An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

  “Could you mean Jackson Pollock?” Barry enquired gently.

  “The very man himself, although here in County Down we call them pollocks ‘blockan,’ so we do. That’s why I got it mixed up.” Seamus picked at one tooth and lowered his voice. “I think Donal just took a fit of the head staggers, or maybe he had a bad bottle at the party.”

  Head staggers was a disease of sheep caused by a parasitic worm invading the affected animal’s brain, and as far as Barry knew, it did not affect humans. The mythical “bad bottle” of beer seemed an equally unlikely explanation, but it was frequently invoked to explain away overconsumption, the daft things men did while under the influence, and usually, the next day’s inevitable hangover.

  “Sometimes,” Seamus said, “Donal’s so mean he’d wrestle a bear for a penny, so when one pot of paint ran out he just opened another. He made a right bollocks of it, in my opinion, but he thinks it’s the greatest thing since sliced bread. Here he comes, sir. See for yourself.”

  Barry turned and watched Donal Donnelly wheeling his gaudy machine along the path. It did look like something painted by Jackson Pollock.

  “Was it lunch you were having, Donal, or did you stay for your supper too?” Seamus yelled.

  “Away off and chase yourself, Seamus.” Donal kept walking, propped the bike against the gable end, and knuckled his ginger forelock to O’Reilly. “Good day, Doctor.”

  “Good day yourself, Donal.”

  Is he not going to greet me? Barry was wondering, when Donal remarked, “And you too, Doctor Laverty.”

  Barry noted there was no respectful knuckling in his direction.

  “Are you coming to work, or are you just going to stand there flapping your jaw?” Seamus demanded.

  “Take your hurry in your hand. I need a wee word with the doctors.”

  “Jasus,” Seamus muttered. “Don’t take all day.” He turned to the ladder. “One of us had better get going,” he said, and with that, he started to climb.

  “More to do with Arkle?” Barry asked, with a sideways glance at O’Reilly. But Fingal missed the enquiring look. He was too busy studying Donal’s bike.

  “Not at all,” said Donal. “That’s coming on bravely. Never you worry about that.” He hesitated. “But seeing as how you and himself there were right decent about giving me advice on that, I have another wee question.”

  “Go ahead.”

  Donal frowned. “I’m powerful worried, so I am.”

  “What about?’

  “What does ‘endow’ mean, sir?”

  Barry was about to answer that it was just a big word meaning ‘give,’ but O’Reilly interrupted.

  “Why do you want to know, Donal?”

  Donal looked longingly at his bike. “Me and Julie went to see the minister to run through the wedding ceremony.”

  “And?” said O’Reilly.

  “There was a couple of bits I didn’t understand, like.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “You being learned men, I thought maybe you could explain.”

  “Explain what?” Barry asked.

  Donal’s brows knitted. He picked at the edge of one thumbnail. “There’s a bit I’ve to say, ‘With all my worldly goods I thee endow.’ I don’t like the sound of it one wee bit. Not one bit.”

  “Why not? It simply means to—”

  “What’s bothering you about it, Donal?” O’Reilly interrupted.

  Donal bit his lower lip with his buckteeth, then blurted, “Does it mean I’ve to give Bluebird—my greyhound—and my bike to Julie?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Not at all.”

  “Oh.”

  Barry could see the way Donal’s face relaxed.

  “At least,” O’Reilly continued, with a quick glance at Barry, “not immediately.”

  Donal’s frown came back.

  “No,” said O’Reilly. “ ‘Endow’s’ a lawyer’s word. It’s what you do in a will.”

  “A will, sir?”

  “Aye. It’s how the dear departed instructs his lawyer to make sure people get their bequests. ‘And to my daughter, Sheila, I leave my rosebushes.’ That’s an endowment.”

  And it’s not true, Barry thought, but looking at Donal’s grin he thoroughly approved of O’Reilly’s minor deception. He realized that possessions that to him would seem trivial could mean so much to a man like Donal Donnelly. They were probably all he had.

