—No horse I’ll yoke and no pipe I’ll smoke ’til my plough with the rust turns brown,
And a smiling bride by my own fireside is the star of the County Down.
That would be grand. Kitty up here, Kinky down below in her quarters, friends again with Kitty. Of course Kinky’d come round once she got better, and—
“You’re in fine voice tonight, Fingal,” Barry said.
O’Reilly harrumphed and said, “I didn’t hear you come in.” He nodded at the sideboard. “Help yourself.”
Barry shook his head, but took a chair. “Do you think Kinky will be all right?”
“She should be fine,” he said, and swallowed some whiskey. “Kinky’s a tough old bird, you know. It could be a lot worse.” He sipped thoughtfully. “I’m old enough to remember medicine before antibiotics, God bless them, and even back then lots of patients recovered from pneumonia. I’ll tell you about a one-armed army sergeant, Paddy Keogh, one day.” O’Reilly knew he was whistling in the dark. They both hoped Kinky’d be fine but also knew there were no promises. “I agree with Jack that we let her get a good night’s sleep tonight, but how’d you feel about going to see her tomorrow, Barry? She’ll appreciate a visit from one of us.”
“Should it not be you?”
O’Reilly shook his head. “Your turn. I know she’d like to see you too, and Kitty’s coming here and can answer the phone if I’m called out.”
“I’d love to see Kinky, and I could use a trip to town. I’ll pop into Robinson and Cleaver’s. I need a new shirt or two.”
O’Reilly wondered if new shirts and his phone call to a certain Miss Sue Nolan had anything to do with each other.
The door that Barry had not quite closed began to open and a white nose appeared. Lady Macbeth was letting herself in. O’Reilly recalled Bertie Bishop’s accusations against her. “Barry,” he said, “what did you think of what Bertie Bishop said about her ladyship?”
Barry frowned. “I hope it wasn’t her, but all cats are bird killers. There is another possibil—”
“It couldn’t have been this cat, by God,” said O’Reilly suddenly. “Helen just said her ladyship had been here with her all afternoon. So Bertie can go and fly his kite. We have a watertight alibi.” O’Reilly sipped his whiskey and wondered why Barry wasn’t smiling.
“For her ladyship, yes.”
“And isn’t that all we need?”
“For her it is,” Barry said, “but I’ve been thinking. I saw Colin Brown today. He lives across the road from Bishop’s pigeon loft.”
“And what has that to do with the price of corn?”
“Colin has a new pet, Butch, a ferret. A white ferret.”
“And you think—?”
Barry shrugged. “Could be.”
“Jasus,” said O’Reilly. “And I’ll bet Colin dotes on his pet and if it is the culprit, it doesn’t bear thinking about how the young lad’s going to feel if Bertie finds out and demands retribution.”
13
Keep Thy Tongue from Evil
Barry had spent four and a half years working at the Royal Victoria Hospital, and each time he returned it was like coming home. He paused for a moment in the main corridor to listen to the bustle of uniformed staff, all, it seemed, hurrying on missions of the utmost importance. Cleaners sedately dusted, pushed brooms and electric polishers, clearly content to be in no particular rush.
Small groups of bewildered-looking civilians were coming in through the front entrance and heading for the wards. At this hour on a Saturday midmorning they’d be relatives arriving to collect discharged family members, and they’d be having mixed feelings. Barry knew it was considered unlucky in Ulster to be discharged on a Saturday, but there was always pressure to find beds for new admissions.
He turned onto the ward and went straight to the nurses’ desk. A junior sister, recognisable by her navy blue uniform, had her back to him. “Morning, Sister. I’m Doctor—”
“How are you, Barry?” she said without turning.
He recognised the voice. Joy Lewis had been promoted since, as a staff nurse, she’d been one of Jack Mills’s conquests. “Hello, Joy.”
She turned. “You’re here to see Mrs. Kincaid? Pity about her setback. Up until that she was doing well. But her temperature’s down a bit this morning so the antibiotics are starting to work.”
Kinky’s temperature coming down was promising.
