An Irish Country Doctor Page 27

  "And you never left?"

  "I never met another lad like Paudeen." She sprinkled flour onto the now flat pastry. "After a year or two of feeling sorry for myself, I looked hard for another lad but I never did find one." Barry thought he felt the same way about Patricia, but at least Kinky had made an effort after she had been widowed. Perhaps he should get a grip, quit moping, and see if other girls were out there. "Are you content here, Kinky?"

  She brushed the hair back with her forearm, leaving a trail of flour on her forehead. "I am. I've had a good life, so. I'll not complain, but it pains me to see a young man moping."

  "It's daft, isn't it?" And damn it, he was starting to believe it. It was daft.

  She smiled. "Sure there are times the heart rules the head." She sprinkled flour on the sheet of pastry. "The newspaper's in the hall. Go you up to the lounge. It'll be quieter there. I'll call you if there are any patients."

  "I'll do that."

  "And who knows? Maybe things will turn out for you after all."

  "I wish."

  Kinky's eyes narrowed. She frowned. "Do you know what 'fey' means, Doctor Laverty?"

  "The second sight? The gift?"

  "More like a curse," said Kinky.

  "It's only a superstition."

  "You can believe that if you please, sir, but things are going to be fine. I know."

  Despite all his scientific training, Barry felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "Are you sure?"

  She spooned lumps of sausage meat onto the pastry. Her big fingers deftly rolled it to enclose the filling. "Away on upstairs and read your paper," she said, "and while you're there, see if you can find the cat."

  He looked at her hard, but she was bent over her work. "All right, Kinky," he said, knowing full well that as far as she was concerned the subject was closed.

  He collected the paper and went upstairs. He didn't try hard to find the cat. He "push-wushed" a few times, then settled in one of the big chairs. He ignored the news and turned to the crossword, but despite his attempts to concentrate, his mind kept wandering to what Kinky had said.

  No wonder, considering her own loss, she was sympathetic to O'Reilly, and yet, Barry began to wonder, was she perhaps a little disappointed in the big man's refusal to try again? If she was, she didn't let it show.

  He'd been sorry for O'Reilly when Kinky explained how he'd lost his new wife all those years ago. You know, Barry Laverty, he told himself, it's all very well to admire O'Reilly--to try to emulate much of his style of practice--but you don't have to turn yourself into a living replica. Just because O'Reilly had turned his back on women, you don't have to. Patricia is golden. Maybe you'll never ever find anyone like her, but why not be like Kinky and try again? It must have been terrible for her to have been widowed so young. Barry knew that many men from the small fishing villages were drowned--so many that often the villagers became half inured. In the Arran Islands, the famous local sweaters all had recognizable patterns that appealed to American tourists. The visitors didn't know that each pattern was particular to a family, so that if a man was lost at sea and washed ashore the corpse could be identified by the sweater.

  The country folk believed that the sudden death of a loved one could confer the gift of second sight. Was Kinky fey? That was a hard one to answer. He could remember his own grandmother sitting bolt upright in her chair and announcing solemnly, "My sister Martha just died." Great-aunt Martha lived in England. The phone call that came several hours later had confirmed her passing. How had his grandmother known? He shook his head.

  He'd like to believe Kinky was right about Patricia, but if she wasn't, he'd better be like the Cork woman. He could start looking for another girl. Certainly that's what Jack Mills would do. The god-awful pounding in the back garden stopped. He rubbed his eyes, stretched, lay back in the chair, and nodded off. Barry dreamed of Patricia, and the drowned eyes of Kinky's Paudeen, and Kinky herself, like one of the witches from Macbeth, casting her spells, foretelling the future.

  Barry wrinkled his nose. Something was tickling his nostrils. He was dimly aware of a gentle whiffling and a persistent rumbling. A weight was on his chest. He blinked, opened his eyes, and shook his head. Still not fully awake, he made out a dim white blur. Lady Macbeth was crouched on his chest. Her front legs were tucked under her body in that attitude that cats assume only when they feel they are secure. The tickling in his nostrils and the whiffling noise, he now recognized, had been caused by the cat putting her pink nose close to his and directing her exhalations into his nose. The rumbling was her steady purr. This he knew from past experience was Her Ladyship's way of saying, "Wake up, you. I demand the pleasure of your company."

