Posting his mail would have to wait.
47
The Standing Is Slippery
“Ooops.” O’Reilly flailed his left arm and clung for dear life to Kitty’s woolly-mittened hand with his right. He regained his balance—just. “Let’s stand still for a minute, shall we?”
“Of course, dear.” Kitty stopped gracefully, at least as gracefully as anyone could while hauling with both arms to stop the forward and possibly downward progress of such a big man. “Let’s get out of the way,” she said, and towed him away from a throng circulating clockwise on the frozen pond. She headed toward the rime-covered bank where they’d left their shoes when they’d put on their skates.
It was Saturday and Arthur had had a good run in the morning. A skating rink was no place for a dog, even one as well behaved as old Arthur. O’Reilly was beginning to wonder if it was any place for a middle-aged GP, either.
On the ice, single skaters glided along, their hands clasped behind their backs. Some, the showier types, presumably imagining they were Hans Brinker on his silver skates, were tearing round the periphery, lapping the slower skaters. A young woman, unknown to O’Reilly, was wearing the full short-skirted gear and doing spins and what Kitty had told him were lutzes and axels in centre ice. Perhaps the aspiring figure skater usually practiced at the King’s Hall in Belfast, which had an indoor rink and skating classes.
Couples glided by holding hands or with arms round each other’s waists. Breath and body steam rose over the crowd. The shushing of blades on ice was punctuated by children’s laughter and shrieks. Most of the adults and some older teenagers were trying to move in time to Waldteufel’s “The Skater’s Waltz,” coming from a Dansette portable gramophone being supervised by Ballybucklebo’s resident disc jockey Donal Donnelly. He’d rigged a microphone and speakers too, so he could make announcements.
O’Reilly wobbled but managed to stand panting beside her. “I’d forgotten you did a bit of figure skating in Dublin,” he said. “I’m not quite so nimble. And it seems—”
Cissie Sloan, who was skating beside Flo Bishop, squealed, then yelled, “Jasus, Flo, hang on” and flopped onto her backside in time to one of the waltz’s famous cymbal crashes. She slithered for ten feet in a flurry of black skirts and white skate boots thrust in the air before coming to a halt with her white fur pillbox hat askew over one eye.
O’Reilly finished his sentence. “—I’m not the only one.”
Helped by Flo, Cissie was scrambling back onto her feet. “Don’t worry, Doctor. I’ve not broken nothing so you can quit looking worried, so you can. Nothing hurt but my pride, and truth to tell…” She chuckled. “I don’t have much of that anyway.”
He laughed and said, “I’m glad to hear you’re all right, Cissie.” He watched as the two women continued down the ice, Cissie still adjusting her hat.
He turned to Kitty. “It reminds me of the Irish judge at a figure skating competition who gave tens to a skater who kept falling down.”
Kitty smiled. “Go on,” she said, literally putting her tongue in her cheek. “And why would the judge do that?” Kitty adjusted her green crocheted toque and tucked the matching scarf more firmly into the neck of her russet sweater.
O’Reilly adopted a thick Northside Dublin accent. “Why? I’ll tell yuh why. Because that there skater deserved tens just for trying. It’s feckin’ slippery out dere.”
“Fingal.” Kitty shook her head but laughed anyway. “You’re a terrible man for the bad jokes. But it’s great craic, isn’t it, to be out on the marquis’s lake. Half the village must be here. And look at the Antrim Hills away over there. It’s as if someone sprinkled them with icing sugar.”
O’Reilly, no longer completely preoccupied with the likelihood of a precipitate descent of his body—and his dignity—started to pay more attention to his surroundings. Half-Mile Water, as the little lake was called, lay in a valley looking down to and across Belfast Lough to the distant Antrim Hills. The sea between reflected the metallic blue of an icy sky. The watery sun was doing its best but there was no heat in it today.
All this week of December the eleventh, snow had threatened and the temperatures had hovered round freezing during the day, dropping to well below at night. John MacNeill had telephoned early this morning to say that Half-Mile Water, a lake much beloved by waterfowl that the marquis refused to let anyone shoot, was safely frozen and that, as was the custom on the rare occasions when it did freeze, he had opened it to anyone in the village and townland who might like to skate. The news had travelled fast.
