An Irish Country Doctor (36 page)

"Great," said O'Reilly, "a cup of tea would hit the spot." 

"Yes, indeed," said Barry, following them both inside.

"Bugger off, General Montgomery." Maggie shooed the ginger cat off one of her chairs. "Have a seat, Doctor O'Reilly. Light your pipe."

She bustled round her stove, warming the teapot, dumping out the boiling water, spooning in tea leaves from a tin caddy with a picture of the coronation of Elizabeth II painted on the side, and adding more boiling water. "We'll let that stew a bit," she said. 

"Grand," said O'Reilly.

"I'm glad you came," she said. "I've run out of them wee pills, and I'd another of those eggycentwhat-do-you-muhcallum headaches the other night, so I had. Would you have any more tablets with you?"

O'Reilly shook his head. '"Fraid not, Maggie. Eccentric headaches can be funny things. Could you pop in tomorrow? I'd like to take another wee look at you before I give you any more pills. Just to be on the safe side."

Barry smiled. He wasn't the only doctor in Ballybucklebo who would be taking a complaint of headaches more seriously in the future.

"I'll be round," she said, pouring tea into three china mugs, one commemorating the Relief of Mafeking, one with a picture of Sir Winston Churchill, and the third carrying a portrait of John F. Kennedy surrounded by black flags.

"Milk and sugar?"

"Just milk," Barry said, as O'Reilly nodded.

She gave each a cup. The tea was so strong that Barry wondered if it might dissolve the teaspoon. There was nowhere to dispose of the brew. He soldiered on, hoping that the tannic acid wouldn't turn his stomach to leather.

"We just popped in to let you know about Sonny," O'Reilly said. Maggie cocked her head to one side like a thrush looking at the ground where it had just spotted a tasty worm. "So how is the out' eejit?"

"He's getting out on Saturday," O'Reilly said. 

"Told you," said Maggie, "they'll have to shoot that one." She sipped her tea. "That means he can have his dogs back." 

"Not exactly," said O'Reilly. "He'll have to go to Bangor to convalesce for a while."

"How long's a while?" Maggie asked.

O'Reilly glanced at Barry before saying, "Until his roof's fixed." Barry watched Maggie closely.

She sat bolt upright. "Until what?" Her eyes widened. "His roof's fixed. Councillor Bishop told me he's had a change of heart."

"Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. That bugger Bertie Bishop? That man has a heart that would make Pharaoh's hard one look like a marshmallow, so he has."

"It's true, Maggie," Barry said. "Honestly." 

"I'll believe it when I see it," Maggie grunted. "I've seen no stars in the east, and the last thing Bertie Bishop said to Sonny was that he'd only fix the roof after the Second Coming." 

O'Reilly laughed. "Keep your eyes peeled for a bunch of wise men on camels, Maggie. It's true."

She squinted at him. "Cross your heart?" O'Reilly did.

"Huh," she said primly, "and what has Sonny to say about that?" 

"He doesn't know," said O'Reilly, "but I've a bit of a notion." 

"Oh?" said Maggie.

"Aye," said O'Reilly. "I'm going to go up to the Royal on Saturday." That was news to Barry, but it no longer came as a surprise that O'Reilly would be happy to ferry his patients about. "I'll run him down to Bangor, but first we're having a bit of a ceili at my place. To send the Galvins off to America. Sonny'll be fit enough to drop in for a wee while."

"Go on," said Maggie.

"How'd you like to pop by and tell him about the roof?" Barry watched as from somewhere deep under Maggie's leathery cheeks a glow rose and spread. 

"Away off and chase yourself," she said. "Him and me barely give each other the time of day." 

"I know," said O'Reilly, "but the last time I saw him, Sonny said he wanted to have a wee word ... to thank you for taking care of his dogs."

"That would be civil of him, right enough." 

"So you'll come?"

"I'll mull it over," she said. "If I do, I'll bring one of my plum cakes."

"That," said O'Reilly, "would be great. Your plum cake, Maggie?" O'Reilly crossed his eyes at Barry. "It's as famous as your cups of tea."