  He wriggled in the chair, blinked, fondled the cat's head, and asked, "What time is it?" He looked at his watch. Good Lord. One forty-five. He yawned and stretched, eyes screwed shut, fists clenched, shoulders hunched. He felt Lady Macbeth spring to the floor, disturbed by his sudden movements.

  He trotted upstairs, pursued by Lady Macbeth, who sat on the laundry hamper watching intently as Barry washed his face and combed his hair. She preceded him down the stairs and into the kitchen, sweet with the smells of newly baked pastry, where Kinky was busy loading plates of sandwiches onto a large tray. "Did you have a nice nap?" she asked.

  Barry nodded and asked, "Is Doctor O'Reilly back yet?"

  She shook her head.

  Barry tried to steal a sandwich. She batted his hand away. "Leave you them be," she said. "They're for the guests. There's a plate on the shelf I've left for you, so." She pointed to a platter of ham sandwiches, sausage rolls, and devilled eggs. "Eat up how ever little much is in it."

  "Thanks, Kinky." Barry helped himself. "I found Her Ladyship, by the way."

  "So I see," said Kinky. "Go on, you wee dote, get down off that shelf. Sausage rolls is bad for pushycats." She shoved the cat off the shelf and lifted the tray. "I'd better be getting these outside." Barry held the door open. Kinky, burdened by the tray, moved sideways through the doorway. Tail high, Lady Macbeth slipped past and strode out into the back garden.

  Barry was curious to see what arrangements had been made. He followed Kinky out into the bright sunlight. The tent stood in the left side of the garden, close to the house. It was a two-poler with the central supports sticking through the canvas roof, in the midline, one pole at each end. Guy ropes ran from the corners of the structure and were anchored to stout wooden pegs that stuck up above the grass. The back and side walls had been lowered, but the canvas at the front was rolled up to the eave line and held in place with a series of straps, looking, he thought, like the furled sails of a square-rigger. The interior was pleasantly shady, with small patches of light on the grass where the sun's rays slipped in through eyeholes and--he looked up--through two rents in the roof.

  Willy the barman stood ready for action behind a trestle table that occupied the greater part of the rear wall. He wore his floral-pattern waistcoat, and his shirtsleeves were hoisted by a pair of black velvet-covered, elastic garters. He needed only a green eyeshade to be the epitome of a Mississippi riverboat gambler, Barry thought.

  "How are you, Doc?" Willy called. "Ready for your first?"

  "Not yet, thanks, Willy. I was just having a look-see."

  "Look away to your heart's content. We're all set and rarin' to go." Barry could see that Willy was right. There were four aluminium kegs, each with an array of hoses that led to taps on the table top. Pint and half-pint glasses, glasses for whiskey, and glasses for wine stood there in ranks, foot soldiers in front of the heavy cavalry of spirits and wine bottles. A skirmish line of lemonade and orange squash for the children was flung out on both sides of the main array.

  The side walls of the big tent were lined with more tables, covered with plates of sandwiches, sausage rolls, cheeses, barmbracks, a ham, and a cold leg of lamb. Kinky finished depositing her burden. She turned to him.

  "I think there should be enough, so."

  "Enough? I tho
ught a few folks were coming over. You could feed five thousand."

  Kinky smiled. "A few folks? The word'll be out. It'll be like a flock of locusts in here in the next couple of hours, and I have to be sure no one goes hungry."

  "It's like 'The Galway Races,' Kinky."

  "What do you mean?"

  Barry quoted the old song. He didn't try to sing it. He knew that although he was fond of music, when it came to singing he couldn't carry a tune in a bucket." 'Lozenges and oranges, and lemonade and raisins/And gingerbread and spices to accommodate the ladies . . .'"

  '"And a big crubin for thruppence to be pickin' while you're able.'" Kinky finished the line. "Mind you," she said, "I've not much use for crubins myself. I never fancied the look of boiled pigs' feet. Now Cork druishin . . . that's a different matter altogether, so." Barry tried to hide his shudder. He'd once and only once tried the Cork City delicacy, a sausage made of a mixture of pigs' blood, cows' blood, and oatmeal. The smell of it had almost turned his stomach.

