An Irish Country Cottage

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry looked back to see injured stragglers wading the river or crossing the field. Was anybody down and not getting up? If so, he’d let Sue keep Molly company until help arrived and look at them too. But no one seemed to need urgent medical attention and Barry breathed a sigh of relief. There were sure to be cuts and bruises, but they could be dealt with in the hospital’s casualty department, not in this sodden field.

  The sounds of the conflict were fading. Barry looked ahead. The Loyalist mob had moved farther away and he could see the last ranks of marchers leaving the bridge and struggling along the Glenshane Road.

  The field where the attackers had waited was empty except for abandoned piles of rocks. Even the siren was silent. He could make out one parked on the road. “Sue,” he said, “nip up to the road and tell the ambulance blokes we need a stretcher. And that I’ve a woman with a head injury here. She’ll have to go to hospital. Don’t bother coming back. I’ll meet you at the ambulance.”

  “Alright,” she said. “I understand.” Sue trotted away.

  Barry watched her go, hoping the running would help warm her up. His own wet legs and feet felt like blocks of ice. He turned to Molly. “Just going to examine your arms and legs and your cut.”

  She didn’t speak but simply stared after the advancing backs of her fellow marchers.

  Barry assured himself that none of his patient’s bones were broken. He used his hanky to swab the gash on her head above her blond hairline. That would need stitches. He was controlling the bleeding with pressure when the ambulance crew arrived, one bearing a rolled-up canvas stretcher. “I’m Doctor Laverty from Ballybucklebo,” he said. “This is Molly Foye. She got hit on the head. I can’t find any evidence of concussion or brain damage, but she’s got a nasty scalp wound.”

  “Will I need stitches?”

  “I’m sorry, Molly.”

  More tears trickled.

  “Fair enough, sir.” The two men busied themselves unrolling the stretcher and helping Molly onto it.

  Barry let them use his raincoat as a blanket.

  “Right, Bert. One, and two…” On three, the two men lifted the patient and set off toward the road.

  Barry followed. As he trudged up the shallow hill he thought, I don’t give a damn if Sue wants to catch up with her friends for the last few miles. I’m taking her home. I’ve had enough today. God alone knows what all of this will mean for the future, but I’m scared. I’m very scared.

  They arrived at the ambulance. Sue was shivering as she stepped out. He guessed the crew had told her to take shelter there while she waited.

  “Here y’are, Doc.” Bert handed Barry his coat. “We’ll look after her now, sir.”

  Molly managed a weak “Thank you, Doctor” as she was loaded headfirst into the vehicle.

  Barry didn’t bother putting his coat on. He was rain-soaked.

  “Barry. Barry, if we really hurry we can catch up and—”

  “Listen to me.” Barry grabbed her shoulder. “Listen. You’ve done your bit. We’re both soaked through.” Barry saw the resolute jaw, the squared shoulders. She looked determined to return to the march. He might not be able to argue her out of it, but he could pull medical rank. “We’re both at risk of hypothermia or pneumonia or both. I’m getting us back to our car, getting the heater on, and us as dry as possible, and we’re getting to blazes out of this and back home for a hot bath and lots of hot tea.”

  Her shoulders sagged and she moved to him. “Alright.”

  As he hugged her, the drizzle became heavier as the dark skies wept soft tears for today’s wounded and the little province of Ulster that was becoming more divided with each protest. Oh God, where was it all leading?

  11

  If You Can Meet with Triumph and Disaster

  “How are ye, Doc?” Brendan MacNamee asked as he and O’Reilly waited for the traffic light to change. “And the pup? He’s a grand ’un. I’d like a dog, but I’ve got enough mouths to feed.”

  Kenny sat by O’Reilly’s side as a few cars passed.

  “Brendan. I hardly recognised you there, the light’s so dim. We’re well. And you? And Fiona? The hospital sent me a letter about her. That she’d had a D and C for a miscarriage and they’d discharged her four days ago.”

  “That’s right, sir. She’s taking it easy,” he smiled, “or as easy as you can with the four weans.”

  “I was going to pop in to see her next week,” O’Reilly said.

