"Here we are," he said. "Hop out."
She took his hand, and he felt its dry warmth. He led her onto a path strewn with needles from the evergreens above, the air redolent with their piney scent. They walked past dark laurels and patches of late-blooming bluebells. Rays of sun filtering through the trees made pools of gold on the brown earth. Other walkers were taking advantage of the sun-soaked evening. But Barry was barely aware of them.
"Listen," she said.
He heard the notes of a bird, high, rising, a piccolo tune. "Song thrush," she said. "You can tell his song a mile away. I love birds."
"Do you?"
"My dad's an ornithologist. He taught my sister and me about them when I was little, growing up in Newry."
"Mine taught me astronomy."
"Bit of a stargazer, are you?"
"Yes," he said softly, and careless of passersby, he bent and kissed her lips.
"Mmm," she said, "nice, but we should move along if we're going to get to the shore."
"It's not far." He could still taste her.
A boy of five or six ran past, stopped, pointed, and yelled, "Mammy, look at the man in clown's pants."
He heard Patricia's laughter, warm as butter on fresh toast. "Don't you be at it, Sammy," the child's mother said, smiling as she passed them. "Pay no heed, he's only wee."
"Come on, then, Pagliacci." Patricia tugged at Barry's hand. "Pally who?"
"A clown. In an opera. The Beatles aren't the only ones I listen to."
"I'm not much up on opera."
"I'll teach you. I've tons of records back in the flat. I'm going to Queen's. Taking extra courses this summer. I want to graduate as soon as I can. It's too far from Newry to Belfast to travel up to town, and the rent's cheaper in the Kinnegar."
"I see. So you're a student and you like opera. Do you like to read?"
She frowned for a moment. "I've tried Hemingway, but he's too curt. I prefer John Steinbeck."
"Cannery Row?''''
"And I love Sweet Thursday."
The path had begun to descend, and he had to help her over tree roots that sprang from the earth and lay like petrified serpents. He climbed over a fallen branch. "Can you manage?"
"I think so." She pulled herself up. "Catch me." He did and held her softly to him, the belt buckle of his outsized britches digging into his belly.
"Thank you, sir." She kissed him. "I thought so," she said. "You taste of beer."
"I had to have a pint with my boss this afternoon."
"So you're a bit of a bowsey, Barry Laverty?"
"Never sober." He hiccupped loudly. "I'm usually pissed as a fiddler's bitch by lunchtime."
She laughed. "Stop acting the goat."
He took her hand. "Come on. Just over this bridge," he said, as he walked onto a small wooden arch over a stream. "Might be trout in there. In that deep pool under the bank."
"Or a hobbit under the bridge. I've just finished The Lord of the Rings." She knew Steinbeck, Tolkien. "So, you're taking an arts degree?"
"No." She stopped walking. "Why would you say that?"
"I dunno. You certainly seem to know the kinds of authors that I'd expect an arts student to know."
"And women should take arts or nursing? Is that it? And there's plenty of work for good secretaries?"
"I'm twenty-one and I'm the youngest student in my class . . . my civil engineering class . . . and there are only six of us."
"Six what? Engineers?"
"No. There are eighty-two in the class. Only six are women."
"I still don't understand. We'd ten women in our lot at university."
"What exactly don't you understand?" Her eyes were narrow, lips tight, arms folded.
"What are you making such a fuss about? Why shouldn't a woman be an engineer or a doctor?"
"A lot of people wouldn't agree. Have you any idea how hard it was to get in?"
"All professional schools are tough."
"A damn sight tougher if you're a woman." She took a step back.
"Well, they shouldn't be." Barry did not like the way this discussion was going.
"Do you mean that?"
"Of course I do." He saw her shoulders relax.
"Really?"
"If you want to be an engineer you ought to have the chance." She pursed her lips and spoke, as if to herself. "Bloody right I should."
Barry moved closer to her and said, "But I thought you were going to be a civil engineer."
"I am."
"Good. You can start practising with me."
"What?"
"You just about bit my head off. Nothing civil about that."
"Look. I'd a hell of a job getting admitted. Women have to fight for their rights."
"Fair enough. But you don't have to fight with me."
"You're right."
