The Collar (9 page)

‘Wisha, Dr Healy,' she said complainingly, ‘oughtn't you to be ashamed, and the state we're in!'

‘How's that, Nellie?' he asked anxiously. ‘Isn't it the usual thing?'

‘The usual thing?' she shrieked. She had a trick of snatching up and repeating someone's final words in a brilliant tone, a full octave higher, like a fiddle repeating a phrase from the double bass. Then with dramatic abruptness she let her voice drop to a whisper and dabbed her eyes with her apron. ‘He's dying, doctor,' she said.

‘For God's sake!' whispered the doctor. Life had rubbed down his principles considerably, and the fact that Bill was suspected of a share in at least one murder didn't prejudice him in the least. ‘What happened him? I saw him in town on Monday and he never looked better.'

‘Never looked better?' echoed the fiddle, while Nellie's beautiful black eyes filled with a tragic emotion that was not far removed from joy. ‘And then didn't he go out on the Tuesday morning on me, in the pouring rain, with three men and two dogs, and not come back till the Friday night, with the result' (this was a boss phrase of Nellie's, always followed by a dramatic pause and a change of key) ‘that he caught a chill up through him and never left the bed since.'

‘What are you saying to Bobby Healy?' screeched a man's voice from upstairs. It was nearly as high-pitched as Nellie's, but with a wild, nervous tremolo in it.

‘What am I saying to Bobby Healy?' she echoed mechanically. ‘I'm saying nothing at all to him.'

‘Well, don't be keeping him down there, after I waiting all day for him.'

‘There's nothing wrong with his lungs anyway,' the doctor said professionally as he went up the stairs. They were bare and damp. It was a lifelong grievance of Bill Enright's that the Rowes had been mean enough to take the furniture to England with them.

He was sitting up in an iron bed, and the grey afternoon light and the white pillows threw up the brilliance of his colouring, already heightened with a touch of fever.

‘What was she telling you?' he asked in his high-pitched voice – the sort of keen and unsentimental voice you'd attribute in fantasy to some cunning and swift-footed beast of prey, like a fox.

‘What was I telling him?' Nellie echoed boldly, feeling the doctor's authority behind her. ‘I was telling him you went out with three men and two dogs and never came back to me till Friday night.'

‘Ah, Bill,' said the doctor reproachfully, ‘how often did I tell you to stick to women and cats? What ails you?'

‘I'm bloody bad, doctor,' whinnied Bill.

‘You look it,' said Bobby candidly. ‘That's all right, Nellie,' he added by way of dismissal.

‘And make a lot of noise downstairs,' said Bill after her.

Bobby gave his patient a thorough examination. So far as he could see there was nothing wrong with him but a chill, though he realised from the way Bill's mad blue eyes followed him that the man was in a panic. He wondered whether, as he sometimes did, he shouldn't put him in a worse one. It was unprofessional, but it was the only treatment that ever worked, and with most of his men patients he was compelled to choose a moment, before it was too late and hadn't yet passed from fiction to fact, when the threat of heart disease or cirrhosis might reduce their drinking to some reasonable proportion. Then the inspiration came to him like heaven opening to poor sinners, and he sat for several moments in silence, working it out. Threats would be lost on Bill Enright. What Bill needed was a miracle, and miracles aren't things to be lightly undertaken. Properly performed, a miracle might do as much good to the doctor as to Bill.

‘Well, Bobby?' asked Bill, on edge with nerves.

‘How long is it since you were at Confession, Bill?' the doctor asked gravely.

Bill's rosy face turned the colour of wax, and the doctor, a kindly man, felt almost ashamed of himself.

‘Is that the way it is, doctor?' Bill asked in a shrill, expressionless voice.

‘I put it too strongly, Bill,' said the doctor, already relenting. ‘Maybe I should have a second opinion.'

‘Your opinion is good enough for me, Bobby,' said Bill wildly, pouring coals of fire on Bobby as he sat up in bed and pulled the clothes about him. ‘Take a fag and light one for me. What the hell difference does it make? I lived my life and bred the best greyhound bitches in Europe.'

‘And I hope you'll live to breed a good many more,' said the doctor. ‘Will I go for the Canon?'

‘The Half-Gent?' snorted Bill indignantly. ‘You will not.'

‘He has an unfortunate manner,' sighed the doctor. ‘But I could bring you someone else.'

