An Irish Country Love Story (28 page)

“And you went to which medical school? I'm the bleeding doctor. Now, say ‘ninety-nine.'”

“Sorry, Doc. Ninety-nine.”

O'Reilly felt a vibration, tactile fremitus, an indication of fluid in the airways. He laid his left hand flat on the lower chest at the back and, using the first two fingers of his right hand, percussed. The sound was resonant, so there was no fluid in or consolidation of the lung bases. “Take as deep a breath as you can, please.” O'Reilly listened with his stethoscope. There were rhonchi, coarse rattling sounds, all over the chest. More evidence of fluid in the airways. He removed the earpieces. “You hardly needed me, Willie John. You were spot on. You have got acute bronchitis. How did you come here?”

“On my bike.”

“Can you get home on it?” If not, O'Reilly would load man and bike into the Rover.

“Aye. If I take her easy. It's a grand day out there.”

“Good,” said O'Reilly, “because I want you home in bed. You'll need to go to the chemist's first. Get your shirt tucked in. I'll write you a scrip.” Hospital beds were scarce at this time of the year and while there was always a risk that acute bronchitis could be complicated by pneumonia, it was expected of conscientious GPs to look after as many people at home as possible. He sat at his desk and wrote a prescription for linctus codeine, a cough depressant, four millilitres to be taken three times daily, and elixir diphenhydramine, four millilitres to be taken at bedtime as an aid to sleeping.

“Now mind what I said. It's bed for you as soon as you get home. Here's your scrip.” O'Reilly explained how the medication should be taken. “And I've asked the chemist to give you some friar's balsam. You know how to use it?”

“Aye, certainly. My ould granny swore by it. It's been around forever.”

“Actually since about 1760. A Doctor Ward invented it. Inhale three times a day, light diet, lots of warm fluids.”

“Right, sir.” He put on his coat and sighed. “My sister's been at me since I came down with the cold. Made me promise to come to see you this morning. She's coming this afternoon to stay for a wee while. Look after me. She's a good woman, but she fusses.” His voice cracked. “I've had no one since the missus ran off with that English git twelve years ago.”

O'Reilly remembered. It had been the talk of Ballybucklebo, and Willie John had been a hard man to comfort. O'Reilly said, and meant it in more ways than one, “You need fussing over, Willie John. One of us will pop round tomorrow and fuss a bit—if that's okay.” O'Reilly smiled at the man.

“Oh, aye, Doctor. That's your job.”

O'Reilly walked Willie John to the front door. “Safe home.” He closed the front door. All part of a day's work, but tonight at the council meeting wouldn't be routine, that was for sure. He scowled.

Apart from the interruption of the war years, O'Reilly had been seeing patients in this house since he'd joined old Doctor Flanagan in 1938. Old friends like Willie John Andrews; new ones like Julie Donnelly, who had come to Ballybucklebo as a maid of all work for the Bishops only a few years ago. This place had had a doctor in it since 1894, the year Robert Louis Stevenson had died. If O'Reilly had his way, it would still have in the person of Barry Laverty long after O'Reilly was gone.

This was his home. Bedamned if he was going to be pushed out by some bloody road-widening scheme. Something John MacNeill had said surfaced from somewhere in the depths of O'Reilly's mind. The lease to the land under his house had been granted by the MacNeills at about the same time they'd done the same for the Mucky Duck—and that lease had strings attached about remodelling. I wonder, he thought. I just wonder. Lunch could wait until he'd phoned John MacNeill.

 

24

As If I Was a Public Meeting

Ballybucklebo's town hall was a plain building with a grey slate roof, set back from the main Bangor to Belfast Road. When O'Reilly and Kitty arrived at five to seven, at least fifty people were standing in the main hall, surrounded by the sober sepia-tint photos of earlier, unsmiling councillors. Every face in the parquet-floored hall looked familiar, but there was one man with whom O'Reilly very much wanted a word. He grabbed Kitty's hand and made his way across the hall, mouthing greetings as they passed. “Evening, Mister Robinson.”

