An Irish Country Welcome Page 17

  He’d heard enough. He switched off the radio. The effects of the Panadol were lessening. He grimaced and stroked his lower jaw. Last thing he needed was a bloody toothache to worry about. He was more concerned about trouble on the Catholic Falls Road and, damn it all, wasn’t the Royal Victoria Hospital right at the crossroads of the Falls Road and Grosvenor Road?

  The Rover passed the hill where five weeks ago he and Barry had rescued a farmer, Desmond Johnson, from under an overturned tractor. The cut in the man’s lip would be healed by now. O’Reilly wondered how Johnson’s right ankle was.

  He passed through Crawfordsburn, past the Old Inn, and the tiny village of Carnalea, which always made him appreciate the beauty of the Irish language. The name came from the Irish Carnan Lao, meaning the Small Mound of the Calf.

  In no time he was climbing Bangor’s Dufferin Avenue with the railway station to his right. Left on Main Street, right on Hamilton Road and, glory be, he was able to find a parking spot not far from the grey, three-storey, cement-stucco terrace house where Mister Drew had his surgery.

  O’Reilly walked along the pavement, up a short flight of steps, and in through the open front door of Mister Drew’s house. A notice on the first door to his right said, Patients, please take a seat in here. The dentist will be with you shortly. O’Reilly managed a smile. Mister Norman Drew, like O’Reilly, practised from his home. The dentist had no receptionist. No dental nurse.

  O’Reilly went into a deserted small room where half a dozen simple wooden chairs were arranged against pale green painted walls and took a seat. On the far wall, a framed print hung in which a small, redheaded boy with jug ears sat in a dentist’s chair, hands gripping the armrests. He stared apprehensively at a dental drill. O’Reilly recognized it as the work of American artist Norman Rockwell. Hardly a comforting image.

  A low table stood in the centre of the room. It carried some ancient magazines. Women’s Own, National Geographic, as well as the recently founded Ulster Tatler, which featured stories about Ulster’s upper crust.

  Before O’Reilly could pick up a National Geographic, he heard footsteps in the hall and through the open door saw Mister Drew, a short, balding, bespectacled man in his late fifties, who wore a short-sleeved hip-length white coat over a blue-and-white vertically-striped shirt and grey flannel trousers. He’d opened his practice four years after O’Reilly had returned to Ballybucklebo following the war, and O’Reilly had been one of the first patients. He smiled in greeting. “Fingal,” he said. “How are you?”

  “I could be better, Norman. I’ve a raging toothache.” He pointed at his lower left jaw.

  “Sorry to hear that. You’d better come up and let me take a look.” He headed off upstairs, followed by O’Reilly who, having noticed the empty waiting room, said, “Business a bit slow?”

  “Not one bit, but I had a couple of cancellations today and I gave you the after-lunch appointment so you’d not have to wait.”

  “Decent of you.” O’Reilly turned on the first landing and began climbing the second short flight of stairs.

  “Did you hear the one o’clock news, Fingal?”

  “I did. Not good.”

  “I think it’s going to get worse. I’ve heard a rumour that the head of the RUC, Graham Shillington, is going to ask the Stormont Government to get Westminster to deploy British troops in Derry and Belfast.” He went into the second-floor surgery and started to wash his hands.

  O’Reilly followed. “I hope so. This rioting can’t be allowed to go on.” He paused in the doorway and thought of Kitty driving her little car along the Falls Road in another few hours and said a silent prayer. Then he entered the small room with all the enthusiasm of a heretic facing the torturers of the Spanish Inquisition.

  A dental chair with a high headrest, padded leather arms, and a footrest stood in the centre of the room, facing a sash window. To the chair’s left a foot-pedal-powered drill stood, all pulleys and thin wire cables. It was folded up, its drill bit quiet, but to his mind lurking like a coiled snake. It might be needed soon. O’Reilly had less than fond memories of its grating noise. A circular instrument tray was attached to the rising shaft of the drill and shining stainless-steel instruments were laid out on a green towel on the tray’s top. A combined suction apparatus, water fountain, and spittoon stood closer to the chair than the drill. There was a pervasive smell of disinfectant and, O’Reilly imagined, of fear. Possibly his own.

  The sound of the running tap was silenced.

  “Hop up.”