  “No real need for that, Doctor. She’s doing bravely, and with all the flu and coughs and colds, youse doctors must be awful busy. We’ll come in til the surgery if we need you.” He touched the front of his duncher. “Heading for the Duck?” O’Reilly thought the man sounded wistful.

  “Aye.”

  “You enjoy your evening, sir. I’ll be running along.”

  As Brendan MacNamee strode off toward the housing estate, O’Reilly called, “Give my best to Fiona.”

  As the light changed and O’Reilly and Kenny crossed the road, O’Reilly thought of Fiona MacNamee and her yearly pregnancies. All five of them. After a miscarriage she shouldn’t get pregnant for at least six months. He pursed his lips. The MacNamees were Catholic and the Vatican forbade all contraception save abstinence or the rhythm method, better known as papal roulette. He shook his head and pushed through the Duck’s bat-wing doors, Kenny at his heel.

  “Evening, Doc.”

  “How’s about ye?”

  “Hello there, Doctor O’Reilly.” The flurry of greetings from the patrons of a packed Mucky Duck were warm and friendly. Men, many in dunchers, some wearing dungarees, two smoking old-fashioned clay dudeens, sat with friends at tables or leant on the bar. As usual the smell of beer wrestled with that of tobacco smoke that snuggled in a blue haze under the black rafters.

  “Come on over, sir,” Donal called from a table where he and Bertie Bishop were sitting. Donal clutched a half-drunk pint, Bertie a glass of milk.

  “The usual for yourself and the Kenny boy?” the publican asked.

  “Please, Willie,” O’Reilly said. He pointed to Kenny. “Under.”

  Kenny disappeared beneath the table, where before long, his bowl of Smithwick’s would appear.

  O’Reilly sat in a vacant chair. “How are you both?”

  “I’m a lot brighter since we seen that wee place this morning,” said Donal. “If we can get her fixed up it’ll be dead on, so it will. His lordship’s one of nature’s gentlemen, so he is.”

  The hum of multiple conversations rose and fell like lazy swells on a shelving shingle beach.

  Willie Dunleavy delivered O’Reilly’s Guinness and Kenny’s bowl. O’Reilly paid.

  In moments, Mary Dunleavy’s Chihuahua, Brian Boru, had joined his young friend, and sounds of lapping came from under the table.

  “Cheers,” O’Reilly said.

  Donal and Bertie lifted their glasses.

  “Milk, Bertie?”

  “Aye. Soothes my innards. Doctor McCarthy said til take it. I think it’s doing me good.” He sounded dubious.

  O’Reilly nodded. Still, it was only three days since Bertie’s belly had started acting up. No cause for concern yet.

  Voices from the background intruded. “That was desperate at Burntollet Bridge the day.”

  “I reckon them students should back off. They’re just causing a lot of trouble. Stirring the pot. They should let the hare sit for a while.”

  “They have a point. It shouldn’t matter what church you go til. You should have one vote same as everyone else.”

  “That’s what we fought the war for. Freedom and democracy.”

  “Hear. Hear.”

  “I think it’s gonna lead til more trouble. It’s only seven years since the IRA packed up their Border Campaign. What if them boys decide to get involved and the guns come out again?”

  The question led to a silence and a lot of nodding of heads. The atmosphere in the Duck was suddenly chilly.

  “Jaysus, but youse lot are
a right bunch of Jeremiahs on a Saturday night.” The man had a rhinophyma, a blockage of the sebaceous glands of the nose, making its tip red and swollen. “All gloom and despondency. I want youse til know. I want youse til know…” He prodded his tabletop with his index finger.

  “Get on with it, Mister Coffin.”

  Laughter.

  “I want youse til know … My cat—my cat had five lovely kittens in the hot press last night.”

  For a moment, there was not a sound in the pub.

  “Any one of youse want a kitten?”

  Then the Mucky Duck rang with laughter.

  After it had died, O’Reilly said, “Trust the undertaker to lighten the mood. Good for him.”

  “You’re quite the gag, Mister C., so you are,” a man said, slapping the undertaker on the back. The speaker was Alan Hewitt, Helen Hewitt’s father and a well-known Nationalist. “But a lot of us here are dead worried.”