  “That’s not much of a bother, Doctor O’Reilly. By the time I’ve fallen off the perch, the oul’ bike’ll be long gone” He sighed. “And so’ll Bluebird. She’s a grand wee dog, so she is.”

  “She is that,” O’Reilly said.

  “Thanks for the advice, Doctor. It’s a great load off my mind.” Donal turned to Barry. “It’s all a bit awkward, like, but I’ve a question for you too.”

  “What is it, Donal?”

  “On Saturday, at the party, my Julie had great craic with your Miss Spence.”

  “Patricia?” He’d been so preoccupied with trying to reestablish himself in the practice he’d hardly given her a thought. And she’d promised to phone.

  “Aye. She’s filled my Julie’s head with all kinds of hobbyhorse shite, so she has.”

  It was Barry’s turn to frown. “What?”

  “It’s like this. The minister was telling Julie she had to promise to love, honour, and obey, and Julie says, ‘I’ll have no trouble with the first two, but . . .’—and I nearly filled my pants when I heard her—‘. . . Miss Spence told me I wasn’t to say I’d obey anybody.’ ”

  Barry couldn’t help laughing. He could picture Patricia, eyes bright, seeking another convert to her cause. “Sure,” he said, “two out of three isn’t bad.”

  “Aye. But—”

  “But nothing, Donal. If that’s what Julie wants, humour her.”

  “You think so?”

  “Of course. Patricia has a lot of newfangled notions about women. Maybe she’s right.”

  Donal looked doubtful. “If you say so, sir, but it seems odd to me.”

  A voice came roaring from above. “You’d talk the hind leg off a donkey, Donal Donnelly. Will you get yourself up here this minute?”

  “Coming.” Donal put one foot on the bottom rung, hesitated, and then asked O’Reilly, “Will I be seeing the pair of you at the races?”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly.

  Donal lowered his voice. “My pal at the bank’ll have a brave wheen of Irish half crowns for me by Friday.”

  O’Reilly glanced at Barry.

  “Get up here, Donal Donnelly, or by Jesus I’ll come down to you,” Seamus Galvin roared.

  Donal started to climb. “Thanks to you both for explaining all that stuff. It’s a great comfort to a fellah to have the likes of you two doctors in Ballybucklebo, so it is.”

  “Away on with you, Donal,” Barry said, but his step was lighter as he and O’Reilly began to walk to the Rover.

  “I wonder how long it’ll take before the roof’s as good as new again.” O’Reilly mused aloud; then without seeming to be speaking to Barry, he continued: “Like a lot of things, it’s amazing what a bit of time and hard work can do.”

  Barry glanced at O’Reilly, who was staring across the road to a small field where a herd of black-and-white Friesians grazed contentedly or lay chewing the cud.

  “Right,” said O’Reilly. “Let’s get home. Maybe we can both put our feet up for a while.”

  “That would be grand,” said Barry, not paying attention to where he was going. He felt something tugging at his leg. Stopping, he found that a thick, thorny briar had snagged the left leg of his corduroys. He tugged hard and felt the material rip. Blast! He’d heard about places being called the “graveyards of ships.” For him, Ballybucklebo was well on the way to becoming the last resting place for every pair of pants he owned. He trotted to the gate, closed it, and got into the Rover.

  O’Reilly was staring at the old house. “It seems to me,” he said, “that God is in his heaven and all is right with th
e world. Bertie Bishop’s doing the job for Sonny, Seamus and Donal are both at work, and you”—he leant closer to Barry—“seem a damn sight more cheerful than you were at breakfast.” He started the engine. “But,” he said, “one of us had better be on call tonight.”

  Barry waited, hoping that O’Reilly would want the night off.

  “It had better be me,” O’Reilly remarked, driving off as if he were intent not so much on breaking the sound barrier as shattering it beyond any hope of repair.

  Barry sighed and clutched the armrest on the door panel.

  O’Reilly winked at Barry. “And if you’re not working, maybe you could nip over to the Kinnegar and see that Miss Spence who’s given Julie MacAteer such food for thought.”

