An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  O’Reilly joined in the general applause and as people began moving about the room, he called, “Bertie, bring Flo over here so we can congratulate her.”

  John MacNeill said, “Hear, hear.”

  As the couple approached, the men at the table stood as was proper when a lady joined the company.

  O’Reilly pulled out his chair. “Have a pew, Flo.”

  Before sitting, Flo made a curtsey and said, “My lord. My lady.”

  O’Reilly and Bertie remained standing while the other men took their seats.

  Above the background noise of voices Barry overheard Dapper Frew saying to Donal Donnelly, “Do you think them Yankees will get that there Apollo 11 up til the moon this month and a fellah out ontil the surface?”

  “Nah,” said Donal. “The moon’s a quarter of a million miles away. They’ll use special effects, like til make a film in Hollywood. It’ll be the best con trick pulled ever.”

  Dapper laughed. “Takes one til know one.”

  O’Reilly was still chuckling as Barry said, “Hello, Bishops. Flo, you were amazing and I’m sure everybody wants to congratulate you, but first may I introduce you to my friend Mister Jack Mills? Jack, Mister and Mrs. Bishop.”

  Jack and Bertie shook hands.

  Flo said, “Pleased til meet you, Mister Mills, although I’m sure we’ve met before. At Fingal and Kitty’s wedding four years ago?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Of course they did, Barry. Jack here’s an honourary member of the community.”

  John MacNeill said, “I must congratulate you, Mrs. Bishop, on a bravura performance.”

  Flo frowned. “Thank you, sir.”

  “My brother means your singing was outstandingly brilliant. I have had the privilege of hearing opera sung in three of the world’s great opera houses, Covent Garden, La Scala, and the Met in New York, and I have never heard a contralto like yours. You are to be congratulated.”

  “Thank you, my lady. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Not kind at all. Just the truth, Mrs. Bishop.”

  “You must be very proud of Flo, Bertie,” Kitty said.

  O’Reilly had never expected to see Bertie Bishop blush. But he did, and his eyes were damp. “I’ve always been proud of my Flo since she and I danced til ‘My Lagan Love’ the night we met. Flo’s my Ballybucklebo love. Always has been. Always will be.”

  O’Reilly hid a smile behind his hand. He had no doubt that Bertie had always loved his wife, but it wasn’t that long ago that the councillor’s behaviour had not been that of the ideal husband. In the twenty-three years O’Reilly had known Bertie Bishop, the man had gone from unmitigated gobshite to rough-hewn gentleman. O’Reilly frowned when he thought of what it had taken to effect the sea change.

  Sue said, “I think that is very sweet, Mister Bishop.”

  “Good for you, Bertie,” O’Reilly said. “Flo, you were terrific.”

  “Thank youse all,” Flo said. “Now, no more congratulations, please. I’ll be getting a swelled head, so I will.”

  “Just one more, so,” Kinky Auchinleck said.

  O’Reilly looked in the direction of the distinctive County Cork accent and saw his friend and part-time housekeeper approaching.

  “I’m here to offer you, from me and Archie, our most sincere congratulations and,” she brought her left hand from behind her back, “a little something from both of us.” She handed Flo a parcel. “I’ve heard you sing, Flo Bishop, so unless someone’s bribed the judges—”

  O’Reilly choked on his stout at that thought.

  “—here’s an extra prize. Some of my chocolate truffles, so. But don’t open them now.”

  “Thanks, Kinky.” Flo accepted the package. “My Bertie loves your sweets.”

  “And before you go, Kinky,” O’Reilly said, “since you’re here. There is one other thing to mention, and it’ll not embarrass you Flo, but you and Bertie and your committee have done a great job organising tonight. And Kinky, you and the ladies who catered have excelled yourselves. Our congratulations and sincere thanks.”

  “Hear, hear.” John MacNeill bowed his head in acknowledgement.

  Kinky made a little curtesy to his lordship. “I’ll tell the other ladies, so, and I’ll be off now.”

  O’Reilly watched her go. They had all worked like Trojans. He said to Bertie Bishop, “You’ll all be glad of a rest when it’s over.”

  Bertie smiled. “For the others perhaps, but there’s no rest for the wicked, I’m afraid. You know what next Saturday is?”

