful.” He sighed. “I just wish you could fit her with a silencer.”

  “She’s better, so be thankful for small mercies, Bertie,” O’Reilly said, “and remember you married her for better or for worse.”

  Any further discussion was cut short by Willy shouting, “Who’s for the first pint?”

  “Now, Willy,” said O’Reilly, hauling Barry along and moving to the head of a queue that was forming in front of the keg-laden trestle. “Who else would it be?”

  The sun had gone behind the Antrim Hills when O’Reilly put his car in the garage. Barry opened the back gate and was almost bowled over by a happy Arthur Guinness.

  He stood his ground and roared, “Sit, you bloody lummox!” as O’Reilly would have. To his surprise the dog’s backside hit the grass, and Arthur grinned up at him.

  “No boots today, Arthur?” O’Reilly asked, peering round the garden. “ ’Bout time you saw the error of your ways.” He patted the dog’s head. “Go to bed now. I’ll maybe take you for a walk after supper.”

  The dog obeyed.

  “Supper,” said O’Reilly, rubbing his hands and heading for the kitchen door.

  Barry hurried to keep up. He couldn’t identify the aroma filling the room, and there was no sign of Kinky. O’Reilly was holding a sheet of paper. “She says dinner’s in the oven, but there’s no rest for the wicked. Kinky’s had to go out—don’t ask me why—but one of us is going to have to forgo his supper for now and nip round and take a look at a kid with the croup.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Nah. Maureen’s sandwiches’ll hold me for a while, and it’ll only take half an hour or so. It’s Eimear Fleming’s wee lad, and they live on Main Street. I can walk over and give Arthur a run while I’m at it.”

  “Fair enough.”

  O’Reilly handed Barry the note. “There’s a message for you too.”

  Barry took the sheet of paper and was reading it as O’Reilly left.

  “Doctor Laverty,” he read in Kinky’s copperplate handwriting, “a Doctor Sloan called. Wouldn’t leave a message or a phone number, says he’ll be busy tomorrow, but he’ll be in touch.”

  Your Hat Has Got a Hole In’t

  The sudden ringing of the hall telephone stopped Barry’s spoonful of breakfast porridge halfway to his mouth. Eight o’clock? Too early for Harry Sloan to be calling. Pathologists rarely started work before nine. Barry glanced across the table at O’Reilly, who merely shrugged and said, “Kinky’ll see to it.”

  Barry heard Kinky’s voice as only a murmur, the ting as she replaced the receiver; then the door flew open. He turned in his chair. Kinky burst in. The last time she’d moved so fast had been when a batch of her scones had nearly burnt in the oven.

  “It’s Agnes Arbuthnot . . .” Kinky’s eyes were wide. “She says you’ve to come . . . to come at once. To the dress shop. I’ve never heard Aggie so het up. You’d think all the divils in hell were after her.”

  “Good God. What’s the trouble?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Aggie’d gone to have a word with Miss Moloney. The door was shut and the curtains were drawn, but she says she was able to peep in through the side window . . . she was tripping over her words . . . and she saw Miss Moloney lying on the floor.”

  O’Reilly leapt to his feet. “Hold the fort ’til we get back, Kinky. Come on, Barry. Get your bag.”

  Barry was already halfway to the surgery.

  “We’ll walk,” O’Reilly yelled, opening the front door. “It’ll be quicker than getting the car.”

  Barry grabbed his bag and rushed to catch O’Reilly. As they strode along Main Street, Barry nearly running to keep up, he had to shout to make himself heard over the row of the heavy morning traffic of the commuters from Bangor to Belfast. “Has she a history of anything, Fingal?”

  “She’d a bad case of piles a couple of years back, but for a spinster woman of fifty-one who lives on her own she’s been remarkably healthy,” O’Reilly roared back. “The worst thing I know about her is that she’s bitter enough to have sufficient acid in her veins to recharge the batteries of a submarine.”

  A heavy diesel lorry, slowed by the congestion, grumbled and roared and strangled any further conversation. It belched exhaust fumes that made Barry’s eyes water.