  O’Reilly sighed and climbed into the chair.

  Mister Drew tilted the chair back, so O’Reilly was semi-recumbent. He had a fine view out the window to the tall tan chimney pots and beyond the rooftops to Belfast Lough and the Hills of Antrim. What he wouldn’t give to be tramping those hills with Kitty and Kenny at this moment. He thought of Kitty, undoubtedly in surgery. The pair of them should be outside, enjoying the sunshine and the fresh air.

  “Point to where it hurts.”

  O’Reilly indicated the spot.

  “Open wide.” Mister Drew shone an overhead light into O’Reilly’s mouth and put a small circular mirror between his left cheek and lower back teeth.

  O’Reilly braced himself. The next step would be to tap the teeth in the vicinity and see which one hurt—a lot—but Mister Drew said, “All right. Your second lower bicuspid, or premolar, has a cavity as deep as the Marianas Trench and as black as old Nick’s hatband.” He removed the mirror. “If you’ve—”

  “‘—any tears to shed, prepare to shed them now.’ Brutus in Julius Caesar. Jasus, Norman, you’ve been beating me to death with that line for nineteen years.”

  “Perhaps I’d better be getting some new material.”

  “Can you fill the tooth?”

  “Sorry, Fingal. It’ll have to go.”

  “Bugger it.” O’Reilly blew out his breath through pursed lips. “Let’s get it over with.”

  Mister Drew clipped a knee-length bib of white rubber to O’Reilly’s shirt collar. “Open wide.”

  O’Reilly did. He stared through the window, trying to distract himself by ignoring the view and counting, over and over, the chimney pots opposite. The needle bit into the place at the back of his mouth where the upper and lower jaws hinged. There the inferior alveolar nerve, which supplies the teeth in the lower jaw, could be blocked with local anaesthetic.

  “Just take a minute.” Mister Drew began injecting Xylocaine.

  O’Reilly’s usually infallible memory failed him. He couldn’t remember who had explained Einstein’s theory of relativity by saying that five minutes with a beautiful woman passed in the blink of an eye, and five in the dentist’s chair seemed an eternity. It was true.

  Mister Drew removed the needle. “We’ll give it a minute or two to work.”

  “Thank you.”

  Norman Drew was not a chatty man and O’Reilly was quite content to wait in silence until he felt tingling and numbness in his lower jaw, lips, and the left side of his tongue.

  “Open.”

  O’Reilly did, and the dentist, by looking in his little mirror, used a metal probe to touch the gum beneath the tooth. “What do you feel?”

  “Bit of pressure. Tingling. Nothing else.”

  “Right.”

  O’Reilly stared past the man and once more counted chimney pots.

  He felt and resisted the pressure that was trying to pull his head upward, heard the crunch as the roots were torn free from the bone, and tasted the copperiness of blood.

  Mister Drew held up his trophy. “That’s better out than in.”

  O’Reilly had no difficulty identifying the twin crowns and roots of a bicuspid. He heard the tink of the tooth hitting the bottom of a stainless-steel kidney dish.

  “Here.” Mister Drew gave O’Reilly a paper cup of pink-coloured water. “Rinse and spit a few times.”

  O’Reilly did, noticing how bright red now tinged the ejected water.

  Mister Drew put a co
tton swab over the site of the extraction. “Bite down hard.”

  O’Reilly grunted but did as he was told.

  “Have you plenty of Panadol, Fingal?”

  O’Reilly nodded.

  “You’ll not feel any pain until the local wears off, but it’s always better to head pain off before it starts, so take two as soon as you get home, then two every six hours until the pain’s gone when the socket heals. Shouldn’t take more than a few days. Rinse your mouth often with salt in warm water. Suck ice cubes. Soft and liquid diet for three days. Any heavy bleeding or severe pain, call me at once.”

  O’Reilly nodded.

  “I’m sure you’re glad that’s over.” Mister Drew smiled. “At least it’s paid for by the National Health Service.” He stood at the sink washing his instruments before setting them inside a water-filled metal box on a shelf beneath an electrical socket to which the autoclave was plugged. He switched it on. “Twenty minutes and they’ll be ready for use again.” He came back to stand beside the chair. “Let’s have a look.”

  O’Reilly lifted out the bloodstained swab and opened up so the dentist could see.