  John MacNeill nodded. “July the Twelfth. Marching season.”

  “Aye,” said Bertie. “All over the wee north, aye, and in places in Canada and Scotland too, Loyalist Orange lodges will march to celebrate the Protestant Prince William of Orange’s victories over the Catholic King James in the late 1600s. Near three hundred years ago and we’re still crowing about it. Our lodge here thinks it’s just a bit of craic. A day out and a few jars. I’m worshipful master so I’ve organised things til do, and I’m very glad til say the Ballybucklebo lodge will be walking in Comber so no risk of anyone taking offence here.” He sighed. “If the rest of my loyal brethren could see the whole thing as fun, but there’s them elsewhere as takes it all dead serious and uses it til annoy the Catholics. I just hope, seeing it’s been quieting down for the last couple of months, that things don’t get out of hand next week.”

  “But do you think that’s possible?” Kitty asked. “I hope not. Do you think it might be wise to call off the marches this year?”

  Bertie Bishop shook his head. “You being from the south—and I don’t hold that against you. No harm to you but”—the Ulster peace offering before contradicting someone outright—“you’d be luckier asking the sun not til rise. I think—”

  Bertie was drowned out by Donal Donnelly speaking into the microphone. “My lord, ladies, and the rest of youse, now it’s time for the last performer—me.”

  Apart from fixing greyhound races, fabricating “genuine” splinters from Brian Boru’s twelfth-century war club, and selling Irish two-shilling pieces as memorial medallions for the famous Irish racehorse Arkle, Donal had a richly deserved reputation as a comedian.

  “And after I’ve done, our judges”—he indicated the two men of the cloth—“will announce the winner, but first I’ll do my party piece.”

  Most folks in Ulster had an act, their party piece, ready to perform in public if called upon.

  “Did youse hear about the crisis among gravediggers? It’s true, you know. Honest. Ireland’s going til ban all burials at sea. Every last one.” Donal paused before continuing. “And you’ll know about this, Mister Coffin.” All eyes turned to the local undertaker, a lugubrious-looking man with the misfortune to have a rhinophyma, a blockage in the sebaceous glands that made the tip of his nose bulbous and red. “They’re banning them because,” another pause, “too many Irish gravediggers is getting drownded.”

  O’Reilly joined in the laughter that swept the room and was pleased to see that Mister Coffin was laughing too. It was going to take some time before Donal Donnelly could resume his act, and he clearly knew that when he had the crowd warmed up it was better to let them laugh themselves out before continuing.

  Donal performed for five minutes before saying, “Right, youse’ll need til use your imaginations for this one but picture a wee terrace house in the Liberties in Dublin.”

  That isn’t difficult for me, O’Reilly thought. He’d begun his medical career in those slums in 1936 as an assistant to a Doctor Phelim Corrigan.

  Donal’s accent became the nasal one of a Dublin Northsider. “A fellah wit’ his duncher held in his two hands says til the woman that answers the door, ‘Mrs. Murphy, Guinness’s brewery sent me, as your husband Paddy’s best mate, to convey their deepest sympathy because,’” dramatic pause, “‘Paddy fell into a vat of Guinness and,’” Donal sucked his breath in, “‘he drownded.’”

  Donal’s voice went up two octaves to that of the new
widow, in shock and hands wringing. “Lord thundering Jasus, and do you think did my Paddy suffer?”

  “‘Well no, Missus. We don’t think so.’” Donal’s pause was timed to perfection. “‘Honest we don’t.’” Another pause. “‘He got out three times to take a leak.’”

  A momentary silence, then the room erupted. Whistles. Gales of laughter. Applause.

  When the room had returned to a semblance of quiet, Donal said in his usual Ulster tones, “And that’s all from me, folks, but if our judges would—?”

  Father Hugh O’Toole stood aside to let Mister Robinson the Presbyterian minister take precedence as they made their way to the stage, but it was the smiling priest’s Cork brogue that came from the loudspeakers. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, it has been a labour of Hercules for my friend Mister Robinson and me to pick a winner, so. Every act in its own way was a gem, and all are to be heartily congratulated, but one stood above all. Mrs. Flo Bishop, will you please come up and accept your prize?”