  “Never you worry, Alan,” Gerry Shanks said. “You’re among friends here—you ould Fenian.”

  “Away off and chase yourself, you Prod bollix,” Alan said with a smile.

  More general laughter. Calling Alan a “Fenian” and Gerry a “Prod” in this company was all part of a bit of good-natured slagging. Teasing among friends. No offence had been intended and none would be taken.

  But there was little doubt what was preoccupying the patrons tonight. And O’Reilly was bloody sure similar, but probably more heated, discussions were taking place all over Ulster. In the Loyalist bars on Belfast’s Sandy Row and the Nationalist bars on the Falls Road, it was very unlikely that the same spirit of goodwill would prevail. Any stranger calling a Falls Road patron a “Fenian” would probably soon have his teeth to play with.

  “I was really worried myself today,” O’Reilly said to the two men at his table. “Doctor and Mrs. Laverty were going to Claudy.”

  “You mean to march?” said Bertie Bishop.

  “Aye. Mrs. Laverty’s a member of NICRA.”

  Bertie shook his head.

  “Are they alright, Doc?” said Donal.

  “Barry phoned me half an hour ago. They were home safe and sound. His account of the day’s doings was pretty ugly. I’m glad we’re not having ructions here in Ballybucklebo.”

  “Nor are we likely to,” Bertie said. “There are no two sides here. When the Germans bombed Belfast in 1941 and working folks fled til the country, Protestants took in Catholics and the other way round, too. And we’ve all got along with each other since.”

  “And Father O’Toole and Mister Robinson,” Donal said, “don’t they play snooker at the sports club? Take a pint together. Old friends, they are. And my best mate Dapper’s a Mick. So what? He’s sorry he couldn’t make it the night, but…” Donal closed one eye in a slow wink, “there’s a new secretary in his office. A right wee cracker. They’re going off dancing in Caproni’s in Bangor. Clipper Carlton’s showband’s playing.”

  “There, you see? Dapper’s out kicking up a leg and Mister Coffin’s cat had kittens. There’s some things right with the world,” O’Reilly said, and finished his pint, nodding at Donal’s nearly empty glass. “Donal?”

  “Right decent of you, sir, but no thanks. Everyone here’s been very kind. They know I’m in a pickle. I’ve two more paid for in the stable.”

  “Right.” O’Reilly signalled to Willie Dunleavy and got an answering nod as Willie put another pint on the pour. “Now,” said O’Reilly, “to business. I asked you to come to see what we can do to get matters moving for Donal. I told you I thought my brother Lars might be able to help. I phoned him on Thursday. He called me this afternoon. The business about the National Trust and planning permission.”

  “Good news, I hope, Doctor,” Bertie Bishop said, leaning forward.

  O’Reilly nodded. “It is. It seems that in England and Wales a cottage like Donal’s would be covered by the Town and Country Planning Act of 1947 as a ‘listed building.’ That’s a way of saying registered because of its historic significance or architectural interest. Once listed it’s quite the rig-a-ma-toot getting permission to rebuild.”

  Donal set his glass on the tabletop. “Och dear,” he said, and sighed.

  “But,” O’Reilly said, “here in Ulster, our parliament at Stormont is responsible for enacting domestic legislation for the six counties of Northern Ireland. And at the moment none exists for town and country planning. Lars has a friend, a Unionist MP. He phoned him last night. There will be legislation proposed about having buildings listed, but probably not for another few years.”

  “Dead on,” said Donal.

  “So, Lars will write to the trust. He does work for them, so he has a bit of pull. He’ll assure them that the Neolithic grave will not be disturbed and that the rebuilding of the cottage will hew to the original plans and you, Donal, will get a letter back telling you and your builder, that’s you, Bertie, to go ahead. Might take a week or two. No more.”

  “That’s sticking out,” Bertie said.

  “I’ll drink til that,” Donal said, lifting his glass and finishing it. “Will you please tell your brother, sir, that he has my deepest platitude.”

  “I think you mean gratitude, Donal.”

  “Aye. Right enough.”

  “And I will. Mrs. O’Reilly and I are having lunch with him tomorrow.”

  Willie Dunleavy appeared with O’Reilly’s fresh pint. “Donal?”

