An Irish Country Village

by Patrick Taylor

“It’s cold and dry,” she said, “and just what I need after today.”

  The hostess poured for both. “Would youse care to order?”

  “Please,” Barry said. “Deep fried wontons, chicken fried rice, and sweet-and-sour pork.”

  “And would youse like chips?”

  “No, thank you.” He glanced at Patricia, and by her grin he knew she shared his thought. Only here in Belfast would the customers expect French fries with a Chinese meal.

  The hostess left. Barry picked up his chopsticks. “Do you know how to use these?”

  “No.”

  He leant across and took her hand, feeling its warmth, admiring her slim fingers. “Hold them like this.” He positioned the two slim, tapered pieces of wood. “Then use them like tweezers.”

  “Easy for you to say,” she said, but she soon seemed to get the hang of it.

  A waiter arrived and set three dishes on the table.

  “Those,” said Barry, pointing at irregularly shaped thin wafers, each with a lump in the middle, “are wontons.”

  Patricia fiddled with her chopsticks.

  “Pick one up with your fingers, and dip it in the plum sauce.” He pushed a small bowl to her.

  Patricia dunked a wonton in the sauce, popped it into her mouth, chewed, frowned, and swallowed. “That’s rather good.”

  “Eat up.”

  Barry took her plate and filled it with chicken fried rice and sweet-and-sour pork. “The fried rice goes better with soy sauce,” he said.

  He watched her eat, enjoying her obvious pleasure as much as he was savouring his own meal. Finally she put her chopsticks down, took a sip of wine, and said, “I’m stuffed. And thank you, sir. It really was delicious.”

  “In China,” he said, “you’re meant to let go a dirty great burp to signify satisfaction. It’s good manners.”

  “We’re not in China.” She hiccupped. “Excuse me.” She dabbed her lips with a napkin. “Now,” she said, “tell me about your day.”

  “I went up to the Royal, saw one of the profs, got some advice about a patient back home.” Thinking of Ballybucklebo as home surprised him, but damn it, it was. “I had lunch with Jack and an old classmate.” Should he tell her about the postmortem results? Why not? She already knew about his concerns. “He’s a junior pathologist. He’s trying to get me some quick answers about the patient I mentioned the other night.”

  “The one who died?”

  “Yes.”

  Her hand covered his. “It’s important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Very.”

  “It’ll be all right. I’m sure.”

  “I hope you’re right, but the preliminary results aren’t very helpful. I’ll have to wait for more tests.”

  “That makes two of us,” she said.

  He knew she was referring to her imminent examinations. Jack had suggested Barry propose, but . . . he couldn’t. Not yet. He wondered if he could talk Patricia out of trying to go to Cambridge. “It seems like a very long way away,” he said.

  “What does?”

  “Cambridge.” He fiddled with his napkin. “Is going there really so important?”

  He watched her face to see if she might bridle, but she pursed her lips and said, “Getting yourself reestablished in your practice is important to you.”

  “Very.”

  “Going to Cambridge is very important to me. Do you know they only started giving women the right to be awarded degrees in the Senate House with the men in nineteen forty-eight? That’s only sixteen years ago.”

  “No. I didn’t.”

  “There are three women’s colleges: Girton, Newnham, and New Hall. New Hall was founded ten years ago, but half of the other colleges still won’t admit us.” She was warming to her theme, leaning forward over the table. “Until we get more women into Cambridge, ones who’ll do as well as or better than the men, those colleges will never change. We’re going to see that they do.”

  Barry saw how her eyes flashed. He wished she would seem to feel as passionately about him. “ ‘To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield,’ ” he said quietly.

  “What?”

  “Tennyson. Ulysses.”

  “I don’t see what that’s got to do with—”

  “It’s on a cross in Antarctica near Captain Robert Falcon Scott’s base camp. He didn’t make it back from the South Pole.”

  “Barry, we’re not talking about polar exploration.”

  “No,” he said quietly, “but we are talking about pioneers.” He stared into her eyes and said as gently as he could, “Some of them come to sticky ends.”

  She sat back. “Do you think I will?” Her eyes narrowed. She snatched her hand from his. “Do you?”

  Barry took a deep breath. “Patricia Spence, I reckon you can—and you will—do whatever you set your mind to . . .”

  He saw her shoulders relax.

  “I’m being selfish. I don’t want you to go. I . . .” He couldn’t bring himself to spit out, “I love you.”

  “I understand that,” she said. “It’ll be hard for both of us, but surely you could get over to England for the odd weekend? I’ll be coming home for the holidays. It would only be for three years.”

