An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  “Modern science is a wonderful thing.” Gerry laughed. “Fat lot of good it does me with a wee black-and-white set with rabbit ears for an aerial and—”

  The general level of sound drowned out the rest.

  He noticed a new face. A young man in his early twenties. His lank red hair reached his collar. He was dressed in a shirt, jeans, and guttees and hoisted himself onto a barstool with an empty one beside him. Barry had not seen him in here nor in the townland. Must be a newcomer.

  Desmond Johnson, the farmer with a nodular goiter, was standing at the bar chatting with the barber, Dougie George. Desmond caught Barry’s eye, pointed at his own chest then at Barry, who smiled and nodded. Leaving his drink on the bar, the farmer approached. He touched the peak of his duncher. “Evening, Doc. It’ll only take a wee minute and please forgive me for asking you til be professional on your night off, but can I tell you what’s happened? It might save you time in the surgery?”

  “Of course, you can, Desmond, and by the way that goose roasted and with sage-and-onion stuffing was delicious. Thank you.”

  “Dead on. Glad you enjoyed it. Anyroad, I seen Doctor Montgomery on September the first, had all my tests, and seen him again a week later. He put me on, and it’s a powerful mouthful, propyl thiouracil—did I say that right?”

  “You did. We got a letter the next day about your medication and information that they would keep you under follow-up until they were satisfied you were stabilized on treatment. They’re the experts. We don’t have the lab facilities, but I’m pleased you’re keeping me up to date in person.”

  “My pleasure. And I think it’s starting to work. I’m not as tetchy and I’m not getting no palpitations no more.”

  “Good.”

  “Would you say thank you til Doctor Carson, sir?”

  “I will, of course. He’ll be pleased.” And relieved, as am I, Barry thought. His memory of the visit to the surgery now jogged, he reckoned they’d been right to decide the risk of malignancy was low.

  “So, I’ll be off, sir, and thanks for your time.”

  “Don’t worry your head. I’m glad you’re getting better. When is Doctor Montgomery seeing you again?”

  “October the sixth. He expects to get youse a final report then.”

  “One of us might pop in if we’re near your place after we get the report.”

  “Great, sir.” Desmond left and Barry took a pull on his pint.

  The batwing doors opened and Donal Donnelly, accompanied by Dapper Frew, came in. Barry thought Donal Donnelly looked concerned and as they passed Barry’s table, Donal took the next one but Dapper stopped. “Would you do me a wee favour, Doctor Laverty?”

  “If I can.”

  “I saw Mister Greer yesterday. That’s ten weeks since my operation. He give me a clean bill of health. Would you please tell Doctor O’Reilly?”

  “Of course. That’s great news, Dapper.”

  “Aye, it is. I’m feeling like a new man, so I am.” Dapper laughed. “I’m tempted to think maybe Donal was onto something when he said the doc cleaned his brain for him while he was in there.”

  “Mister Greer’s an excellent surgeon. If brain cleaning is what’s needed, he’s your man.” Barry had spoken with a straight face and for a few seconds Dapper looked at him quizzically and then burst into laughter.

  “Thanks a million, Doc, and thank Doctor O’Reilly for me too.” Dapper headed for the bar to get drinks.

  The batwing doors opened, and a dark-haired young man came in. Another stranger. He made his way to the empty barstool. In one of those lulls in the general conversation, Barry clearly heard him ask, “Is this here taken?” and the redhead answered, “Help yourself.”

  Barry lost interest, but during the same lull heard Dapper Frew. “So, you think you’re getting short-changed by one of your suppliers, Donal?”

  “I’m near sure, but I can’t be certain. The divil. He must think I’m as thick as two short planks and—”

  A great bellow of laughter came from the back of the room. The hum of general conversation swelled, drowning out the rest of Donal’s words, and Barry realized Jack and Bill were standing by the table. Both were grinning.

  Greetings were exchanged and Jack said, “My shout, Bill.”

  “Pint of Harp, please.”

  “Right.” Jack left and returned, saying, “Willie will bring them over. So, Barry, how’s Sue?”

  “Physically she’s fine. Twenty-one weeks and two days. Emotionally, she’s a little on edge. I wish I could help her to stop worrying.” The rest of that thought he kept to himself—that it was hard to help someone stop worrying when you were concerned yourself.