Donal, enterprising as ever, not only was providing the music but had set Julie up nearby with a brazier. Tori was asleep in her pram, wrapped up under a rug. O’Reilly looked more closely. It was a war surplus RAF pilot’s fur-lined Irvin jacket. She looked like a tiny smiling brown bear.
Julie was selling toffee apples, Cookstown sausages to be roasted on metal skewers and put into buttered bridge rolls, cups of tomato soup from thermos flasks, and, trusting that Constable Mulligan might turn a blind eye, mulled wine. Blue smoke curled up and O’Reilly found the smell of roasting sausages irresistible. “Let’s get a bite,” he said.
“In a minute,” Kitty said, sitting on the bank. “I want to take off my skates, and so should you before you fall down. I don’t think your landing would be as gentle as Cissie’s was.” She smiled and tugged at his arm.
He plunked down beside her and was faster than her getting his skates off and his brown boots laced up. While he waited, O’Reilly admired the vista.
Bullrushes, their compact summer black heads turned to fluffy grey, lined the lake’s far shore. Tall firs flanked the broad grassy banks, the piney scent mingling with the smell of turf smoke drifting lazily from the chimneys of the big house on the hill above. The branches of two nearby cherry trees were dressed in an ivory tracery of glistening hoar frost, and between two twigs the spiral-wheel web of an orb-weaver spider reflected the sun’s light and was limned in what looked like silver. He was moved by the beauty of the scene and wishing for a few snowflakes to add a finishing touch when from nowhere he saw in his mind’s eye a tiny village in a glass ball with artificial flakes swirling around. He wasn’t sad. He was pleased by the memory and pleased when Kitty said, “Come on then, greedy guts. Let’s go and see Julie and Donal.”
He knotted his skates’ laces and slung them round his neck, took her hand, and together they crunched across the rimed grass to the brazier, a rusty oil drum with holes punched in its sides and small pine branches happily crackling as they blazed inside.
“Hello, Doctor and Missus,” Julie said. “How’s about ye?”
“We’re very well, Julie. And you and Tori?” Kitty asked.
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Two sausages and two buttered rolls, please.”
“Right, sir.” Julie neatly pricked the sausages to prevent them bursting, spitted them, and gave one each to O’Reilly and Kitty. “The rolls is in a wee wicker basket on thon card table, so they are, and if you like Heinz’s ketchup there’s a bottle there too,” she said. “And would youse like some hot, er—Ribena?”
“Please,” said Kitty, and was handed a steaming glass of dark red fluid, which definitely was not blackcurrant cordial, although another steaming canister did contain some for the kiddies. She sipped and whispered, “Not a bad drop at all. A good solid burgundy with a grating of nutmeg. Trust Donal,” she said with a laugh.
“Trust Donal indeed,” O’Reilly said, and shook his head. He could feel the pressure of a silver hip flask. Purely for medicinal purposes, of course. He paid.
There were folding chairs on a nearby knoll overlooking the lake and John MacNeill, twenty-seventh Marquis of Ballybucklebo, was sitting on one. “Come and join me, O’Reillys,” he called.
“We will, John, thanks. Soon as the bangers are done,” O’Reilly called back.
The music stopped and Donal’s voice, distorted by the speakers, said, “Next up is the ‘Hesitat
ion Waltz’ introduced by the Castles’ dance team years and years ago. When that’s over we’ll have a fifteen-minute break.” And the music with its structured pauses rang out.
O’Reilly led Kitty to the welcome warmth of the brazier where several men were twirling sausages on skewers. Men might not like to cook, but they were first in line when there was anything to roast over an open fire.
“There’s room for you and the lady here, sir,” Alan Hewitt said. “I’ll move over if you will, Gerry Shanks, you great greedy glipe. Sorry, Mrs. O’Reilly, but it can take some coaxing to get your man Gerry here away from the trough.”
“Away off and chase yourself, Hewitt, you bollix,” Gerry said with a grin, and moved over.
Ah, O’Reilly thought, the gentle art of Ulster slagging.
“Thank you, Gerry, Alan,” said Kitty.
The sound of sausages crackling and spitting was almost drowned by cawing as a mixed flock of jackdaws and rooks flapped overhead, heading for their evening roosts. “How are you, Alan?” O’Reilly asked.