  “Would it?”

  She stared at the tablecloth, fiddled with one chopstick. “I’ll not lie to you, Barry. Three years is a long time. Either one of us could meet someone else.”

  He wouldn’t. He knew that. “I suppose,” he said. The prospect of ending up like O’Reilly, still carrying a torch for one woman after twenty-three years, was daunting; he told himself, if you’re not willing to risk everything by asking her to marry you, what other choice do you have? He sipped his green tea, the fluid only lukewarm and bitter to the taste. “I’m not going to persuade you to stay, am I?”

  “I’m sorry, Barry.”

  The silence hung.

  “Right,” he said, beckoning the hostess and miming writing with a pen on the palm of his hand. “Time I got you home.”

  The hostess presented the bill, took Barry’s money, and gave him change. “Thank you, sir.”

  He rose, left a tip, and stood behind Patricia’s chair, waiting for her to pick up her knapsack and stand. “Here. Give me that,” he said, holding out his hand for the bag.

  She let him take it. He held the door for her as they left the restaurant.

  “The car’s down there,” Barry said, pointing. He slowed his step to match hers.

  He opened the passenger door and waited. She stood beside him but instead of getting in faced him. “Thank you for a lovely dinner.”

  “My pleasure.” But Barry felt it had been more like the Last Supper.

  She put her arms around his neck and kissed him, so hard that he had to take one step back. He was breathless when she pulled away. “Barry, please, please try to understand.”

  “I am trying,” he said. “Honestly.”

  She kissed him again, and like a child who’d been taken to the circus to comfort it before a trip to the dentist, he let himself savour the moment and dismiss what the future might hold. He held her from him. “I do understand, Patricia, that anything you’ve ever really wanted to do, you’ve done.”

  She bowed her head.

  “You’re not going to stop now, are you?”

  “No.”

  “All right. Hop in the car and I’ll take you home.” He shut the door after her, went round, and climbed in. Before he started the engine he turned to her. “One wee thing.”

  “What?”

  He wasn’t sure what imp was driving him, but her kisses had lifted his spirits. “This always doing what you set out to do?”

  “What about it?”

  “Don’t ever try to put toothpaste back in the tube.” As he started the engine he heard her gasp, heard her throaty chuckles, and felt her punch his arm lightly. “Right,” he said. “Next stop the Kinnegar, then on to Ballybucklebo.”

  A Cat in Profound Meditation

  The gentle light in
the upstairs sitting room came from a lazy sun, still visible through the bay windows. It seemed to be taking its own sweet time deciding if it should slip beneath the distant Antrim Hills. O’Reilly sat in an armchair, briar belching, jacket off, tie unknotted, unlaced boots propped on a footstool. Barry saw he was reading a James Bond novel, From Russia with Love.

  Lady Macbeth, fast asleep, lay on the hearthrug curled up with her nose beneath her tail, her white fur bright in a rectangle of sunlight. They made a picture of domestic tranquility, Barry thought. “Evening, Fingal.”

  “Welcome home.” O’Reilly set his book on the side table, where Barry noticed for once there was no sign of a glass of whiskey. O’Reilly swung his feet off the footstool. “You’re just in time. Kinky’ll be up in a minute with a cup of tea.”

  Barry sat in the other big chair. “No nightcap tonight?”

  “Later,” said O’Reilly. “I’ve a confinement to attend. Miss Hagerty, the midwife, phoned half an hour ago. Jenny Murphy’s in labour.”

  “Jenny Murphy?”

  “Aye. You saw her with me last week for her thirty-seven week visit. She should have been in on Friday, but she’s jumped the gun. I’m just going to have a quick cup of tea, then take a run-race over and have a look at her.”

  Barry waited to see if he’d be invited to join O’Reilly. He’d always enjoyed midwifery, but tonight would not be disappointed if he didn’t have to go out. Despite his feeling momentarily elated when Patricia kissed him outside the restaurant, and when he’d made the inane remark about putting toothpaste back in the tube, the drive back to the Kinnegar had been subdued. He’d dropped Patricia off with a perfunctory good-night peck and had made no future arrangements, other than a vague promise to phone her.

  He would be happy enough to stay here with his thoughts, but before his senior left he really should tell O’Reilly about the day’s events at the Royal. “I saw Professor Faulkner,” he said.

  “A rare treat, no doubt. Arrogant little gobshite.”

  “You know him?”

  “Indeed,” said O’Reilly. “He went to some minor public school, picked up his plummy accent there. He sounds as if he has marbles in his mouth, but he’s a country boy from Randalstown down in County Antrim. He was in my year at Trinity. Bald as a coot then. We called him Curly. Worst student in the class.”