  “I didn’t know you were an expectant dad,” Bill said. “Congratulations. Your wife is halfway there. As you well know, pregnancy can be a disturbing business. But the happiness can balance that out.”

  “It is. She’s becoming a little irritable, but I’m hoping that phase will soon pass.”

  Willie arrived with a pint of golden Harp lager and a black-bodied, white-topped pint of stout, both products of the Guinness brewery.

  “Barry’s Sue is beautiful and sweet and as sharp as a tack. How she ever ended up with a bollix like you, Laverty, we’ll never know.” The three of them laughed. “To Sue Laverty. May she be delivered of a fine, healthy baby right on time.” Jack raised his glass and all three drank.

  Bill said, “I’d like to say something about work first, get it out of the way. Knowing Barry and how you get concerned about your patients, I’m sorry to tell you that we start worrying about kernicterus if a newborn’s serum bilirubin gets to fifteen milligrams percent and regard levels of more than twenty milligrams as an absolute indication for exchange transfusion. Baby Anderson had one yesterday.”

  Barry nodded. Poor wee mite. He hated not being able to follow his patients closely, but it couldn’t be helped.

  “On the bright side, there’s still no sign of respiratory distress and we’ve been able to maintain the oxygen down to below a level that can cause blindness in preemies, and young Robert is gaining weight at a satisfactory rate. All in all, the paediatricians are optimistic that his outlook is good.”

  “Thank you.” A relieved Barry took a deep pull on his Guinness. He wondered how Mildred was coping but knew that that was information he couldn’t get from Bill. The man was a medical doctor, and a busy one at that, not a psychologist.

  Jack said, “Those last weeks must be very anxious-making for the mums-to-be.”

  “It’s no raging hell for dads-to-be either,” Barry said with a laugh. “But I reckon Sue and I will survive.” He wanted to get on to a different subject. Bill Howard had not come here to talk shop. “Did you get to the School’s Cup rugby final on Saint Patrick’s Day, Bill?”

  “Yes. To our collective shame as Old Campbellians, Bangor Grammar School beat us six to three.”

  “We were both there,” Barry said, remembering the shock when Jack had said he and Helen were leaving Ulster as soon as Helen was qualified. It was something Barry feared might yet arise if a solution couldn’t be found to Morris Mills’s unforgiving opposition to his son’s marriage to a Catholic.

  A barstool crashed to the floor.

  Barry whipped round to see what was going on. Conversation stopped as if a switch had been thrown. Every head turned to see the two unknown young men glowering at each other. The redhead crouched, fists clenched, eyes locked on those of his opponent.

  The dark-haired one, who had not put up his guard, said, “Look, I don’t want no fight. I was only pulling your leg. I’m sorry.”

  “You think calling me a Fenian git is funny?”

  The men glared at each other.

  Barry flinched. The expression could be said in jest between two best friends like Alan Hewitt and Lenny Brown. But Fenian, the name for Finn MacCool’s followers and used later by a group dedicated to Irish independence, The Fenian Brotherhood, had become a derogatory name used by Loyalists. “Git,” fro
m “begotten,” implied out of wedlock: Catholic bastard. Calling a stranger a Fenian git was either supremely stupid or a deliberate provocation. This could get ugly. He stole a quick glance as Constable Malcolm Mulligan slowly got to his feet.

  The dark-haired man took a step forward, hand extended. “Look, I’ve told you I’m sorry. The name’s David Dempsey. Let me buy you a pint.”

  The redhead, still crouched, fists raised and clenched, took a pace forward. “You buy me a pint? You’re looking to have your teeth to play with.”

  There was a slight slurring of his words, but it did not seem that Redhead was drunk. Unless he’d had one or two before he’d come in, he’d only had time for a pint.

  Dempsey, who must have accepted the situation, took a deep breath and took up a boxer’s stance, preparing to defend himself.

  The men flanking them at the bar moved back.

  Barry, who had seen spontaneous barnyard cockfights, saw the same thing here. Fluffing up to look bigger. Vocal challenge. And both men were sweating. He could smell the odour.