“Good evening, Doctor, Mrs. O'Reilly.” Two of the bottom buttons of the man's waistcoat were undone to accommodate the swell of his ample belly. His fair hair had been inexpertly trimmed and was a ragged curtain round his head. O'Reilly knew that Mrs. Robinson was the minister's barber. “I do hope council can be persuaded to choose the southern option.”

“So do we,” said Kitty, “and let's hope they make that decision soon. We'd like to get a start on repairs and feel we have a future at Number One.”

“I hope you and I don't have to disagree, Your Reverence, but if they do decide to straighten, they'll have to put one of us out.” O'Reilly sighed. “I'm told trying to move you is going to meet with some pretty stiff obstacles.”

“It will, I fear, Doctor. We do have friends in some pretty high places.” Mister Robinson took a brief glance up and then lowered his head.

“I understand, but it's just possible you may be able to help me.”

“Oh? I'll certainly try, but in fairness I'll not do anything to weaken the church's position.”

“We'd not expect otherwise,” Kitty said.

“You know my house was originally a Presbyterian manse.”

“It was. It was. The Flanagans—the grandfather, Michael, and his son, Ethan, both ministers—lived in it. When Ethan died, his successor, my predecessor, was a bachelor. He needed something smaller, so the church sold the house to Doctor Flanagan, Ethan's elder boy, and built the present manse that Mrs. Robinson and I and our family now occupy.”

“Number One was and still is leasehold,” O'Reilly said. “I need to know the terms of the original lease. Would you happen to have a copy in the church records?”

Mister Robinson frowned. “I honestly don't know.”

“Could you look?”

“Certainly. May I ask why?”

“The lease was originally held by the MacNeill family. I spoke with his lordship at lunchtime. He's looking into it too, but I want to pursue every possible avenue in case there are any restrictions on use of the land.”

“I'll take a look as soon as the meeting's over.”

“Thank you. Now,” said O'Reilly, “we'd better take our seats. Here comes council.” He took Kitty's hand and led her to the front row. “There's Willie Dunleavy. I wonder what he'd prefer? The Duck's on Main Street too. And there's Donal Donnelly. He's probably just here to rubberneck. And there's Kinky and Archie.”

Donal waved and O'Reilly waved back as he and Kitty took their seats. A long committee table dotted with notepads, pencils, and glasses of water was set on a raised dais. Members of council were climbing up short flights of stairs at each side to sit behind the table.

And there was that bastard Doran. He was an unpleasant-looking fellow, a short man with a sallow complexion, oiled black hair parted in the centre, narrow dark eyes, and a mouth that seemed to be set permanently at twenty past eight. O'Reilly ground his teeth. That little dog-beater, and by God, even if striking the man had turned him into an implacable enemy who might cost O'Reilly and Kitty Number One, if he had it all to do over again, even knowing that, O'Reilly'd paste the bollix twice as hard.

The councillors were seated. Robert Baxter, the chairman, sat in the centre, a tall man with thinning grey hair swept across a shining area of bald scalp. To his right was a man in a three-piece charcoal pinstripe suit. They were flanked on the far side by the eight other council members, six men and two women, all seated facing the spectators in the body of the council chamber. The scene on the dais, although short of numbers, put O'Reilly in mind of Da Vinci's mural
The Last Supper
. He certainly hoped he and Kitty would not be having their last supper at Number One Main any time soon.

“Look,” said Kitty, “there's the marquis and Bertie Bishop.”

The two men sat side by side to the chairman's left. Lord John MacNeill looked sad and shook his head in O'Reilly's direction.

Oh-oh, O'Reilly thought. That means he's had no luck finding that damn lease. Still, he could pretty well count on votes from Bertie and John MacNeill. “And there's Alice Moloney. She was elected in December to fill a vacancy. I'm not sure how she'd vote.” He certainly knew how that gurrier Doran was planning to vote. O'Reilly glanced his way and saw him scowling directly at Kitty and him.

The look was as piercing as the flame of a cutting torch and O'Reilly had to fight to keep his face impassive. He would not give the bloody man the satisfaction of acknowledging his animus and his obvious desire for revenge. O'Reilly said, “The rest of the folks are from the other townlands and villages that make up the borough of Ballybucklebo. They've all been patients at one time or another, but I've no idea how they'll jump.”

