An Irish Country Cottage Page 27

  The debris must have been hauled away to the local rubbish dump during the initial cleanup. The grass around the outer walls was scorched. On it were assorted building materials, neat piles of bricks, several mounds of Mourne granite stones. A motor-driven cement mixer kept company with bags of cement, a pile of sand, and bags of lime. Two sawhorses had bundles of planks leaning against them. Bertie Bishop’s lorry stood close to where a new front door would have to be fitted. Two men O’Reilly did not recognise, probably the stonemasons Donal had mentioned, stood on a plank supported at each end by folding stepladders. The men were refitting granite stones. The cracked ones being replaced lay beneath one of the ladders. The sound of stone hammers rang out, then stopped and one said to the other, “That’s her now. Get you the mortar.”

  Muffled sounds of sawing, talking, a voice bawling, “Someone left the cake out in the rain,” from last year’s hit “MacArthur Park” came from inside the building.

  The faint smell of burning still hung on the early spring air, but it was being masked by the clean scent of fresh sawdust.

  Bertie Bishop was in conversation with Donal Donnelly, whose hands were deep in the pockets of his khaki dungarees, a carpenter’s leather tool belt round his waist. Bertie took a yellow pencil from behind Donal’s left ear, began scribbling furiously in a small black book, and then slipped the pencil back behind Donal’s other ear. The older man looked up and waved. “Good til see youse, Doctors.”

  He and Donal strolled over to the car. Donal said, “’Bout ye, Doctors. Come for til find out about how we’re getting on?”

  “We have,” O’Reilly said, “and it looks like progress is being made.”

  “In soul, it is. We’ve been building for the last eight days. The insurance pays for all the materials and the labour for a five-and-a-half-day week. Along with some of the other lads, I work Saturday afternoons and Sundays for free.” He laughed. “Why not? It’s me and mine that’s going to benefit.”

  “The sooner you’re installed the better,” Bertie Bishop said. “And you and the other volunteers, mostly Catholics who don’t have to be strict about keeping the Sabbath once they’ve been to mass, are going to speed that up. Alan Hewitt comes out at weekends. He’s one sound man, so he is.”

  Why, O’Reilly thought, can we have so much co-operation here, and so much animosity elsewhere in the province? The run-up to the forthcoming general election in just over a fortnight was being bitterly contested. A glimmer of hope had appeared yesterday with the announcement of the New Ulster Movement, an organisation committed to moderate non-sectarian policies. And while great swaths of the rest of Ulster seethed in her past, the American aeroplane company Boeing had that same day announced the future by the maiden flight of their jumbo jet, the 747. He shook his head.

  “And Mister Bishop here’s been dead decent. He’s letting us use his equipment at weekends.”

  “Sure, my gear you’re using would be idle on those days anyroad.”

  “You, Mister Bishop, have a heart of corn,” Donal said.

  “Away off and chase yourself, Donal Donnelly,” Bertie said. His voice was gruff, but O’Reilly could tell there was an affection between the two men. Heart of corn? Before Bertie Bishop’s sudden conversion after his coronary in 1965, it had been widely rumoured that he didn’t have a heart at all. Only a regularly swinging brick occupied his chest.

  “Who’s that?” O’Reilly asked as a man came out from inside. He was pushing a wheelbarrow. As he drew nearer, O’Reilly recognised Brendan MacNamee. I wonder, O’Reilly thought, if he and Fiona have decided about the tubal ligation? O’Reilly had dropped in on them last week and explained what Father Hugh had told him during their snooker game. They’d asked for time to think it over.

  “It’s Brendan MacNamee. A damn good labourer, so he is,” Donal said. “I’ve asked Mister Bishop til keep him on once this job’s done.”

  “I’m happy til take Donal’s word,” Bertie said.

  “Glad to hear it.” O’Reilly thought about Brendan, an honourable man whose very being had been wounded by not being able to provide for his family. He needs the work. Perhaps their delay in making a decision was because the financial pressure was less? Time would tell.

  Bertie turned to Emer. “I’m sorry to have not said hello to you sooner. How are you today, Doctor McCarthy? Fit and well you’re looking.”

  “I am, thank you, Mister Bishop. And you?”

  “I’m rightly, so am I, Doctor,” he said. “No small thanks til you and thon Mister Mills.”