  Barry was damned if he could decide whether O’Reilly had volunteered to work because he was hesitant to leave his assistant unsupervised, or whether it was a measure of the big man’s innate generosity that he was willing to give Barry time to spend with Patricia. He’d phone her as soon as he got back to Number 1 Main Street and see if she would be free tonight.

  Nor Its Great Scholars Great Men

  “Come in.” Patricia held open the door to her flat and stood aside.

  Barry kissed her chastely as he passed.

  “I am sorry about yesterday,” she said. “I didn’t get away from Newry ’til all hours, and I’ve been going round today like a bee on a hot brick. I should’ve phoned.”

  “It’s all right; I’ve been a tad busy myself. I’m glad you’re able to spare me an hour,” he said, feeling his disappointment that it wouldn’t be longer. When he’d phoned earlier from O’Reilly’s, she’d been pleased to hear from him, would certainly see him for a while, but had made it clear that this was very much a working day and evening for a civil engineering undergraduate taking extra summer courses.

  “Sit down, Barry. Make yourself at home. Sorry the place is a bit cluttered.” She lifted a pile of textbooks from her two-seater sofa and stacked them on her small dining table to keep company with other tomes, ring binders, two slide rules, and loose sheets of paper. He noticed an angled draughtsman’s table in one corner of the room. A sheet of architectural plans was fixed to the surface with drawing pins. An Anglepoise articulated lamp hung over the table’s face.

  He parked himself on the sofa. “Looks like you’ve been busy,” he said, remembering his own student days when it had seemed that the knowledge to be mastered was limitless and the time in which to master it impossibly short. He pointed at the drawing table. “Tools of the trade?”

  “Yes.” She came and sat beside him, half turned to face him, knees together, hands in her lap. “We’re learning about stresses on bridge supports. We have to be able to read structural plans.”

  “You remember Jack Mills? You met him on Saturday at O’Reilly’s hooley?”

  “The junior surgical registrar from Cullybackey? The one with the blonde with enormous bristols?” She held her hands cupped in front of her breasts, but a good six inches away.

  “That’s Jack.” Barry laughed at Patricia’s use of rhyming slang. “Bristol cities” for “titties.” “That’s Jack, all right. Anyway, when he and I shared digs, we had one of the tools of our trade, an articulated skeleton, hanging in our room. We called him Billy Bones.”

  “Like the pirate in Treasure Island?”

  “The very lad. Mind you, being Jack, he had the poor thing dressed in ladies’ underwear.” He moved closer.

  “And I’ll bet,” she said, “every piece was from one of his conquests.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I watched him with the blonde.” She took his hand. “He seemed like a decent enough chap but—”

  “He’s my best friend,” Barry said.

  “Well, I’m not sure I’d want to go out with him.”

  “I’m damn sure I’d not want you to. I’d be too jealous.” The thought of Patricia with anyone else, particularly Jack, made his stomach tighten.

  She squeezed his hand. “Not many men I know would admit to being jealous,” she said. “I like that . . . now your Jack—”

  “What about Jack?”

  “I’ll bet you he believes buying a girl a cheap dinner is the price of admission to her bed.”

  Barry frowned. “Now that’s not fair.”

  “It is. Most men are like that. But you’re not, and it’s another thing I like about you. I feel safe with you.”

  Barry was sure he was blushing. “I’m a regular Prince Charming,” he said, to cover his confusion. He smiled. “It’s because I’m much too sensitive.”

  “Sensitive?”

  “Yes. Absolutely. A good slap in the face brings me out in great red welts.”

  She laughed, a throaty chuckle. “You think I’d slap your face?”

  “No. I think you’re probably a judo black belt who’d tear my arm off and beat me to death with the soggy end.”

  “Barry!” She bent forward and kissed him. “I’d do no such thing.”

  “I’m very glad to hear it,” he said, seeing how lovely she looked even in old jeans and a baggy sweater. Her black hair was highlighted by the setting sun’s soft light as it slipped shyly across Belfast Lough and past the Esplanade, seeming to hesitate outside her window to ask permission before coming into the room.