"Right as rain," he said. Then he grinned at her.
Like a summer squall her anger passed. "I shouldn't have yelled at you, but. . . damn it. . . ." She grabbed him and kissed him hard. "Am I forgiven?"
He would have forgiven her for not one but all of the seven deadly sins and a few mortal ones thrown in for good measure. "To the beach, woman," he said, with mock sternness.
"Yes, sir." She took his hand.
"Look at that," he said. Across Belfast Lough on the Antrim shore sat Carrickfergus Castle, squatted motte-and-bailley solid, granite grim, built by the Normans, once shelter to Robert the Bruce, landing place in 1690 of William of Orange.
One of Kelly's Company's rust-streaked coal boats chuffed her way toward the quay in Bangor around the point. Smoke from her tall, spindly funnel smudged the clean sky and was torn to tatters by a breeze from the northwest.
"I used to walk round here when I was a wee fellow."
"It is lovely."
"In the summer, yes, but in the winter it can really blow up." Just like someone I'm getting to know, he thought. She stood, glancing up, her ponytail tossed by the wind. Overhead two brown birds with long, curved bills glided on rigid wings down the wind's invisible road. Their voices were melancholy. "Curlew," she said, turning to him. "Now you know all about me." Like hell I do, he thought, and he saw the sunlight sparkling in her eyes.
"Tell me about Barry Laverty."
"Well, apart from my incurable alcoholism, and my unshakeable belief that women should never be admitted to faculties of engineering--"
"Just cut that out." She was smiling. "I'm sorry I got shirty with you."
"Fair enough." He looked down and then back at her. "I'm twenty-four, no brothers or sisters. I like to read, to fish. I used to sail, but I'm a bit busy now." He paused before looking her right in the eye and saying, "My dad's a consulting engineer."
"A what?"
"Mining. He and Mum are in Melbourne."
"And what does the son of a consulting engineer do?"
"Actually . . . actually, I'm a ballerina with the Sadler's Wells Ballet."
"What?"
"Well. . . why shouldn't a man be a ballerina?" She struck him on the chest. "You bastard. All right. Touché." He held her wrist. "I'm a doctor. I'm an assistant to Doctor O'Reilly in Ballybucklebo."
"You're a GP?"
"That's right."
She pointed at his ridiculous, oversized, baggy pants and giggled. "Well, Doctor, I hope to God none of your patients have seen you this evening." She snuggled against his chest as the sun slipped behind the Antrim Hills leaving one last molten streak across the darkening lough.
He kissed her, his tongue finding hers, and little shocks ran through him. "Now that's what I'd call civil," he said, and kissed her again.
~~~~~~~~~~
Barry peeped through the double doors of the upstairs lounge. By the light of a single table lamp he saw O'Reilly, feet propped up on the coffee table, sprawled in his chair. A copy of Winston Churchill's A History of the English-Speaking Peoples lay spine-up on the table. O'Reilly's head drooped to the left. Lady Macbeth lay tucked into the angle between his neck and
his right shoulder. O'Reilly snored sonorously. Lady Macbeth's purring could be heard only when he exhaled.
Barry was reminded of the proverb "And the lion shall lie down with the lamb." But which was which might be hard to tell, given Lady Macbeth's propensity for biting and O'Reilly's ability to become distinctly leonine when aroused.
O'Reilly opened one eye. "You're home."
"Sorry, Fingal. I didn't mean to disturb you."
"What time is it?"
"Eleven."
O'Reilly scratched his belly. His movements dislodged the cat, which slid down his waistcoat and curled up in his lap, rolling onto her side and twisting her head to that impossible angle only cats can achieve. Barry thought she looked as if she had turned herself inside out.
"Had a good evening?"
Barry savoured his memories of the slow walk back through the moth-fluttering gloaming, stopping to watch bats swoop and dive, laughing together at the bats' squeaks. Stopping to kiss her lips, her hair. The drive to Patricia's flat, her invitation in, and his polite refusal. He'd known from the minute he'd seen her that she was different, special, and after her flare of temper in the glen he'd sensed that if he were too hasty he would be rebuffed. Better to let things percolate than try to rush them to the boil.