‘Ah, what the hell do I want with any of them?' asked Bill. ‘Aren't they all the same? Money! Money! That's all that's a trouble to them.'

‘Ah, I wouldn't say that, Bill,' the doctor said thoughtfully as he paced the room, his wrinkled old face as grey as his homespun suit. ‘I hope you won't think me intruding,' he added anxiously. ‘I'm talking as a friend.'

‘I know you mean it well, Bobby.'

‘But you see, Bill,' the doctor went on, screwing up his left cheek as though it hurt him, ‘the feeling I have is that you need a different sort of priest altogether. Of course, I'm not saying a word against the Canon, but, after all, he's only a secular. You never had a chat with a Jesuit, I suppose?'

The doctor asked it with an innocent air, as if he didn't know that the one thing a secular priest dreads after Old Nick himself is a Jesuit, and that a Jesuit was particularly hateful to the Canon, who considered that as much intellect and authority as could ever be needed by his flock was centred in himself.

‘Never,' said Bill.

‘They're a very cultured order,' said the doctor.

‘What the hell do I want with a Jesuit?' Bill cried in protest. ‘A drop of drink and a bit of skirt – what harm is there in that?'

‘Oh, none in the world, man,' agreed Bobby cunningly. ‘'Tisn't as if you were ever a bad-living man.'

‘I wasn't,' said Bill with unexpected self-pity. ‘I was a good friend to anyone I liked.'

‘And you know the Canon would take it as a personal compliment if anything happened you – I'm speaking as a friend.'

‘You are, Bobby,' said Bill, his voice hardening under the injustice of it. ‘You're speaking as a Christian. Anything to thwart a fellow like that! I could leave the Jesuits a few pounds for Masses, Bobby,' he added with growing enthusiasm. ‘That's what would really break Lanigan's heart. Money is all he cares about.'

‘Ah, I wouldn't say that, Bill,' Bobby said with a trace of alarm. His was a delicate undertaking, and Bill was altogether too apt a pupil for his taste.

‘No,' said Bill with conviction, ‘but that's what you mean. All right, Bobby. You're right as usual. Bring whoever you like and I'll let him talk. Talk never broke anyone's bones, Bobby.'

The doctor went downstairs and found Nellie waiting for him with an anxious air.

‘I'm running over to Aharna for a priest, Nellie,' he whispered. ‘You might get things ready while I'm away.'

‘And is that the way it is?' she asked, growing pale.

‘Ah, we'll hope for the best,' he said, again feeling ashamed.

In a very thoughtful frame of mind he drove off to Aharna, where an ancient Bishop called McGinty, whose name was remembered in clerical circles only with sorrow, had permitted the Jesuits to establish a house. There he had a friend called Father Finnegan, a stocky, middle-aged man with a tight mouth and little clumps of white hair in his ears. It is not to be supposed that Bobby told him all that was in his mind, or that Father Finnegan thought he did, but there is very little a Jesuit doesn't know, and Father Finnegan knew that this was an occasion.

As they drove up the avenue, Nellie rushed out to meet them.

‘What is it, Nellie?' the doctor asked anxiously. He couldn't help dreading that at the last moment Bill would play a trick on him and die of shock.

‘He's gone mad, doctor,' she replied reproachfully, as though she hadn't thought a professional man would do a thing like that to her.

‘When did he go mad?' Bobby asked doubtfully.

‘When he seen me putting up the altar. Now he's after barricading the door and says he'll shoot the first one that tries to get in.'

‘That's quite all right, my dear young lady,' said Father Finnegan soothingly. ‘Sick people often go on like that.'

‘Has he a gun, Nellie?' Bobby asked cautiously.

‘Did you ever know him without one?' retorted Nellie.

The doctor, who was of a rather timid disposition, admired his friend's coolness as they mounted the stair. While Bobby knocked, Father Finnegan stood beside the door, his hands behind his back and his head bowed in meditation.

‘Who's there?' Bill cried shrilly.

‘'Tis only me, Bill,' the doctor replied soothingly. ‘Can I come in?'

‘I'm too sick,' shouted Bill. ‘I'm not seeing anyone.'

