An Irish Country Cottage Page 21

  “I’d be delighted, Fingal,” Fitzpatrick said. “Although perhaps something more … fortifying?”

  O’Reilly frowned. Was the man drinking again?

  Alice said, “It would be extremely kind, but I’d not want to impose—”

  “Nonsense, Alice. Here, let me take your coat.”

  In moments, hats and coats had been hung up and, preceded by Alice Moloney, the three climbed the stairs.

  “See who’s here,” O’Reilly said as he ushered his guests into the lounge.

  “Goodness,” Kitty said, rising and setting aside Peter S. Beagle’s The Last Unicorn, “Alice, please come in and have a seat, and Ronald Fitzpatrick, as I live and breathe, welcome home. You’re looking well.”

  Fitzpatrick said, “And so are you, my dear Kitty.”

  Alice took an armchair.

  “Don’t just stand there with both your legs the same length, Ronald.” O’Reilly brushed a protesting Lady Macbeth off another chair and took a swipe at the white hairs her ladyship had left behind. “Have a pew.”

  Lady Macbeth, muttering to herself, sat in front of the fire, lifted her hind leg behind her ear, and washed her bottom, very much the feline way of saying, “Go to hell, the lot of you.”

  Fitzpatrick sat. His bony knees were level with his chest.

  “Now,” said O’Reilly, “before we go any farther, Kitty and I would be having our usual tots about now. What would anyone else like? Tea? Coffee?” He waited with some anxiety for Fitzpatrick’s response.

  Alice, rubbing her hands in front of the fire, said, “My late father called tots ‘chota-pegs’ or ‘burra-pegs.’ ‘Chota’ is the Hindi word for small measure.” She giggled. “Daddy always had a burra—a double, but might one have a small measure of sherry, please?”

  Fitzpatrick beamed at her, then became solemn. “There was a time,” he said, “I would have been more than happy to join you, but,” he shook his head, “would it be possible to have a glass of milk? If it’s not too much trouble, that is?” He laughed his dried-up-leaves-in-the-wind laugh. “I drank so much green cha in the last two years, I’m not sure I’ll ever drink tea again.”

  So, that’s what he’d meant by something more fortifying. O’Reilly relaxed.

  “Most certainly,” said Kitty, “I’ll see to it.” She headed for the door. “Just be a minute or two.”

  O’Reilly went to the sideboard. He started to pour a small Harvey’s Shooting sherry. His back was turned to his guests. “I must say, um, Alice, if I may call you that?”

  “Of course, you may, Doctor Fitzpatrick.”

  “Thank you.” He inclined his head. “I must say you are looking very chic tonight. And please call me Ronald, Alice. I’m not a doctor anymore, I’m happy to tell you.”

  O’Reilly felt his bushy eyebrows shoot up. They probably looked like a terrified pair of hairy bear caterpillars. Not a doctor and happy about it? O’Reilly thought as he set the sherry glass aside and began to pour for Kitty and himself.

  “Thank you—Ronald. Being a dressmaker lets me keep abreast of fashion.”

  “You are doing it very well, if I may say so. And that blue is very restful on the eyes, the colour of a sunny Ulster sky. A nice change from the multicoloured chubas, that’s the dress that Sherpa women wear under woven striped aprons called pangi.”

  “Could you sketch them?”

  Fitzpatrick inclined his head. “I believe I actually have some photos. Every native group has its own traditional styles and some of them are very lovely.”

  “I’ve always been interested in how people in other countries dress. I admired the women’s saris when I lived in India.”

  O’Reilly handed Alice her sherry and saw the heightened colour over her cheekbones.

  “Thank you, Doctor O’Reilly,” she said.

  O’Reilly said, “How long have I known you, Alice Moloney?”

  “Years,” she said.

  “Well, it’s about time you dropped my title too. It’s Fingal, and it’s Kitty, and speak of the divil…”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Kitty, “but here you are, Ronald. Your milk.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “And here you are, Kitty.” O’Reilly handed her a gin and tonic, poured himself a Jameson, waited for her to take her seat, then said, “A toast. Welcome home, Ronald Fitzpatrick. And may you never wander again.”

  “Hear him,” said Alice Moloney. “Hear him.”

  Three glasses were raised.

