Fingal O'Reilly, Irish Doctor (21 page)

“Shut up,” he muttered.

“Fingal.” Kitty took a pace back.

He shook his head. “No, Kitty, not you. I understand how you’re feeling. I do. It’s the loudspeaker. I just don’t want to hear any more. Not today.” He hadn’t a clue what to do to comfort her. It pained him to see the woman with whom he’d fallen in love concerned so fiercely with a matter over which neither of them had the slightest control.

“They’re going to need nurses—”

“What?” Fingal’s eyes widened. “Kitty, you don’t mean—”

“No,” she said. “No, I’m not going to volunteer. Don’t worry, but…” She sighed. “All those children. God have mercy.”

A cloud must have crossed the sun because a shadow fell over Merrion Square, and when Fingal, seeking refuge from the blaring loudspeakers, the mindless cheering of the mob—and from Kitty’s sadness that he couldn’t take away—pushed the bell of Bob’s flat, it wasn’t with his customary cheerful jab.

19

Like a Dog He Hunts in Dreams

“I liked Jenny’s
craic
about us going to the dogs today, Fingal,” Kitty said, and chuckled. “That girl’s sense of humour can be very dry.” She settled farther back into the passenger seat. “Donal Donnelly and young Colin Brown and an ‘unofficial’ greyhound? Quite the combination.”

“She’s a good head, Jenny. And Donal? You’d never know the minute with that one. Unpredictable as a feather in a hurricane.”

O’Reilly’d had to slow down to get through the town of Kircubbin, which was often busy on a Saturday. But he was intent on making up time on the last few miles to the disused military airfield at Kirkistown where the unofficial greyhound racing was to be held. “I’m dying to see what Donal’s up to this time with that dog with no name.”

“No name? I thought the dog’s name was Bluebird. We saw her the day we went to visit the new baby, didn’t we?”

“We did and it was, but not today. You see, Donal is—”

“Don’t—” said Kitty, raising her hand. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” She rolled her eyes at O’Reilly and chuckled. “I have a feeling the less I know the less I will have to conceal, and I’ve never been a good liar. You’d think I should be as used to Donal Donnelly’s antics by now as you. Remember when he was a patient on my ward in April? Three days after surgery and he was running card schools and trying to make book on the time the tea trolley would arrive. He bribed the tea lady, you know, to come at two thirty-seven on the button, not her usual three o’clock.”

“So that’s how he was sure he was going to win. I’ll be damned.” O’Reilly chuckled, changed down, and took a sharp right-handed bend. The tyres screeched. He raced the car up the face of a small hill, one of the many drumlins that studded County Down, crested the rise, and for a brief moment became airborne before touching down with a shuddering of the suspension.

He felt her hand on his arm. “Fingal. Slow down. I nearly lost my lunch.”

“Sorry, love.” He eased his foot on the accelerator and let ten miles an hour bleed away.

“Thank you.”

They settled into a companionable silence. He glanced up. Overhead, a low cloud, darker than the grey cumulus behind it, had rolled in from the west. A ragged vee of geese, too large to be Brent so probably very early winter migrant Greylags down from their breeding grounds in Spitzbergen, were flying from his left to right. He knew they would be crossing nearby Strangford Lough and heading for one of her many grassy islands strewn carelessly like green confetti on a ruffled blue gown. A series of harsh
ho-onks
drifted in on the light westerly coming through his open window. “Greylag,” he said, their cries confirming his suspicions.

“That’s nice,” she said, “but please concentrate on driving.”

O’Reilly smiled. Kitty was a decent driver herself. He’d noted this on the few occasions when he’d been driven by her in her tiny Mini. But she was a little too cautious for his tastes.

He looked ahead. The narrow road was empty, not a vehicle in sight. Beneath the stubby blackthorn hedges, fuchsia bushes, and dry stone walls, the grass of the verges looked tired after a long summer. They were studded with yellow tansy and purple common mallow. The lowing of a herd of Friesans in a pasture was punctuated by two sharp bangs. He glanced right and saw the skein of geese flare and with frantic wingbeats claw for altitude. Not a bird fell so the wildfowler had missed with both barrels. O’Reilly smiled. He enjoyed wildfowling but was always happy for the ones that got away. “The season’s been open since last Wednesday, September the first. I’ll maybe get a day out with Arthur soon.” The big dog had been left at home today. Jenny loved walking him and the beast had taken an immediate liking to her. No need to risk him getting embroiled in a fight with one of the highly strung racing dogs when he was in good hands at home.