Now Is the Time for All Good Men to Come to the Aid of the Party

O'Reilly had left for Belfast to collect Sonny. Barry yawned and toyed with a slice of toast. He looked through the dining-room window. The weather forecast had been right. Sunshine and a few low clouds. Perhaps the marquee that was being erected in O'Reilly's back garden might not be needed. Barry supposed he should be looking forward to today's going-away party for the Galvins, but he was tired and disappointed.

He rolled his shoulders. God, but Thursday and Friday had been hectic. Droves of patients, and last night there had been a traffic accident. Two men--one with a broken arm, one with a fractured femur, both with minor lacerations--had needed to be given morphine, splinted, and sutured before being sent to the Royal. It had been four in the morning when he and O'Reilly got into their beds. A bit of a sleep-in wouldn't have gone amiss, but he had been woken by the sounds of Seamus Galvin and his team putting up the big tent. The steady pounding of wooden mauls on tent pegs accompanied by the barking of Arthur Guinness had made sleep impossible.

Barry sighed, picked up his dirty plates and cutlery, and carried them through to the kitchen. Perhaps his tiredness somehow made his disappointment more real. It seemed that Jack's advice to wait for Patricia to phone had been well intentioned but wrong. Not a peep from her and it was eight days now since. . . . Face it, he told himself, she doesn't want to know you.

Kinky straightened up from the oven. "Pop the dishes in the sink," she said. "I'll see to them after I get the last of the sausage rolls done, so." She brushed stray hair from her forehead with the back of one arm. "Grand day for the hooley."

"I suppose so." Barry put the plates in the sink. 

"You don't seem too pleased." She squinted at his face. 

"I'm not in much of a party mood."

"And why would that be?"

Barry shrugged.

"You're looking down in the mouth, so. Would another cup of tea help?"

"No thanks, Kinky." The pounding of mauls outside grew louder. "Lord, I wish they'd get a move on. Are you not nearly deafened with that racket?"

"Me? Not one bit, but Lady Macbeth didn't like it at all. She's gone off to hide someplace."

"Sensible cat."

"May I ask you a question, Doctor Laverty?" Kinky stood solidly, feet planted on the kitchen's tiled floor. "Sure."

"It's none of my business, but--"

"But what, Kinky?"

"Is it that wee girl that has you sore tried?" 

Barry wondered how she had seen through him so easily. He considered telling her that it was none of her business, but one look at her big open face told him that she was asking from concern, not idle curiosity. "A bit," he admitted.

"I thought so. You went off last week like a liltie. Now I know she's not phoned here and you've not been out with her since."

Barry sighed. "Things didn't work out. She told me she didn't want to get too involved."

Kinky tutted. "Silly girl. If you don't give, you'll not get back. I know that for a fact, so."

Barry had wondered what had happened to Mr. Kincaid. After all, Kinky wouldn't be Mrs. Kincaid if she hadn't been married. "You were married, Kinky, weren't you?"

She nodded slowly. "I was and it was grand, so. But I lost himself." 

"I'm sorry."

"There's no need for you to be, but it's nice of you to say it." Barry hesitated.

Kinky put her hands into the pockets of her apron. "I was only eighteen. He was a Cork fisherman. He was lost at sea and I was lost on land. It was like half of myself gone," she said, moving to the counter where a bowl of sausage meat stood beside a wooden board on which was heaped a mound of pastry dough. "But life has to go on." She grabbed a rolling pin and with steady strong strokes began to flatten the dough. "I thought I'd see the world." She chuckled. "It was a brave step from Cork to County Down before the war, so I took a job with old Doctor Flanagan here in Ballybucklebo . . . just for a wee while . . . just 'til I found my way again. I told you I was lost when my Paudeen was drowned."

"And you never left?"

"I never met another lad like Paudeen." She sprinkled flour onto the now flat pastry. "After a year or two of feeling sorry for myself, I looked hard for another lad but I never did find one." Barry thought he felt the same way about Patricia, but at least Kinky had made an effort after she had been widowed. Perhaps he should get a grip, quit moping, and see if other girls were out there. "Are you content here, Kinky?"