“She’s in the side ward, but you may have trouble finding her, she’s surrounded by so many flowers and get-well cards.” Joy grinned. “And she’s been given enough grapes to start a winery. She’s not been well enough to see anyone but family, and we’ve turned away a lot of disappointed folks.”
“She’s much loved at home,” Barry said. “I’ll go and say hello.” He headed for Kinky’s room and wondered how many times he’d walked these units. They dated back to 1903, when the hospital had been opened by King Edward VII and named for his mother, Victoria Regina, who had died two years before. The layout had barely changed since then.
He let himself in. The scent of flowers was overpowering. Joy Lewis had not exaggerated. Long spears of gladioli protruded from profusions of multicoloured carnations. Someone had sent roses the colour of ocean coral. He recognised bluebells, wood anenomes, and primroses, so some friends with not much cash must have collected bunches of wildflowers. Kinky lay propped on pillows, an intravenous drip in an arm vein, and the prongs of green plastic oxygen spectacles in her nostrils. One was red and irritated where her gastric tube must have been.
He heard the sounds of hissing oxygen, and her shallow breathing. Beads of sweat glistened on her forehead. Her eyes had been closed, but now they opened. “Doctor Laverty,” she said.
“Kinky. How are you feeling? Doctor O’Reilly and everybody in the village send their love.”
“That’s very kind.” She gasped. “I’ve been better, sir.” It clearly took an effort to speak. “But my poor tummy’s not as sore. It’s my chest.” She coughed and then collected herself. “Your friend, that nice Doctor Mills, is most attentive and the nurses are darlings, so.” She wrinkled her nose. “It’s not fair to say it, but the gruel I’ve to eat? I’d be better off having some of my own beef tea.” She coughed again, a moist, congested sound.
Barry laid a hand on her arm. It was hot, clammy. The antibiotics might be starting to work, but she wasn’t cured yet. “Don’t tire yourself,” he said, found a chair, and sat. “Did you see your sister?”
“I did, so. Fidelma came on Wednesday and again on Thursday, and Friday, but it does be powerful dear for her and Eamon to stay in that guest house on Eglinton Avenue, and the farm needs attending to. They’re for home tomorrow.” She lay back on her pillows. “It’s a long way.” She gasped and took shallow breaths. “I shall miss them.”
Barry waited while she settled herself. “Sister told Doctor O’Reilly that the hospital would be needing a new switchboard for all the inquiries about you from Ballybucklebo.”
“Sister said she’d to send a lot of folks away. I’ll not lack for company once I’m feeling better.” She forced a smile. “But I’m not sure I would wish to see anybody at the moment.” She closed her eyes and her head lolled to one side. “I am tired, so.”
“Would you like to sleep now, Kinky?”
She shook her head and stifled a cough. “Even my sleep has me weary, so. I suppose it’s the morphine. Thoughts are buzzing around my head like angry wasps.” She looked at Barry. “Memories. Lots of memories. Of myself, as a girl, a long time ago, in Cork. We lived on a farm near Beal na mBláth. And we did be close, so, even if my big sister Sinead was a bossy woman.” She coughed. “But Fidelma and I really came together when the dubh sidhe, the black faeries, took her man Connor MacTaggart. In a blizzard it was … on Saint Stephen’s Day.”
Barry sat stock still. Kinky rarely spoke about her private life, but if she wanted—and needed—to talk, he was trained to listen. Besides, he was intrigued. He already knew Kinky was f
ey, had the sight. He himself found it difficult to believe in the Irish spirit world with its banshees and pookahs, thevshees and doov shees, but he knew many country folk believed implicitly.
She turned her head and must have caught sight of her stuffed hare. Barry heard a shuddering indrawing of breath. It caught in her throat and she made a tiny cry. When he saw the tears on her cheeks he wasn’t sure if they had been caused by the pain in her chest or in her heart. “Ochón, Ochón, my poor Paudeen,” she said softly, “my giorra mór.”
“It’s all right, Kinky,” he said, “it’s all right. I understand.” And he did. When Barry had been moping over Patricia Spence back in July, Kinky had encouraged Barry to see other young women, telling him about how, as a young woman herself, she’d been besotted with and had married a fisherman from Ring in County Cork. Six months later he’d drowned. She’d met other boys after that, but no one she’d loved as well as Paudeen Kincaid. Barry had been touched by the confidence then, and he was now.
