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  Sebastian looked thoughtful. “I think you, Fingal O’Reilly, are a very lucky man, I really do.” He sighed. “I’ve known since before I took the traineeship here that there’d be no prospects of a permanent position, but…” He pursed his lips. “But I do wish that wasn’t the case.”

  O’Reilly looked at Sebastian, nodded, and took the remark under advisement. “You’ll find your place, young man. You’re a fine doctor. Now, I would be a luckier man if it wasn’t drizzling,” he said as he opened his door, “but that’s Ulster in early October for you.” He pulled his paddy hat down, his raincoat collar up, got out, and closed the door.

  The apartment block at this point was white concrete foundations, a rectangle longer on its front and rear aspects, and closed at each end. The inner space was divided up the middle by a single strip of concrete, and by four solid slabs of concrete running across the structure from front to back, dividing it into ten boxes of equal size. Three groups of two men were laying bricks on these foundations, supports for the weight-bearing walls.

  The flats might just look like concrete boxes at this point, but one thing was for sure, their front windows were going to give uninterrupted views over the sea-walk, past the glistening rocky shore, and across Belfast Lough to the Antrim Hills. Today that view was blurred and featureless, dark grey beneath the lighter, drizzle-filled sky above and the leaden waters beneath. Glaucous gulls swooped and squabbled over the shore.

  “Cluttered places, these sites,” O’Reilly said to Sebastian. “But I see the drive from the road under the railway bridge is complete right up to the front of the foundations.” Half a dozen men were busy there while a motorised cement mixer puttered away nearby.

  O’Reilly stopped to examine a heap of discarded and broken bricks lying beside wooden pallets stacked with more bricks. O’Reilly assumed in any load there might be a few unsatisfactory ones. Next to them were bags of cement and a heap of sand.

  As he spoke, a loaded flatbed lorry with FINLAY BUILDERS’ SUPPLIERS,BELFAST painted across the side of the cab drove in and parked near the stack of pallets.

  The driver got out. A big middle-aged man, two days’ stubble on his chin, a turn in his left eye, brushed past O’Reilly, audibly muttering, “Get you to hell out of my way. This is a building site, not a country club.”

  O’Reilly arched an eyebrow at Sebastian and stepped back and back again to avoid a rapidly approaching yellow forklift. With a great roaring of engines and stink of diesel fumes, the vehicle began unloading a new pile of brick-laden pallets.

  “What a charming chap,” Sebastian observed. “From a purely medical point of view, I wonder what caused his squint?”

  “I suspect he was dropped on his head when he was a baby.” O’Reilly was unused to being ordered about and didn’t care for it one bit. “Didn’t do anything for his manners, either.”

  A heavyset young man in a cement-stained yellow oilskin jacket with the hood up approached, pushing an empty wheelbarrow. “Hello, Doctor O’Reilly. Grand soft day, so it is.” The Ulster euphemism for “Damn this rain.”

  “It is that, Tommy.” Tommy Gillespie had been a labourer for Bishop’s Building for eight years. O’Reilly had treated him on several occasions for the cuts and bruises that were occupational hazards of his job. “This is Doctor Carson.”

  “Pleased til meet you, sir.”

  Sebastian said, “Likewise.”

  “Donal about the place?”

  Tommy shook his head. “Nah. We’re finishing a job for the marquis too, and Donal had til nip over and supervise something, but he’ll not be long. The tea’s on, and if youse don’t mind getting a bit wet out in the rain, a cup in your hand would warm youse til he gets here.”

  “Fine by me,” O’Reilly said. It was easing a bit. More like Scotch mist than rain now.

  “Talk til Dusty Miller, our head brickie.”

  O’Reilly had known Dusty Miller for years. He was Bertie’s senior skilled bricklayer.

  “He’ll get the teaboy til see youse right. I’ll be back when I’ve loaded this barrow.” He started to stack bricks from the first pile of pallets.

