An Irish Country Village

  A sports car had slammed head-on into an army lorry. The lorry was probably from the nearby Palace Barracks. A group of uniformed soldiers stood, huddled like a flock of frightened sheep, beside their lorry. He could see several of the troops bending over two of their number who lay on the grass. There was no sign of an ambulance, but a police car, roof lights flashing, was parked on the verge where two bottle-green uniformed Royal Ulster Constabulary officers stood, directing traffic.

  Barry hesitated, stopped, and wound down his window, hoping he’d not be needed, but knowing he would be. “I’m a doctor,” he yelled to the nearest officer. “Do you need a hand?”

  “Pull over behind the police car, please, sir.”

  Blast, Barry thought. But he did as he was asked, left Brunhilde, and collar turned to the damp, trotted back to the accident.

  “Thanks, Doc.” One constable, a heavyset man, pushed his cap back on his head, and said, “Christ, it’s a right bollocks, so it is. Could you have a wee look at the driver of the sports car first?”

  “Right.” Barry followed the officer.

  The little red two-seater was barely recognizable. Shattered glass crunched underfoot as he walked round to the driver’s side. A young man had been slammed halfway through the windscreen. Barry shuddered. The man’s face was covered in blood, and his head lolled at an impossible angle. Barry closed his eyes. That lad was dead as mutton. Death always bothered him, but he mustn’t let it. He had his job to do.

  Barry put his fingers under the jaw and felt for the carotid artery. The man’s skin was clammy, and there was no pulse. Barry slid his hand inside a blood-soaked shirt. He could find no heartbeat. “How long ago did this happen?”

  “We got the call on the radio twenty minutes ago, sir, but we just got here ourselves.”

  Barry stood. “I’m sorry, but it’s far too late to try cardiac massage. I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do for him.” Steam from the broken radiator slid wraithlike into the drizzle.

  “Aye. That’s what I thought myself, but you never know. Pity about that. He was only twenty. I had a look at his driver’s licence.”

  In the distance Barry heard the nee-naw of an ambulance’s siren.

  “Is there anyone else you’d like me to see?” He hoped the answer would be no, but he knew two other men were down.

  “Could you maybe just take a wee look at the squaddies over there? See if any of them need to go straight to the hospital, like?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ve put a call in to the barracks. There’ll be an army ambulance here to take the ones that aren’t too bad back to the medical officers, but that ambulance there”—he pointed to the newly arrived, yellow-painted vehicle—“is down from the Royal. Whoever got here first, and went and dialled 999, had enough wit to send for us and ask for an ambulance.”

  “Fine.” Barry sighed, as together they walked over to the soldiers.

  “This here gentleman’s a doctor, so he is. Who does he need to see?”

  A sergeant stepped forward and stood at attention. “Lots of bumps and bruises, sir; they’ll keep, but could you take a gander at the lads that’re down?”

  “Right.” Barry knelt on the wet grass beside a pale, sweating private. He was conscious, his breath coming in short gasps. “I’m Doctor Laverty.”

  “Private Jenkins, sir.” The man’s English accent was obvious. He groaned, then whimpered, “It’s me fuckin’ leg.”

  “Are you sore anywhere else?”

  “Nah.” The soldier gritted his teeth.

  “What day is it?”

  “Christ, I don’t give a bugger. It’s me leg.”

  Barry decided it was unlikely the man was concussed. He could always ask about that later, and the leg certainly needed to be examined. “Let’s have a look.”

  Barry didn’t consciously think of the checklist he’d have to run through for a trauma case. He took the man’s pulse. A bit rapid, that was to be expected, but not dangerously so. When Barry peered into the soldier’s eyes, he saw at once that both pupils were the same size, so it was unlikely he’d sustained a head injury. “Come on, soldier. What day is it?”

  “Bloody Friday.”

  Barry ran his hands swiftly but firmly over both sides of the chest. “That hurt?”

  “Nah.”

  The soldier didn’t yell, so he’d probably not had any ribs broken. There was no need to be concerned that a jagged rib end would puncture a lung. There were no complaints, no sudden in-drawing of breath as Barry pressed on the abdomen. No internal bleeding.

