She held up the book. “Have you read this, Doctor Laverty?”
Barry looked at the title. A Tale of Two Cities. “I have.”
“Your man Charles Dickens? He’s a powerful writer, so he is. I’ve read David Copperfield and Great Expectations and I can always see the characters so clearly, but this here stuff about the French Revolution? It’s dead exciting, so it is, but it must have been bloody awful to live in France then.”
“It was, literally bloody,” Barry said. “All revolutions are. We had one of our own here fifty years ago, you know.”
“I do indeed,” she said. “My da’s a great man for his Irish history. He told us all about Padraig Pearse and James Connolly, Eamon Ceannt and the rest getting shot for taking part in the Easter Uprising in 1916. And your man Eamon de Valera being spared because he was born in America. My da always likes to tell us how de Valera went on to be president of the Republic and even greeted President Kennedy when he visited Ireland in 1963.” She paused. “I think my da’s right. It’s a shame we didn’t get taught Irish history at school.”
“That’s because Northern Ireland’s part of Great Britain so we get British history.” He shrugged. “I could have done without having to memorise the dates of every British king and queen since William the Conqueror.”
“From 1066 to 1087, then William II, 1087 to 1100,” she said, “and right on up til Queen Lizzie.” They both laughed. “You should meet my da, sir, and hear him sing Irish songs when he’s had a jar.” Her dimple reappeared with her smile and Barry heard the affection in her voice.
“I’ve seen him in the Duck, but I’ve not heard him sing.”
“He’d dead on, so he is. He sings rebel songs at home. He knows about the United Irishmen in 1798 and he even told me about the Cumann na mBann that was founded in 1913, the women’s branch of the Irish Volunteers. I’ll bet you didn’t know that two hundred of them fought in that there Easter Rising? Margaretta Keogh was shot dead. Elizabeth O’Farrell was a go-between in negotiating the surrender of the rebels.”
“You have a taste for rebellion?” said Barry.
“Och, aye. You’re thinking about them hats, are you?” Helen chuckled, then said, more seriously, “and not just about hats. We’re lucky here in Ballybucklebo, there’s no Catholic-Protestant rubbish, but it’s not the same all over Ulster. Us Catholics don’t always get a fair shake. There was good reasons for them Irish rebellions, so there was. That’s what my da says.”
Barry hadn’t known Helen’s religious persuasion nor her political leanings. To him, particularly as a doctor who had absolutely no right to let anyone’s religion or politics matter, they were irrelevant.
Before he could comment, she abruptly changed the subject. “Do you think Doctor O’Reilly would mind if I took the book home with me the night? I need to know what happens next. I’ll bring it back the morrow.”
“I’m sure he’d not mind at all.”
“Great,” she said.
“Doctor O’Reilly has all twenty of Dickens’s novels. I’m sure you can borrow any ones you want.”
“Honest?”
Barry nodded. “But I’d avoid Bleak House. It’s awfully dry.”
“I’ll do that.”
“All right, Helen,” he said, “if you’re happy enough, you read away. See what Madame Defarge and Charles Darnay get up to.” Barry looked out through the bay window, past the tilted spire of the Presbyterian church, and over its old yew trees to a cerulean Belfast Lough. “At least we’ve no guillotine next to the Maypole and it’s lovely out there,” he said. “I’ll see to Arthur and get back soon so you can go home and enjoy your evening.”
“You take your time, Doctor Laverty. Me and her ladyship,” the cat opened both eyes and yawned so mightily Barry thought she would dislocate her jaw, “are quite content, and I want to find out what happens to Sydney Carton.” She winked at Barry. “I’d not mind having that boy’s slippers under my breakfast table, so I’d not.”
* * *
Barry stood on the hard wet sand near the sea’s edge and felt the breeze ruffle his hair. The tang of seaweed filled his nostrils and wavelets pleaded with a seawrack tide line to allow them to come further ashore. Arthur Guinness sat at Barry’s feet, the dog’s gaze fixed on Barry’s face. The big black Labrador quivered. Barry hurled a piece of driftwood and looked down to the dog, who tensed and stared straight out to sea, but otherwise didn’t budge. Nor would he, Barry knew, until commanded. O’Reilly had trained his retriever well. “Hi lost,” Barry said, and watched Arthur tear into the water and swim with powerful strokes and head high straight toward the wood. He snorted as he swam back with his prize in his mouth.