  “Before you reappeared, Kitty, Ronald had just told us he’s not practicing anymore.”

  “Oh,” she said, and looked surprised. “May I ask why not?”

  “Certainly.” Fitzpatrick yawned, held his hand over his mouth, and said, “Do please excuse me. I’m afraid it’s nearly midnight in Nepal and this jet-lag business takes some getting over.” He drank more milk before taking an audible breath. “While I was in Tengbuche I spent a great deal of time meditating. I looked inward and found that, if I were honest, I really did not like medicine. Not at all. What I did like was a quiet life of study and introspection. I started to learn Sanskrit when I was in Nepal. I intend to continue, and then I’d like to try Urdu.”

  “I speak a little,” Alice said. “The best Indian poetry is written in it.”

  “So, I’m told,” Ronald said. “And I do so enjoy poetry. Keats, Swinburne, Shelley.” He looked sad and said, while looking at Alice, “Speaking of saris put me in mind of these lines,

  Two girls in silk kimonos

  Both beautiful, one a gazelle.

  “We had to learn that at school in Tallagh,” Kitty said. “It’s a very sad poem.”

  O’Reilly frowned. The rest of what Ronald had said struck O’Reilly as much more gloomy. How the hell could anyone not like being a physician? He himself might be enjoying slowing down, but after thirty-three years to discover he didn’t like medicine? Unthinkable. But then Ronald Fitzpatrick, since his student days, had always been “different”—brilliant at learning from the textbook in medical school, but an unexceptional clinician. He’d be dabbling in strange folk remedies, trying to cure infertility with black gunpowder one day, and the next going strictly by the book.

  “But don’t you miss medicine?” Kitty asked.

  “Not a bit. Fingal probably knows better than anyone that I wasn’t a particularly good doctor anyway,” Fitzpatrick said, glancing at his former colleague. “But,” and he gazed at Alice, “I missed Ulster.”

  O’Reilly sipped his Jameson and exchanged glances with Kitty.

  “I hear you, Ronald. I was very glad to get home after the war in ’46. I had a chance to go to New Zealand. A surgeon-lieutenant on Warspite, a Kiwi from Christchurch, offered me a partnership, but I’d have missed wildfowling on Strangford Lough, The Mucky Duck, the craic, and the Ulsterfolk.”

  “I agree with you, Fingal, about missing the people.” His smile was self-deprecatory. “I’m afraid I’m not keen on shooting.” He glanced at the mantel where the potbellied figure of Budai, a piece of netsuke, sat. Ronald had given the small ivory figurine to Fingal and Kitty. “I prefer my collection of netsuke because I’m not very good at the craic, the repartee and banter myself, but from time to time I do enjoy listening to others. I left my collection in a safety deposit box at my bank.”

  He looked at the drawn curtains, behind which was a large bow window. “And I remember your view, Fingal and Kitty, out past the steeple of the church, over the roofs, and out to Belfast Lough. The Himalayas are magnificent, but I missed the sea dreadfully.” He removed his pince-nez and wrinkled his nose. “I have already enjoyed an Ulster fry for breakfast and I definitely won’t miss yak butter. I am very glad to be home.”

  “And we’re glad to have you,” Kitty said. “Where will you be living?”

  “As you know I kept my house on the Esplanade in the Kinnegar on for a year. Rented the surgery bit to Doctor Nelson. I sold him the whole lot last year.”

  “Connor Nelson’s
doing a fine job with your patients.”

  “He struck me as a sensible young man. I’m pleased.”

  “So are we,” O’Reilly said, “but you have no house here now. Where will you live?”

  “I want to stay in North Down. I’d like somewhere between the Kinnegar and Helen’s Bay. By the seaside if possible. Dapper Frew is helping me. Until I find a place, I’ll be staying at the Culloden. Quite a change from the austerity of Tengbuche. The old Bishop of Down’s palace is very comfortable.” That laugh again. “I thought I’d spoil myself for a while.”

  O’Reilly whistled. The Culloden was one of Ulster’s most prestigious hotels. Staying there would cost a pretty penny. When Fitzpatrick had left Ulster he had not been a wealthy man.

  “Perhaps you, Fingal and Kitty, and Alice would care to join me for dinner there on Saturday? As my guests, of course. I didn’t bring them with me today, but I have some miniature prayer wheels. They are made of copper and brass and have red coral and turquoise inlays. I’d like each of you to have one. I’ll have them on Saturday.”