  Together O’Reilly and Sebastian walked over to where two men were shovelling sand and cement powder into the mouth of the mixer. The engine’s clattering made conversation difficult. The mixer was a strange metal contraption with a bottom like the lower half of a pear that continued into a narrowing open cylinder at the top. A hand wheel at one side was turned and the entire mixing compartment was tilted to let the semi-liquid cement flow into a wheelbarrow.

  “Where’s Dusty?” O’Reilly shouted.

  One of the men, now running water into the mixer from a hose attached to a standpipe, pointed ahead to the nearest pair building a wall.

  “Thank you.” O’Reilly walked with Sebastian to where a man in his late fifties, duncher pulled down over thinning grey hair and wearing damp moleskin trousers and a blue shirt under a sleeveless leather waistcoat, was showing a teenager how to lay a course of bricks.

  O’Reilly, not wishing to interrupt, watched.

  “Now, lad, we’re halfway along a new course,” the older man said. “Look at the already laid top course of bricks and tell me their names.”

  “For starters, all them lower bricks is lying in cement-based mortar, called the bed, on their longest and widest part—also called the bed.”

  “Right.”

  “That narrow one there, a grey-blue colour, is the header. It’s the narrowest part of the brick that’s sticking out. Next til it is the longest part, a sort of orangey colour. It’s the stretcher, and next to it is another header. With the different colours repeating in groups of three we’ll get a pretty-looking yoke when the wall’s finished.”

  “Good lad. Now, put some mortar on your trowel and cover half the next uncovered lower stretcher, a header, and half the next stretcher.”

  The youngster did.

  “Set this brick on the mortar so its three-eighths of an inch from the ones underneath.” He gave the boy a folding ruler. When the apprentice was satisfied, Dusty laid a spirit level on the brick and studied the bubble. “Dead on,” he said. “You’re a quick learner.”

  “Thanks. I should get you to talk to me ma.”

  “Next time I see her, I’ll do just that. Now, see that mortar running vertically up between the header and the stretcher? It’s called?”

  “The perpend, and it must always be above the centre of the stretcher below to give the wall maximum strength.”

  “And what’s the whole wall built that way called?”

  “A Flemish Bond. It’s strong as a horse and used in weight-bearing walls.”

  “Good. Good lad.”

  Dusty must have become aware of O’Reilly’s presence. The brickie turned slowly, and a broad grin split his crumpled face. “How’s about ye, Doc? I never heard you coming, so I didn’t. This here’s Jackie Wilson, my ’prentice who I’m learning the trade.”

  “How are you, Jackie?

  “Rightly, Doc.”

  “Last time I saw your boss, here, he wasn’t too well.”

  “Had to have my gallbladder out. Five years ago. Never better since.”

  “And this is Doctor Carson.”

  Everyone inclined their heads.

  “Here y’are, Dusty.” Tommy Gillespie parked a wheelbarrow full of bricks. He pulled a ballpoint pen from behind one ear and handed Dusty a sheet of paper. “Here’s the invoice. I know Donal give you the right to sign for things.”

  Dusty, using a brick to lean on, dashed off his signature. “Here.”

  “I’m off til help to load the empty pallets onto the lorry.”

  “Thanks, Tommy.”

  O’Reilly said, “Tommy thought we might get a cup of tea while we were waiting for Donal.”

  “I’d not mind one myself, and I’m sure Jackie would too. We just need to put on a few more bricks. Won’t take long.” They bent to their work.

  O’Reilly heard a new engine noise
and turned to see a van bearing the slogan BISHOP’S BUILDING pull onto the site. The van came to a stop at the front of the foundations and Donal, his carotty hair sticking out from under his cap, strode over to where O’Reilly stood.

  “Afternoon, Donal,” O’Reilly said. “Doctor Carson and I were driving by and thought we’d drop in and see how things were coming on.”

  “Good to see youse both, Docs.” He lifted his cap, scratched his thatch. “Just about finished at Ballybucklebo House and getting a fair start here. The foundations is poured and set, water’s connected to the mains, and the sewage is installed to be hooked up to the building when we’re ready. The building inspector’s passed them, and the drive and foundations. My crew of brickies is getting a good start on putting up the weight-bearing walls and—”

  “Thundering Jasus. Not again.”

