An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  Barry thought of his resolve not to enquire about a patient’s health on his day off. O’Reilly, it seemed, did not subscribe to that opinion.

  “Couldn’t be better.” Fergus winked at Barry. “You done good for me, sir, and you’ll be busy on Monday. Three of the stable lads want to come in for to see you, so they do.”

  Barry was pleased.

  “Never mind that,” said O’Reilly. “What’s the word for the third?”

  Fergus Finnegan glanced around, dropped his voice, and said, “The favourite’s a wee mare, Nancy’s Fancy, but I’m riding a ringer. Come ’ere ’til you see him.” He started to walk away, O’Reilly in hot pursuit and Barry bringing up the rear.

  A groom stood holding a horse’s bridle. Barry stopped dead. It was the biggest horse he’d ever seen. He stared up at the animal. The gentleness he’d come to expect in horses’ eyes was sadly lacking, and instead fires burned in their brown depths, the same fires that flared in O’Reilly’s when his nose tip turned white. The horse shook his head and snorted. Barry, fully expecting to see flames shoot from the flared nostrils, took a quick pace back.

  “This here’s Battlecruiser. His owner reckons he’ll do better than that famous Yankee horse Man o’ War. What do you think of him, Doc?” Barry could hear the pride in Fergus’s voice.

  “Jesus,” said O’Reilly, moving to the animal and lifting its upper lip to inspect his teeth. “Was his sire an elephant?”

  Fergus laughed. “You’d think so by the size of him. He’s eighteen hands. The one elephant that could fly was Dumbo, so it was. I reckon Cruiser’s dam must’ve seen the movie.” He bent closer to O’Reilly. Barry had to strain to hear the jockey whisper, “Show Battlecruiser a fence or a hedge, and he’s over it like a liltie. It’s like riding a lift. I had him out yesterday. Jesus, when we went up together I thought the pair of us was going to need oxygen.” He held a finger alongside his nose. “He’s never been out before so nobody’s got a notion of his form, and the last time I looked the bookies have him at ten to one.”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “A wink is as good as a nod to a blind horse. Thanks, Fergus.”

  “Never worry your heads, Doctors. Now,” he said, “I’ll need to be going off to get dressed.”

  “Come on, Barry,” said O’Reilly. “I think it’s time for a wee word with Honest Sammy Dolan.”

  Barry had to hurry to keep up with a mission-bent O’Reilly as they made their way back to the bookies.

  Honest Sammy Dolan was a short man, but made up for his lack of height by being very tall around. His cheeks were the colour of ripe plums; his eyes piggy and, Barry thought, mercenary. His voice, already overused from calling the odds, was hoarse.

  Barry and O’Reilly waited in the queue. Barry read the odds blackboard. Sure enough, Battlecruiser was listed at ten to one. Barry scanned the names of the other horses. His eyes widened. At five to one was an animal called Patricia’s Pleasure. He knew he would be stupid not to heed Fergus Finnegan’s tip but still, despite his university education, once in a while Barry Laverty could be as superstitious as Kinky Kincaid.

  O’Reilly stood in front of the desk. “Fifty pounds to win on Battlecruiser.” After the proffered notes were grabbed and stuffed in a satchel, a ticket was issued.

  “Good luck, sir. Next,” Dolan said, with all the sincerity of a penny-in-the-slot scale that spoke the customer’s weight.

  O’Reilly stepped aside. “I’ll see you at the start, Barry.” He headed off.

  “Sir?” Dolan asked.

  Barry hesitated, handed over five pounds, and said, “Patricia’s Pleasure to win.”

  By the time Barry forced his way through to the fence, O’Reilly was already there. The horses running in the third jostled behind the rope. Barry could see Battlecruiser and Fergus Finnegan. Not wishing to let O’Reilly know he’d disregarded the tip, Barry turned to a man standing beside him. “Excuse me. Which is Patricia’s Pleasure?”

  “That one there.” The man pointed to a small roan. The jockey wore silks of vertical green and white stripes.

  “Thanks,” Barry said.

  He heard the bell.

  “They’re off,” O’Reilly roared. “Jesus Murphy, would you look at Battlecruiser?”