  Willie Dunleavy, from behind the semi-protection of his bar, called, “You two. Settle down. None of that in my bar. None of that sectarian rubbish, and no fighting.”

  Barry saw many heads nodding in agreement.

  Redhead ignored Willie.

  Constable Mulligan moved closer to the pair. “Everybody stay back. We don’t need any hurt heroes.”

  Good man, Barry thought.

  The police officer’s voice was calm. “Listen. Listen, you two. I’m an off-duty constable. I’ve seen the whole thing. That was a bloody stupid thing to call him, Mister Dempsey, but it’s not a criminal offence. And you,” he addressed the other man, “so far, you’ve only disturbed the peace. Now put your fists down. Calm down and I’ll turn a blind eye, but if you throw one punch and he fights back, he’s acting in self-defence and I’ve a roomful of witnesses.”

  There was a low murmur of assent.

  “And I’ll do you for disturbing the peace, assault and battery, GBH”—policeman slang for “grievous bodily harm,” Barry knew—“and resisting arrest.”

  Redhead did not turn away from his opponent. His voice sounded a little less angry, but he said, “You and whose army? Them Brit sojers with their Saracen armoured cars and Belgian FN rifles?”

  Malcolm Mulligan kept his voice low. Steady. “No, son. I’m a simple Peeler doing his job.” He held out his hands, palms up. “I’ve no weapons.”

  Barry held his breath as Malcolm edged toward the more belligerent of the two. He could see that David Dempsey, while keeping his guard up, was not so stiff. So aggressive.

  Redhead drew back his right fist, but before he could launch the punch, the policeman uncoiled like a striking cobra, grabbed the man’s wrist, and jammed his arm up behind his back.

  He tried to struggle—once. Whimpered, “Ah, Jasus. Stop it. You’re hurting me.”

  Barry exhaled.

  Malcolm produced a set of stainless-steel handcuffs. “Doctor Mills. You’re nearest. I’ll hold him. Can you put those on his wrists?” He gave a now-standing Jack the cuffs, then grabbed the man’s other wrist and held both of his arms fully extended behind his back.

  Jack slipped on the cuffs and clicked them shut.

  The dark-haired man lowered his guard and began to tremble.

  Wonderful stuff, adrenaline, Barry thought, and moved to his side. “I’m a doctor. Come and sit down.” He led him to an empty chair. “Willie. Glass of water, please. You’ll be all right. Take a few deep breaths.” Barry got the man seated, sat close by, and took his pulse, not so much to make any inferences but simply to give the man the reassurance of human physical contact. Barry was able to see what happened next.

  Malcolm sat Redhead in a vacant chair. He spat and screamed, “Bloody Protestant police brutality.” Alan Hewitt leant over and said into the lad’s ear, “Be a good boy. Calm down. Answer the officer’s questions or we’ll pull your lungs out through your nostrils. We will not tolerate sectarian violence in Ballybucklebo—and half of us here, like me, are Catholics.”

  The prisoner hung his head and mumbled, “I’m sorry. I’ve had a few.”

  Alan said, “Louder.”

  “I’d a row with the missus. I had a few before I come in. I’m sorry.”

  “Good.”

  Malcolm said, “Right. On your feet. We’re going to the station. I’ll not be pressing charges.”

  Because, Barry thought, given the volatility in Ulster, doing so, if it became public knowledge, might well add fuel to the fire.

  “But you’re too worked up and a bit full to be let loose. You can calm down and sleep it off in a cell overnight. Come on. It’s not a long walk.”

  As the pair moved toward the door, Willie Dunleavy called, “See you? See you? You are barred for life. Never, never ever set foot in here again.”

  The prisoner made no comment.

  Willie came around the bar and gave Barry a glass of water, then righted the tumbled stool. “I don’t allow any sectarian rubbish in here. Folks get along. You, David Dempsey, you made a bloody stupid mistake, and I don’t know what you were thinking, but you apologized—twice, so I’m not barring you if you promise to think twice next time you open your bake. We treat each other respectfully in my bar; Protestants, Catholics, no difference. Got it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. So, when you’ve collected yourself, finish up your pint. It’ll have gone a bit flat, so I’ll top it for you, and then get away on home.” He offered the man his hand.

