"Can't complain."
"And if you did, no one would listen." Jack ground out his cigarette. "So, go on," he said. "How's general practice?"
"It's different. I'm working with a Doctor O'Reilly in Ballybucklebo."
"O'Reilly?
Not by any chance Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly? Man of about fifty, fifty-five?"
"That's right."
"Good Lord. Before the war he was one of the best forwards to play rugby for Ireland."
"I didn't know that." Barry was impressed.
"You, brother Laverty, wouldn't know an Irish rugby player from a penny bap." He winked at Barry. "But you saved my bacon in anatomy class, so I'll forgive you."
"Rubbish." Barry remembered the trouble Jack had had when they were students. His Latin was poor, and learning the names of the body's structures, an easy task for Barry, had been a struggle for his friend. Jack's likelihood of progressing through medical school had been in doubt, but with Barry's coaching he'd managed to squeak a pass in the third-year anatomy examinations.
"Here y'are." Brendan set two plates on the table. "I'll get your drinks in a minute."
"Dig in," said Jack, picking up his knife and fork. "Come on, I want to hear about what you're up to."
Barry did his best to describe his first week as O'Reilly's assistant, and the older doctor's habit of riding roughshod over anyone who stood in his way. Jack made sympathetic noises. He chuckled when Barry described O'Reilly's eccentricities. "But you are enjoying it?"
Brendan reappeared and silently left their drinks. "I asked you, are you enjoying working in the country?"
"I think so. Mind you, there's an awful lot of routine stuff."
"That's easy," said Jack. "Remember what that plummy English registrar told you when you complained about all the boring things we had to do when we were students?"
"What?"
Jack, always the consummate mimic, declared in the tones of one of the upper class, "Old boy, in this life there will always be a certain amount of shit to be shovelled. I really would urge you to buy a long-handled spade and simply get on with it."
"Right." Barry laughed. "And I have seen some interesting cases." He told Jack how O'Reilly had driven the Kennedy girl to Belfast in his own car. Jack nodded, mouth full, when Barry mentioned that O'Reilly's knowledge of every patient seemed encyclopaedic.
"Now there's a difference," he said. "I never get to know anybody. We're too damn busy. Get 'em in, cut 'em, and get 'em out. Mind you, I really enjoy the cutting bit."
"You would. You always were a bloody sadist."
"Away off and feel your head. It's what Jim Hardy used to say in that TV programme."
"Tales of'Wells Fargo?"
"That's it, partner." Jack adopted a heavy Texan drawl. " 'Sometimes a man's got to do what a man's got to do.'" He reverted to his own voice. "Speaking of which . . . ," he looked up at the clock over the bar, stood, reached into his pocket, and tossed a pound note on the table. "My half. Sorry, mate, but I'd better run on. Sir Donald Cromie is like the wrath of God if his assistant's late."
"Sir Donald who?" Was he the man O'Reilly had consulted on Tuesday?
"Sir Donald Cromie, paediatric surgeon with nimble fingers and a temper like Mount Etna on a bad day. He did an appendix the other night. Now the patient's blown up a pelvic abscess. Sick as a dog."
"You wouldn't happen to know the patient's name?"
Jack laughed. "No. I don't even know if it's a wee boy or a wee girl."
"Oh."
Jack moved toward the staircase. "I'm off. Good to see you, mate. I'll give you a bell next time I'm free. Maybe we could sink a decent pint or two."
"I'd like that."
"And about O'Reilly: Noli illegitimi carborundum.''
"I won't," Barry said to his friend's departing back, then took a drink. The Cantrell and Cochrane orange juice was sickly sweet. Barry stood, picked up his parcelled boots, and walked over to the bar. "What's the damage, Brendan?"
"Hang on." Brendan, with great moving of lips and counting on fingers, scribbled with the stub of a yellow pencil on a piece of paper.
As Barry waited, he wondered about the patient with the appendix abscess. Could it be Jeannie Kennedy? No way to tell; still the coincidence was a bit worrying.
"Here you are, Doctor Laverty."
Barry paid the bill. "Take care of yourself, Brendan."
"I will, sir."
