An Irish Country Wedding (12 page)

“I don’t give a toss if you call her Queen Elizabeth II of the House of bloody Windsor. Keep the thing in your house.” Bertie thrust his face forward.

“Whatever for?” O’Reilly leant back in his chair.

“You know I have racing pigeons? I’ve a loft over Steve Wallace’s garage, like. Across the road from here.”

“Everybody knows about your birds, Bertie, especially the ladies who have to redo their washing when your flock’s gone overhead.”

Barry saw the colour of Bertie’s cheeks deepen. An artery throbbed at his temple. He spluttered.

“And I hear they’ve been doing very well. Won a couple of races recently,” O’Reilly said.

Barry listened.

O’Reilly continued, “It must be very satisfying when they start coming back into the loft from a long way away. I’d think so anyway.”

Barry recognised that O’Reilly was giving Bertie a chance to simmer down.

“Aye, well, there’s two of mine won’t be doing that no more. Your bloody cat got them, so it did.” Little drops of spittle flew. “They’re dead as feckin’ dodos.”

Barry sat straight up. Lady Macbeth certainly was never confined to barracks and cats did roam.

“Are you sure, Bertie?” O’Reilly asked, drinking slowly.

“Bloody right I am. Your man Steve Wallace, him that owns the garage, he seen her going in there this afternoon and by the time he got up the stairs, two of my champion birds was dead and your bloody cat had done a runner.”

O’Reilly sighed. “But how can you be sure it was my cat? You didn’t catch her in flagrante delicto.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, O’Reilly, but if I see her again near my loft I’ll catch her in the backside with the toe of my feckin’ boot. She’ll be wearing her arsehole for a necklace.” He pounded a fist on the tabletop. “You keep your white cat to hell away from my pigeons. Do you hear, O’Reilly?”

“Unless I was stone deaf, Councillor, it would be difficult not to. I imagine they probably caught a word or two across the lough in Carrickfergus.”

Barry noticed that although his words were measured, O’Reilly’s nose tip was alabaster.

“If I get my hands on it
—
”

“I think you’ve made your point.”

“Good night then to yiz.” Bishop stumped away, turned, and came back. He slammed the paper bag on the table. “I near forgot. Flo baked these here gingersnaps. Said if I seen youse in here the night to give yiz them. She hopes youse enjoy them. I don’t give a tinker’s curse if you choke on them.” He stormed off.

“Do thank her for me, Bertie,” O’Reilly said to the man’s departing back.

Barry’d seen colour photos of Antarctica where the ice was so white it had a blue tinge. So, it seemed, did the tip of O’Reilly’s nose.

Willie Dunleavy stood by the table. “Excuse me, but I’ve just had Helen Hewitt on the phone. She says come home at once. It’s urgent.”

“Come on, Barry. Forget about Bertie. Leave that.” O’Reilly didn’t finish his pint either. “I’ll settle up next time, Willie,” he said, and charged for the door with Barry and Arthur Guinness in close pursuit.

12

Why Did You Answer the Phone?

“Sorry to drag you from the Duck,” Helen said, “but when Jack
 
… I mean Doctor Mills called
—
”

“Barry, get Mills on the phone. Now,” O’Reilly said.

Barry dialled.

“Did he say why he was calling, Helen?” O’Reilly asked. He knew Jack couldn’t tell her anything in detail about Kinky’s condition. Even if young Mills had been seeing Helen for a month or
two after Sonny and Maggie’s wedding, she wasn’t part of the medical fraternity. But perhaps Jack had given some hint, any
thing to let them know what this was about.

“No, sir. He sounded in a big hurry, and just told me to have you get hold of him as soon as possible.”

Damnation. It must mean Kinky had taken a turn for the worse. “Sit, Arthur, and there’s no need to apologise for sending for us, Helen. You did exactly the right thing.”

Helen smiled. “Thank you, sir.” She moved to the pegs and took down her coat.

O’Reilly fidgeted, tapped his foot, and frowned at the inevitable delay before one of the hospital operators on the understaffed switchboard could answer. Then Jack would probably have to be bleeped. “Give me the phone,” he said gruffly, as if being on one end would speed things up. He couldn’t bear the waiting. Barry relinquished the phone, and O’Reilly took it in time to hear, “Hello? Doctor Mills here.”

“Mills? Fingal O’Reilly.”

Jack Mills sounded calm. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your Mrs. Kincaid’s gone downhill.”