  “How very kind,” Alice said.

  “And dinner would be—” was as far as Kitty got.

  “I think Kitty’s forgotten that we have a prior commitment.” Please get the message, pet.

  “Oh, Fingal, of course. Sorry, Ronald. Yes, we do.”

  Well done.

  “Perhaps some other time?” Fitzpatrick said. “But if you would care to join me, Alice?”

  Alice Moloney usually would never simper, but this time she came close as she said, “I should be enchanted.”

  “Wonderful,” Fitzpatrick said. He looked at his watch. “Now, I had intended only to pop in for a minute, so I’ll be running along.” He finished his milk and stood.

  O’Reilly could only describe the action as uncoiling from the chair.

  Before he had moved a step away, Lady Macbeth had leapt up onto the vacated seat and was curling herself into a furry ball.

  Alice swallowed the last of her sherry and rose. “That was most gracious,” a slight hesitation, “Fingal and Kitty. I too, should be on my way.”

  “May I offer you a lift, Alice? I have my car.”

  “Well, it’s really not very far, but it is nippy out, so, please.”

  By the time O’Reilly had returned upstairs, Kitty had finished her gin and tonic. She chuckled and said, “Well done, Yente.”

  “Who?”

  “The matchmaker in Fiddler on the Roof. I think you were picking up on something I hadn’t quite caught. I’d forgotten they met at our party in March ’67. I’m sure Ronald will be very happy to dine with Alice Moloney on his own.”

  “Well, damn it,” said O’Reilly, “he is an odd chap, but,” and he kissed Kitty, “you and I came to love again late in life. It can happen.”

  “And I hope it does for them, old bear,” Kitty said, and kissed him back.

  O’Reilly relished the kiss, then wandered over to his chair and picked up his novel. “I have one question,” he said. “Ronald wasn’t exactly skint when he left for Nepal. And I know he’d have got a reasonable price from Connor for the house, but,” O’Reilly counted off on his fingers, “he’s given up practice and it sounds like he’s retired from anything that makes money. He wants to buy on the seashore. He can afford to live in the Culloden, buy a car, invite three people there for dinner. Where in the name of the wee man is the money coming from?”

  Kitty nodded then looked at Fingal. “I do hope,” she said, “he’s not gambling again. At least he’s not drinking.” She picked up her book, The Last Unicorn, and chuckled. “We lost our chance to find out more by passing up dinner at the Culloden. But you are absolutely right about that. I may just have to drop into Alice’s shop next week and see what I can find out. Discreetly of course. Besides, I need a new cardigan. Now,” she opened the book, “I want to finish this tonight. I promised to lend it to Emer. You know how interested in mythology she is.”

  22

  Enough Religion to Make Us Hate

  “Hey, what’s the holdup, bye?” Jack asked from where he sat in the front seat.

  They were halfway down the Grosvenor Road, where Roden Street branched off to the right. Traffic had been light, but a couple of cars were stopped in front. Barry peered through the windscreen. Two uniformed policemen, one leaning over and shining a torch, the other talking through the driver’s window, stood beside a sporty-looking Jensen. “Some kind of police checkpoint,” Barry said.

  Jack grunted. “They’re likely still looking for some of the ringleaders of last weekend’s riots. It was a right Paddy’s Market in the Royal. All surgical hands on deck. Lacerations. Broken bones. Concussions.” He adopted a thick Belfast accent: “Whaddy youse expect if youse stick the hospital on the Republican Falls Road not five bloody minutes from ‘Hang the feckin’ pope’ Sandy Row?” He reverted to his usual County Antrim. “I put in more stitches than a seamstress, hey.”

  “It must have been God-awful, Jack.”

  “It was. I wish the bloody eejits could have seen it from my perspective. A six-inch laceration has no religion. It hurts just as much if its owner is Fenian or Prod. And for what? I just hope there’s no more of it. It’s a miracle no one was killed.”

  The car ahead moved.

  “I drove through a couple of checkpoints last week on my way to the Royal. Made me late for work. I don’t think they’ll keep us here long, though.”

  Barry braked. “I hope not. I can’t believe I’m saying this after all that talk about gastric polyps, but I’m hungry.”