She brushed the hair back with her forearm, leaving a trail of flour on her forehead. "I am. I've had a good life, so. I'll not complain, but it pains me to see a young man moping."

"It's daft, isn't it?" And damn it, he was starting to believe it. It was daft. 

She smiled. "Sure there are times the heart rules the head." She sprinkled flour on the sheet of pastry. "The newspaper's in the hall. Go you up to the lounge. It'll be quieter there. I'll call you if there are any patients."

"I'll do that."

"And who knows? Maybe things will turn out for you after all." 

"I wish."

Kinky's eyes narrowed. She frowned. "Do you know what 'fey' means, Doctor Laverty?"

"The second sight? The gift?"

"More like a curse," said Kinky.

"It's only a superstition."

"You can believe that if you please, sir, but things are going to be fine. I know."

Despite all his scientific training, Barry felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "Are you sure?"

She spooned lumps of sausage meat onto the pastry. Her big fingers deftly rolled it to enclose the filling. "Away on upstairs and read your paper," she said, "and while you're there, see if you can find the cat."

He looked at her hard, but she was bent over her work. "All right, Kinky," he said, knowing full well that as far as she was concerned the subject was closed.

He collected the paper and went upstairs. He didn't try hard to find the cat. He "push-wushed" a few times, then settled in one of the big chairs. He ignored the news and turned to the crossword, but despite his attempts to concentrate, his mind kept wandering to what Kinky had said.

No wonder, considering her own loss, she was sympathetic to O'Reilly, and yet, Barry began to wonder, was she perhaps a little disappointed in the big man's refusal to try again? If she was, she didn't let it show.

He'd been sorry for O'Reilly when Kinky explained how he'd lost his new wife all those years ago. You know, Barry Laverty, he told himself, it's all very well to admire O'Reilly--to try to emulate much of his style of practice--but you don't have to turn yourself into a living replica. Just because O'Reilly had turned his back on women, you don't have to. Patricia is golden. Maybe you'll never ever find anyone like her, but why not be like Kinky and try again? It must have been terrible for her to have been widowed so young. Barry knew that many men from the small fishing villages were drowned--so many that often the villagers became half inured. In the Arran Islands, the famous local sweaters all had recognizable patterns that appealed to American tourists. The visitors didn't know that each pattern was particular to a family, so that if a man was lost at sea and washed ashore the corpse could be identified by the sweater.

The country folk believed that the sudden death of a loved one could confer the gift of second sight. Was Kinky fey? That was a hard one to answer. He could remember his own grandmother sitting bolt upright in her chair and announcing solemnly, "My sister Martha just died." Great-aunt Martha lived in England. The phone call that came several hours later had confirmed her passing. How had his grandmother known? He shook his head.

He'd like to believe Kinky was right about Patricia, but if she wasn't, he'd better be like the Cork woman. He could start looking for another girl. Certainly that's what Jack Mills would do. The god-awful pounding in the back garden stopped. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, lay back in the chair, and nodded off. Barry dreamed of Patricia, and the drowned eyes of Kinky's Paudeen, and Kinky herself, like one of the witches from Macbeth, casting her spells, foretelling the future.

Barry wrinkled his nose. Something was tickling his nostrils. He was dimly aware of a gentle whiffling and a persistent rumbling. A weight was on his chest. He blinked, opened his eyes, and shook his head. Still not fully awake, he made out a dim white blur. Lady Macbeth was crouched on his chest. Her front legs were tucked under her body in that attitude that cats assume only when they feel they are secure. The tickling in his nostrils and the whiffling noise, he now recognized, had been caused by the cat putting her pink nose close to his and directing her exhalations into his nose. The rumbling was her steady purr. This he knew from past experience was Her Ladyship's way of saying, "Wake up, you. I demand the pleasure of your company."

He wriggled in the chair, blinked, fondled the cat's head, and asked, "What time is it?" He looked at his watch. Good Lord. One forty-five. He yawned and stretched, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, shoulders hunched. He felt Lady Macbeth spring to the floor, disturbed by his sudden movements.