  He held her to him, breathing in the subtle scent of her. “Much better,” he said softly, “than a slap.” He moved back, put his hands on her shoulders, and looked into her eyes, sloe black, slightly tilted, set above Slavic cheekbones. “You are very lovely,” he said, and he watched the dimple in her left cheek deepen as she smiled.

  “Thank you.” She put her head on his shoulder. “And thank you for coming over tonight.”

  “I thought I was interrupting your studies.”

  “You are, but sometimes I need to be interrupted. Sometimes”—she swallowed—“I think I’ve got myself in out of my depth.”

  Barry stroked her hair. “You’re not the only one,” he said. He wondered if he was thinking of how deeply he felt about Patricia, or how even now, with her head on his shoulder, thoughts about his uncertain future with O’Reilly kept intruding. “I’m feeling a bit that way right now about the practice.”

  “Why?”

  He hesitated, not wanting to burden her with his troubles. Then he said, “O’Reilly’s keeping me on. He’s offered me a partnership in a year.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She kissed him. “I envy you, and I’m so pleased for you . . . if it’s what you want.”

  “I’m pretty sure it is. I could settle in Ballybucklebo, but I’m in a bit of bother.”

  “What?”

  “A bit of loss of confidence in me by the patients.” He could see the sympathy in her eyes. “O’Reilly reckons I can work my way through it.”

  She squeezed his hand. “I’d trust that man’s opinion.”

  “I hope you’re right. I feel . . . I feel like I’m sitting my final exams all over again.”

  She stood and crossed her arms in front of her breasts. “That’s why I’m worried. I’ve one coming up next week.”

  “An exam?”

  “Mmm.”

  “You’ll murder it, I know.” Barry scratched his chin. “Funny time of year. I thought examinations were held in June.”

  “They are. This is a special one. For a scholarship.”

  “A scholarship?”

  “And I have to win it.” She bunched her fists. “I have to.”

  He didn’t know what to say. “Of course you will” would be trite. “Just do your best” was the kind of advice given by a mother who suspected her son was going to fail. “But if you don’t win, it’s not the same as one of your normal professional exams, is it? I mean . . . it wouldn’t set you back? Make you lose a year?”

  “No. It wouldn’t.” He detected a note in her voice that sounded defeated. “Not me personally.”

  “Then who?” Barry frowned. There had been special awards and scholarship
s in the medical faculty, but most of the average students, including him, hadn’t even bothered entering. They left that to the few budding geniuses. Undergraduates like him and Jack Mills were very happy, thank you, to squeak passes and finish the course in the allotted six years. Some of the dimmer ones had taken longer to qualify, had had to repeat years of study. “I think,” he said, “if it’s upsetting you, perhaps you should withdraw.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m a woman.”

  Barry resisted the temptation to remark he’d never have guessed if she hadn’t told him. Instead he said, “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “Barry.” She stood squarely in front of him, shoulders braced, face taut. “I told you how difficult it was for me to get into a professional school . . .”

  “I remember.”

  “Half the other students, aye, and some of the faculty too can’t wait for me to trip up.” She crossed the room her gait awkward as a result of her childhood polio, turned, and faced him. “If I do, they can smirk and say, ‘I told you so,’ and then it’ll be even harder for girls to get in. I have to win for them, not just me. Do you not see that?” Her head drooped.

  Barry had a fleeting memory of a TV documentary about votes for women and the suffragette movement—and Emily Davison throwing herself under the king’s horse at Ascot in 1913. “I suppose,” he said, “but I don’t like to see you getting yourself upset.” He stood and crossed the room, put one hand under her chin, lifted her face, and looked her straight in the eye. “Look,” he said, “I still haven’t got to know you very well, but I do know some things.” He’d learnt the technique in an early psychology course. When someone is discouraged, build on their known strengths. “You had polio . . .”

  He heard her gasp. He knew how she hated to have attention drawn to her handicap, but he ploughed on. “You haven’t let it slow you down one bit . . .”

  Her face was expressionless.

  “You did get into the Faculty of Engineering . . .”

  “I suppose . . .” She sounded hesitant.