  He turned to examine the man’s legs. The left shin was bent at an angle, and through the ripped and blood-spattered khaki trousers nacreous bone stuck out, jagged and ugly. Compound fracture of the tibia and fibula.

  He felt a hand tugging on his shoulder and heard a voice saying, “Out of my way, sir. We’re trained in first aid.”

  Barry turned to see an ambulance attendant bending over and looking at him.

  “Jesus, Doc. It’s yourself? You’re the fellah that brung in the abortion the other night, so you are.”

  He recognized the man, Larry—no, Danny—who’d been having his break when Barry took Julie MacAteer to the Royal.

  “Doctor Laverty,” Barry said. Dispensing with any more formalities, he added, “You’ll need splints and a stretcher. Have you any morphine in the ambulance? I’ve left my bag at home.”

  “Aye. Morphine? Right, sir. I’ll get it.” The ambulance man went back to his vehicle.

  Barry turned to the injured soldier. “Sorry about this, but your leg’s broken. I’ll make you more comfortable in a minute.”

  The soldier groaned and said, “I’ll not be playing soccer . . . ah, Jesus . . . tomorrow.”

  “No, Private. You’ll not. You’ll be on a long paid leave courtesy of Her Royal Majesty.” Barry smiled.

  The soldier managed a weak grin. “I’ve bloody well earned it, ain’t I?”

  “Here you are, sir.” The ambulance man handed Barry a stainless-steel box. He pulled out the hypodermic, charged it with the narcotic, and rolled back the soldier’s sleeve. Seconds later a quarter grain of morphine sulphate was in the private’s bloodstream. “Give that a few minutes to work; then dress and splint his leg,” Barry said.

  “Right, sir.”

  Barry got to his feet and stepped over to the other casualty, who was sitting up, clutching his head. Blood trickled between his fingers and made twin rivulets along both sides of his nose.

  “I’m a doctor,” Barry said.

  “Aye. Right.” The soldier took his hands away. His scalp was split across the crown.

  “Look into my eyes,” Barry said to the injured man. This one did have a head injury; he could be bleeding inside his skull. But his pupils were equal in size, and when Barry covered each eye in turn with his hand and then rapidly withdrew it, the pupil constricted. “What day is it?” he asked.

  “Friday, sir. I’d know that. The lorry was taking us up to Belfast for a night off, so it was. I was going to the Crown Liquor Saloon on Great Victoria Street.” His accent was pure Belfast. The man knew time and place so he wasn’t disorientated, another good sign.

  Barry examined the gash closely. It would need sutures. For a moment he considered running him back to the surgery and attending to the job, but he realized the soldier would get to the Royal more quickly in the ambulance. He turned and called, “Danny, can you or your mate bring a dressing pack?”

  “Soon as we’ve this splint on. Don’t worry about it, Doc. If it just needs a bandage, me and him’ll take care of it.”

  Doctors were not expert bandagers, and Barry knew the ambulance personnel would do an excellent job, so he said to the soldier, “The ambulance lads’ll get that dressed for you in no time; then they’ll take you up to the Royal.”

  “Thanks, Doc.” The soldier lay back and clutched his head. “Jesus, I’d rather be going to the pub. I’d go a pint right now. Maybe two or three.”


  Barry returned to the first casualty. The two ambulance men had splinted the shattered bone and were lifting the patient onto a stretcher. Barry followed them back to the ambulance and waited until they had loaded the man aboard.

  It wouldn’t hurt to be able to speak to the casualty officer on duty at the Royal and tell him what to expect. “Is your radio working?” he asked.

  “Aye, certainly. Do you know how to use it?”

  Barry shook his head. “Never worry.” Danny made sure the soldier’s head was well settled on a pillow, then spoke to his mate. “Away you on and clap a dressing on that lad’s nut. I’ve to give Doctor Laverty a wee hand, so I have. Come on, Doc.”

  Barry followed him to the ambulance’s cab, where Danny climbed in and reappeared moments later holding a microphone on a flexible extension cable.

  “Who’d you like to talk to?”

  “Surgical registrar.”

  “Right. Hang on.” He started talking into the mike. “Here.” He handed the mike to Barry. “You’re in luck. He’s in the casualty department. They’ve gone to get him. Now you see that there button?”