  “Dry as a bone. Good.” He removed the rubber bib.

  “Thanks, Norman,” O’Reilly said. “Hardly felt a thing.” He groaned when Mister Drew trotted out the old dentist’s canard: “Neither did I.”

  O’Reilly got out of the chair. “I’ll be off, and thanks again for fitting me in.”

  “Any time and come back in six months for your checkup and bring your lovely wife for hers.”

  “I will,” said O’Reilly. He descended the stairs, opened the front door, and breathed in the fresh air, feeling the relief that it was all over. He didn’t need Norman Drew mentioning his wife to remind him of his concern for Kitty. He’d be heartily glad to see her home and hoped it would be in time for their pre-dinner drink.

  * * *

  O’Reilly parked the car in the garage, letting himself into the back garden, where he was greeted politely by Kenny. The big chocolate Lab bounced out of his kennel and sat at O’Reilly’s feet, tail sweeping the grass, gazing adoringly up into his master’s face.

  “Good boy,” O’Reilly said. “I know what you’re waiting for, but you’re going to have to be patient. It’s another eighteen days until the duck season opens, but we’ll get a day or two down on Strangford as soon as it does.” He patted the top of Kenny’s head. “Come on. You can keep me company until Kitty gets home.”

  The Lab grinned and followed.

  O’Reilly let them into the kitchen, where a meaty smell filled the room.

  Kenny looked at Kinky and immediately lay down in a corner.

  “You’ve trained him well, Kinky.”

  “If he’s going to be in my kitchen, sir, I can’t be having him under my feet, so. And how do you be, you poor craythur?”

  “Tooth’s out.”

  “Well, better an empty house than a bad tenant. I do be making raspberry jellies, rice pudding, and this blancmange dessert, for I know that after having a tooth pulled, you’ll be wanting soft foods, so.”

  “You really are a gem, Kinky. Thank you.”

  Kinky ignored the compliment. “Now you go upstairs and put your feet up. As I recall,” she said, “you had no breakfast, Doctor. I’ll bring you up a mug of my beef tea. It’ll be only warm now. Not hot.”

  That would account for the meaty aroma. “Thanks, Kinky. Come on, Kenny.” O’Reilly left the kitchen, headed for the surgery to pick up some more Panadol, and swallowed two. As he and Kenny came out, he met Emer McCarthy, who had come in through the front door. She was whistling a slip jig. “That’s a cheerful tune.”

  She chuckled. “‘Drops of Brandy.’”

  “I remember you used to be a keen Irish dancer.”

  “Until a certain Eamon McCaffrey, the lad I’d been walking out with, decided to drop me.” Her expression was wry, then softened. “Working here really helped me put all that behind me, Fingal.”

  “I’m glad of it. And I’m very glad you’re part of the practice. What’s it been, six weeks?”

  “It has, and two weeks ago the same Eamon McCaffrey phoned me out of the blue. Said he’d made a terrible mistake, and would I consider giving him another chance.”

  “Did he now? And?”

  “I’d dinner with him last week and I’m seeing him again this Saturday.” She chuckled. “We’re going Irish dancing.”

  O’Reilly smiled. “I wish you the best of luck.” And he had reason to. He knew only too well how satisfying the rekindling of an old romance could be.

  “Thanks, Fingal. But look here. Never mind me. How’s your jaw?”

  “One tooth short and still a bit numb.”

  She smiled. “That’s not too bad.”

  “No, it’s not, but I’m going up to the lounge. I’d appreciate a bit of peace and quiet. No Irish dancing with Kinky.”

  She chuckled. “Fine. I’m on call tonight, so I’ll head off to the call quarters. You take care of that jaw.”

  They parted and O’Reilly led Kenny upstairs.

  The big dog went to his usual place in front of the fireplace and O’Reilly to his chair.

  Kinky arrived, carrying a mug. She set it on a mat on a table near O’Reilly. “Your beef tea, Doctor O’Reilly.”

  O’Reilly accepted the tea and took a long sip. “Thanks, Kinky.”

  “It does be my pleasure, sir. Now I must be getting back to my blancmange. It’s about ready to simmer.” Kinky left. O’Reilly glanced at Kenny, who was asleep and must be dreaming doggy dreams because his eyebrows twitched, his lips curled and uncurled, and the tip of his tail twitched.