  "Not everybody likes it," said Kinky with a sniff, and Barry knew his revulsion had not gone unnoticed.

  "You've done a wonderful job," he said.

  "Aye, so," she said. "I've still one plate to get." She bustled away.

  Barry wandered out of the tent. Rows of wood-and-canvas folding deck chairs were lined up from the side of the tent to the back fence. An open space lay between the house, tent, and chairs.

  He noticed something at the far end of the garden, near Arthur's kennel under the chestnut tree. An irregular shape covered in a tarpaulin. "Any idea what that is, Willy?"

  The barman stopped polishing a glass. "That lump?"

  "Yes."

  "No idea and don't you go near it, Doc. Seamus Galvin brought it over. It's to be a surprise for Doctor O'Reilly."

  "Oh," said Barry, almost tripping over one of the guy ropes. As he struggled to regain his balance, he was jolted from behind. "Aaarf," said Arthur happily, wrapping his front legs round Barry's thigh, humping away, and panting like a steamroller with an overloaded boiler.

  "Gerroff, Arthur. Sit, you great lummox."

  Arthur looked baffled, paused, and subsided onto the grass, tail flattening wide swaths through the vegetation, tongue lolling. "That's better," Barry said. "Now behave yourself."

  He turned and started to walk back to the house. From behind he heard a hissing like a pit full of vipers followed by a sudden yelp. Barry spun on his heel. Lady Macbeth, back arched, tail fluffed, pupils fully dilated despite the bright sunlight, made what must have been her second attack on Arthur Guinness's nose. Her paw, claws unsheathed, flashed forward in a rapier thrust that drew a howl from Arthur and blood from his nose. Arthur put his tail between his legs and slunk off towards his kennel, only looking back over his shoulder to Barry with an expression that said, "Why you put up with that hellion is beyond me."

  "It's a tough old life, Arthur," Barry said, and as the dog wandered away, Lady Macbeth deflated and started to wash. Barry heard the back gate creak and looked up to see the guests of honour: Seamus, Maureen, and Barry Fingal Galvin.

  Seamus wore his best suit. Rusty black pants that by the creases had been freshly ironed, a shirt with a collar, and a tie that Barry recognized as bearing the regimental colours of the Brigade of Guards. He doubted that Seamus had served with that regiment. Seamus's attempt to look dapper was only partly spoiled by a flat cloth cap perched at a rakish angle on the top of his pear-shaped head. Maureen was having difficulty walking on the soft grass. Her high heels sank into the earth with every step. She wore a yellow, pleated skirt, pale green blouse, floppy hat, and white gloves. She pushed a perambulator, a massive contraption, high sprung on tall, spoked wheels, the sort of vehicle that had been popular with the nannies of the Victorian upper classes.

  "Good afternoon, sir." Seamus touched the peak of his cloth cap.

  "Seamus. Maureen." Barry moved to the pram. "And how's wee Barry Fingal?"

  "Grand, so he is," said Maureen, her green eyes smiling fondly into the vehicle. "Growing like a weed."

  "Mother of God, would you look at that?" said Seamus, taking in the contents of the marquee with one all-encompassing sweep of his arm. "Feast fit for a king."

  "Can I get you something, Maureen?" Barry asked.

  "I'll see to it," Seamus said, gaze fixed on the aluminium kegs, tongue tip flickering over his lips. "I might just have a wee wet myself." Maureen wobbled. Barry took her arm to steady her and guided her to the nearest deck chair. "Sit down, Maureen."

  She sat, steadying her hat with one hand, holding the pram's handle with the other. Barry Fingal gurgled happily as she rocked him. "It's a great day for the party," she said, looking round the garden, gaze resting for a moment on the mysterious' tarpaulin-covered lump. "Where's himself?" she asked.

  As if her question had worked to summon Doctor Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, the big Rover pulled into the back lane and juddered to a halt. O'Reilly opened the passenger door and helped Sonny out. "Open the back gate," O'Reilly roared.

  Arthur Guinness stuck his head out of his doghouse. Lady Macbeth, who had perched herself on the kennel's roof, leant forward and dabbed at the dog's nose. He retreated inside. She washed.