Pausing only to shake himself, the droplets sparkling, flying, and making tiny ephemeral rainbows, Arthur trotted on with the stick in his mouth and sat with his tail thrashing a fan shape in the sand. He put a paw up on Barry’s leg.
“Good boy.” Barry accepted the stick, brushed sand from his pants, threw again, and said, “Hi lost.”
The dog bounded into the water and made a beeline. Old Arthur knew where he was going, which was more than Barry Laverty could say for himself for sure. He’d truly enjoyed his ten months here, but he was also looking forward to sampling life as a trainee specialist. He’d start his obstetrics and gynaecology in Ballymena’s Waveney Hospital in July. He knew he was good at obstetrics, suspected that being a specialist could be a very satisfying career. Och, well. Time would tell which way he’d jump. He was young, had no commitments, and enjoyed the luxury of his professional world still being his oyster, or as Donal Donnelly might say, “The world’s your lobster.”
He watched Arthur grab the stick and turn for the shore. The big Lab could keep it up all day, the same task over and over, just like Aggie Arbuthnot folding shirts. Maybe the letter he’d given her might help her get a better job.
Arthur came ashore, gave Barry the stick, and looked up with longing deep in his soft eyes.
“All right. Once more.” Barry threw. “Hi lost.”
Away Arthur went.
Across Belfast Lough the cloud shadows played follow-my-leader over the Antrim Hills. There the Knockagh Monument stood; a solitary needle ready to pierce an eggshell blue sky. A freighter headed up-channel to the Port of Belfast. The sinking sun scattered spangles on the crests of wavelets and the squeals of gulls gave high counterpoint to the song of the sea on sand. This was going to be a hard place to leave, but Ballymena was no distance from the Glens of Antrim. He’d never been there, but they were said to have a wonder all their own. He intended to find out.
Arthur was panting when he arrived back. He was duly complimented and relieved of the stick. “Heel,” Barry said, and the dog tucked in behind Barry’s leg as together they headed home.
These sand dunes held memories; amusing ones of walking here with O’Reilly a couple of weeks back as they hatched a plot to stymie Councillor Bertie Bishop; sorrowful ones of a golden girl who’d blazed in Barry’s life for a few short months then told him she’d met someone else. It didn’t seem possible, now that she was so far away, that he’d ever kissed her here where the marram grass on the dunes’ summits whispered secrets and the plaintive replies of curlew echoed on an evening breeze. Damn it, but losing her still hurt, not nearly as much, but memories of her were all around him. Going from here would dull the aching brought on by unexpected reminders.
A liver-and-white springer spaniel tore round a corner and skidded to a halt stiff-legged in front of Arthur, who regarded the newcomer and lowered his muzzle to sniff. The sniff was returned.
A woman called from the far side of the dune, “Max? Max? Where are you?”
Barry recognised the voice.
“Max. Come here, you witless oaf.”
The spaniel bounced away, advanced with his belly close to the ground, yipped twice at Arthur, and dashed off, ears flapping, spurts of sand flying from his paws.
Arthur looked up at Barry as if to say, “Spaniels? They
’re all thick as two short planks.”
“There you are, Max, you silly ass,” came from round the sand hill. The voice was equal parts frustration and affection.
Barry bent and patted Arthur’s head. “Good boy, Arthur. Now heel.” He strode off and rounded the dune. A young woman with her back to Barry was stroking the spaniel and murmuring endearments. He noticed her waist-length plait of copper hair. He grinned and said, “Hello there, Sue Nolan.”
Before she could turn and speak, the spaniel spotted Arthur and dashed across to greet his new acquaintance. Both dogs’ tails thrashed.
“All right, Arthur,” Barry said. “Go out.” He watched the two animals bounding away, Arthur solid, sedate, the spaniel making short dashes, yipping and darting about.
The young woman turned and Barry was once again struck by the green eyes set in an oval face.
“Barry,” she said, smiling, “how lovely to see you again.” Her look was inquiring. He had said he would phone when they’d seen each other at the Downpatrick Races last weekend, and he had not.