  “Aye. Please.”

  O’Reilly paid for his drink and Willie left.

  Bertie said, “That’s good news about permission, and I went til my yard this afternoon to make sure I have the materials, and seeing it’s in a good cause…” He beamed at Donal. “They’re on me. So’s my van and my lorry if you need them.”

  “Oh jasus, Mister Bishop,” was all Donal could say by way of thanks.

  Bertie beamed for a moment, but then became serious. “Mind, we’re not going to be able to build the Taj Mahal, but we just need the cottage made fit til live in until I’ve finished rebuilding Dun Bwee.” He sipped his milk. “Labour’ll cost a bit because there’s basically five jobs. The roof, cleaning, plastering and painting the walls, repointing a bit of the brickwork, and fixing the plumbing. We checked after you’d gone, Doctor. The coal gas supply til the oven and the lights is working. The lights need new mantles but they only cost pennies. I reckon the job, depending on the size of the crew, will take about four days to a week. First thing will be to fix the roof.”

  O’Reilly saw Donal frowning and counting on his fingers. He’d know the hourly wages of the trades needed. “That’s the question, isn’t it? Who’s going to pay for the labour?”

  Bertie Bishop said, “You said this afternoon you had a notion, Doctor. I’d assumed his lordship would. It’s his cottage after all, but he didn’t seem keen.” His frown was deep and O’Reilly could understand why. While well off, Bertie Bishop was already going to provide the materials gratis. It would hardly be fair to ask him to pay for labour as well.

  O’Reilly rose to his feet, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let go a whistle that would have made the famous locomotive the Flying Scotsman sound like a mouse’s squeak.

  Under the table Kenny gave a loud “woof” and Brian Boru a high-pitched “yip.”

  Silence.

  “Have I got your attention?”

  Heads nodded, but no one spoke.

  “Right,” he said. “You all know of the Donnelly family’s loss a week ago. That they need a place to stay.”

  Subdued mutterings of sympathy and agreement.

  “Our marquis has a run-down cottage on the estate. He’s told me and Mrs. O’Reilly that he’s willing to let the Donnellys live in it for peppercorn rent…”

  “Excuse me, Doc, for what?” Gerry Shanks wanted to know.

  “For legal reasons, Donal will have to sign a lease, which must be accompanied by payment. It can be so low that some landlords like the marquis will accept a peppercorn instead of money.”

  “The Mac
Neill family’s always been like that,” said Alan Hewitt. “When absentee landlords were being burnt out for charging rack rents in the last century, the MacNeills were left alone because of the kind way they treated ordinary people.”

  “Right enough,” said Mister Coffin, “his lordship has a heart of corn.”

  Murmurs of assent.

  “I agree,” said O’Reilly, “but—but, the cottage still has to be repaired, and Mister Bishop has just told Donal and me that he’ll provide the materials and the transport to the cottage at no cost.”

  Someone clapped and soon there was a loud round of applause.

  Bertie Bishop stood and bowed his thanks.

  “But,” O’Reilly continued, “we need roofers, plasterers, painters, a plumber, a brickie, and a clean-up crew. Are there any volunteers?”

  To a man the room rose. Alan Hewitt looked round the pub and said, “We’ve all the trades we need here, and a clean-up crew. I’m sure some of the wives’ll help too. Donal, you’re the hat for Mister Bishop. Will you gaff this job too?”

  “I will indeed,” Donal said.

  “Now, let’s be very clear,” O’Reilly said, “it’ll be a voluntary job. No wages.”

  “We know that,” Alan Hewitt said. “And we don’t care.”

  A loud rumble of assent.

  O’Reilly heaved a sigh of relief. Dare he try for more? “Donal, one more question.”

  “Aye, certainly, sir.”

  “Did any of your furniture survive the fire?” O’Reilly knew the answer.

  Donal swallowed. “Not a stick.”

  “The marquis might have some he could lend you.” He knew how proud a man like Donal would be when it came to asking for what he would consider charity.

  Bertie Bishop said, “That’s all very well, but what if the marquis doesn’t?”

  “The marquis has done enough,” said Donal. By the way his jaw jutted it was clear he was not going to budge from that.