An Irish Country Cottage Page 10

  “Kitchen, dining area, and living area,” John MacNeill said, tearing down an enormous cobweb. “Needs a bit of cleaning.” He must have caught Kitty’s expression. “Yes, let’s be honest. A lot of cleaning. But it seems sound. What do you think, Mister Bishop?”

  Bertie looked round; he tried, and succeeded in opening the nearest window, with the accompaniment of a few screeches. He took out a penknife and scratched some material from the window frame and rubbed it between his finger and thumb. “Sound,” he said. “Very sound, like all the rest of the walls of the older bit of the building. Thon cob construction’s like the rock of ages. Lasts forever.”

  “What on earth’s cob?” O’Reilly asked, willing as ever to learn something new from an expert.

  Bertie, practiced public speaker that he was, and clearly enjoying having an audience, tucked his thumbs under the lapels of his raincoat. “Cob’s a very ancient building material. Goes back to prehistoric times. A mixture of subsoil and water. A binding fibre—usually straw and sometimes lime or sand—is added. Cob construction is common in Donegal, Munster, and Cork, but not as common here. There are a few examples, though, and this here happens to be one, so it is.”

  O’Reilly said, “‘I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree. And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made…’” O’Reilly ran a hand across the hard, smooth surface of the wall. “That kind of thing?”

  “Dead on,” Bertie Bishop said. “You’ve hit the nail right on the head, Doctor, you and Willy Butler Yeats. It’s fireproof and very durable, walls are about two to three feet thick.”

  That would account for the recessed windows.

  Bertie removed his thumbs from his coat. “So far the basic structure’s rightly.” He shrugged. “Needs cleaning, lots of cleaning, yes, ma’am, I agree. Lick of paint and whitewash. What we need til know about now is the state of the other rooms and the roof.”

  “I’ve brung stepladders,” Donal said. “I’ll get them and nip up and take a quick gander.”

  “Good man-ma-da,” Bertie said. “Just you be careful, now.”

  “Yes, Mister Bishop.” Donal left.

  “Come on then,” said Bertie. “Let’s get a look at the rest of the place. My lord.”

  “Carry on, please,” John MacNeill said, holding out his arm, and he and O’Reilly and Kitty followed Bertie through the open door and into the hall. The hole in the roof to the right of the roof’s centre meant the light was better here, but it was musty and the drizzle was coming in. Two tiles lay smashed on the floor. Looking up at the ridge beam and five rafters, O’Reilly was reminded of a photo he’d seen of a long-dead beached whale with its spine and ribs fully exposed.

  “’Scuse me,” Donal said, carrying the ladder in, extending it, and propping it against the rafter at the far side of the gaping hole. “I’m off,” he said, and started to climb.

  O’Reilly steadied the ladder. He stared up.

  Donal was examining the rafter at one edge of the hole, then the other four in succession. He nodded to himself. “These’ll do fine, Mister Bishop, and the slates on both sides as far as I can reach don’t seem to be letting in water. You’ll need to look at the ceilings in thon room.” He pointed to the right side of the hall.

  Bertie opened a door to his right and looked up. “Bit of roof missing here too, but it looks good away from the hole. Clatter of rubbish on the floor and the walls are mossy, but it’ll just take cleaning, drying out, and a wee taste of whitewash inside.”

  “It used to be a bedroom,” John MacNeill said.

  Bertie said, “The hole will be easy til fix. There’s a great trick with a few bits of lumber and canvas. Cost next til nothing.”

  “That’s good to hear,” Kitty said. She frowned. “But it’s pretty damp and musty now. There’s bound to be mould about the place. Are you sure there’ll be no risk to the little Donnellys?”

  “Should be alright,” Bertie said, “as long as we really scrub it out and then get it dry. We’ll get some good hot fires going in the fireplaces.”

  “I’m relieved to hear that,” she said.

  So was O’Reilly.

  Donal was still up the ladder.

  Bertie walked along the hall and disappeared through another door. “This bathroom looks alright,” he called to them. “Tub’s in good shape, wash-hand basin’s solid.” He appeared again. “But there’s no water in the toilet and there’s none coming from any of the taps.”