  Could she have fallen, he wondered? Off a stool perhaps, if she’d being trying to reach an upper shelf. Fainting could happen in early pregnancy, particularly with a tubal pregnancy, but she was too old for that. She was the right age to have a heart attack or, perish the thought, a cerebral bleed. O’Reilly was right about her acidic personality—was she the type to have a duodenal ulcer that had perforated?

  He was still trying to sort out the diagnostic possibilities when they arrived at the dress shop.

  “Thank the Lord Jesus you’ve come, sirs.” A scrawny woman, red hair twisted on plastic curlers half-hidden by a headscarf, stood on the footpath. “Miss Moloney’s lying on the floor looking like a stunned mullet.” She wrung her hands in the hem of her apron and jigged from sandaled foot to sandaled foot.

  “Calm yourself, Agnes,” O’Reilly said. “See if you can get in, Barry.”

  The red door of the dress shop was shut. Barry put his face close to the glass of a small side window and held his hand alongside his cheek to allow him to peer into the dim interior. He could make out Miss Moloney lying sprawled on the floor. “She’s out flat, Fingal.”

  “Then open the door, you eejit.”

  Barry tried. It was locked. He turned for help and was in time to see O’Reilly shooing Agnes Arbuthnot. “Get you on home now, Aggie,” O’Reilly admonished. Thanks for the call. You did well, but there’s no need for you to hang about rubbernecking.”

  “It’s locked, Fingal,” Barry said.

  “Out of my way.” O’Reilly looked like a rugby forward trying to smash his way through the opposition. He took a pace back, lowered one shoulder, and hurled himself against the door.

  Barry heard the wood of the frame splinter as the lock was ripped free. The door swung open.

  O’Reilly’s momentum carried him inside, and Barry followed.

  “Push the door closed, Barry,” O’Reilly called over his shoulder. “We don’t need half the village in here gawking over our shoulders.”

  By the time Barry had shoved the door back into the splintered frame, Miss Moloney was starting to sit up. Her eyes were wide. She supported herself on one hand while the other flew to her head. Her usually tight bun was untangled. Strands of pepper-and-salt hair straggled down the nape of her neck, and a few wisps hung over her face. She made a keening noise through clenched teeth, then asked, “Where am I?”

  “In your shop,” said O’Reilly. “You took a wee turn.”

  She stared at the doctor, clearly recognizing him. “A wee turn was it?”

  “You must have fainted,” O’Reilly said,
looking closely into her face and starting to take her pulse.

  “And it’s no wonder,” she said, beating her free fist against her thigh. “I’m ruined. Ruined.” She grabbed O’Reilly’s arm. “That Helen. I’ll kill her. The ungrateful wee bitch. I’ll kill her dead.” Her voice was more grating than Barry remembered. A string of spittle hung from her lower lip.

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly. “Do you know what day it is?”

  “Of course I do. It’s Friday.” She folded her arms across her chest and rocked back and forth. “It’s the day I was going to sell all my hats. Now I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Would you look at what she’s done to me?” Miss Moloney groaned and pulled herself to her feet. She wobbled and sat down heavily on a chair. “Just look.” She pointed at a hat stand and then across to the counter.

  Hatboxes were stacked untidily on the glass countertop among crumpled heaps of tissue paper. The tallest pile leant sideways, defying gravity and looking like a miniature Tower of Pisa.

  “There’s not a hat left.” Miss Moloney stared up at O’Reilly. “Not the one.”

  Actually, Barry thought, there’s a great number of hats left, if they could still be described as hats. Every stand had its occupant, but every piece of the milliner’s art was battered beyond recognition.

  “Never mind that now, Miss Moloney,” O’Reilly said. “You passed out and someone sent for us. What made you faint, do you think?”

  “Me heart,” she said dramatically, “it’s broken in me.” She screwed her eyes half shut. Her downturned lips quivered. Barry noticed that she shed not a single tear. “Broken like the tablets Moses smashed when he came down from the mountain.”

  “Are you short of breath, having any pains in your chest? In your jaw? Down your arm?” O’Reilly pulled his stethoscope from his pocket. “Your pulse is nice and regular, and it’s only a wee bit fast. About one hundred.” This last remark was addressed to Barry.