  O’Reilly saw the blush begin, and the pleased smile. “Doctor McCarthy will be an asset to any practice, but I on the other hand have let you down a bit. I’m sorry, Bertie.”

  “’Scuse us, sirs, miss.” Two workers were carrying a plank, each with one end balanced on his right shoulder. They made their way past the group and went inside.

  “Doctor Laverty asked me ten days ago to have a word with my brother Lars about you wanting to see him. I haven’t, but that’s because Lars is in France having a holiday. He’ll be back next week. I’ll speak to him then.”

  “That’s grand,” Bertie said. “There’s no great rush, but I’d like to get things settled. Maybe you and me and him…”

  “Me?”

  “I’d like you there, Doctor. I might need a witness, like. Maybe we could take a run-race down to the Crawfordsburn? My shout?”

  “Leave it with me,” O’Reilly said.

  “Dead on.”

  O’Reilly heard a car approaching along the lane.

  “That’ll be Dapper with Julie and wee Tori,” said Donal. “Mind I said I was going til show them how we’re getting on? Things is far enough along now it’s starting to look like a house again. Dapper said he’d run them out here the day. Cissie’s looking after the twins again.”

  O’Reilly remembered how Donal had hoped that if Tori saw her old home being repaired, it might help with her recurrent nightmares. O’Reilly hoped so too. He wondered if Julie had warned the child in advance or if Donal was going to try a kind of shock treatment. O’Reilly had no idea which would be best.

  “I’ll be running along, folks,” Bertie said, “if you’ll excuse me. I’m taking Flo to Belfast the night. She wants til see Funny Girl.” He grimaced. “Musicals? Dead soppy if you ask me. I’d rather go til Planet of the Apes, but—och.” He shrugged. “You carry on here, Donal. I’ll see you on Monday.” He made a little bow to Emer and O’Reilly and headed for his lorry.

  Dapper let Julie and Tori out of the backseat then went to lean against the bonnet and lit a fag.

  Tori clung to Julie’s hand with one small fist; the other clutched the Christmas-present dolly she’d rescued from the fire six weeks ago.

  Julie called, “Here we are, Donal.”

  Donal hunkered down. Smiling, he held his arms wide. “Come til Daddy,” he said.

  Julie let go of Tori and gave her a gentle push.

  The little girl, her fair hair done up in two bunches held with green ribbons, toddled across the grass, nearly tripped over a tussock, regained her balance and, with a shriek of pleasure, threw herself into her daddy’s arms.

  “Who’s a good girl, then?” Donal planted a firm kiss on the top of her head, wrapped her in his arms, and stood as she giggled and put an arm round his neck. He held her facing away from the building.

  As far as O’Reilly could tell, she’d so far ignored her surroundings in her delight to see her father.

  “Good day to youse both,” said Julie. She moved beside Donal. “Dapper’s going til wait at the car. He knows this is family business.” Julie turned to Tori. “Say hello like Mammy’s wee pet to the nice Doctor O’Reilly and Doctor Emer.”

  Ever since her first meeting with Willie Lindsay, the soubriquet “Doctor Emer” had stuck among the children of Ballybucklebo and the townland.

  “Hello, nice doctors,” Tori said. “Have you brought your big doggy, Kenny?”

  “I’m sorry,” O’Reilly
said, “but not today.”

  “Aaaaw,” she said. “I like Kenny.”

  “You like all animals, don’t you, Tori?” Emer asked.

  Tori nodded. “Uh-huh.”

  “And, you’ve got Bluebird at the cottage,” Donal said.

  Tori nodded and looked wise. “I love Bluebird,” she said. She sighed. “I used to play with her in her run at Dun Bwee.”

  Donal took a deep breath. “And you shall again soon,” he said. He half-turned so Tori could see their old home. “Look there, Tori.” He pointed. “Daddy and the other nice men are fixing Dun Bwee. Very soon it’ll be good as new, so it will, and you and Daddy, and Mammy and the twins, will be able to move back in where we belong. Back in our own wee kitchen. Back in our own wee beds, and Bluebird back in her run.”

  O’Reilly waited.

  For long moments Tori said nothing. Then her mouth opened into a soundless O. Tears welled. She dropped her dolly. Her moan began low and rose in pitch to be followed by breathless crying. “I was a bad girl,” she said between sobs. “Bad. Bad. I made the fire start.”