  “Oh, lord,” said John MacNeill. “I’d quite forgotten. When the bathroom was added in ’33 the builder ran an above-ground pipe from the big house. I’m afraid it burst two years ago in a severe frost. We just turned the tap off at the mains. The kitchen taps won’t work either.”

  O’Reilly looked at Kitty, who said quietly, “If there’s no water, the whole thing’s a nonstarter.” He flinched. Perhaps he’d been too optimistic.

  “If it’s over-ground,” Bertie said, “we can find it and a plumber can fix it.”

  “Good,” John MacNeill said. “So far I think things look promising.” He stuck his head through a door standing ajar on the far side of the corridor. “The other bedroom. Let’s have a look.” He went in.

  “Kek-kek-kek-kek.” A staccato whirring of flight feathers.

  O’Reilly jumped back as a cock pheasant, which must have been sheltering in there, burst through the open door and rocketed up and out through the hole in the roof, missing Donal’s face by inches.

  Donal, who was halfway down the ladder, muttered, “Oh shite,” and pitched off.

  O’Reilly grabbed the little man before he hit the earth floor. “Gotcha,” O’Reilly said, setting Donal on his feet.

  “Thanks a million, Doc. I near took the rickets, there now. Scared me witless, so it did.”

  “I’ll just have a look in here.” Bertie Bishop vanished into the room, returning only a few moments later, smiling. “The roof looks dead on from the inside.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “Your lordship, we’re in like Flynn,” he said. “The materials’ll cost next til nothing. Might even cost nothing. Amn’t I a builder with all kinds of butt ends of things and half-used cans of paint lying round my yard?” He nodded to himself. “Labour might cost a bit…”

  O’Reilly had a clearer notion now of how that might be solved, but before he could speak a horse whinnied from nearby and Myrna’s voice rang out. “Hullooo. Anybody in there?”

  All five moved out into the drizzle, where Myrna, as always, riding side-saddle, perched on Rubidium. Ruby for short. The little horse was sweating and O’Reilly could smell it.

  “So,” Myrna asked, forgoing the routine greeting pleasantries, “what’s the verdict, brother?”

  “Mister Bishop says he can provide materials for a patch-up job for very little—”

  “Patch-up?” Myrna said. “Patch-up? I don’t like the sound of that, John. I understood we were going to do the job properly. I don’t want our friends thinking we’re going to be slumlords.”

  Donal’s face fell and he stared down at the ground.

  “Really, John, you are a peer of the realm, you know.”

  “Oh-oh,” O’Reilly muttered.

  “Myrna, my dear, we’re not,” he lowered his voice, “made of money. I’m sure Mister Bishop will make the place entirely habitable, and it’ll only be for a few months. You can’t see the place from the big house. Our friends needn’t know the details, and quite frankly it’s none of their business anyway.”

  “John, we do have our reputation to consider.” Ruby, perhaps sensing her mistress’s anger, shied, and Myrna had to tug on the reins to control the horse.

  “Saving your presence, my lady,” Bertie Bishop said nervously, looking from brother to sister, “but I think what his lordship’s proposing is a real act of Christian charity, so it is.”

  “And I agree, Myrna,” Kitty said.

  O’Reilly watched Donal glancing at each speaker in turn like a spectator at a tennis match. His mouth w
asn’t quite shut and there was anxiety in his eyes.

  “And as far as being a peer, yes, I am Lord MacNeill,” he said, “and for what it’s worth I still feel an obligation to the people of Ballybucklebo. The Donnellys need a roof over their heads and we can provide that roof. Even if it’s not going to feature in Homes and Gardens, it’s the right thing to do, Myrna. The right thing.”

  Myrna tipped her John Bull top hat farther back and frowned. “Yes. Quite. The right thing. I do see. Sorry.”

  “So,” said John MacNeill, “if you can fix it, Mister Bishop, and, Donal, considering that I believe this most recent encounter has been your last meeting with a pheasant since you borrowed some of ours in ’67, I’d be delighted to have you and your family as tenants as soon as Mister Bishop says you can move in.”

  To O’Reilly that conversation suggested that his lordship would foot the bill for parts and labour, but just in case …

  Donal’s eyes were misting and his voice quavered when he said, “I don’t know how til thank youse all enough.” He shook his head. A single tear trickled. “Quick as a flash I’m gone from rags til riches. Julie and the chisslers will be happy as pigs in shi…” He bowed his head to John MacNeill. “Sorry, your honour. Your ladyship.”

