The Godforsaken Daughter (9 page)

Honour every living thing,

And Sacred Dana joy will bring.

Treat the globe with guileless heart,

To exercise the scryer’s art.

Cingulum so unabased,

Bind it three times ’bout the waist.

Lay the cards, come rain or snow,

And all our futures they shall show.

Burn thy herbs in censer sweet,

My new-born sickle for to greet.

Place the disk upon the palm,

And frenzy shall give way to calm.

Raise the curv’d blade at the moon

On the twenty-first of June.

This rite shall make thy dreams come true,

And wondrous powers shall thee accrue.

She looked to the two tiers of objects beside her on the bed and sat up. Now she had a better understanding of what they were used for. The long, silver belt was called a cingulum, and you tied it around your waist. The pack of cards called
The Rider Tarot
was for looking into the future. The little silver dish was called a censer, and it was for burning herbs in. The silver disk with the five-pointed star made you feel calm. The knife with the curved blade was for saluting the moon.

This rite shall make your dreams come true,

And wondrous powers shall thee accrue.

“My dreams?” she whispered, excitement mounting. “This rite will make my dreams come true and wondrous powers I will accrue.”

Ruby took her diary from the locker drawer, turned to a blank page at the back, and began to write. Three wishes. Wasn’t that how it went, when you received power from “beyond”? You got three wishes. She knew what hers would be:

1. I want to see Daddy again.
   
2. I want to have lots of money.
   
3. I want to meet someone nice and be happy.
   

The silver disk with the five-pointed star suddenly glinted. Ruby took it as a sign. She placed it on her palm, fascinated. It was a beautiful object, and the more she stared at it, the more relaxed she became.

She felt her head growing light. Her eyelids droop. She tried to get up but her legs were like lead.

She yawned, fell back on the pillows, and before she knew it, was sound asleep.

Chapter ten

F
ive-past nine Friday morning, and Miss King, at her desk, poring over the patient list for the day, was alerted to the swishing sound of the revolving door and a man’s voice raised in angst.

“Ah, Jezsis! What sort of a bloody thing is this?”

She looked up to see a shabbily dressed farmer type, pushing himself round in circles. Tut-tutting, she went to his aid and thrust a determined foot against one of the panels. But the man with his back to her, oblivious to her presence, responded by splaying his hands on the glass and pushing even harder.

“
Stop pushing!
” Miss King shouted.

He turned in red-faced shock and stared at her through the glass.

“Jezsis! Niver seen you there.”

“Apparently not. Now stay where you are and
don’t move
!”

Gingerly, she eased the panel toward her, and as if by magic, the visitor found himself in the foyer, face-to-face with the secretary.

“God, that’s the damnedest thing!” he declared, relieved that she’d freed him from his glass prison. “What kinda dour is that?”

“It’s a
revolving
door,” Miss King explained, detecting an unpleasant whiff of alcohol coming off the farmer.

“Ah, I see.”

“It admits more people at one time to this building as opposed to the traditional type. It is also relatively soundless and therefore less of a disruption to patients and staff alike. In winter it keeps the cold out while remaining open.”

Miss King believed in answering every question a patient asked her as thoroughly and clearly as possible. She did this, knowing that it was within the gift of the cluttered mind of the depressive, and in this case that of the alcoholic, not to really listen to anything that was said.

“Aye, right
. . .
right ye be,” the man said, not much convinced by the receptionist’s little speech. He stood holding his arm, looking back warily at the door.

“You must be James McCloone.” She went back behind her desk and checked her list.

“Aye, that’s me. James Kevin Barry Michael. But I get Jamie for short.”

The farmer removed his cap and crushed it between his hands, self-conscious, as Miss King gave him the once-over.

“That’s quite a name.”

“Aye, it’s a long boy, right enuff. It was give timme by me aunt and uncle. But they’re
. . .
they’re dead now.” He shifted from one foot to the other and consulted the floor. “Aye, dead a long time now.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. McCloone. But, for the purposes of expediency, in the future I will refer to you as Mr. McCloone. That’s if you don’t mind?”

“Naw. That’ll do me all right, Miss
. . 
. ?”

“King.” She pointed to the name badge on her left lapel. “Good. We like to know where we stand with all our patients at Rosewood.”

Miss King referred to her list again.

“Aye, so, Mrs.—”

“Miss.”

“Miss. Aye
. . .
aye so, Miss
. . .
Miss King,” Jamie said to the crown of her gray bun.

“Now, Mr. McCloone, you’re here to see Doctor
. . 
. ?”

“Dr. Shelfin.”

“
Shevlin.
Dr. Shevlin.”