  Barry did. The great horse was already two lengths ahead, his jockey moving him over to hug the inside rail. The animal pounded along the course, speeding past the white fence. Barry thought, if he takes fences the way Fergus said he would, he’ll be unbeatable.

  Battlecruiser neighed furiously and soared effortlessly over the hedge, clearing the top by what Barry reckoned was a good six feet. There was only one difficulty. Fergus had said all you had to do was show the horse an obstacle. Battlecruiser must have spotted the perimeter hedge the minute he left the white railing behind, accepted the challenge, and run halfway across the ploughed field in the middle of the course, determined it seemed to travel all the way to County Antrim.

  “Holy thundering mother of Jesus,” O’Reilly roared, ripping up his betting slip. “Fifty quid down the pipe. It would make the bloody angels weep.”

  Barry felt it wiser not to laugh.

  “Right,” said O’Reilly, turning. “Not much point staying to the end. I’m off back to the car for another Bass. Coming?”

  Barry shook his head. “I’d like to see the finish anyway.”

  “Suit yourself.” O’Reilly turned and started shoving. If, Barry thought, O’Reilly had come in like an icebreaker through the crowd, pushing people aside, he was leaving like a main battle tank, quite willing and able to crush anyone who dared to get underfoot.

  Barry turned back to the track. The first horse over the final jump was ridden by a jockey wearing vertical green and white stripes. It was leading by a good four lengths, and it kept that lead as it passed the finishing post.

  Barry made his way to the bookies and collected thirty pounds, his original stake plus his winnings from Honest Sammy, whose smile, he noticed, had slipped somewhat. Then he climbed slowly up the hill. He saw O’Reilly, open bottle of Bass clutched in one hand, in conversation with Captain O’Brien-Kelly. Barry stood and listened.

  “. . . it’s all a bit awkwawd,” the captain was saying. “I seem to have wather misjudged the form on a couple of waces.”

  “There’s a thing,” said O’Reilly. “It happens to the best of us. I’m down a bob or two myself.”

  “Weally? Pity. I was hoping you might be able to help me out.”

  “Oh?”

  “Um . . . yes. You see, I can’t find His Lowdship and I’m a bit stwetched.”

  “Oh?” Barry could see a flicker of a smile on O’Reilly’s lips.

  “I gave that chap . . .”—he turned and pointed down to Honest Sammy’s stand—“a couple of IOUs. And I’m not pwecisely in a position to cover them. I . . . uh, don’t suppose . . . as a bwother officer, Surgeon Commander . . . ?”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, “do you know a fellah called Polonius?”

  “Fwaid not. Betting chap, is he?”

  “No,” said O’Reilly, “more an advisor. He once said . . .”

  Barry mouthed the words as O’Reilly intoned, “Neither a borrower nor a lender be.”

  “So you can’t help me out?”

  “I’d like to,” said O’Reilly smoothly, “but my horse should be somewhere near the Holywood Arches by now, not in the winner’s circle, so at the moment I’m skint.”

  “Pity.” The captain’s shoulders sagged. “Damn thing is, I’d be all wight if I hadn’t spent one hundred pounds with that chap you wecommended.”

  “Mr. Donnelly.”

  “You were wight, O’Reilly, he is a bit dim.” The captain’s sneer offended Barry. He rummaged in his pocket and produced a silver coin. “Do you know what that is?” He shoved it under O’Reilly’s nose.

  O’Reilly must have noticed Barry’s arrival. He glanced over and winked, then peered at the coin. “Begod, you’d swear it was the spit image of Arkle himself.”


  “It is, and I was able to get him to sell them to me for a pound apiece. He wanted two pounds, but the man hasn’t a clue how to haggle. I took his entiwe stock.”

  “Och, sure,” said O’Reilly, “and aren’t you the astute one, Captain? But I doubt if you’ll sell any here. Just about everybody’ll have one or two in their pockets . . . just for luck.”

  “Oh.”

  “No market here,” said O’Reilly, “but I’m sure you’ll clean up with your regiment back in England.”

  The captain beamed. “I will, won’t I?” His smile faded. “Twouble is I could use a bit of the weady. Wight now, in fact.” He glanced nervously down the hill. Barry followed the direction of the man’s gaze and saw a heavy-set man, shirt sleeves rolled up, the tattoos on his forearms clearly visible even from the hillside, leave Honest Sammy’s stand and stride purposefully in their direction.