  Bertie Bishop was on his feet. He leaned over to O’Reilly and yelled in his ear, “I couldn’t be more happy for her, Doctor. I love that woman and I still see her as being sixteen.” He swallowed and hauled in a deep breath before yelling, “Well done, Flo.”

  She blew him a kiss.

  The applause began to die down and all eyes, including those of O’Reilly’s party, were on Flo Bishop, who accepted from a beaming Reverend Robinson a small silver cup shaped like an urn with handles on two sides.

  “Thank you, sir, and first I want til congratulate all the other performers. Youse was all great.” She peered at its base. “It says, ‘Winner of the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts First Talent Contest, July 5, 1969.’ Thank youse all very much.” There was a cracking in her voice and her eyes glistened. “Thank youse. It’ll have a place of honour on our mantelpiece. I’ll ask Bertie if I can move our stuffed cat onto a wee table to make room.” She swallowed and bowed her head as the applause and laughter swelled again.

  Bertie Bishop climbed up on the stage and helped her down as the applause died and conversations restarted.

  “I remember,” O’Reilly said, “when the idea of Saturday-night functions was first discussed. Bertie Bishop promised the Reverend Robinson that last orders would be taken at ten thirty with everybody out by eleven so the party wouldn’t run over into the Sabbath or disturb the neighbours. The clock over the bar hatch says ten fifteen.” He looked at his now-empty pint glass. “I’d go another pint. Anyone else?”

  “Sorry, Fingal,” John MacNeill said, “Myrna and I must be trotting along.” They rose and goodnights were said.

  Barry stood. “Sue and I should be heading for home too. Sue needs her rest now.”

  Because, O’Reilly thought, she was ten weeks pregnant. “Off you go,” he said.

  “Not for me, thanks,” Helen Hewitt said, “but go ahead, Jack, if you want to.”

  “Pint please, Fingal.”

  “Kitty?”

  She pointed to her half-finished gin and tonic. “I’m fine, love.”

  “Right.” O’Reilly rose. “Two pints coming up.” He started to make his way to the bar hatch, exchanging pleasantries as he passed occupied tables, bidding goodnights to those leaving. He had almost made it when Donal Donnelly tugged at O’Reilly’s coat sleeve.

  “Doc. Doc.”

  O’Reilly stopped in his tracks. “What’s up, Donal?”

  “Come quick. It’s Dapper. He sat up straight, grabbed his head, and asked who had hit it with a hammer. Then he said he’d got a stiff neck, his head felt woozy, and he threw off.”

  2

  My Head Is Bloody

  Damn it, those symptoms sounded like something was wrong inside Dapper’s skull. Possibly a bleed. O’Reilly turned and called over the hum of conversations and the noise of folks leaving, “Jack, something’s up with Dapper. I need a hand.” He saw heads turning, people frowning, and the hum of conversation increased.

  O’Reilly quickened his pace. Jack would soon catch up. O’Reilly was already considering the possibilities as he marched to the back of the room. Confusion, the man’s head feeling “woozy,” and the sudden fierce headache and stiff neck worried O’Reilly. This could be a case to get to hospital as soon as possible.

  Jack was at O’Reilly’s shoulder when they arrived to find Dapper hunched, holding his head, and staring into space, his back to the table.

  Connie Brown sat beside Dapper, holding his right arm. “Don’t worry. You just took a wee turn, so you did. And here’s Doctor O’Reilly for til take a gander at you. You’ll be all right. Of course you will.”

  O’Reilly smiled at Connie and sat on Dapper’s left side. “Not so hot, Dapper?”

  “In soul I’m not, Doctor.”

  Jack slipped in to stand beside O’Reilly.

  “Did you pass out?”

  “Don’t think so.”

  “He didn’t, sir,” Connie said.

  “Good.” O’Reilly was distracted for a moment and realised it was Bertie Bishop, come to see what was going on. “What’s wrong with Dapper, Doctor? We’ve a blanket and a cushion in the van. Would you like them?”

  “Please.”

  Bertie headed off, but others had begun to crowd round. O’Reilly tried to get on with his examination. “Dapper, what day is it?”

  “Friday—I thuh—thuh—”

  “Think?”

  “Aye.”

  “Where are you?”