"I presume by your dewy-eyed silence that the answer is yes." O'Reilly fondled the cat's head.
"It was wonderful."
"Huh. Women."
Barry glanced at O'Reilly, expecting from his tone to see distaste written on the big man's face, but instead Barry saw only sadness in his brown eyes.
"Come on, Fingal. You don't mean that."
"Don't I, by God?" O'Reilly rose. Lady Macbeth slipped to the carpet. O'Reilly paced to the window and stood, hands clasped behind his back, staring out. "Women? Nothing but grief." O'Reilly turned, and for a second Barry thought he could see moisture in O'Reilly's eyes.
"Jesus Christ, would you stop it?" O'Reilly swore at Lady Macbeth, who had happily returned to reducing the furniture to tatters. "Give over."
Lady Macbeth haggled one last strand loose, jumped onto O'Reilly's chair, and crouched, back humped, tail waving. Barry was relieved that the animal had distracted them. Whatever was troubling O'Reilly was none of Barry's business.
"Maybe Kinky's right. We should ask Maggie what to do about Her Ladyship."
"It's not Maggie we need. It's a bloody exorcist."
"What are you talking about?"
"I think she's possessed."
Barry laughed. "Go on."
"She doesn't like Stravinsky," O'Reilly said, perhaps pleased like Barry to have something else to talk about. "How do you know that?"
"Watch." O'Reilly went to the pile of records and put a disk on the Black Box. The chords of Beethoven's Pastoral Symphony filled the room. Barry thought of the piney Glen and the sweetness of Patricia.
Lady Macbeth sat upright, whiskers pointing forwards, jumped to the floor, and tail erect, pushed herself against Barry's legs, weaving and thrusting.
"Looks like a happy cat to me."
"She is. She likes old Ludwig, but watch this." O'Reilly changed records.
Barry listened to the unfamiliar cadences that he thought bordered on the cacophonous.
Lady Macbeth's weaving stopped. Dead. Her pupils became so large that all Barry could see in her eyes was blackness. She growled. She spat. She waved her tail in circles and without further warning launched herself at him and bit his shin. "Gerroff." He pushed her away and hauled up the leg of his borrowed pants. At least the skin wasn't broken. O'Reilly lifted the gramophone's arm, and the music stopped. Lady Macbeth sat and started to wash.
"So much for The Rite of Spring. And if you think that's a fluke . . ." O'Reilly dropped the tonearm.
Lady Macbeth charged O'Reilly. She crossed the floor diagonally in a series of sideways hops, legs rigid, back arched, Barry thought, like a laterally leaping kangaroo, but a kangaroo with murderous intent.
"See?" O'Reilly stopped the music. "Possessed. Maybe Father O'Toole could do the rites."
"I've never seen anything like it." Barry stared at the now docile animal. "I wonder how she'd like the Rolling Stones?"
"Who?"
"The Rolling Stones. They're a rock band."
"Probably have a fit," said O'Reilly. He yawned. "Anyway. I'm off to bed. We'll be busy for the next few days."
"How come?"
"Thursday's the Twelfth of July, of 'glorious and immortal memory.' Unless someone's at death's door they'll not want to miss the parade, so anyone with blepharitis, a blister, a bunion, bursitis, or a badly broken heart will be bellyaching in the waiting room first thing tomorrow, Tuesday, and Wednesday."
"Oh."
"So you'll have to wait for a few days to go back and see the light of your life."
"Well, I-"
"Don't worry," said O'Reilly, as he left, "you can have Friday night off."
"Thanks, Fingal," Barry said to the departing back. He sat down. It was too soon to go to bed. He knew he'd not sleep. He'd too much to think about.
Patricia. Soft, warm, delicious, and with spirit. Patricia Spence. She was twenty-one now. He made a rapid calculation. That meant she'd have been eight when she'd had polio. Lots of kids--he'd seen them as patients--had lapsed into self-pity, used their handicap to their own advantage to garner sympathy. She hadn't. It was impressive that she was studying civil engineering. He'd phone her tomorrow and hope to hell she was free on Friday. Perhaps he could afford to take her to dinner.