  “Weally must be wunning,” the captain said, departing rapidly.

  O’Reilly laughed so much he had to bend over. “Wun, wabbit, wun,” he gasped. “Oh, dear.” When he stopped chuckling, he said to Barry. “So who won?”

  Barry hesitated. O’Reilly could get a bit shirty when his advice was ignored, and he would have thought he was doing Barry a favour letting him in on Fergus Finnegan’s tip. Damn it, he told himself, O’Reilly’s my senior in the practice, not my father. “I did, Fingal. At least my horse did.”

  “What?” O’Reilly’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  Barry waited for the inevitable storm, but O’Reilly threw an arm round Barry’s shoulder. “Good for you, Laverty. You keep it up, standing on your own two feet. Here”—he rummaged in the picnic hamper—“have a Bass.”

  Barry took the bottle. “Thanks, Fingal. Sorry about your horse.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, finishing his own bottle in one enormous swallow. “I’m still three hundred fifty pounds ahead with Honest Sammy, and you know what they say, ‘Unlucky at cards . . . and the horses . . . lucky in love.’ Maybe I’ll meet a rich widow woman who’s too proud to let her husband work.”

  Barry started to laugh but it struck him that as he’d been lucky with the horses, the logical conclusion to that was not something he wanted to consider.

  “Aye,” said O’Reilly, looking Barry straight in the eye, “there’s the rub, isn’t it?” He opened another beer. “Do you feel like running the shop on your own tonight?”

  “Well, I—”

  “Good, because I don’t feel like it. I’d like to take a wander over to the Duck and have another word with Willy Dunleavy.”

  “If you think so, Fingal.”

  “Good. If you do that, I’ll take care of things tomorrow and maybe . . .” He looked from under his brows at Barry. “Maybe you could see if that Miss Spence of yours is free.”

  Where the Mountains of Mourne Sweep

  Down to the Sea

  Brunhilde’s near side tires scraped against the kerb of the Esplanade as Barry parked opposite Number 9. When he’d phoned Patricia the night before, she’d seemed pleased to hear from him. She sounded tired, but agreed that a day away from her studies would be a good idea. She said she’d make a picnic, and perhaps today, Sunday, they could take a trip to the country.

  He left the car and looked across the lough. Sunlight ricocheted from the rippled surface. The distant Antrim Hills, purple and shimmering in the heat, were as indistinct as an out-of-focus photograph. A solitary trawler shouldered its way east through the waters of the lough, away from Belfast and the gaunt gantries of the shipyards. Barry supposed it was heading for its home harbour of Ardglass some thirty miles further down the coast. Ardglass, famous for its herring.

  He crossed the street and rang the doorbell to flat 4. His right hand slipped unbidden to his crown to smooth the tuft of fair hair he knew would be sticking up.

  “Good morning, I . . . ,” he blurted, but his breath caught in his throat. Patricia stood in the doorway, her hair up in a ponytail. A dimple appeared in her left cheek when she smiled at him. Her blouse was unbuttoned at her throat. He found it difficult not to keep staring at the hint of cleavage between the bottle-green lapels. Her black stirrup pants fitted closely, and their straps went under tiny, black low-heeled shoes. She carried a picnic basket in one hand.

  She kissed him lightly. “Good morning, yourself.”

  He tingled to her kiss.

  “Now,” she said, “before we go any further, I want to apologize for how I carried on last Wednesday night. Sometimes I get a bit carried away.”

  Barry smiled. “No apology needed.”

  “It’s the work. I get so—”

  “There’ll be no more talk of work today. I’m off. You’re off. So let’s enjoy it.”

  She kissed him again.

  “Come on.” He took her hand and led her across the street, slowing his stride to accommodate her limp. “Give me the basket,” he said. Then he took it, walked around to the driver’s side, and put the picnic on the backseat. By the time he’d climbed in, she was sitting in the passenger’s seat. Barry smiled. Patricia Spence wasn’t a young woman to wait for any man to hold a door open for her.

  He was so eager to drive off that he missed first gear. The old Volkswagen didn’t have synchromesh in first. Brunhilde lurched on her springs.