‘One moment, doctor,' Father Finnegan said calmly, putting his shoulder to the door. The barricade gave way and they went in. One glance was enough to show Bobby that Bill had had time to get panic-stricken. He hadn't a gun, but this was the only thing that was lacking to remind Bobby of Two-Gun Joe's last stand. He was sitting well up, supported on his elbows, his head craned forward, his bright blue eyes flashing unseeingly from the priest to Bobby and from Bobby to the improvised altar. Bobby was sadly afraid that Bill was going to disappoint him. You might as well have tried to convert something in the zoo.

‘I'm Father Finnegan, Mr Enright,' the Jesuit said, going up to him with his hand stretched out.

‘I didn't send for you,' snapped Bill.

‘I appreciate that, Mr Enright,' said the priest. ‘But any friend of Dr Healy is a friend of mine. Won't you shake hands?'

‘I don't mind,' whinnied Bill, letting him partake slightly of a limp paw but without looking at him. ‘But I warn you I'm not a religious sort of bloke. I never went in for that at all. Anyone that thinks I'm not a hard nut to crack is in for a surprise.'

‘If I went in for cracking nuts, I'd say the same,' said Father Finnegan gamely. ‘You look well able to protect yourself.'

Bill gave a harsh snort indicative of how much could be said on that score if the occasion were more propitious; his eyes continued to wander unseeingly like a mirror in a child's hand, but Bobby felt the priest had struck the right note. He closed the door softly behind him and went down to the drawing room. The six windows opened on three landscapes. The lowing of distant cows pleased his ear. Then he swore and threw open the door to the hall. Nellie was sitting comfortably on the stairs with her ear cocked. He beckoned her down.

‘What is it, doctor?' she asked in surprise.

‘Get us a light. And don't forget the priest will want his supper.'

‘You don't think I was listening?' she asked indignantly.

‘No,' Bobby said dryly. ‘You looked as if you were joining in the devotions.'

‘Joining in the devotions?' she cried. ‘I'm up since six, waiting hand and foot on him, with the result that I dropped down in a dead weakness on the stairs. Would you believe that now?'

‘I would not,' said Bobby.

‘You would not?' she repeated incredulously. ‘Jesus!' she added after a moment. ‘I'll bring you the lamp,' she said in a defeated tone.

Nearly an hour passed before there was any sound upstairs. Then Father Finnegan came down, rubbing his hands briskly and complaining of the cold. Bobby found the lamp lit in the bedroom and the patient lying with one arm under his head.

‘How are you feeling now, Bill?' the doctor asked.

‘Fine, Bobby,' said Bill. ‘I'm feeling fine. You were right about the priest, Bobby. I was a fool to bother my head about the Canon. He's not educated at all, Bobby, not compared with that man.'

‘I thought you'd like him,' said Bobby.

‘I like a fellow to know his job, Bobby,' said Bill in the tone of one expert appraising another. ‘There's nothing like the bit of education. I wish I met him sooner.' The wild blue eyes came to rest hauntingly on the doctor's face. ‘I feel the better of it already, Bobby. What sign would that be?'

‘I dare say 'tis the excitement,' said Bobby, giving nothing away. ‘I'll have another look at you.'

‘What's that she's frying, Bobby? Sausages and bacon?'

‘It smells like it.'

‘There's nothing I'm so fond of,' Bill said wistfully. ‘Would it make me worse, Bobby? My stomach feels as if it was sandpapered.'

‘I don't suppose so. But tea is all you can have with it.'

‘Hah!' crowed Bill. ‘'Tis all I'm ever going to have if I live to be as old as Methuselah. But I'm not complaining, Bobby. I'm a man of my word. Oh, God, yes.'

‘Go on!' said Bobby. ‘Did you take the pledge?'

‘Christ, Bobby,' said the patient, giving a wild heave in the bed, ‘I took the whole bloody ship, masts and anchor … God forgive me for swearing!' he added piously. ‘He made me promise to marry the Screech,' he said with a look which challenged the doctor to laugh if he dared.

‘Ah, well, you might do worse, Bill,' said the doctor.

‘How sure he is I'll have him!' bawled Nellie cheerfully, showing her moony face at the door.

‘You see the way it is, Bobby,' said Bill without rancour. ‘That's what I have to put up with.'

‘Excuse me a minute, Nellie,' said the doctor. ‘I'm having a look at Bill … You had a trying day of it,' he added, sitting on the bed and taking Bill's wrist. Then he took his temperature, and flashed the torch into his eyes and down his throat while Bill looked at him with a hypnotised glare.