  “Emer’s old boyfriend’s come back. I’ll be damned,” O’Reilly said to himself, and took another long swallow of his beef tea. His lip and tongue still tingled. Emer’s news had been cheerful, but the situation in Ulster was worrisome and he wished Kitty were safely home. O’Reilly yawned. Panadol was mildly soporific. And the beef tea was warm and soothing. He finished it and put the mug on the table. Perhaps it was due to the medication, or perhaps it was in sympathy with Kenny, but for whatever reason, O’Reilly felt his eyes drift closed.

  * * *

  “Wake up, sleeping beauty.” A gentle voice. A kiss and a shake of his shoulder. “I’m home.”

  O’Reilly struggled to sit up and was vaguely aware of the little white cat jumping to the floor. “What? Uh?” He blinked, yawned, and rubbed his eyes. There was Kitty, looking a little tired but very beautiful. He had dreamed of her, he recalled, and now here she was.

  “Must have nodded off. Welcome home, pet. How was your day? I’ve been worried about you.”

  “Let’s talk about me later. How’s your tooth?”

  “Out. The local’s worn off but I’ve taken Panadol, so there’s just a bit of an ache starting.”

  “I’m glad it’s over for you. Now I’m more than ready for my G and T. What’ll you have?” She moved to the sideboard and began pouring her drink.

  “I reckon whiskey might sting a bit, but there’s a bottle of Bass.”

  “Right.” Kitty levered off the cap, poured the beer, brought over both glasses, and sat in the vacant armchair. “My day? Long. I am being reminded daily,” she said, kicking off her shoes, “that I’m not thirty anymore. It’s tiring standing in theatre. Today we did an aneurysm like Dapper’s. Almost three hours. Quick sandwich break and then a meningioma.” She smiled. “Happily, it was benign.” She lifted her glass. “Cheers.” She sipped her drink.

  O’Reilly returned the toast.

  “And of course, all the ructions in Londonderry. The journalists are starting to call it ‘The Battle of the Bogside.’ The opinion of the senior staff in the Royal, based on news bulletins and some telephone conversations with colleagues in Altnagelvin Hospital in Derry, is that the RUC are losing the fight.”

  “I heard the one o’clock news. It didn’t sound good.”

  Kitty shook her head. “It’s not. Londonderry’s not
the only place affected. Catholics are demonstrating all over Belfast. Our casualty department’s been very busy since late last night. Things are heating up on the Falls Road.”

  O’Reilly sighed. “I don’t like to think of you so close. So far, no news of a Protestant backlash, but I fear it’s inevitable.”

  “Precautions are being taken. I was stopped by two police checkpoints on the Grosvenor Road. The officers looked and sounded exhausted. I think there’s more trouble to come.” She took a swallow of her drink.

  O’Reilly pursed his lips before asking, “Do you absolutely have to go to work tomorrow? You could be driving onto a battlefield.”

  Kitty sighed. “Charlie Greer has a full list. I will have to go.”

  “Bugger it.”

  “Don’t be too worried, Fingal. I’m sure the checkpoints will still be there. If it’s not safe, they’ll not let me through or else they’ll provide a police escort. I’m sure I’ll be all right.”

  “Huh.” O’Reilly scowled. “I don’t like it. Reminds me too much of the war.”

  “Come on, old bear. Cheer up. Let’s try not to worry about it tonight. There’s something else I wanted to talk about.”

  He swallowed more beer. “Fine by me.”

  “You remember Consuela?”

  “Of course. The little girl you met in San Blas in Tenerife in 1937 while you were nursing there.” And with whose widowed father you had an affair? he thought. “We met her in Barcelona in ’66. You still write to her, don’t you?”

  “I do. There was a letter from her for me in the afternoon post.”

  “And?”

  “She has to be in London in mid-September and wonders about popping over to see us and whether we could show her some of the sights.”

  “I think that would be a wonderful idea—if the place has settled down.” O’Reilly completely forgot about the dull ache in his jaw. “Let’s hope so. Mid-September would be a good time.”

  “I’ll take a couple of weeks off. You’re always hinting I work too hard.”

  “Kind of you to call it hinting. I think I’m a bit more direct than that.”