“Aye, him. A new boy. Dr. Brewster tolt me Dr. Baldy was away.”

“
Balby
. That’s correct. And Dr. Shevlin is indeed new to the practice. Now, do you have the appointment letter you received?”

“Should have it somewhere now.”

Jamie reached into the inner pocket of his scruffy check jacket and produced a crumpled envelope. He set it down on the desk and smoothed it flat. Miss King observed the muddy paw prints of a small animal—possibly a mouse—patterned across it. She flinched.

“Would you be so kind as to open it, Mr. McCloone?”

“Aye, no bother,” Jamie said, removing the page and handing it over.

“Your appointment is scheduled for ten o’clock.” She checked her watch. “And it’s just gone ten past nine. You’re very early.”

“Aw, well, y’see, I can explain that. I came that wee bit earlier ’cos it’s the Fair Day in Tailorstown and I have a couple-a heifers tae sell, and they’ll be coming up for auction at a quarter to ten. So I thought I’d get this wee appointment with the doctor over afore the auction, and kill two burds with the wan stone, as they say.”

Miss Sharp understood Mr. McCloone’s logic, but feared he did not quite grasp the importance of the clinic’s rules with regard to punctuality and timekeeping. She felt an oft-rehearsed lecture coming on.

“Keeping to the correct appointment time is very important, Mr. McCloone. That is why we take the trouble to send you letters like this. Doctors are very busy people who see lots of patients in the course of a day. As a patient, you must come at the correct time. It is not for
you
to determine when
you
want to see Dr. Shevlin, but rather the other way round.”

An embarrassed Jamie pulled on his earlobe, ran a hand over his carefully arranged comb-over. “Oh, I know what you’re sayin’ right enuff, Miss
. . .
Miss—”

“King!”

“Aye, Miss King. It
. . .
it won’t happen again, so it won’t. It’s just that
. . .
just that Bertie Frogget—he’s the auctioneer—couldn’t fit me in no later, like.”

“Yes, well, just so you know
. . .
for the future. In the scheme of things, doctors are rather more important people than livestock auctioneers.” There was a pause, which Jamie filled by coughing and the secretary filled by recapping her fountain pen. “Now, as it happens, Dr. Shevlin arrived early today to catch up on some paperwork. So, just this once, I’ll pop in and see if he’d be willing to see you now. There are no guarantees, mind.”

“Oh, that would be grand, Miss King. Thank you very much.”

By the time Jamie McCloone shuffled into the office, Dr. Henry Shevlin had already fully acquainted himself with the patient’s medical history. He’d encapsulated the man’s recent past in a series of bullet points penciled into his notebook:

• Occupation: farmer and part-time musician
  
• 1972: first major depressive episode when his adoptive “uncle” dies. James is 39
  
• Becomes alcohol dependent. Follows a course of antidepressants
  
• 1974: attempts suicide
  
• Relatively sober for past ten years. Has been taking Indalpine for three weeks
  
• Lives on his own on a small farm outside Tailorstown
  
• Reasons for return of depression and alcohol abuse: unknown
  

“I’m Dr. Shevlin,” Henry said, getting up and extending a hand in greeting. “How are you, James?”

“Not so bad, Doctor. Dr. Brewster said I should come and see you, so he did.” Jamie put his cap back on. Gazed about distracted. Then removed it again. “Don’t know why he thought I should see you. ’Cos there’s nothing much wrong with me.”

“Well, he thought you might benefit from a little chat. Nothing to worry about. Please, take a seat.”

The farmer backed himself into the chair. Misjudged the distance, and to Henry’s astonishment, landed smack bang on the floor.

“What the blue blazes is
. . 
. ?”

“Oh goodness, let me help you,” Henry said, moving swiftly from behind his desk to help Jamie up. “Are you all right?” At close quarters, the smell of alcohol was explanation enough.

“Thanks, Doctor,” Jamie said, dazed. “Don’t know what happened tae me there.”

Henry guided him into the chair. “I’ll get you a glass of water.”

“Aye . . . Aye, a glass of watter would be the thing. Sorry about that, Doctor.”

“Oh, no need to apologize, James.” Jamie’s face was turning the color of a harvest moon. “Accidents happen to the best of us.”

He watched as Jamie guzzled the water, making a noise like a hog in a barrel. Then, judging that his client was sufficiently recovered, he took his seat behind the desk again.

Jamie put the glass down on the desk and wiped his mouth. “Thanks for
. . .
thanks for seein’ me early, Doctor, ’cos, as I was tellin’ that lassie out there, I have a couple’a cows tae sell and they’ll be—”

“That’s fine, James. No problem at all. You’re a cattle-farmer, then?”