She took another breath, not as deeply as the last, and said, “I’m sorry to be weepy, sir. I think that morphine must be like when the drink does be on some people. They can’t help saying what is foremost in their minds, so.”
“I don’t mind.”
“And I shouldn’t be so selfish, thinking only about myself. I’ve had a grand home now at Number One.” She looked up at him, and said, “Tell me, sir, are you and himself managing?” He heard her concern. “Tell me the truth, now.”
“The village has rallied round. We’re coming down with grub, but we really miss your cooking, Kinky.”
Her smile pleased him.
“And who answers the phone?”
“Helen Hewitt has been helping out. She’s a very smart girl.” He’d noticed how professionally she’d handled last night’s worry about Kinky.
“I see.” She took two short and shallow breaths. “At weekends too?”
Barry shook his head. “No, Kitty came down today. She’ll look after calls if Doctor O’Reilly’s out and that lets me have time off so I could come and see you.”
“And your coming is appreciated.”
There was a hesitancy in the words, even though Barry knew they were sincere. He wondered if a bit of local news might cheer Kinky. She was always able to take pleasure in the good fortune of others. “Do you remember Miss Nolan, the teacher?”
“I do, so.”
“I’m taking her for dinner tonight. Picking her up at eight.”
A smile passed over Kinky’s face and she laid her hand lightly on Barry’s. “It does do me good to hear it. You two have a lovely time. A young fellah your age should see lots of girls as long as you’re not like the Corkman looking for a stick.”
“A stick?”
“Aye, so. He went into a wood for to cut a walking stick, but every one he was going to pick he shook his head and said, ‘Sure there’ll be a better one further along, so.’ And do you know what happened?”
Barry shook his head.
“He’d still not cut one until he was out of the wood entirely.”
Barry smiled. “I’m not sure I’m ready to be getting married quite yet, but I appreciate the advice.”
“I wasn’t sure at first whether I was ready to get married either,” said Kinky, her voice quavering. “But my Paudeen, well, he was—”
Barry was suddenly aware that the hand Kinky had laid on his was ice-cold. Gently he withdrew his hand, ready to take her pulse. “Kinky, are you all right?”
“Don’t go, Doctor Laverty. I … last night, late, very late, I suppose about three o’clock, I saw something—”
Barry felt the hairs on his forearms lift. The Corkwoman’s eyes had a glazed look; it was almost as if Kinky wasn’t really in the room anymore.
“It might just have been a dream, or the morphine, but I could have sworn Paudeen was talking to me. I could see his long black hair and the creases round his eyes. ‘Maureen,’ he says to me, ‘you do be a handsome woman. I do love you yet.’ My heart near burst.”
Barry felt himself close to tears.
“And Paudeen went on, ‘And because I do, I wish you’d think again about finding another fellah. It would please me, so, to see you settled and happy.”
Barry held his breath.
“And I reached out to him, but he was gone.” She looked straight at Barry with a bittersweet smile. Then the smile faded, her eyes focused, and she said in her usual voice, “And you said Miss O’Hallorhan has come down? I suppose she’ll cook, so?”
Barry exhaled and, mind still whirling with what Kinky had told him, said, “I surely hope Kitty will. It would be nice to have something that’s not been reheated.” He heard a shuddering sigh, looked down, and saw another tear trickle down Kinky’s cheek. Dear God, he thought, what have I said? Didn’t O’Reilly tell me that Kinky was feeling vulnerable about her position at Number One? And haven’t I just told her how her two prime functions can so easily be delegated—and to Kitty? “It’s just a fill-in thing, Kinky. Honestly,” Barry said. “Only until you get better. We need you back home.”
“I am sure you’re right, sir,” she said. “Only temporary … until July, when Miss O’Hallorhan comes to live full time.” There was a catch in her voice and she coughed.