“How about the Saturday after next when Jenny’s on call again? It’s time I looked for some outlets up here for my paintings. There’s a group that was founded eight years ago by a Gladys MacCabe, the Ulster Society of Women Artists. They’re having an exhibition. I’d like to go, perhaps join so I can get a venue to exhibit here in the north. I’d still sell my work through Dublin, but USWA could be a good
entré.
”

O’Reilly slowed, made the left turn onto the Rubane Road, accelerated, and said, “Fair play to you. Bloody marvellous idea. Now hang on, it’s only about another mile.” He climbed a gradual slope. The Ards peninsula, from the Irish
ard
meaning high ground, was about three miles across and stretched from the Irish Sea to Strangford Lough. The airfield was at the top of the plateau and had been an RAF satellite of the main aerodrome at Ballyhalbert on the east coast. After the Battle of Britain it had housed 504 Squadron’s Hurricane fighters before becoming a Naval Fleet Air Arm Station called HMS
Corncrake II
.

“Here we are,” he said, turning left onto an access road. Up ahead he could see many vehicles parked in a field. “We’ll nip in there,” he said, and tried to, but the way was closed by a five-bar gate manned by a large man wearing a duncher, brown grocer’s coat, and a leather satchel slung over one shoulder. O’Reilly spoke through the open window. “Yes?”

The man tugged at his duncher and said, “Two adults, two quid and ten bob for the parking, sir, so it is.”

“King’s bloody ransom,” O’Reilly said, fishing out three notes. “Here.”

The man stuffed the money into his satchel, opened the gate and, as O’Reilly passed, pointed to the end of a row of cars. “Put you her fornenst thon blue Ford Consul. Reverse in. It’ll be easier for til get out after, like.”

The car bounced over the ruts.

“That’s one of the new E-Type Jaguars,” Kitty said, pointing to a low-slung, long-nosed, British-racing-green painted sports car. Large glass-covered headlights were recessed into each wing, and the driver and passenger accommodation was well to the rear under a curved hard top.

“Is it? Racy-looking yoke,” O’Reilly said, “very sporty, and by all that’s holy, the fellah getting out of it is my brother, Lars.” O’Reilly stopped, stuck two fingers in his mouth, and let go a whistle that would have done the locomotive of the Belfast to Dublin Enterprise train proud.

Lars turned, saw the Rover, and waved.

“Be with you in a minute,” O’Reilly yelled, moved on, and parked. “Come on,” he said, opening Kitty’s door.

The turf underfoot was springy, and he took her hand and led her to where Lars Porsena O’Reilly stood beside his motorcar.

“Kitty. Finn. Great to see you. You’re both looking well.”

“Thank you.” Kitty inclined her head.

O’Reilly admired her raven hair with its silver tips tucked in under a silk headscarf. “You look fit and well yourself, brother,” O’Reilly said. “New chariot?”

Lars grinned. “My little extravagance. I bought her secondhand from a client.” He stroked the bonnet gently and said, “She’s a late ’64 Series I, four point two litre, six cylinder, XK6 engine—”

“Lars.” Fingal held his hands in supplication. “Have mercy. I know you’re daft about cars. I still remember your side-valve Morris Cowley back in ’35. But I’m not sure Kitty needs all the specifications.”

“Oh,” said Kitty in her most innocent voice, “I have to say I prefer the two-door coupés to the convertibles, Lars. Good choice.” She whistled. “Those four-point-two litre engines are quite a step up from the original 1961 production models.”

O’Reilly’s jaw dropped once, then a notch farther when she said, “Enzio Ferrari called the E-Type ‘the most beautiful car ever made,’ you know, Fingal.” She turned to Lars. “You will take me for a spin in her, won’t you, Lars?”

“My pleasure,” Lars said. “A beautiful car for a beautiful woman.”

O’Reilly shook his head, harrumphed, and fixed his brother with his best Balor glare. Dear God, the woman never ceased to amaze him. He fished out his briar, lit up, and took Kitty’s hand. “Come on,” he said, “to the dogs.”

*   *   *

“How’s about ye, Doctor O’Reilly?” Lenny Brown asked. “Say hello nicely to Doctor and Mrs. O’Reilly, Colin.”

Colin was dressed for the important occasion in uniform blazer with the crest of MacNeill Memorial Primary on the breast pocket, and short grey pants above woollen stockings, one of which was crumpled round his ankle. He snatched off his school cap, grinned, and said, “Nice til see youse, sir, and Mrs. O’Reilly.”