  “You weren’t, sweetheart, and you did not start the fire, so you didn’t,” Donal said, his voice breaking. “You’ve always been Daddy and Mammy’s good wee girl.” He bent to retrieve her dolly. “Good wee girl.” The way he looked at O’Reilly would have melted a stone never mind the big man’s heart, but he saw that Julie was close to tears. O’Reilly realised his professional authority would mean nothing to a three-and-a-half-year-old girl. Trying to persuade her she was good might make her even more upset. But Julie needed comfort. He put an avuncular arm round her shoulders. “Hang on, Julie,” he said. “She’ll settle down soon.”

  Julie nodded. “God, I hope so. I hate to see the wee mite so upset.” She sniffed. “I think mebbe, Doctor, if you don’t mind, I should take her away from here.” Emer stepped ahead of her. “Donal? Julie? May I try something?” She was rummaging in one of her poacher’s pockets.

  Donal looked at Julie. “If you think it’ll help, Doctor.”

  Emer produced the paperback book Kitty had loaned her and showed Tori the front cover where “The Last Unicorn” was printed in capitals and one of the mythical beasts was pictured. “Look, Tori.” She tried to show it to Tori, but the little girl buried her face in her daddy’s chest.

  Emer, it seemed, was not going to give up. She began, and O’Reilly realised she was quoting the first line, “‘The unicorn lived in a lilac wood, and she lived all alone—’”

  Tori slowly raised her head, but more quickly buried it again.

  Emer, undaunted, continued. “‘She didn’t like being all alone and so she set out to find others of her kind. More unicorns. She met a magician called Schmendrick—’”

  This time Tori looked up and said, “What’s a unicorn, Doctor Emer?”

  Good for you, Emer. O’Reilly saw Julie’s hunched shoulders relax.

  Donal opened his mouth to speak, but Julie held an index finger in front of her lips and shook her head.

  Emer moved closer. “I’ve never seen one,” Emer said, “but they are magical. They are pure white, like a horse—you’ve seen horses, haven’t you?”

  “Oh, yes.”

  O’Reilly was intrigued by how Emer was involving the little girl.

  “Well, unicorns have the body of a horse, a long mane, and in the middle of their forehead they have a single twisted horn. Look.” She held up the picture again.

  Tori leaned forward, touched the picture. Smiled. “She’s very pretty.”

  “Ah, but they can be very fierce.”

  Tori’s eyes widened. “Ooooh,” she said.

  “Except—except if they find a little girl who has been very, very good—”

  O’Reilly had wondered how Emer was going to get around the legend’s reference to a virgin, a concept tricky to explain to a child. Well done again, he thought.

  “Then they put their heads in the little girl’s lap and fall asleep.”

  “Honest? Honest to God?”

  Emer nodded. “And I think you could get a unicorn to fall asleep in your lap, Tori, or eat off your hand. Your daddy and mammy tell me you’re a very good girl.”

  O’Reilly watched frowns fade from her parents’ faces.

  “I don’t know. Daddy and Mammy keep saying it’s not my fault, but the”—Tori squeezed her eyes tightly and swallowed—“the fire started near the stove.” She sniffed. “I was playing there with my ball even though I’m not supposed to. But thank you, Doctor Emer. I’m not so sad now.”

  “I’m glad, Tori,” she said. She turned to Julie. “I think this might be a good time to take Tori home.”

  “Right enough,” Donal said. He inclined his head to Julie and Dapper. “Mammy and Uncle Dapper’s going til take you home now, pet.” And together mother and daughter headed for Dapper’s car.

  O’Reilly, grinning like the Cheshire cat, started to revert to the old blasphemous self that Kitty had gradually weaned him from. “Holy thundering Mother of Je— Sorry, Emer, but I want to shake your hand.” He did. “That was remarkable.”

  She inclined her head. “A sister, one of the nuns, in the Mater, was an old wise woman from the country in County Galway. She taught me that one way to calm a fractious child was to distract them with a story, and I’d just finished the book and wanted to return it to Kitty. The unicorn myth came to mind.”

  “And it quieted her down. Thank you, Doctor,” Donal said. “Do you know I thought bringing her here would cheer Tori up. But I’m beginning to wonder now if we can ever bring her back to live here.”

  O’Reilly said, “I’m sure it will all work out, and you’ve lots of time yet.”