  Dapper frowned. Looked around. “The Duck? But it’s too full of pee—pee—”

  “People?”

  “That’s right.”

  The man was disorientated in time and place and mildly dysphasic, unable to find words to express his thoughts. Intracranial bleeding caused those symptoms.

  “Excuse me, Doctor.” Alan Hewitt offered a glass of water. “Here y’are, sir.”

  He meant well but had interrupted O’Reilly’s train of thought again. He shook his head. “No thanks, Alan.” The man must have seen too many Westerns, where no matter the severity of the hero’s wounds, water had miraculous curative powers.

  “A wee taste of brandy then?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “Not yet.”

  Donal Donnelly arrived, pushed his way past the scrum of onlookers, and looked into O’Reilly’s eyes.

  O’Reilly put a finger to his lips and Donal nodded.

  “Dapper. One at a time I want you to raise your arms and legs.”

  Connie released Dapper’s right arm and up it went.

  “Right leg,” O’Reilly said.

  Up it came.

  “Left arm.”

  Dapper’s face contorted as he tried to will his arm to move, but it hung limply at his side. Nor had he any success with his left leg. “Jasus, Doctor O’Reilly, don’t say I’ve had a—a—stroke. Please.”

  The little crowd moved closer.

  O’Reilly didn’t recognise the woman who said with a sneer, “Likely he’s just paralytic drunk.”

  “Right,” O’Reilly said, “I want everybody to move back. I’ve a job to do. You’re getting in the way. Let the dog see the rabbit, for God’s sake.” He noticed both Father O’Toole and Reverend Robinson with their eyes closed, heads bowed, and regretted his choice of words.

  “Sorry, Doctor,” said Ronald Fitzpatrick, and with both arms outstretched he shepherded most of the rubberneckers back several paces.

  O’Reilly rose, stood beside Jack, and asked in a quiet voice, “Have I missed anything? I think he’s had a subarachnoid bleed.”

  “I agree. No more we can do here. I’ll phone for an ambulance and have a word with the duty neurosurgery registrar on ward 21 at the Royal Victoria. Tell him our findings and working diagnosis.”

  “I’ll explain it all to Dapper while you’re away.”

  “Right. I’m off.”

  O’Reilly turned to face the little crowd and raised his voice. “I know you’re all worried and curious. But you know I can’t breach doctor/patient confiden
tiality. All I can say is that our friend Dapper is quite ill and Mister Mills is sending for the ambulance.”

  There were muttered expressions of concern: “Och dear” and “The poor man” and “God bless him.”

  Flo Bishop arrived, carrying a grey wool blanket and a cushion. “Here y’are. Will he be all right, Doctor?”

  “Thanks, Flo. I really hope so. All right now, everyone. Thank you for your concern. The drama’s over. I suggest you all drink up and then go home.” He took the blanket, draped it round Dapper’s shoulders, and put the cushion between the man’s back and his chair.

  Dapper asked, “Doctor O’Reilly, I can’t find wuh—wuh—”

  “Words.”

  “And my left side doesn’t work very well. My da had a stroke and he was no use til himself for six years. Couldn’t speak at all. Then he died. For God’s sake, Doctor O’Reilly, don’t say I’ve had a stroke too. I’m on—I’m on—”

  “You rest now, Dapper. Trying to talk will only upset you.”

  Dapper shook his head. “Only. I’m only twenty-six.”

  O’Reilly would have preferred to say nothing to Dapper, but he and Jack Mills were already clinically sure there was bleeding beneath the inner of the two membranes, the outer thick dura mater and inner thin arachnoid that sheathed the brain and contained the cerebrospinal fluid that cushioned and protected the brain. The current paresis and other symptoms might resolve with time, but at the moment that could not be predicted. He decided to be as gentle as possible while telling Dapper the truth. “You know I’m a country GP, Dapper. But Mister Mills here is a qualified specialist. He and I do believe you’ve had some bleeding inside your skull, but we can’t be sure what it’s from, where the damage is, or what can be done. An ambulance will be here soon and the doctors at the Royal will do everything in their power to help you.”

  Dapper’s tears flowed.

  O’Reilly looked away and saw small groups heading for the way out, all talking in whispers, all with sympathy in their eyes.