  Jack chuckled. “I’ll make a surgeon of you yet, Doctor Barry Laverty.”

  “You’ve no mission, Mills. You hardly get to know your customers. Mine are like family. I’m staying in Ballybucklebo.”

  They crept ahead again and stopped. Barry blinked as the beam of a torch shone in through his side window. He lowered it.

  An RUC officer, a big man with a craggy face, looked in. “Sorry about the delay, sir. Just routine. May I see your driver’s licence?”

  “I’ll have to get out. It’s in my wallet in my hip pocket. I’m sitting on it.”

  “That’ll be alright, sir.” The officer started to open the door.

  From beside him, Barry heard Jack say, “And can I see the scar in your scalp, Sergeant Feeney? I recognise your voice.”

  Barry heard the surprise when the sergeant said, “Boys-a-dear, is that yourself, Mister Mills?”

  “It is. And that’s Doctor Laverty, my pal, you’re talking to.”

  “Don’t bother getting out, sir.” The sergeant gave the door a gentle shove and Barry heard the lock click shut. “I know Mister Mills, so I do. He stitched me up once last year, after I had to break up a fight between a few spectators at a Gaelic football match at Casement Park. The top of my nut was split like a ripe tomato, but Mister Mills got her shut with eight stitches in no time flat. Nice til see you again, sir. You go on, Doctors.” He saluted and waved Barry ahead.

  “Thanks, Jack,” Barry said as he drove away. “I always get a creepy feeling when I’m stopped by the Peelers.”

  Jack laughed, and in a perfect imitation of Jack Warner playing Constable George Dixon in the popular TV series Dixon of Dock Green, said, “No reason to, son. Not in my manor if you’ve nothing to be feeling guilty about.”

  “I know, but Ulster’s a friendly little place. It seems as if half the population knows the other half, and who you know matters. Just like now. But that roadblock was like something from Cold War Berlin and John le Carré’s spy novels. What the hell’s happening to our Wee North?” He turned left onto College Square.

  Jack sighed. “What’s happening is a bit like, I don’t know—like malaria. A patient is infected, gets sick, seems to recover, but the causative parasite remains in the body and as time passes the damn thing flares up again and again. We have antimalarial drugs now like quinine that will cure malaria, but before them life was miserable for victims. And they never knew when they mi
ght fall sick.”

  Barry said, “I think that’s a damn good analogy, mate.”

  “I’m sure our folks thought that after the Anglo-Irish War and partition in the ’20s, things would settle down in the North.”

  “But they didn’t. I remember Dad telling me about sectarian riots in Belfast in the ’30s.”

  “And you and I’ve lived through the violence of the late ’50s and early ’60s. Remember? We were playing cricket at Campbell College in 1957 and a couple of IRA men blew themselves up in a car outside the school gates? They were taking a bomb to the Houses of Parliament at Stormont just up the road.”

  “Do I remember? I nearly filled my pants. I’ve never heard a row like it.” Barry sighed. “I hope to God that sort of stuff doesn’t break out ag—Hang about. Look over there. Outside Inst. There’s a parking spot.”

  Barry pulled over and parked outside the grammar school named Royal Belfast Academical Institution, but known to all simply as “Inst.”

  They got out and strolled along a practically deserted College Square.

  “Good old Inst,” Jack said. “We beat them twice when I played rugby for Campbell. I scored a try the second time in ’56.”

  “Belfast’s first medical school was there. It opened in 1835.”

  “And I suppose you were in the original class, old man?”

  Barry was chuckling as they turned right onto Wellington Place and now hit Belfast’s busy shopping district. The night air was crisp, but to Barry’s sensitive nose, used to the clean salt air of the cottage, the smell of exhaust fumes permeated everything. The thoroughfares were well lit by streetlamps, vehicles’ headlights, and bright store windows. Red double-decker buses towered over cars and lorries. There seemed fewer people about than usual, and those who were there were hurrying.

  Barry was used to the slow pace of Ulster life even in its largest city, but tonight everyone seemed to be either home or eager to be there. The usual groups of duncher-capped youths hanging about street corners had vanished. Ordinarily they’d be sharing a cigarette, arguing over the relative merits of Linfield and Crusaders soccer teams, and wolf-whistling at every pretty girl that walked by.