  Lord John MacNeill shook his head and smiled.

  “And,” said O’Reilly, “I think there’s a way to find free labour, sir. Let’s you, Bertie, and you, Donal, meet me in the Duck at six tonight.”

  “Right,” said Donal.

  “I’m your man,” Bertie said.

  “Myrna and I would be grateful if you could, Fingal,” said the marquis.

  O’Reilly could sense the man’s relief. John MacNeill’s strong sense of noblesse oblige would tell him the MacNeills should foot the bill. But O’Reilly was sure the community spirit in Ballybucklebo would be just as strong as ever.

  10

  In Dubious Battle on the Plains

  Through the drizzle came the steady, deafening chant of “One man, one vote. One man, one vote. One man, one vote.” The leaders of the four-hundred-strong, hundred-yard-long march strode forward behind a phalanx of Royal Ulster Constabulary officers along the Glenshane Road and onto the Burntollet Bridge over the River Faughan. The human snake seemed to Barry to be a single living entity, arms linked, rank on rank. One purpose. One voice. “One man, one vote. One man, one vote.”

  More RUC officers, their peaked caps with their black Brian Boru harp badges dark in the rain, stood by watching—silently. They made no move to intervene. Barry scanned the men in bottle green uniforms under dark raincoats. The service revolvers at their hips remained in their holsters, but, Barry thought, he could sense the men’s feeling of “We warned them. We’re fed up with this lot. It’s going to serve the silly buggers right.”

  “One man, one vote…”

  Barry glanced at Sue. The gleam in her eyes was the light of battle and he feared for her. At least they were in the rear rank. If he must, if things got ugly, he could tear her away, protect her as best he could.

  He looked ahead. Coming along the Ardmore Road and surrounding fields toward the march was a body of men. All were in civilian clothes, but some had armbands. Among those so adorned he saw men wearing steel helmets like the ones the British Tommies had worn in both World Wars.

  “See the ones with the armbands?” Seamus said. “They’re off-duty B-Specials. Auxiliary policemen. Those helmets are official issue.”

  Barry knew he must look puzzled.

  “How much do you know about policing in Ulster?”

  “Not much,” Barry said.

  “Alright. Just before partition of Ireland—”

  “In 1921.”

  “Right—a special constabulary was formed to help the RUC. They were armed, uniformed civilians who could be called up in an emergency. That was the start of the B-Specials. During the Anglo-Irish War, they fought the IRA. After partition, the Bs remained active in the north. They still are.”

  “So, they’re not real police?”

  “One man, one vote.” The marchers continued their chant, and Barry and Seamus trudged along, following the crowd.

  “They’re meant to be, but they’re really just a bunch of armed thugs,” Seamus said. “Reprisal killings of civilian Catholics was their speciality. And they haven’t changed. They’re still anti-Catholic, and one of NICRA’s demands is for their disbandment. None of us Catholics trusts them.”

  Barry and Sue’s rank inched forward. The march was slowing.

  Barry, bewildered by the complexities of the situation, could see men in the far fields, Bs and civilians, lifting rocks from what must have been pre-prepared piles. Missiles arced into the air from the men and fell among the ranks of the marchers.

  “One man, one—” The voices were tailing off.

  He heard a woman scream.

  Men’s voices yelled, “Fenian bastards. Papists.” Those offensive terms for Catholics went back into history.

  Still the snake, wounded and hurt as it now was, struggled forward. It had lost its purposeful stride and no one chanted, but it advanced.

  And the RUC still had not intervened.

  Barry saw banners totter and fall. Not all were raised again. As far as he could make out, the leading ranks had passed the ambush and were continuing. He marvelled at the marchers’ courage.

  The RUC stood by. Watching. Doing nothing. Some were smiling.

  Ahead of him, the marchers steadily advanced, all apparently willing to try to run the gauntlet. He had to get Sue out of this. But how?

  A young man, with a handheld cine camera over his shoulder, BBC or ITV, was walking on the verge, making his way back past the crowd. His lip was split and bloody. He kept repeating, to no one in particular, “Ronald Bunting’s leading that Paisleyite mob. It’s blue bloody murder up ahead. Turn back.”