“And how’s your Helen?” Kitty said.
Alan Hewitt smiled. “We’re well. The lass is on her Christmas hollyers. Her and thon Jack Mills, that nice young doctor from the Royal, is away on down til Cullybackey so she can meet his folks.”
“There’s a thing,” murmured Kitty. “Meeting the parents.”
“Indeed,” said O’Reilly with a glance at her. Perhaps he’d been unkind in his thoughts about Jack Mills and that pretty nurse who had come to take Ronald’s vital signs.
Their sausages cooked, the two men moved away and soon Kitty and O’Reilly were following them to the table, where O’Reilly slathered ketchup on his roll before popping the sausage in. “Shall we join the marquis?” Kitty said, pointing the way with a slight bow.
O’Reilly got Kitty settled, unscrewed the cap of his silver flask, which served as a cup, poured, and offered the marquis a drink.
“No thanks, Fingal,” John MacNeill said, “but do go ahead yourself.”
O’Reilly sat himself down, drank, and took a huge bite of his sausage. Lovely. “Remember visiting the Kearneys last month when we had a go at the snipe, John?”
“I certainly do. That day was a highlight of the season so far for me, Fingal.”
Fingal nodded his head. “Well, Lorna Kearney had a lovely wee girl called Caroline last week. Everyone’s healthy and the christening’s going to be in January.”
“Splendid,” said the marquis, “and I did promise a present. I’ll see to it.” He fished out a notebook and a silver propelling pencil and made a note.
“You’re very generous about that sort of thing, John,” Kitty said, “and about opening your grounds for this.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “Tradition goes back for more than a hundred years,” he leant forward, “and I think I’ll be able to keep it going on, thanks to Lars.”
“I’m delighted,” O’Reilly said.
“He’s being a great help. Drives up twice a week from Portaferry. Your brother is confident that there is a lot we can salvage, but initially he and Myrna are listing the things he can’t save. The hunters and their groom will have to go, I’m afraid, but I’ve already found a position for the man. He’ll be starting there next February after the horses are sold.”
“Brilliant,” O’Reilly said. “Dead brill.” He drank his whiskey.
“And I’m getting on a bit for yelling ‘View halloo,’ and tearing over ditches and fences.” He laughed.
Someone was tugging at O’Reilly’s elbow. He turned.
Donal Donnelly stood, cap in one hand and two leashes in the other, attached to two of the strangest-looking beasts O’Reilly had ever seen. “Excuse me, my lord, I don’t want til interrupt, but could I have a wee word with the doctor?”
“Go right ahead. But, I say, Donal, what kind of pups are those? They’re like nothing I’ve ever seen. They’re, uh, handsome little fellows, aren’t they? Very unusual.” John O’Neill bent down to stroke one of the dogs’ long ears.
“Thank you, sir.” Donal seemed to expand in the marquis’s presence. He stood taller and let the pups run around on their leashes so the marquis could see them better. The dogs had grown since last O’Reilly had seen them. They stood about the height of a cocker spaniel and their coats, long-haired and recently groomed, had developed from the original grey and brown into an attractive fawn lighter over the neck and head, darker over the slim back. Stiff long legs, up-curved narrow tail. The most salient features were enormous sticking-up ears and widely spaced, slightly protruding brown eyes.
“They’re Woolamarroo quokka hounds from Australia, your lordship. Ten weeks old.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Thought I’d heard of every kind of breed there was. But that’s a new one on me. Herding dogs, are they? Bet they can gallop.”
Colin and Lenny Brown joined the group, Colin immediately putting his arms around one of the pups. “What do you think of them wee lads, Doctor?” Colin asked.
“Amazing,” said O’Reilly.
“And you’re right, your lordship, they go like the clappers,” Donal said. “Of course they’re meant for til go charging about all over the place after them quokkas. Doctor O’Reilly and me’s going up to a Belfast Chamber of Commerce do tonight to show them off, like. If any of your friends are looking for a good dog, you know where to find me, your lordship.”
“I do, Donal. This little chap seems pretty attached to me already.” The dog was sitting on the man’s polished boots and had snuggled into John MacNeill’s corduroy-clad legs.