  “Did you fill the car with kangaroo petrol this morning?” Patricia asked, as the car shuddered to a stop and stalled.

  “Sorry about that,” he said, restarting the engine and pulling away from the kerb.

  “Where are we going, Barry?”

  “I thought we’d take a run-race down to Strangford.”

  “Lovely.” She settled back in her seat. “You drive. I’m going to enjoy the ride. It’ll be my last break before the big day.”

  “The exam?”

  “Tuesday . . . then I’ll have to wait for the results.”

  “It’s tough,” he said. He remembered having to hang around after his own finals were over until the dean appeared in the cloisters in the evening and read the list. “Atcheson, pass; Anderson, pass; Blenkinsop, fail”—poor Billy Blenkinsop had fainted—and on down the list until “Laverty, pass.” “If you find it’s getting to you, give me a call. I may not be able to see you, but at least we could have a bit of a blether.”

  “I may well take you up on that. It’s like what I heard somebody say about the army. All hurry up . . . and wait.”

  And, Barry thought, you’ll not be the only one waiting. He would be hearing soon from Harry Sloan about the histology report. Barry wished Harry would get a move on, because he wanted to put the uncertainty behind him. The way things had been going in the last week—how O’Reilly had quietly kept in the background, encouraging Barry, and the way the patients seemed more accepting of their new young doctor—all were helping him feel more at home in the practice. He still wanted to know what had killed Major Fotheringham, but perhaps whatever the young pathologist would have to say might not be as important in the long run as it had first seemed. Once the question was answered, he’d have only one more conundrum to sort out: Patricia and what to do if she was successful.

  He glanced at her. She was staring out the window, frowning a little, perhaps preoccupied. Patricia wasn’t one of those girls who felt it necessary to fill every moment with inane chatter. It was one of the things he liked about her. He swung the car onto the road that ran through Ballybucklebo, then onto the Six Road Ends. It would take them to Greyabbey and Kirkubbin. His destination lay halfway between Kirkubbin and Portaferry at the mouth of Strangford Lough.

  Gransha Point was a narrow, lonely peninsula, bent like a dog’s hind leg, stretching for three quarters of a mile into the shallow waters. It would take about half an hour to get there.

  As he concentrated on his driving, he became aware of a low musical sound and glanced over. Patricia’s lips were moving, and as he strained to hear he could make out the words of a song,

  “Where Lagan stream sings lullaby,
/>   There blows a lily fair.

  The twilight gleam is in her eye,

  The night is on her hair . . .”

  He recognized the words of “My Lagan Love,” one of the most beautiful of all the Irish love songs. He’d had no idea how rich a voice Patricia had. He felt the hairs on the nape of his neck tingle as she sang on, and he listened enraptured until the last line.

  “And sings in sad, sweet undertone

  The song of heart’s desire.”

  “That was lovely,” he said. I didn’t know you could sing like that.”

  She smiled. “You know I like music.”

  “God,” he said, “with a voice like that you should be on the stage.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “Nonsense. I just sing for the fun of it.”

  “You can sing for me any time you like.” “The song of heart’s desire,” he thought. My heart’s desire.

  He saw that the turn to Gransha was coming up ahead, turned right onto it from the Portaferry Road, and drove slowly along a rutted lane. The old springs complained, and the gorse bushes bordering the lane made soft scratching noises on the car’s sides.

  He came to a broad, flat expanse of scutch grass in front of a lichen-encrusted, drystone wall. He stopped the car close to a stile where a rock step abutted a vertical slab of flat slate. He knew there was a similar step on the other side.

  “Here we are,” he said. “Hop out.” He climbed out.

  “Gosh,” she said, “it’s warm.”

  He was starting to sweat. “Hang on,” he said. “I’ll leave my jacket in the car.” He dumped it in the backseat, collected the picnic basket and an old blanket, and joined Patricia in front of the vehicle. “We’ll have to walk from here.”

  “Grand.” She took his hand. “Let’s go.”

  As he led her to the stile, he felt the sun hot on his back. Bees murmured in the gorse flowers. He heard the call of a wood pigeon—a burbling oboe’s note, soft and low—coming from a copse on a low hill that tumbled to the shore on the far side of the bay between the point and the mainland. The grass was springy under his feet, and his step felt light as his heart.