“Aye.”

“You enjoy the work? I’m sure it’s hard.”

“Och, it’s all right. I love working with the animals, Doctor. Farm’s not terrible big. Ten or so acres, so there isn’t a lot tae be done
. . .”

Henry had not met many farmer-types in his former practice in Belfast, but he got the impression he’d be meeting a lot more like Jamie in the days to come. Bachelors living on smallholdings in the rural community, suffering crippling loneliness, their emotional needs unmet, and filling the void with alcohol.

“Any other animals apart from cows?”

“Aye, as well as the cows I have a sow and four hens
. . .
and ten or so sheep on the mountain. But there’s less work with them.”

“Sounds like you’re a busy man.”

“Aye
. . . I suppose . . .”
Jamie sat with an elbow on each knee, directing most of his answers at the floor.

Henry cast about for something to ease the farmer’s obvious discomfort. He glanced out the window and was confronted by a very unusual sight. Parked perilously close to his white Mercedes-Benz SL280 in the Reserved for Staff bay was a mud-spattered tractor. He got up to take a closer look. “I take it that’s your tractor out there?”

Jamie roused himself. “Aye, that’s her, all right.”

“Looks like a very reliable machine. Have you had it long?”

Jamie brightened. “God, Doctor, that tractor’s as oul’ as me.”

“My goodness! I take it, then, that it belonged to your uncle.” Henry made a mental note to inquire about the “adoptive” uncle. But that would come later.

“Aye, that’s Uncle Mick’s Ford-Ferguson Model 9N. It was the first tractor in Ireland tae have a three-point hydraulic hitch and rubber tires, so it was.”

“Really! How very interesting.” Henry was glad he’d found an area of interest where Jamie could forget his blunder with the chair and lose himself for a while. “Pardon my ignorance, but what is a three-point hydraulic hitch?”

“Well, you see, it’s so you can tow a plough or hay-shaker on the back of it. It goes at twenty horsepower, ’cos it has a three-cylinder engine.”

The doctor took his seat again. He was happy to see that Jamie had lost his disconsolate look and was sitting more upright in the chair.

“How interesting! Wasn’t it Henry Ford who said his only competition was the horse?”

“Aye, that was him, all right. Is that your white car, Doctor?”

“Yes, that’s mine. Do you have a car yourself?”

“Naw, never bothered with them. The tractor does me all right, and me bicycle. Takes me into the town and home again. If I have tae go anywhere a bit farther, Paddy and Rose take me.”

“Paddy and Rose are family, are they?”

“Naw, not family. They’re good neighbors of mine, so they are. They take me tae Mass of a Sunday and the like.”

Henry was glancing at his pencil-written notes. He read the first.

“I understand you’re a part-time musician, James. What is it you play?”

He was regretting the words as soon as he’d uttered them. He recalled putting the same question to a Belfast patient several months before: Gavin Considine, a man in his late sixties with bushy gray sideburns and a paunch. Before Henry could stop him, Gavin had whipped a small harmonica from an inside pocket, put it to his lips, and launched into a medley of Larry Adler’s greatest hits. The impromptu jazz performance had continued for a good ten minutes before Henry could—tactfully—put an end to it. He hoped that the harmonica was not Mr. James McCloone’s choice of musical instrument.

He need not have worried. “I play the accordjin, Doctor,” Jamie said proudly.

“Ah! A lovely instrument. There are two types, aren’t there? A big one
. . .
What’s this they call it? The piano accordion. And the . . .”

“Mine’s a Hohner two-row button,” Jamie said with even more pride. “They’re wild hard boys tae play, so they are. The pianner accordjin is easier—though there’s them that say it’s harder, what with all that pushin’ and pullin’, and the shoulders would be cut off you by the end of an evening.”

“Sounds fascinating. And are you in a band or what?”

“Nah, just meself, Doctor. I give them the odd tune in O’Shea’s of a Sa’rday night, so I do.” He looked at the floor in an endearingly modest manner. “There’s them that would say I’m the best they’ve heard. Rose and Paddy and the like.”

“I’m sure they’re right.” Henry smiled and glanced quickly at his bullet list. “Indalpine. Are they helping much?”

“Helping a bit, Doctor. Make me tired all the time.”

“I know. They sometimes have that effect . . . When did you start drinking again?”

The good doctor had put the question in a light, almost casual tone of voice. Long, hard experience had taught him that it was the method that worked best. He’d schooled himself in taking his client by surprise. When the guard was down.

“The drinkin’?” Jamie looked up at the ceiling. “Must be the three weeks now. Naw, more than that. Must be the month. Aye, the month. When wee
. . .
when wee
. . .”