  Barry opened the gate. "How are you, Sonny?" he asked, as O'Reilly guided the old man into the garden. His grey hair was neatly combed, and his weathered cheeks had not the slightest hint of the ominous blue tinge that Barry had noticed the first time he met Sonny.

  "I am very well, thank you, sir," Sonny said. "You'll be even better when you take the weight off your feet," O'Reilly said, helping Sonny to sit in a chair beside Maureen Galvin. "Do you know Mrs. Galvin?"

  "I've not had the pleasure," Sonny said, starting to rise, hand automatically rising to doff a hat.

  O'Reilly put a hand on Sonny's shoulder. "Sit down. You've not all your strength back yet."

  Sonny sat. "Forgive me," he said, making Barry smile at the man's old-world gallantry.

  "This is Sonny," O'Reilly told Maureen.

  "The motorcar man?"

  "Indeed," Sonny said, lowering his head in a short bow.

  "Afternoon, Doctor sir." Seamus Galvin appeared, balancing a glass of lemonade on a plate piled high with sandwiches in one hand, clutching an already half-empty pint of Guinness in the other. "Here you are, love." He gave the plate to Maureen and looked up at O'Reilly. "I never got you thanked proper, sir, for getting them Belfast folks to take the rocking ducks. Could I buy you a jar?"

  "No," said O'Reilly, with a huge grin, "I've a thirst like the Sahara desert. You can buy me two." He headed for the tent with Seamus, paused, and said to Barry, "Would you look after Sonny?" Barry nodded. "Can I get you something, Sonny?"

  Sonny nodded and then wrinkled his nose. "After the food in that hospital. . . ," he looked at Maureen's plate, "... a bit of that ham would be much appreciated, and do you think I'd be allowed a small glass of stout?"

  "Of course," Barry said. "I'll get them."

  By the time he'd brought Sonny his plate and glass, the party had grown. Kinky had been right when she'd said she'd have to be ready to feed five thousand. The garden was filling up. Groups of women arrived, each lady dressed in her Sunday best. Barry had to jostle past knots of men, some of whom he recognized as members of the Ballybucklebo Highlanders.

  Mr. Coffin, red nose bright in the sunlight, stood deep in conversation with Constable Mulligan, who was in civilian dress. "It was quite upsetting," Barry heard Mr. Coffin say. "When the sexton dropped the first shovelful onto the casket, he uncovered a skull in the pile of earth that had been excavated from the grave." He shook his head ponderously. "It was in a family plot, you see."

  "A skull?" Constable Mulligan asked, eyes wide.

  "The sexton, and I must say he did it very dexterously, nudged the thing with his spade. It rolled down the pile into the grave and rattled off the mahogany coffin lid."

  "My God." Constable Mulligan shuddered.

  "Now you'd expect old bones t
o shatter. ..."

  "I'll take your word for it, Mr. Coffin."

  "Oh, indeed, you'd expect them to, but the skull just bounced twice and sat there. All the mourners peered down, and you'll never believe what the recently departed's brother said."

  Barry saw just the hint of a smile on the undertaker's face. "What did he say?"

  "'I think that was a bit of Aunt Bertha that was put in here ten years ago. She's sticking the pace bravely, so she is.'" The constable gasped, but then he must have seen Mr. Coffin's smile broaden. "You're pulling my leg?"

  "Oh, no, it's perfectly true." He managed to make a dry tittering noise.

  My goodness, Barry thought, perhaps that stuff O'Reilly had suggested, the Saint John's wort tea, had helped to cheer up the lugubrious Coffin. Barry nodded in greeting at the two, both now openly laughing, as he forced his way forward. A thought struck him. What he had just heard had to be the best example ever of what could be called, quite literally, graveyard humour. He'd read that the best parties were the ones that just happened. Judging by the length of the queue leading into the tent, the standing-room-only crush in the garden, and the still swelling number of new arrivals, this one was happening with a vengeance. The bowlegged Mr. O'Hara, who'd given Barry a lift on his tractor, was in animated conversation with Francis Xavier MacMhuir-- Barry stumbled over the Gaelic pronunciation--Murdoch. By the way the man was yelling to be heard over the din, there was little doubt that his sore throat was better.