  Barry nodded.

  “Hold it down when you want to speak. Say ‘over’ when you’ve done, and let it go when you want to listen. Have you got that?”

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  Barry was listening to a crackle of static when a voice said, “Welcome to the Royal Victoria Hospital Mortuary and Chinese Take-out. Over.”

  Barry smiled. He recognized the Cullybackey accent and the hopeless irreverence of Jack Mills. He pressed the button. “Jack, it’s Barry. I’m at a traffic accident on the Bangor-to-Belfast road. I’ve a compound tib-fib. I’ve given him morphine, and there’s a head injury that’ll need a few sutures. Over.” He let the button go.

  “Jesus, you get around, don’t you, mate? He’s had morphine? Okay. I’ll make a note. And there’s a suturing? All grist to the mill. When’ll they be here? Over.”

  “Half an hour. Forty-five minutes. Over.”

  “Fair enough. How the hell are you anyway, Barry? Over.”

  Barry knew he shouldn’t tie up the emergency frequency with chitchat, but an idea struck him. “Have you seen anything of Harry Sloan, Jack? Over.”

  “Saw him yesterday. He looked like shite. There’s flu all over the pathology department. He’s probably at home with an ice pack on his head and a couple of hot Irish whiskeys in him—”

  Barry was so eager he depressed the button and started speaking over his friend.

  “Do you have his phone number?”

  “Sorry, mate. Not here. Over.”

  “Christ. Do you know where Harry lives? Over.”

  “Camden Street. You still sweating over that path report you wanted? Over.”

  “Damn right I am. It’s important. Over.”

  “I’m working all night, but I’m off tomorrow. I’ll nip over and see if he’s home. Where can I get hold of you? Over.”

  “Try phoning O’Reilly’s practice. The number’s in the book.” Barry remembered the wedding. “Jack, I’ll be out all afternoon at a wedding reception. If you can’t get me on the phone, would you be able to nip down to Ballybucklebo? It’s not far. Over.”

  “For you, Laverty? I’d climb the highest mountain. Swim the deepest ocean . . . and even crash a Ballybucklebo wedding . . . especially if there’s a pint in it for me. How do I get there? Over.”

  Barry told Jack how to get to the marquis’ estate.

  Jack said he’d better free up the channel; then he continued, “But one way or the other I’ll be in touch. Sorry we can’t deliver the chop suey, sir. Royal Mortuary and Chinese Take-out. Ying tong iddle I po, and out.”

  Barry remembered the pair of them in his digs listening to Spike Milligan, Peter Sellers, and the rest of the cast of BBC’s Goon Show belting out “The Ying Tong Song.” He was smiling as he handed the mike back. “Thanks, Danny.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” The constable reappeared. “The army ambulance is on its way. They’ll take care of the others, but thanks for seeing to the two lads.”

  “You don’t need me for anything else?”

  “Just the paperwork.”

  “Damn.”

  “Aye, I know,” said the constable with a grin. “It’s like the fellah in the lavatory said, No job’s over ’til the paperwork’s done.”

  Barry found himself laughing loudly. It wasn’t much of a wisecrack, but after the intensity of working with the casualties he found it hilarious. “That’s awful,” he said, still chuckling.

  “I know that, sir, but sure if you didn’t laugh sometimes you’d have to cry, so you would. I’ve been a peeler for nine years and . . .” He nodded at the wrecked sports car. “I still get the heebie-jeebies when there’s a dead one.”

  “I know what you mean,” Barry said, but he thought, perhaps it was easier for a doctor. He didn’t like to recall the number of bodies he’d seen, starting with the cadaver they’d dissected in his second year. Yet the finality of death was never easy to accept. If nothing else, his own troubles be damned, it made him grateful to be alive and able to laugh at the constable’s joke. “All right,” he said. “What do you need to know?” He glanced at his watch. “But get a move on. I’m already late for something.” He pictured Patricia’s flat and hoped she’d have a fire burning. He’d not noticed the rawness of the evening while he’d been working, but now the damp was seeping into his bones.

  “This’ll only take a wee minute.” The policeman produced a spiral notebook and a pencil. “I need your name, and address, and telephone number.”