  “I suppose,” Donal said. His facial expressions kept changing, a sure sign that Donal Donnelly was wrestling with a question. “I thought Doctor McCarthy talking about unicorns was bloody brilliant.”

  O’Reilly heard Dapper’s car drive off and said, “Even using the ‘good girl’ part of the legend to plant a suggestion that Tori isn’t a bad girl. That the fire wasn’t her fault.”

  “I don’t know how til thank you, Doctor McCarthy. That was just dead on. You’re a genie, so you are.”

  “I think you mean genius, Donal,” O’Reilly said, visualising Emer pouring herself out of a big brass bottle. Inwardly he was jubilant. The whole episode and Donal’s praise would give Emer’s recovering self-confidence a great boost too. O’Reilly laughed. “I think all we need now is a unicorn, but I believe they are rare as hen’s teeth in Ulster.”

  “Aye,” said Donal. “More’s the pity.” He sighed, then screwed up his face, pulled his pencil from behind his ear, and used the butt end to scratch his thatch. Then he looked at the pencil and grinned. “Doctors,” he said, and his voice was very serious, “just suppose I could get my hands on one and Tori could get it til eat out of her hand. Do youse think she’d stop thinking she’s bad?”

  O’Reilly looked at Emer. He hesitated. That was the kind of medicine for which he had criticised Ronald Fitzpatrick, but still—?

  Emer said, “It might just work.” She laughed. “Trouble is, where does one get a unicorn?”

  Donal cocked his head to one side, looking at O’Reilly and Emer with his of-course-I-have-permission-to-sell-you-the-Giant’s-Causeway look. “Do you know, Doctors, I might just be able to lay my hands on one.” He winked. “I might need your help, Doctor McCarthy, getting Tori to feed her, but I think it’s worth a try for my wee girl.”

  Jasus Murphy, O’Reilly thought. Donal may have been able to manufacture pieces of Brian Boru’s war club, and turn a blue-grey racing greyhound brown, but where in the name of the wee man was he going to find a unicorn?

  29

  Towers, and Tombs, and Statues

  Barry dismissed the taxi, and he and Sue stood on the pavement of Rue de la Tour, outside number 6, the Regina De Passy hotel. A strip of blue sky was visible between the tall buildings on either side of the street and the midday temperature was pl
easant. The traffic noise and horns honking here in central Paris were loud and unceasing, exhaust fumes tainted the air, and the grating sound of an emergency vehicle’s siren added to the cacophony. A man wearing a black beret walked past carrying a baguette under his arm, and the pungent scent of Turkish tobacco from his cigarette lingered.

  Barry and Sue exchanged looks and laughed. “Sue, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Ballybucklebo anymore,” Barry said, and pointed southeast over the roofs of a tall block of flats to where the Eiffel Tower’s upper third was visible.

  “Bit bigger than our Maypole,” she said, and kissed him lightly. “And I don’t have Max to stand in for Toto.”

  They both laughed and Barry hoped she was going to be able to leave her worries at home for the next few days. He glanced at his watch. “It’s noon now, we’ve two and a half days before we go home. Let’s make the most of it.” He pulled her close to him and returned the kiss. “They say Paris is the city for romance.” All the “trying for the right time” until recently had been far from romantic and many miles from erotic.

  “Let’s do it all,” Sue said, breaking away from his embrace to precede him inside the hotel and to the front desk to complete their registration. Her French was infinitely better than his.

  He set their cases on the floor and admired the grey-and-pink-tiled art deco foyer. When Fingal came to Paris to watch Ireland play rugby against France, he always stayed here. He had told Barry that the hotel had opened in the ’30s.

  “Merci mille fois, Monsieur,” Sue said, and left the desk carrying a key, an envelope, and a folded newspaper. “We’re on the fifth floor. We’ve a balcony and a view.” She gave him the envelope. “I cashed a traveller’s cheque. The francs are in there and the desk clerk sold me two admission tickets for this afternoon so we can go straight into the Eiffel Tower and not have to queue up. He’s going to make us a reservation in the restaurant on the second level. We can go to the very top after lunch.”

  “Come on, love.” Barry smiled and held out a hand. “Let’s get up to our room.”

  The lift had a concertina-folding metal door, an intricate filigree of wrought iron with fleur-de-lis patterns. They were swiftly borne up and in moments were in room 51.