  O’Reilly turned to see Dusty Miller holding a brick on his left hand and striking it with the sharp edge of his trowel. The side of the brick crumbled into a small heap of chunks and red dust.

  Donal frowned. “What’s up, Dusty?”

  “Mister Donnelly.”

  O’Reilly noted that now, as a partner in the company and Dusty’s boss, Donal was being treated with due respect.

  “I think that there Finlay’s trying til pull a fast one, so I do. We’ve used two loads with only the occasional duff brick. We always get the odd bad one in a load. But since we’ve been using the third delivery, there’s far too many in it that’re not up til snuff.” He pulled out the invoice. “And I’m sorry, but I wasn’t thinking and signed for the fourth load that’s just come in.”

  “You could hardly check every brick before you did, but if you’re worried about the third load we’d better take a keek now at it, and at load four.”

  “Sorry, boss.”

  O’Reilly thought Donal might get angry with Dusty, the usual response of a new boss unsure of himself and wanting to shift the blame. But he just shrugged. “Can’t be helped. It’s my job to decide when to run the occasional spot check. We can’t examine every bloody brick when a load come in.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t here, anyroad.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest, frowned, pursed his lips. “Come on, we’ll check the new load. Have a word with Finlay. We’ve never used him before but seeing this is the biggest job the company’s ever handled, Bertie needed to use a Belfast firm. It’s not one of the huge ones, but for some reason Bertie wanted to use Finlay’s. He liked the idea of it being owner-run.”

  “You’d better get a move on,” O’Reilly said, pointing to the man himself, who was leaning against the cab of his lorry, lighting a cigarette. “Your forklift operator seems to have only a few more pallets to unload.”

  As they all walked across, Dusty shook his head. “I know, Mister Donnelly, that you worked out exactly how many loads we’re going to need. I think Finlay’s playing the oldest game in the book. Deliver a couple of good loads, then start filling up later orders with second-rate bricks disguised with a couple of layers of good bricks on top. We should take a good gander at one of the later pallets.”

  They arrived as the forklift driver laid another pallet on a growing pile.

  Donal said to the driver, “We want to work on this one. Start another pile over there, please.”

  “Right, sir.”

  O’Reilly and Sebastian watched Dusty and Donal determine that the upper and outer three layers of bricks were in very good order.

  Finlay wandered over, his cigarette stuck to his upper lip. “Hello, Donal. I’ve delivered your load on time, so I have.”

  No “Mister,” O’Reilly noticed. Probably thinks Donal Donnelly is just the foreman.

  Finlay bent and picked up one of the first examined from the new batch. “Good-looking brick.”

  “One of the few,” Donal said.

  “What are you on about?” Finlay stiffened.

  “Look.” Donal inclined his head to a pile of broken bricks that had been taken as random samples from deeper layers. “This is the second load with far too many useless bricks.”

  Finlay shrugged, smiled. “Sorry about that, but look, you ordered so many loads. I’m delivering that many loads. We have a contract Mister Bishop signed and made a down payment on.”

  “Bertie Bishop left me in charge. I’m his partner.”

  “You? A partner?” Finlay laughed. “I don’t believe it.”

  Donal lowered his voice and said calmly, “I am, and Bishop’s Building didn’t pay for you to bring useless bricks.”

  Finlay’s tone was sibilant. “I did not deliver any. For God’s sake.”

  “Look at that from load four. There certainly are, and there were in load three too.”

  Finlay sneered. “It can happen. I haven’t the time to check every load. And more to the point, you signed for the delivery of the first three loads, Donal. Dusty signed for this one, so they’re all accepted and as good as paid for. So, like it or not, it’s your problem now, not mine. I just order them from the brickworks and bring them round. You’re stuck with the duff bricks, not me. And if I was you, son, I’d get a couple of replacement loads right now. Once I’ve delivered what I’ve already contracted for with the brickworks, they’re going til up the cost per pallet. You just see if they don’t.”