  Barry gave them.

  “Thank you, sir. See, because there’s been a death we may have to call you to the inquest as a witness, so we might.”

  Christ Almighty, another possible day in court. Shakespeare had been right when he’d said, “Let’s kill all the lawyers.”

  “I understand, Constable,” Barry said.

  “And this here . . .” The constable produced a long form. “If you’d just write a brief report about what you seen and sign at the bottom . . . there . . . I’ll fill in the details about the time and place later.”

  Barry pulled out his pen, dashed off a brief but accurate statement, and signed his name. He handed the form back.

  “Thanks, sir. Run you away on, and thanks again.”

  Barry walked to Brunhilde. The policeman held up the traffic to let him drive away. At least the drizzle had stopped. He was soaked, bloodstained, and hardly in a condition to visit Patricia, but he was going to, even if he was a mess and his hands were trembling. Was he shaking because he was chilled or because of the carnage he had witnessed? Now he was no longer working by instinct, he had time to think about what had happened. He should be inured to death by now, but that poor wee lad had only been twenty. What a bloody awful waste.

  “Barry. Barry.” Patricia flung open the front door. “Barry, I . . .” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Dear God. Look at you. Are you all right? What happened?”

  “Sorry I’m late. I’m fine, but there was a road accident. I had to help out.”

  “You poor soul. Come in. Lord, but you’re soaked through. Go on into the bathroom.” She held a door open. “You’re covered in blood. We can talk when you’ve got yourself washed. There’s a clean towel on the rail.”

  “Thanks.” Barry went in, cleaned himself up, and dried his hair. In the mirror he saw the stupid tuft sticking up on his crown and automatically smoothed it down with one hand. He saw his lips were turned down in a scowl. He told himself, “Smile, you daft bugger. She’s won.”

  Since leaving the crash he’d been getting his thoughts about Patricia in order. He’d decided not to dwell tonight on the implications of her win, but to celebrate with her. Why not? He’d enough of gloom and despondency in his life. O’Reilly had said doctors needed to get away. Why shouldn’t he try to lose himself in her happiness, if only for one evening?

  He’d wondered about stopping to buy her a bunch of
flowers, but he’d have had to drive well out of his way to the nearest florist’s, and the accident had already delayed him. He had had time during his drive to prepare a little speech of congratulations.

  He rehearsed the words, then went into the living room where Patricia stood holding a bottle of Chianti and a corkscrew. Two glasses sat on the table. “Now you’re looking better,” she said. “Tell me what happened?”

  He’d tell her what he was going to say about her scholarship later. “There was a traffic accident on my way here. I stopped and helped out a bit. One lad had a broken leg and another one a cut head. That’s where the blood came from. Scalp wounds bleed like the bejesus.” And one man was dead, but telling her wouldn’t bring him back to life. Why pour cold water on her big moment?

  She shuddered. “I don’t think I want to know the details.”

  “No. You don’t . . .” He glanced down, his speech banished by the image of the young man’s corpse. At least his hands had stopped trembling. “But I want to hear yours. It’s not every night you win a scholarship—or the football pools.”

  “I don’t do the pools.” She laughed and twisted the corkscrew home, and then pulled the cork. As if trying not to let pride fill her voice, she said, “But I did the exam, and I won.”

  Barry moved to Patricia and took the bottle from her. Then he grabbed her, hugged her, and kissed her hard. “I’m delighted,” he managed to say at last. “Congratulations.”

  “You don’t mind that I’ll have to go away?” she asked shyly.

  Of course he bloody well minded, but his concern was selfish, and this was not the time for selfishness. “I told you, I’m delighted and very, very proud of you.”

  “I love you, Barry.”

  “I know, and I love you.” He pecked her cheek. Then, not wanting her to dwell on their forthcoming separation, he said, “Come on, I want to hear all about it.” He took the glasses from her and set them on a coffee table.

  She clapped her hands, like a little girl, he thought, who has been given the dolly she so much wanted. “I got the letter in the afternoon post. It had a Cambridge postmark and a Cambridge crest on the envelope.” She smiled shyly. “I had to ask Mum to help me. My hands were shaking so much I couldn’t open it.”