Lady Macbeth jumped into his lap and startled him, broke his train of thought. Jesus, what a household. A killer cat, a Labrador with the canine equivalent of satyriasis and a touch of dipsomania to boot, and a senior colleague who for his own obscure reasons did not seem to think much of the opposite sex. Did Barry really want to join this menagerie?
"Excuse me, Doctor Laverty, but I've a pair of pants dry and pressed for you, so." He hadn't heard Mrs. Kincaid coming in.
"Thank you." He stood.
"You can get out of himself's bags now. You don't seem to fill them too well."
"I know." And, Barry thought, I don't think I'm ready to fill the big fellow's shoes either.
"You should be in bed, Mrs. Kincaid."
"I'm on my way. Was there anything else you'd want before I go?" It was all a bit feudal.
"No thanks. But..." Barry hesitated. "Mrs. Kincaid, would you mind if I asked a question?"
"You can ask."
"It's about Doctor O'Reilly."
He saw her stiffen, her lips narrow.
"I'm a bit worried about him."
She relaxed almost imperceptibly. "How so?"
"He gets very upset when I mention a young woman I've started seeing."
"Does he now?"
"I know it's silly, but earlier--now please don't laugh--I thought he was going to weep."
"Did you?" Her eyes softened, and she rocked gently on her heels. "Sometimes I wish to God he would." Barry knew that it was not the time to interrupt. "Can I sit down, sir?"
"Please."
She stuffed her bulk into an armchair, glanced at the closed door, lowered her voice, and said, "You'll keep what I'm going to tell you to yourself?"
"Of course."
"He doesn't know I know. He's a very private man, so."
Barry waited.
"Old Doctor Flanagan told me. In 1941, April, Easter Tuesday, them Germans, the bad bashtoons, dropped bombs on Belfast, aye, and Bangor." Her eyes hardened. She clenched her fists. "A young nurse was killed. They'd been married six months. He'd courted her hard for three years. He worshipped that girl, so."
"My God."
"Himself was away on that big ship. He didn't get told until June that she was dead." She looked up into his face. "It hurt him sore, Doctor Laverty."
"It still does," Barry whispered.
"Aye, so." She rose and stood before him. "I know he's happy for you and your girl, but I think he worries that you'll get hurt like
him. He's taken quite a shine to you, Doctor. I can tell."
"Mrs. Kincaid, I thank you for telling me this."
"Not a word now, but. . ." She smiled at Barry. "There's only you and me to look after the big buck eejit."
"I understand."
"I hope you do, for I'll not see him let down again." Mrs. Kincaid stood like a guardsman, her three chins thrust out, eyes hot.
"Don't you worry, Mrs. Kincaid."
"Aye, so. Well, trot off to your bed. The pair of you'll be running round like bees on a hot brick for the next few days, and himself's not getting any younger." She put a hand in the small of her back. "I'm no spring chicken myself anymore."
She crossed the room and turned. "It's not my place to say it, Doctor Laverty, but I'd take it kindly if you'd think of shtaying on here. Permanently."
Barry rose. "I will think about it, Mrs. Kincaid. I promise."
"Well, you think hard," she said. "For he's a good man and he needs you here."
For Marriage Is an Honourable Estate
Although Monday morning's surgery started slowly, with three men waiting for tonic injections, their departure opened the floodgates. It seemed to Barry that every case in Ballybucklebo of back strain, sniffles, cough, hay fever, and hangovers following the welcoming of Barry Fingal Galvin poured through the place. Several of the hangover sufferers had also needed attention for blackened eyes and skinned knuckles.
As the last of what he called the Mucky Duck Militia left, O'Reilly said with a grin, "Ah, agree by all means, boys . . . but fighting's more fun. Jesus, the natives haven't changed since the "Scél Mucci Mic Dathó", or the tale of Mac Dathó's pig, was written."
"Pardon?"
"It's one of the old sagas. There's a Celtic feast described in it: 'A good drinking bout broke out in the courtyard, with everyone striking his neighbour.' All good clean fun, I suppose. I just hope we don't get a rematch on the Twelfth, or we'll be here half the night stitching up the walking wounded." He stretched. "Never mind Thursday. Are there many more left today?"
"Two children and a young woman. I think that's it for the morning."