“I was going to … phone you, that is…” he stammered, “but you’d not believe how busy we’ve been since last Saturday, and—” He stopped, not sure how to continue. He’d always been uncomfortable with girls, more so with very attractive ones like Sue Nolan. He admired the swell of her breasts under a grey cashmere sweater, her slim waist, the curve of her calves beneath the hem of a knee-length skirt. In the softening light of the late afternoon, her hair glowed. She was lovely.
“No rest for the wicked?” she said, and raised her eyebrow.
“Nor for me,” Barry said, smiling, and quickly changed the subject. “What brings you here?”
“Max wanted his walk. The tide’s in and Holywood Beach is under water so I came here.”
“My boss, Doctor O’Reilly, is busy and Arthur Guinness needed his run.”
“Arthur Guinness? That’s a name and a half for a dog.”
Barry laughed. “Doctor O’Reilly says it’s because the big lad’s Irish, black, and has a good head on him … like a well-poured pint of stout.”
“Sounds like a character, your boss.” She chuckled, a melodious sound. Barry liked it.
“He is,” Barry said. “Indeed he is. I—” Barry had run out of things to say; his mind was blank. He looked at his watch to cover his confusion. “I … I should probably be running along. I’m expecting him home soon.”
“I should be getting on too, Barry. I’ve homework to mark.” She laughed again, looked directly at him, raised an eyebrow, and said, “I’d use just about any excuse to put off doing it for a while.”
Say something, he thought, not sure whether he was referring to himself or Sue. In truth he’d certainly enjoy another few moments in her company, and Helen, back at Number One, clearly wasn’t in a rush. “It is a lovely even—”
The two dogs suddenly tore over the dune’s crest, sand spraying around them. The moment was shattered. “Here, Arthur,” Barry called. “Sit.”
The Lab came, planted his backside, and, tongue lolling, stared up at Barry.
“Max, Max, hold still, you goat.” She bent and struggled to clip a lead to Max’s collar.
Barry looked at the firm curve of her backside. Damn it, he hadn’t held a girl since last Christmas. The worst she could do was refuse an invitation. “Sue,” he said, “what are you doing on Saturday?” He knew Kitty was coming down and O’Reilly would be glad to have the place to himself, and it was his turn to take call.
She stood, straining against the springer’s leash as Max practically strangled himself on a choke-chain collar. “Nothing after eight. I’ve a meeting to go to before that. It’ll be over by seven thirty.”
“How’d you fancy a late dinner?”
“I’d love it,” she said. Then, arms stretched to full length, she was dragged away by the daft dog. “Phone me. I’ve gotta go.”
“I will. Tonight,” he yelled after her as she was dragged up and over the dune by Max. There, he told himself, that wasn’t too difficult, was it? And he grinned when he realised how much he was looking forward to Saturday night now. He set off. “Come on, Arthur. Heel. Show me you’ve better manners than that unruly brute of Sue’s.” She might be a first-class teacher at MacNeill Memorial Elementary School, but she herself needed instruction in the art of dog training. Oh well, Barry thought as he moved onto the Shore Road, nobody’s perfect, but Sue Nolan was very easy to look at. He wondered how it would feel to kiss her.
11
What Cat’s Averse to Fish?
Barry, smiling at the thought of his end-of-week pint with O’Reilly, hammered on the Browns’ door with its stern lion’s head knocker. Helen Hewitt, who this afternoon had vacuumed the rooms and landings on the first floor, was now well into Oliver Twist and said she didn’t mind staying at Number One Main to answer phones, even if it was a Friday. O’Reilly, accompanied by the faithful hound, and Barry on his own, had agreed to make separate follow-up home visits and meet later at the Mucky Duck.
“Come on on on in, Doctor Laverty,” Connie said “You’ve come for to see wee Colin? He’s in the backyard.”
“He’s well?”
“Fit as a flea.”
Barry followed her through the hall and into the kitchen, where two pots bubbled on top of a range and gave off mouthwatering scents. A loaded clotheshorse stood gently steaming in front of the range. He couldn’t help noticing how many of the pairs of socks had been darned.