Barry made his way down the narrow staircase, treads worn concave by the feet of countless patrons. When he stepped out onto Grosvenor Road, the drizzle had stopped. He decided to walk into Belfast. He'd lots of time to kill until the ten o'clock train. He walked in a world filled with the stink of car exhaust, the constant grumble of traffic, gutters clogged with soggy newspapers. On the pavement, people hurried by, men in Dexter raincoats, one exercising three racing greyhounds, and women in head scarves, their pink and white hair curlers scarcely hidden, their faces pinched and thin-lipped, shopping bags over their arms. He passed pubs and turf accountants, busy with the comings and goings of men in elbow-patched tweed jackets, cigarettes glued to their lower lips, and then fish-and-chips shops reeking of lard and battered cod, greasy wrappers flung on the pavement to lie among squashed smears of dog turd.
The streets he passed all had familiar names: Roden Street, Distillery Street, Cullingtree Road. They were cramped terraces, sunless and smog-ridden. In his student years he'd seen their inhabitants with chronic bronchitis, rheumatic fever, rickets, head lice, and scabies--all the diseases of poverty and damp, cramped living. He'd delivered babies in tiny bedrooms of "two up, two down" terrace houses, where the bedclothes had been newspapers, the mattress urine-stained and dank, and the woman in the bed, twenty-two going on fifty with her reddened hands, shrunken cheeks, and hair like the strands of a greasy floor mop. He'd felt so bloody useless. No matter what advances medicine might make, he'd learned the hard way that doctors occupied the last line of trenches in a battle that should have been won at the front. No amount of oxygen for ravaged lungs, vitamins for scrawny kids, or DDT for head lice could have half the effects of a decent diet and a clean, warm home.
Barry lengthened his stride and hurried across the railway bridge to Sandy Row, bastion of Loyalist supremacy. In preparation for next week's great Orange celebration, the Twelfth of July, the kerbstones were freshly painted in red, white, and blue. Union Jacks drooped from every upper window, and street urchins raced about in torn short trousers and half-unravelled Fair Isle pullovers, snail tracks of mucus on their upper lips.
Their cries were shrill, harsh: "Hey, silver sleeves? Away on home and wipe your dirty snotters."
"Sammy McCandless, yer mammy wants ye."
"See you, Bertie? Quit your colloguing, and give us a hand with this here fuckin' tree." This last remark was from a child of eight dragging a dead branch, from God only knew where, to add to one of the bonfires that would rage on the night of the eleventh. The flames would paint the clouds with a glow like that of the blazes that Henry VIII's reforming Protestants set under the flesh of nonrecanting Catholics. The hearty warmth of next week's fires would bring cheer to the drab existence of the inhabitants of Sandy Row, and serve to remind the Fenians in their ghettos on Falls Road and Divis Street, not half a mile away, of their place in the Unionist province of Ulster.
Belfast, he thought, dirty old harridan of a city, and one that I don't miss one bit. There's a lot to be said for Ballybucklebo. He stopped where Grosvenor Road met the junction of College Square and Great Victoria Street. Two cinemas sat, one on each corner: one marquee read, Dr. Strangelove; the other, The Pink Panther. Both starred Peter Sellers. Barry looked at his watch. He'd have time to nip over to the bookstore on Donegall Square and come back to the Ritz for the start of The Pink Panther. He'd grab a quick bite after the showing. Perhaps, he thought, he'd try the Chinese place on Church Street, and that wouldn't leave him much more than an hour to kill before ten o'clock.
Maybe she wasn't co
ming. Why would she? Maybe she'd said she'd be on the ten o'clock just to get rid of him.
The train would leave in five minutes, and by arriving too early Barry had given his impatience time to build and his doubts time to grow. For God's sake, why would a young woman who didn't know him from a hole in the ground say she'd meet him on a train--at night? He took one last long look along the Queen's Quay. It was deserted. The cranes on the coal dock stood gaunt and skeletal against a dimming sky. Oh, well. Barry hefted his parcel of boots, turned, and made his way toward the platform. He waited for his turn to surrender his ticket.
"Barry. Barry Laverty."
He turned and saw her limping fast toward him. He almost dropped his package. She stood beside him, panting slightly. "Come on," she said, grasping his arm, "get a move on, or we'll miss the train."