“Damn.” He turned to Barry. “It’s Kinky. She’s had a setback. Mills, what’s exactly wrong with her?”

“She developed a fever midmorning. The wound was a bit inflamed, but nothing else was obvious. Sir Donald didn’t think it was serious enough for us to bother you and that we should simply
watch her. Unfortunately, her temperature spiked a couple of
hours ago and she’s wheezy in her left lung base. We were pretty sure she’d got a postop bronchial pneumonia.”

Or it could be an abscess under the diaphragm, lung collapse, or a pulmonary embolism, O’Reilly thought. Postoperative complications in the lungs did occur, but infrequently. And why Kinky Kincaid of all people? The woman had always seemed indestructible. On a number of occasions she’d had to nurse him through bad bouts of flu and a recent attack of acute bronchitis. It was unfair she’d been taken ill at all and doubly so that complications should set in.

Mills was saying, “We took a portable X-ray here on the ward.” O’Reilly read between the lines. Either Kinky wasn’t well enough to be taken to the X-ray department, or bless her, a bit on the heavy side for nurses to wrestle on and off trolleys. He hoped it was the latter.

“There’s involvement of the left lower lobe. Sir Donald started her on pen and strep.”

Penicillin and streptomycin were the first line of defence against infection. Only if they failed were the newer antibiotics like tetracycline used.

“At least,” Jack said, “her bowel sounds are normal, so we’ve taken her naso-gastric tube out and she’s getting a liquid diet. She’s still on a drip and getting plenty of painkillers. I’ll give you an update if anything changes, but I’m sure she’ll be grand. Unless you really want to, there’s no need to come charging up here tonight.”

“Thanks, Mills. We appreciate you letting us know.” O’Reilly hung up. “I’m sure she’ll be grand,” those were Jack Mills’s words,
O’Reilly thought. Not a year into his training and already the
young man was developing the confidence so characteristic of surgeons that armoured them to slice into their fellow beings—and lose some of them intra- or postoperatively without the doctor going into a decline. He glanced at Barry. There was another young man whose self-confidence had come on remarkably. “Looks like she has left lower lobe broncho-pneumonia, Barry. She’s on the right antibiotics and Jack Mills says she needs a good night’s sleep. Says there’s no reason for us to race up there.” Which of course
was an unspoken message that Mills did not think Kinky was in
any danger of dying. O’Reilly then realised that in his hurry to
brief Barry he’d forgotten that Helen was standing there. “Helen
—
”

“I never heard nothing. Mum’s the word,” she said, and mimed pulling a zip across her lips, “but I hope Mrs. Kincaid gets better soon.”

“Thank you, on both counts,” O’Reilly said. “I know you’ll keep it to yourself.” He said to Barry, “Do me a favour?”

“Sure.”

“Take Arthur to the back garden and on your way put the grub we were given in the kitchen.”

“Come on, Arthur.” Barry started to do as he’d been asked, then frowned as if remembering something and said, “I’d like to make a phone call when I’ve finished. I need to discuss something with Miss Nolan from the school.”

“Go right ahead,” O’Reilly said, and thought, And I hope it’s nothing to do with professional matters. She’s a pretty girl, that Sue Nolan, and it’s time Barry started seeing young women again. O’Reilly rummaged in his pocket and turned to Helen. “Helen. Home. Thank you for sending for us. By just fielding that one call you’ve earned your keep this week.” He gave her a pound note.

“Thank you, sir.” She put the money in her handbag. “And I do hope Mrs. Kincaid does get well very soon.”

“We all do. Let me help you on with your coat,” O’Reilly said, and as he held it Lady Macbeth appeared from the dining room and began weaving against Helen’s legs.

“The wee craythur hasn’t left me alone all afternoon,” Helen said. She bent and stroked the cat’s head. “Night-night, your ladyship. Night, Doctor O’Reilly. And that
Oliver Twist
was great, so it was. I left it on the shelf. ‘Please, sir. I want some more.’” Helen shook her head. “At least we don’t have parish workhouses anymore.”

“You’re right.” He opened the door. “Good night, Helen. See you on Monday, and don’t worry about Kinky. She’ll be fine.” I hope. And before he realised it, he’d crossed his fingers.