The chairman rose and banged his gavel until there was silence. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen. Welcome to this extraordinary meeting of Ballybucklebo Borough Council in the county of Down, which has been called as an advisory body at the request of the Northern Ireland Minister of Transport to enquire into—” He settled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles on the bridge of a thin nose and read from a sheet of paper. “—the establishment of a safe carriageway between Belfast and Bangor either by straightening the road at a particularly dangerous corner or bypassing the village to the south.” He droned on about terms of reference, statutory regulations, keeping of minutes—the kind of red tape that gave O'Reilly simultaneous heartburn, a headache, and an almost uncontrollable urge to head for the Duck.

“… After a vote tonight, the report of the borough council will be submitted to the ministry where, of course, the final decision will be taken, although they usually accept an advisory committee's recommendation. Now, to commence the proceedings, may I introduce Mister Ignatius Murtagh, who holds a master's of civil engineering and who is the Down County surveyor and is here to provide impartial technical advice. Mister Murtagh, please stand.”

The man in the pinstriped suit rose and set a briefcase on the table to a muted round of polite applause.

“This evening, Mister Murtagh will begin by outlining proposals his department have prepared describing the pros and cons of the alternative routes. Then council members will be allocated five minutes to give a prepared statement or question Mister Murtagh. When they have finished I will entertain a limited number of questions from the floor before asking the audience to leave so council can deliberate in camera.”

Another buzz of conversation as neighbour commented to neighbour.

“Makes sense,” said O'Reilly. “The councillors, particularly the ones from Ballybucklebo, are going to have to live with their fellow villagers long after the decision has been taken.”

“The recommendation to be relayed to the ministry will be reported in the
County Down Spectator
on Friday.”

“And everybody in the borough will know by tomorrow morning,” O'Reilly said to Kitty, “but I suppose form must be observed.”

Mister Baxter banged his gavel and the room grew silent. “If you please, Mister Murtagh?” he said, and sat.

The surveyor opened his briefcase, extracted a sheaf of papers, consulted his notes, and began in a high-pitched voice, “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen. My department has carried out a full feasibility study and cost analysis of the two options, A and B. Option A involves the compulsory purchase of property at the corner in front of the Presbyterian church, clearing the existing structure, and laying one quarter of a mile of road. The purely mechanical aspects of this option are simple. The ability to purchase is complex. Church property may be exempt. Our lawyers are presently examining the deeds and statutes.”

O'Reilly glanced at Mister Robinson. The man's sudden smile was soon followed by a frown, leaving O'Reilly feeling very uneasy.

“Number One Main Street.” O'Reilly sat rigidly as Mister Murtagh riffled through his papers. “Under the Town and Country Planning Act of 1947, the building, having been erected within the time frame of 1700 to 1840, is a listed Grade Two structure and as such cannot be modified … ahem,” he permitted himself a little smile, “although the act is unclear on how to restrict remodelling by runaway lorries.”

There was general laughter, but O'Reilly, who was feeling the first stirrings of hope, glanced around to see nothing but sympathetic looks coming his way.

“As I was saying, it cannot be modified except by the granting of planning permission by the borough council.” He looked up. “As you can see, if council picks option A, there will be legal work and a great deal more paperwork to be done.”

O'Reilly smiled. For the first time in his life, he wholeheartedly approved of paperwork.

Mister Murtagh looked straight at Mister Robinson. “I gather the minister of the church,” then his gaze fixed on O'Reilly, “and the owner of Number One are here. I have no doubt appeals would be launched.”

“Damn right,” O'Reilly growled in a voice that filled the hall.

“You tell them they'll be in for a fight,” whispered Kitty. “I love Number One as much as you do.”

“All of this,” continued Mister Murtagh, “will require more extraordinary council meetings.”

O'Reilly scanned the nine faces behind the table. Apart from Hubert Doran, who was still scowling in O'Reilly's direction, he saw no signs of unrestrained enthusiasm for yet more meetings. All the councillors were busy people. Another negative against option A. He looked at Mister Robinson, who was now successfully keeping a straight face.