"Just made it," she said, sitting down on a bench as Barry slammed the compartment door.
He sat opposite. "I thought you weren't coming."
She laughed, her dark eyes bright in the compartment's dim light. "So your name's Barry Laverty?"
"That's right. I heard your friend call you Patricia."
"Patricia Spence." He took the hand she offered, feeling the smoothness of her skin, the firmness of her grasp. He knew he was holding on for a moment too long, but he didn't want to let go. He looked into her face. He never wanted to let go.
"I'll have it back, if you don't mind."
He eased his grip, but she let her hand linger just for a moment. She sat forward. Now what? Damn it, why was he always at a loss for words with women?
"You're quiet," she said. "Cat got your tongue?"
The train jolted through the dark night, swaying over the uneven track, rattling where the rails met.
"Not really."
"Don't know what got into you, asking a complete stranger to dinner?"
"That's right."
"If it makes you feel any better, I don't know what got into me, telling you I'd be on this train." She tossed her dark mane, highlights dancing in the ebony. "I think it's the way your hair sticks up . . . like a little boy's, and you looked so lost." His hand flew to that damned tuft.
He saw her smile at him. "I washed it this morning, and I can't do a damn thing with it." Christ, he thought, what a stupid thing to say. She chuckled at the hackneyed line.
Now or never, he told himself. "I just had to meet you, that's all." He swallowed. He felt his fingers digging into his palms. "I've never seen anyone so lovely." He knew he was blushing. The train rattled to a halt. "Sydenham Station," he said.
"Thank you, sir," she said.
"For telling you the name of the station?"
"For telling me you think I'm lovely."
"You are," he said, grateful that no one had boarded, knowing that Kinnegar was only two more stops down the line, happy that the train was on its way again, anxious that his time with her was running out. "Very lovely." He wanted to touch her, to hold her hand, but he was terrified that she might dart away like a startled bird. He sat rigidly. He must keep her talking. "You live in the Kinnegar?" he asked.
"That's right. Number 9, the Esplanade. On the seafront. I love the sea."
"I grew up in Bangor. I know what you mean about the sea. It's never the same. It's . . ." He fumbled in his pocket and pulled out Seamus Heaney's book. "I'm not very good with words but. . ." He opened the book, riffled through the pages, and read:
You might think that the sea is company,
Exploding comfortably down on the cliffs
But no: when it begins, the flung spray hits
The very windows, spits like a tame cat
Turned savage.
He looked into her eyes--cat's eyes--and saw them soften. "That's beautiful," she said gently. "Who's the poet?"
"Chap called Seamus Heaney."
"Never heard of him."
"I think you will. If you like poetry."
"And you do?" Her question was solemn, her gaze never leaving his eyes.
"Oh, yes." He glanced down. He was jerked forward as the carriage stumbled to a halt. He felt the nearness of her. She was wearing a musk that made his head swim. He stared into her face, reached out, and touched her hand. She twined her fingers with his and smiled. He saw her teeth, white, even, against her full lips. The train jerked.
"I get off at the next stop," she said. "I'm sorry."
"I know, but. . . Patricia, I want to see you again."
"My phone number's Kinnegar 657334."
Kinnegar 657334. He repeated the number in his head, over and over. "Can I phone you tomorrow?"
"I'd like that." She squeezed his hand, leant forward, and kissed him gently, little more than a fluttering of butterfly wings. "I'd like that very much."
"Jesus," he whispered. "Oh, Jesus."
"Bangor's not far from Kinnegar," she said, as the train began to slow.
"I don't live in Bangor now. I'm staying in Ballybucklebo."
"You're what?" She sat back and laughed, deep in her throat. He rejoiced in the sound, but what was so amusing about Ballybucklebo?
"Oh, dear," she said. "Oh, dear."
The Kinnegar halt sign appeared in the window. The train stopped. She rose.
He stood and opened the door. "What's so funny?"
"The ten o'clock doesn't stop at Ballybucklebo. You'll have to get off here and walk home."
"What?"
"That's right, and you'd better get a move on if you don't want to go all the way to Bangor."