  As they shook, the man said, “Thank you. I’ve only been here a week. Not exactly a brilliant beginning.” He turned to Barry. “And thank you too, Doctor. I’m all right now, so I’ll do as I’m bid.”

  “Good.” Barry rejoined his table.

  The buzz of conversation was above its usual level as, Barry surmised, what had just transpired was dissected, pulled apart, and analysed.

  “Gosh,” said Bill, “are things always as exciting in here?”

  Barry shook his head. “I’ve only been coming here since ’64, but to my knowledge there’s never been a fight in the Duck. I must say Constable Mulligan did a splendid job, and his approach to the red-haired fellow was very diplomatic.” He shook his head. “I wish, I really wish, that all these centuries of hatred would simply go away.” He took a drink.

  “We all do,” Bill said quietly. The three were silent for a moment and then Bill stood. “If you’ll excuse me, I need to shed a tear for old Ireland.”

  Jack pointed the way to the toilet.

  As Bill left, Jack said, “You know Alan wanted me to arrange for Helen and me, and you and Sue, to be invited for lunch in Cullybackey with my folks?”

  “I do.”

  “They’re going to ask you down for next Saturday. Can you?”

  “You’re damn right. It may take some persuading to get Sue to come. She’s emotional right now and she may be concerned about what will happen, but she knows how important this is. We’ll be there.”

  “Great.” He rose. “I’ll just go over and let Alan know.” Jack crossed the room.

  Barry watched him stop and bend to say something. Alan rose and accompanied Jack back.

  Alan, who remained standing, said, “Hello, Doctor. I’m delighted Jack’s got the lunch set up. Me and Jack and Helen will come down together.”

  “And Sue and I will too and get there first. I know what you want me to do.”

  “Dead on. We can’t thank you both enough for your support.” He managed a weak smile. “And I think I’ve some more ammunition to help Helen and Jack.”

  Barry was intrigued but could see Bill heading back and didn’t want to discuss it in front of him. “In a nutshell?”

  “The Cameron Report.”

  Barry frowned. “The one released last week?”

  Alan nodded. “I suggest you get a copy and read it. See you in Cullybackey next Saturday.”

  29

  Are Beaut
iful Through Love

  “Wake up, pet. We’re here.” Barry parked in the farmyard outside the two-storey, redbrick Victorian building and turned off the windscreen wipers, glad to be rid of their incessant rhythm, which had persisted all the way from Ballybucklebo to Cullybackey and had lulled Sue into a semi-sleep. “I’ll go first. Stay where you are until they come to the door.” He turned up his raincoat collar and pulled his duncher down before getting out and turning his shoulder into the wind of a late-September downpour. At once he inhaled attar of cow clap and wrinkled his nose.

  The Mills’s border collie stuck its nose out of its kennel, barked once, and retreated inside. Sensible dog.

  The door was opened by Jack’s father, Morris Mills, his close-cut dark hair damp. “Barry, come in out of thon, hey bye, and bring Sue. I got soaked just coming from the barn.”

  Barry beckoned to her and, shoulders hunched, transparent plastic rain hood glistening, she trotted from the car and in through the door.

  Barry followed.

  As Morris helped Sue off with her coat and hood, Barry saw Jack’s car pull up alongside the Imp. Jack helped Helen out and hurried with her to the door. Alan Hewitt was hardly visible behind the car’s rain-streaked windows.

  Barry and Sue had picked up Alan in Ballybucklebo and transferred him en route to Jack and Helen’s car at a well-known local landmark, the Tudor-style gateway to Shane’s Castle Estate in Randalstown, ten miles from Cullybackey. Alan’s earnest instructions to Barry were still clear in his mind: “I’ll stay in Jack’s car until you’re well settled in, then I’ll knock. You be ready to answer it, Barry, so once I’m inside I’ll be hard to turn away.”

  Barry brought himself back to the present, and the second his friends were in the spacious, parquet-floored hall he shut the front door.

  “Hello, Dad,” said Jack with cheerful humour in his voice. “Shocking day out there. Even the ducks are walking.” He nodded to Helen. “You remember Helen Hewitt?”

  “Hello, son. Doctor Hewitt,” he said, inclining his head. “It’s been a wee while since Jack brought you down after you graduated in June.”