  “No,” Seamus, Aoife, and Sue said together.

  Some of the protesters were trying to escape the onslaught by leaving the bridge and running into the fields to head downhill for the river. They were pursued by civilians and Bs. One armband-wearing man followed a young woman into the shallows, beating at her head and shoulders with a stick. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Her assailant hit her once more, then, grinning and yelling, “Papish lover,” as a last curse at the woman, he scrambled up the bank to rejoin his comrades.

  Yells. Screams. “Fenians.” “Hoors’ gits.” “Remember the Boyne.”

  Barry tried to ignore the cacophony, his gaze fixed on the scene at the river. The woman was still on her hands and knees, shaking her head as if trying to stop herself from losing consciousness. But if she passed out and fell face-forward? He disengaged his arm from Seamus’s, hauled on Sue’s hand. “Come on, Sue.”

  “No.” She pulled back. “Barry, I’m not scared.”

  God, but she was brave and committed to her cause. “I know,” he said, “but look.” He pointed to where the young woman was tottering as she tried to remain on all fours. “She’s hurt. If she passes out, she could drown. She may have a head injury. I have to get her out of the water.”

  “I want to stay with the march.”

  Barry snapped, half out of concern for Sue, half for the young woman. “You bloody well can’t. I’m not leaving you alone to face that mob, and, Sue, I’m a doctor, I have to go to her.” He softened his voice, “And I’ll probably need your help.”

  Sue’s resistance slackened. “Alright,” she said, then again with more conviction. “Alright.”

  Together they made their way off the road, across the field toward the low riverbank at a run. He tried to ignore the racket coming from the far side of the bridge. A single scream cut short. “—ck off, you Fenian cows. No surrender.” Christ, he thought, we just need someone beating a Lambeg drum, a potent symbol of Protestant dominance. Coming from a distance was the “nee-naw” of an emergency vehicle’s siren. “Come after me,” Barry said as he dropped Sue’s hand and pelted across the field.

 
He waded into the shin-deep water, stood beside the girl, and grabbed her shoulder.

  She looked up. Blood flowed from her hairline and across her forehead as the drizzle tried to soothe it away.

  “Can you stand up?” Barry asked.

  She sobbed. “I—I think so.” She struggled to stand.

  Barry took her arm and helped her. “Put an arm round my shoulders,” he said as his own encircled her waist. “Can you take a few steps?”

  They stumbled forward. As they splashed through the icy shallows, Sue joined them. “Let me help,” she said. Between them they oxtercogged the stranger up the bank and a little way into the field.

  “Let’s put her down,” Barry said. He inhaled deeply, the breath burning in his chest. “Thanks, Sue.”

  The young woman sat on the grass, head hanging down.

  Barry covered her shoulders with his raincoat. She was trembling, but whether from cold or shock he couldn’t tell. He knelt beside her. After a few gasps, he said, “I’m a doctor. I’m going to help you.”

  She nodded, using her forearm to wipe the snot from her upper lip.

  “I need to ask you a few questions. What’s your name?”

  “Molly Foye.”

  Foye was a Protestant name.

  “Where are you from, Molly?”

  “From Bangor—”

  “Barry, look, she’s alright. Leave her be. We have to get back to the road. And what’s all this ‘what’s your name’ nonsense, anyway?”

  Barry ignored Sue. “What day is it?” he asked.

  “Saturday. January the fourth and,” she pointed, “that there’s Burntollet Bridge.”

  “Barry. We know that.”

  His patient was “oriented in person, place, and time,” so was not concussed and almost certainly had no injury to her brain despite having been struck on the head. But he wanted to be more certain.

  He said as softly as he could, “Neither of us is going anywhere until I’m satisfied that Molly Foye from Bangor has had no brain damage. So, stop interrupting me, Sue.”

  He heard her sharp intake of breath, but ignored it.

  He shone his penlight into both of Molly’s eyes and satisfied himself that both pupils were equal and reacting to light. Good. A full neurological examination could wait until she’d been taken to the nearby Altnagelvin Hospital. He took her pulse. One hundred and ten. Fast, but not excessively so. He wondered what his own was with all the excitement and exertion.