The train jolted. He hustled her onto the platform and jumped down beside her.
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed," she said.
"It's all right. At least I can walk you home."
"Come on then. It's not far," she said, as the train's red rear lights vanished round a curve in the track. Damn it. He'd left his new Wellington boots in the compartment.
She took his hand, and boots forgotten, he walked beside her down the steps of the station, out of the weak pools of light thrown from the station windows, and onto a dark country road. After the day's rain the night air was gentle with hay and honeysuckle scents mingled with the tang of the sea. In the distance he could hear the susurration of waves on a shore.
He had to shorten his stride to keep pace with Patricia's uneven steps.
"How'd you hurt your leg? Hockey?"
"I didn't hurt it." He detected a hint of bitterness.
"What happened?"
"Nineteen fifty-one."
He stopped. Dead. Turned her to face him. "The polio epidemic?"
She nodded. "I was lucky. My left leg's a bit short, but I didn't end up in an iron lung like some of the kids."
"Jesus."
She dropped his hand and took one step back. "I suppose I won't be hearing from you now? Men don't like women who aren't perfect." Her words were matter-of-fact.
He sensed that she had been hurt before, perhaps badly. "I don't want pity," she said. He looked up and saw Orion, high, high, each star glimmering, bright and proud. He knew that to him, her short leg made no difference, none in the whole wide world. "I'm not very good at pity," he said. "I don't give a damn about your leg, Patricia. I don't care at all."
"Do you mean that?" She stepped away from him, stared at him through to his soul. He said nothing, just waited and watched her face, trying to read her expression in the dim starlight, hoping she wouldn't tell him that she didn't believe him.
"I shouldn't, Barry Laverty, I know I shouldn't, but I think I believe you." He saw something silver beneath her left eye, and he wanted to taste the salt of it, but something told him he mustn't rush her.
"Come on," he said, "let's get you home."
"All right," she said, "and Barry?"
"What?"
"I'd really like you to phone."
Deliver Us from Evil
"You look like the Hesperus ... a total wreck," O'Reilly said, leaning forward in one of the upstairs armchairs and peering over the top of the Sunday Times.
Barry yawned. "Late night."
"I know. I heard Arthur. He sounded happy."
"I wish--" Barry began, intending to tell O'Reilly that something would have to be done about his sex-crazed Labrador, but O'Reilly interrupted.
"Must have been two o'clock. Good thing there's no surgery today. What kept you?"
Barry parked himself in the other armchair. "Fate," he said. "Kismet." He stared out the window, seeing not the church steeple but Patricia's face.
"Whatever it was, it's put a grin on your face." Barry debated whether to tell O'Reilly about her but decided that now was not the time. She was his to relish in private. Just for a while. O'Reilly would probably make some crude joke, and Barry didn't want that.
His musing was interrupted by a rhythmic rending noise. "Stop that," O'Reilly yelled, tossing the Times colour supplement in Barry's direction.
Barry ducked. "Stop what?"
"Not you. Her. Lady Macbeth."
The white cat that had been left on the doorstep had been so named by O'Reilly after she'd bloodied Arthur Guinness's nose and chased him back to his doghouse--twice. O'Reilly'd said she clearly had an ambition to rule the entire place and, like her namesake, might very well kill to do so.
She stood semi-erect on her hind paws, body arched like the downward sway in the back of a spavined horse. Her front claws raked and ripped at the fabric of Barry's chair with the enthusiasm of an out-of-control combine harvester.
"Stop it, madam." O'Reilly stood over the animal, who clawed away and condescended to give him one of those feline looks that asks, "My good man, are you by the remotest chance addressing me?
"Stop it." O'Reilly grabbed the cat, picked her up, and tickled her under the chin.
Barry watched as she fixed the big man with her green eyes, smiled, laid back her ears, and made a throaty sound. She held her tail straight out from her body. The tail's tip made circles, the amplitude of which increased in keeping with the deepening timbre of her growl.
"I don't think she's very happy, Fingal."
"Nonsense. Animals dote on me. Don't you?" He went on tickling her until she struck, fangs sinking into the web of O'Reilly's hand. "You bitch," he roared.