Barry cleared his throat. He thought of O’Reilly’s first law of holes: When you find yourself in a hole, for Christ’s sake stop digging. He touched her hand and looked down into two black eyes that stared hopefully up into his. “Kinky, please don’t worry. We all want you better and back at Number One running things. Now you save up all your strength and please, please get well.”
She coughed and forced a grin that did not touch her eyes. “I think, sir, that if you don’t mind, I’d like to take a nap now, so.”
“Of course.” Barry turned to go. “And if there’s anything you need, ask Sister to phone us.” He realised that Kinky, now clutching her toy hare, was already asleep. “Sleep well,” he whispered, “and please don’t worry.” And he cursed himself for his carelessness. The Corkwoman with the heart of corn, who moments ago had mourned the loss of her Paudeen, who still felt she might like to remarry and have a home of her own, was terrified she was going to lose the only one she’d known since before the war. And he, Barry Laverty, had carelessly given her more cause for worry. Damn it. Damn it to hell.
14
But Lo the Old Inn
“I’m not quite ready,” said Sue Nolan when she answered the door of her ground-floor flat in the Holywood terrace house. Something of an understatement, Barry thought. He took in her baggy Aran sweater, jeans, and bare feet. Most of her hair was hidden under a towel, curly wisps escaping at her nape. Yet she looked so charming Barry felt his annoyance softening. She showed Barry into a sitting room dominated by crowded bookshelves. “The meeting ran late, I only got in ten minutes ago. Have a pew. I’ll be as quick as I can.” She fled along a hallway. Max jumped off the couch, made a beeline for Barry, stood on his hind legs, and tried to lick Barry’s face.
“Gerroff, dog.” Barry tried to fend off the advances.
A door opened and Sue called from down the hall. “Max. Get down.” The edge in her voice was tinged with exasperation. “Maximillian, get in here. Now.”
The animal went back down on all fours, eyed Barry, then turned and padded down the hallway. A door opened, then closed. Silence.
Barry surveyed the wreckage. He’d gone to great pains with his appearance, and was wearing his only suit, one of the new shirts he’d bought after he’d seen Kinky, and his Old Campbellian tie. He couldn’t remember who had said that first impressions were things you didn’t get a second chance to make, but this was his first date with Sue and he’d been conscious of making a good one. He glimpsed his scowl reflected in the glass of a watercolour landscape. His tie was askew and long white dog hairs coated the front of his charcoal-grey jacket.
Damn it, he’d been on time, to the minute at eight o’clock, and their reservation at the Old Inn in Cra
wfordsburn was for eight thirty. They were going to be late. Four years of boarding school had instilled in him a near-obsessive respect for punctuality. Still, he thought, trying to wipe the hair from his jacket, he’d just have to be like Aggie Arbuthnot and thole things he couldn’t change. It was hardly an auspicious start, though. Sue Nolan might be achingly lovely, but her idea of punctuality and her dog’s manners could both use some work. He caught another glimpse of himself in the glass. “Eejit,” he muttered. “Don’t be so bloody pompous.” This was his first Saturday night out in months. The maitre d’ at the Old Inn would just have to forgive a little tardiness. Relax-ay-voo, in the immortal words of Dean Martin.
He was about to sit on the sofa, then thought better of it. The cushions were coated in Max’s hairs. He wandered over to a bookcase. Several shelves were crowded with textbooks about education, as his own were with medical tomes, but Barry was more interested in what else Sue Nolan read. Some Experiences of an Irish R.M. by Somerville and Ross. He’d read it too, and enjoyed the eccentric characters. Ulysses by James Joyce. He’d read it, after a fashion, and had found the thing incomprehensible. Well-thumbed volumes of Revolt in the North: Antrim and Down in 1798 by Charles Dickson and A History of Ireland by Edmund Curtis sat side by side. So she was interested in Irish history, even though she wasn’t able to teach it to her pupils. This sat next to—he had to squint to read the title—Go Tell It on the Mountain, by James Baldwin. Barry recognised the name of the black American writer and civil rights activist. Strength to Love by Martin Luther King, Jr., kept Baldwin’s work company. The world was well aware of the struggle for civil rights in the United States. The violently opposed march in Selma, Alabama, had been held only two months previously. The fight for racial equality must interest Sue.