As soon as he was in the lounge, O’Reilly poured a Jameson, plumped himself down in an armchair, set his booted feet on a footstool, and yawned. He rolled his shoulders, yawned again, and drank. Admit it, O’Reilly, you’re no spring chicken anymore. You’re tired. It was the worry about Kinky, he supposed. He was perfectly able, thank you, to deal with the day-to-day running of the practice. He sipped. Damn it all, he still felt twenty inside—well, twenty-four. That was how old he’d been when he met Kitty O’Hallorhan for the first time. Kitty. He glanced at the other armchair. Not long now until she’d be sitting there at his side, of an evening, after work. Him with his pipe and whiskey and her with
a gin and tonic. He smiled, relished the thought, and recalled viv
idly a day when he’d walked with her down Dublin’s O’Connell Street and a beggar had sold him the sheet music for “Star of the County Down.” He sang,

—No horse I’ll yoke and no pipe I’ll smoke ’til my plough with the rust turns brown,

And a smiling bride by my own fireside is the star of the County Down.

That would be grand. Kitty up here, Kinky down below in her quarters, friends again with Kitty. Of course Kinky’d come round once she got better, and—

“You’re in fine voice tonight, Fingal,” Barry said.

O’Reilly harrumphed and said, “I didn’t hear you come in.” He nodded at the sideboard. “Help yourself.”

Barry shook his head, but took a chair. “Do you think Kinky will be all right?”

“She should be fine,” he said, and swallowed some whiskey. “Kinky’s a tough old bird, you know. It could be a lot worse.” He sipped thoughtfully. “I’m old enough to remember medicine before antibiotics, God bless them, and even back then lots of patients recovered from pneumonia. I’ll tell you about a one-armed
army sergeant, Paddy Keogh, one day.” O’Reilly knew he was
whistling in the dark. They both hoped Kinky’d be fine but also knew there were no promises. “I agree with Jack that we let her get a good night’s sleep tonight, but how’d you feel about going to see her tomorrow, Barry? She’ll appreciate a visit from one of us.”

“Should it not be you?”

O’Reilly shook his head. “Your turn. I know she’d like to see you too, and Kitty’s coming here and can answer the phone if I’m called out.”

“I’d love to see Kinky, and I could use a trip to town. I’ll pop into Robinson and Cleaver’s. I need a new shirt or two.”

O’Reilly wondered if new shirts and his phone call to a certain Miss Sue Nolan had anything to do with each other.

The door that Barry had not quite closed began to open and a
white nose appeared. Lady Macbeth was letting herself in.
O’Reilly recalled Bertie Bishop’s accusations against her. “Barry,” he said, “what did you think of what Bertie Bishop said about her ladyship?”

Barry frowned. “I hope it wasn’t her, but all cats are bird killers. There is another possibil
—
”

“It couldn’t have been this cat, by God,” said O’Reilly suddenly. “Helen just said her ladyship had been here with her all afternoon. So Bertie can go and fly his kite. We have a watertight
alibi.” O’Reilly sipped his whiskey and wondered why Barry
wasn’t smiling.

“For her ladyship, yes.”

“And isn’t that all we need?”

“For her it is,” Barry said, “but I’ve been thinking. I saw Colin Brown today. He lives across the road from Bishop’s pigeon loft.”

“And what has that to do with the price of corn?”

“Colin has a new pet, Butch, a ferret. A white ferret.”

“And you think—?”

Barry shrugged. “Could be.”

“Jasus,” said O’Reilly. “And I’ll bet Colin dotes on his pet and if it is the culprit, it doesn’t bear thinking about how the young lad’s going to feel if Bertie finds out and demands retribution.”

13

Keep Thy Tongue from Evil

Barry had spent four and a half years working at the Royal Victoria Hospital, and each time he returned it was like coming home. He paused for a moment in the main corridor to listen to the bustle of uniformed staff, all, it seemed, hurrying on missions of the utmost importance. Cleaners sedately dusted, pushed brooms and electric polishers, clearly content to be in no particular rush.

Small groups of bewildered-looking civilians were coming in through the front entrance and heading for the wards. At this hour on a Saturday midmorning they’d be relatives arriving to collect discharged family members, and they’d be having mixed feelings. Barry knew it was considered unlucky in Ulster to be discharged on a Saturday, but there was always pressure to find beds for new admissions.

He turned onto the ward and went straight to the nurses’ desk. A junior sister, recognisable by her navy blue uniform, had her back to him. “Morning, Sister. I’m Doctor
—
”

“How are you, Barry?” she said without turning.

He recognised the voice. Joy Lewis had been promoted since, as a staff nurse, she’d been one of Jack Mills’s conquests. “Hello, Joy.”