“I’ve the ones we’ll be taking to Belfast in our cottage, Doctor. Julie’s made them wee red waistcoats for the occasion. Everything will be all set, Doctor, sir. I just wanted til be sure you’ll pick me up at Dun Bwee at half five?”
“On the button,” O’Reilly said. “I’d not miss this for the world. You be ready. I’ll be there and—”
His wildfowler’s reflexes took over, forcing him to look up. The clipped whistle of beating mallard pinions was as recognisable as the unique roar of a Merlin engine, and sure enough, six mallard, two emerald-headed drakes leading, were coming in low to land. They flared, wingbeats slowing their approach, paddles outstretched in front ready for a water touchdown. But the lake was frozen.
The leading bird made a perfect two-point landing, hotly pursued by the rest. Two beak-planted and slid forward, feathered backsides in the air. One turned a complete somersault. The other three, arriving slightly later, must have seen what was going on. One clawed for height, quacking furiously, and that must have got the quokka dogs’ attention. The other two ducks gave pretty good impressions of Cissie Sloan’s earlier descent onto her bottom and slid along, webbed feet in the air, to join the other three now all tangled in a sliding, pecking-each-other, quacking heap.
O’Reilly, knowing that no real harm was done and that only their feathers would have been ruffled both literally and figuratively, bellowed with laughter, and everyone crowded around to see what the excitement was about. So he didn’t hear Colin’s first yell, but only the lad’s second “come back here” as the boy bawled through cupped hands. “Daft dogs. Come back here.”
Donal had been right. The quokka dogs could shift—until they hit the ice. Then it was all paws heading to the four points of the compass. Both dogs made a peculiar howling, both with their big ears drooping. One hound, legs stretched out fore and aft, flew arrow-straight across the ice, the other was already starting its second complete 360-degree spin, its leash whipping around like a long leather tail.
O’Reilly wondered if Kitty knew a figure skating term for that manoeuvre.
Still, they were catching up with the ducks, and Colin, who had run onto the ice, had fallen onto his backside and was giving a pretty fair imitation of a luger’s progress, sans luge.
“Go on, Colin,” O’Reilly yelled, and realised that the entire village seemed to be enjoying the fun.
“Ten bob Colin beats the dogs to t
he ducks,” said Gerry Shanks.
“My money’s on the ducks,” said Alan Hewitt.
But before the bet could be sealed with a handshake one, two more, then two more mallard managed to take off. The dogs stopped sliding, but their endeavours to stand, legs shooting off in strange directions, were not altogether successful.
Colin, propelled by some mysterious law of physics to do with mass, energy, and friction, or lack of same, slid past both animals.
Donal was calling to the dogs, Julie had abandoned her post at the food table, Tori was crying, and a dozen or more people were milling around, on their feet, cheering on boy and dogs. The pups seemed to be mastering the art of walking on ice and Colin, having scooped up their leashes, was leading them off the slippery surface, moving his feet like an ice skater and making steady progress.
“Home,” O’Reilly said, taking Kitty’s hand and leading her away from the crowd. “I need to get changed for going up to town with Donal and his dogs tonight.” He looked down to where hounds and boy had made it to dry land, apparently none the worse for wear. “And I’ll say one thing,” he said. “Donal told me the dogs could run like the clappers. By God … he’s right.”
Kitty was still shaking with laughter. Eventually she managed to control her giggles. “Only in Ballybucklebo,” she said. “Where else could a simple afternoon’s ice skating turn into an exhibition?”
“Where indeed,” he said, grabbing her hand, and he swung their arms like a couple of schoolchildren might. “And where on God’s green earth would you rather be, Mrs. O’Reilly?”
She smiled up at him, those grey-flecked-with-amber eyes sparkling. “As long as I’m with you, Fingal, not one other place. Not one.”
48
Adverse Power Opposed in Dubious Battle
“Jasus t’undering Murphy.” CPO Paddy O’Rourke was standing in the medical distribution station rolling bandages as the shrill whistle of a bo’sun’s pipe came over the Tannoy. “I don’t like the sounds of dat. Not one feckin’ bit. It means that there’s to be no rest for the wicked,” he grinned, “and not even us good lads. I wonder what we’re in for this time?” His grin widened. “It’ll not be a free trip to Galway Races, dat’s for certain sure.”
An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea Page 45