“Sorry about the clutter. It’s right and sunny the day, but there’s no drying in it. And with them wee squalls every now and then, I’d be going like a fiddler’s elbow taking the washing in and putting it out again,” Connie said.
“Please don’t apologise. You’ll have been busy enough since Colin came home from hospital.”
She sighed and pushed her hair from her forehead with the back of one hand. “To tell you God’s honest truth, I hope you do say he can go back to school on Monday. Anyroads, them Royal bone doctors was spot on, so they were. Had him fixed in no time, you know, and home here on Wednesday. He’s been running round like a liltie, so he has. He has me driven daft sometimes. Och, but—” and she smiled fondly.
Barry laughed. Colin Brown would be a going concern all right, a regular Irish berserker.
“This way, sir.” Connie unsnibbed a back door that led into a small yard enclosed between the house and three red-brick walls. Patches of moss sprouted from coping stones and the mortar between the bricks. An empty clothesline drooped overhead.
Colin was sitting on a wooden box on the tarmac. Beneath his short pants both knee socks were crumpled round his ankles. One knee was grazed. Barry saw how the lad cradled his pet ferret. The little animal twitched its whiskers and wrinkled its pointed nose, clearly scenting the newcomers. Colin turned and grinned. “How’s about ye, Doctor Laverty? Come to see my Butch?”
“And you, Colin. How’s the wing?”
Colin lifted the wounded extremity in its sling. “Dead on, so it is.”
“May I see?”
“Aye, certainly.” He slipped off the sling.
Barry looked at the white plaster of Paris tube that ran from Colin’s wrist, past a flexed elbow, and halfway up his upper arm. The hand was neither swollen nor reddened. “Wiggle your fingers.”
“See that there?” said Colin, waggling his fingers at Butch. “It don’t hurt nor nothin’. And that ambulance ride was wheeker. Like you said he would, Doctor, your man, the driver, put on his ‘nee-naw, nee-naw’ just like one of them cops and robbers chases at the fillums.”
Barry tousled Colin’s hair. “Good man-ma-da.” He turned to Connie. “You’ll not even know there was anything wrong by the time the cast comes off.”
“That’s great. His daddy’ll be pleased too.”
Barry squatted. “And this is Butch?”
“Aye, and he’s a wee cracker, so he is.”
There was pride and affection in the boy’s voice. Barry bent and s
troked the coarse white fur of the animal’s head and noticed the bright gleam in its beady eyes. In spite of himself he shivered. Those were killer’s eyes. Ferrets were related to stoats, weasels, and polecats, and pound for pound they were some of nature’s fiercest predators. “You take good care of Butch, Colin.” Barry stood. “I’ll be off, and you can go back to school on Monday.” He turned and pretended not to see Colin sticking out his tongue.
“I’ll show you out, Doctor,” Connie said. “On Monday, Colin.” She grinned as she turned to lead the way, and when they were in the kitchen said, “Excuse me, sir. You know I was dead sorry to hear about Mrs. Kincaid, so I was. I sent her a get-well card.”
“That was thoughtful.”
Connie blushed. “And if you don’t mind me saying, sir, my Lenny’s a great carpenter, but he can’t cook for toffee apples. I’ve a notion not many men can, you know.”
“You’d be right.”
“If you’d not be offended, sir,” she turned to a counter and picked up something wrapped in a tea towel, “this here’s a Guinness beef pudding. I was going to bring it round.”
“That’s very kind.” Barry accepted the parcel, feeling its weight. He knew Kinky’s suet-crusted puddings were cooked in ceramic pudding bowls just like this one.
“Pop it as it is into boiling water for forty minutes, to heat it up, like.”
“Thanks very much, Connie,” Barry said. “I’ll get the bowl back to you.”
“No hurry.”
“I’d better be running on,” he said. “I’ll let myself out.”
It took him two minutes hurrying through the raindrops of a sun-shower to reach the Duck. He pushed through the swinging doors and walked into tobacco fug and the smell of beer in the low-ceilinged, oak-beamed single room where men in cloth caps and collarless shirts leant against a bar, pints of Guinness in their hands. Others, a few in suits and ties, occupied tables. The wooden tabletops were marked with cigarette burns and rings left by the bottoms of glasses.
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