He and his father stood beside a nondescript-looking builder’s van. O’Reilly noticed that there were no windows in the rear compartment.

“Hello, Colin,” Kitty said. “Your foot’s all better, is it?”

“Dead on,” said Colin. “Healed up in no time flat.” He pulled a face. “I’ve for til go back til school on Monday with all the other kids,” then he smiled, “but I’ll be in Miss Nolan’s class again. She’s a wee cracker, so she is.” Ten going on eighteen, O’Reilly thought, but knew Sue Nolan would have no difficulty managing the little scamp. He wondered for a moment if Barry would be popping up to Ballybucklebo to see her. Might be a chance for that trip to the Duck the young man had suggested over dinner in Ballymena last month, see if he was still liking specialising. O’Reilly realised he’d let his mind wander and was forgetting his manners. “And this is my brother, Mister Lars O’Reilly from Portaferry,” he said.

“Pleased til meet you, sir,” Lenny said. “Grand day for the races, so it is.”

“It is that,” Lars said.

O’Reilly looked round. From this elevation he could see the coast, the dark waters of the Irish Sea, and in the distance the shores of Scotland’s Mull of Galloway. Not a cloud in the sky. Not to the east. He turned west. The dark cloud he’d noticed on the drive up was still hanging over Strangford, and if anything, seemed bigger. It would probably blow over, although there was still the small matter of Archie’s weather-forecasting arthritic thumb. “The first race will be starting in about fifteen minutes,” he said. “We want to get a good place at the finish, so if you’ll excuse us?”

“Trot youse on, sir,” Lenny said, and moved closer to O’Reilly. He lowered his voice. “Donal’s in the van, so he is with, ahem, Buttercup.”

“Buttercup? Nice name,” O’Reilly said, knowing very well it was Bluebird in the van. He was aching to see the dog but knew he must be patient.

“What race will Buttercup be in?” Kitty asked.

“The second,” Colin said. “My daddy’ll take her til the start over thonder.” He pointed across the flat ground to a narrow area of concrete. It must have been the perimeter track for taxiing to and from the dispersal hardstands during the war. He could imagine the airfield shuddering to the roar of the Hurricanes’ Merlin engines, a sound O’Reilly knew from experience that once heard was never forgotten. The track ran in an oval shape round the outer border. A set of starting stalls were set up across the far limb.

“A fellah’ll drive a car to pull the fake hare round the track til the finish.” He pointed to a spot directly across from the start. A line drawn between start and finish would have made the racecourse look like a large concreted U. O’Reilly guessed it was about five hundred yards, twenty-five less than the distance at an official track. “And,” O’Reilly could see the little lad’s chest swell, “that’s when I’ll get ahold of Buttercup, she’s well used til me, and I’ll put on her leash and take her til the stewards, so I will. They always take a good gander at the winning dogs, so they do.” He winked. For the second time, O’Reilly could have sworn it was a younger Donal winking. “They need til make sure there’s been no hanky-panky, like.”

“Indeed,” said O’Reilly, struggling to hide his grin.

“How can you be sure she will win?” Lars, who was not in on the plot, asked with a frown.

Colin said, “No harm til you, sir, but a policeman wouldn’t ask you that.”

O’Reilly laughed. “In other words, ‘Mind your own business’—sir.”

“Oh,” said Lars. “I see. It would appear our young friend is well versed in the power of positive thinking.”

“I need to see to Buttercup for a wee minute,” Colin said. “Mebbe I’ll see youse all before the finish of the second. I have to come here for til be ready til collect her.” He fixed Lars with what O’Reilly could only describe as a pitying smile and said, “That’ll be after she’s come first, you know.”

20

So White! O So Soft.

“It’s nearly twelve, Doctor O’Reilly.” Phelim Corrigan stuck his head round the surgery door. His parting was running fore and aft today, but some of the strands of his toupee, which Fingal had long ago assumed was horsehair, were sticking up like the prickles of a hedgehog.

“Nearly finished, Doctor Corrigan,” Fingal said. It was Saturday, September 12, and he and Charlie had been in post for nearly nine weeks. Enormously enjoyable weeks professionally, and this was Fingal’s weekend on call. “These are my last patients. I’m just starting with them.” He smiled at a woman of twenty who stood at the examining couch where a nine-month-old baby wearing nothing but a clean vest and a nappy lay. She’d brought him in wrapped in her shawl. “Be with you and Jack in a sec, Dympna,” then he turned back to Phelim. “Shouldn’t be more than ten minutes.”