  O’Reilly watched Donal’s expressions change. Surprise. Anger. Cunning. “I think you’re a chancer, Finlay. I’ll think about ordering two new ones when I see what number five looks like.” He looked at the now-empty lorry. “Your work’s done for today, so take yourself off by the hand. I’ll be in touch when we need another delivery. And, see you? You make sure them bricks is perfect next time.”

  Finlay made a mock bow, unstuck his smoke, dropped the butt, and ground it out with his heel. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said, “and I don’t take instructions from blown-up labourers neither.”

  Donal watched as the man climbed into his truck and drove off with a spray of gravel. “Far too many poorly fired bricks inside this load, and already, Dusty, you’re getting too many in load three. Like I told him to his face, Finlay’s a chancer. Reckons I’m too young to be a boss so thinks he can put one over on me.”

  O’Reilly laughed, “One over on you, Donal? I’ve known you all your life. I suspect by the time you’ve finished with Finlay you’ll have sold him the deeds to the Queen’s Bridge.”

  Everyone except Sebastian, the newcomer, laughed. Donal’s reputation as a great trickster was a solid part of Ballybucklebo folklore.

  “Mebbe so, but to be serious, I don’t like til think how those bad bricks would creep if we used them.”

  “Creep, Mister Donnelly?” Sebastian looked down at the bricks.

  “Sure, the stress of weight-bearing can produce little cracks in bad bricks that join up into bigger cracks. That’s called creep. Sometimes the whole building falls down.”

  “Crikey,” said Sebastian. “That would be a catastrophe.”

  “This place is going to be home for fifteen families. There’ll be kiddies living in here.” Donal clapped Dusty on the shoulder. “You done very good, Dusty. Thank you.”

  To O’Reilly’s surprise, Donal did not start worrying out loud about what he was going to do. Instead his face went through a series of contortions that always signified he was wrestling with a problem. His face calmed. “What I have til do is work out a way to make sure we get our money back on these two loads, check how many more duff pallets are in load four, and get our money back on them too.”

  Donal Donnelly bent, picked up a crumbling brick, and hurled it to the ground, where it disintegrated more.

  “I want all the pallets of duff bricks replaced. I want that ignorant bollix, Finlay, to pay to dispose of all the rubbishy ones. I need til con the blurt into refunding the cost and into replacing them for free so this nonsense about the price going up at the brickworks doesn’t matter. And I’ll have til be certain there’ll be no more shenanigans from Mister Finlay fulfilling the rest of our order.” Donal looked at O’R
eilly, who saw the fires of hell in the man’s eyes. “This is going to be a strong, safe building, Doctor. I’m going til fix Finlay, and with your help, maybe some advice from your brother Lars the solicitor, and a bit of playacting by Dapper, I think we can pull it off.”

  31

  Harvest Is Truly Plenteous

  “Amen.” O’Reilly and Kitty added their voices to those of the crowd and of Father O’Toole and Reverend Robinson, who had finished blessing the opening of the 1969 Harvest Festival in the main hall of the Bonnaughts’ sports club.

  Only three days ago, the two men of the cloth, as well as John MacNeill and himself, had met in the marquis’s study at Ballybucklebo House.

  The meeting had been short and to the point as they charted a way to do what little they could at a local level to counteract a new outbreak of sectarian violence in the wake of the release of the Hunt Report on Northern Ireland policing.

  “So, we’re agreed,” the marquis had said, “that as a country community we want to do something.”

  Three heads nodded.

  Father O’Toole crossed his legs and rearranged the skirts of his black cassock. “This report quoted in here—” He pointed to a copy of the Belfast Telegraph that lay on the coffee table around which the men sat. “—is the result of only a few weeks of intense work. And it has arrived at conclusions that have been asked for, and heartily welcomed, by my community. Disarm the Royal Ulster Constabulary and relieve them of any peacekeeping responsibilities. Disband the B-Specials and replace them with a new reserve force. And recruit more, particularly Roman Catholic, officers into the RUC.”

  The marquis leaned back in his chair. “A pity those conclusions weren’t welcomed by some Protestants. There has been almost continuous rioting in Belfast by them since. One policeman shot dead, and for the first time the soldiers have had permission to return fire if fired upon.”