  “Then how—”

  “Did he rise to such dizzy heights? I’ll tell you,” said O’Reilly. “He brownnosed his way up. Ulstermen weren’t conscripted in Hitler’s war. There were too many of us killed in the first one. Your dad and I volunteered anyway, but Faulkner didn’t. He took himself off to a London teaching hospital, Bart’s or Guy’s or some place like that. While we were off, Faulkner—he always had an eye for the main chance—was busy getting a training and sucking up to the bigwigs in London. Did him a power of good too.”

  Kinky had told Barry how, as a younger man, O’Reilly had had ambitions to specialize in obstetrics. But he had lost too many years when he’d volunteered and had no choice but to opt for general practice. Barry looked at the big man to see if there was a hint of bitterness in his last remark, but he was smiling. “Anyway. Did he give you any helpful hints about Flo Bishop?”

  “His senior registrar did before he had to go do Faulkner’s outpatients.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “It’s always been the way. Juniors do all the work.”

  But not in your practice, Barry thought.

  “You remember the first man in space?” O’Reilly asked.

  “Yuri Gagarin. Three years ago.”

  “The very lad. Won’t be long now ’til there’s a real man on the moon.” He scratched his belly. “Jesus, if they ever ask for a doctor to go, some bloody consultant like Faulkner from the Royal’ll volunteer . . . for a fat fee, of course.”

  “You’re daft.”

  “I’m not. You know how the higheejins work. He’ll get the money . . . but his senior registrar’ll actually make the trip.” O’Reilly’s face split into an enormous grin. He guffawed, and said as he laughed, “The junior’ll go.”

  Barry burst out laughing.

  He was still chuckling when he heard the door open. He turned and saw Kinky come in carrying a tea tray. “Is it music hall night at the Hippodrome?” she asked, setting the tray on the table. “The pair of you howling like a couple of hyenas, so.”

  “Just a silly joke, Kinky,” Barry said.

  “Huh.” She poured. “I see you enjoyed it. Little amuses the innocent.” She lifted the lid from a small cake stand. “I hope you’ll enjoy my cherry cake.”

  “Of course we will and—”

  Barry got no further. Lady Macbeth woke from her slumbers, gave one piercing yowl, sat bolt upright, leapt two feet vertically, hit the carpet, and took off running. Her tail was held like a horizontal question mark. She tore across the floor and out through the door, leaning sideways into the turn and travelling at a speed Barry thought would have given Donal Donnelly’s greyhound, Bluebird, a run for her money. He heard the sounds of her paws hitting the staircase outside, a rapid loud drumping that faded as the cat ascended and grew louder as she made the return journey, and faded into a gentle padding as she re-crossed the carpet, sought her patch of sunlight, glared at O’Reilly as if to say, “What are you staring at?” and then settled, curled, put her tail back over her nose—and promptly fell asleep.

  “Mother of God,” said Kinky, one hand raised to her mouth. “The poor wee dote must have got the wind in her tail. She’d me petrified, so.”

  “Perhaps something startled her,” Barry said.

  “I don’t think so,” said O’Reilly. “I heard a fellah say once he had a theory about why cats do that.”

  Barry anticipated that O’Reilly was going to pull his leg again. “Is it the same idea as sending a certain neurologist to the moon, Fingal?” he asked.

  “No. I’m serious. This fellah’s notion was that we think cats sleep a lot.”

  “Well, they do, Doctor O’Reilly dear,” said Kinky.

  “No,” said O’Reilly. “That’s what it looks like. Your man reckons cats are random-number generators. They lie about all day thinking up numbers until they hit the one they’re looking for.”

  “I suppose,” said Barry, “they pay attention to the stock market too?”

  “Don’t be daft,” said O’Reilly, “but do think about this. According to your man, the magic number is twenty-six. When it comes up, the animal has no choice but to race about like a liltie.”

  “If you say so, Doctor dear,” Kinky remarked, shaking her head as she might to a small boy who thought he’d made a clever remark. “Now drink up your tea before it gets cold.” She turned to leave, then said, “And don’t take too long over it. There’s a baby coming.”

  “Away with you, Kinky,” O’Reilly said through a mouthful of cherry cake. “It’s like Sir Francis Drake and the armada. I’ve time for tea and cake and for a confinement too.”

  “I think,” said Barry, “the old sea dog was playing bowls on Plymouth Ho.”

  O’Reilly chewed until Kinky left. “It’s not just the tea and buns,” he said, quietly. “I want to hear about what you learnt at the Royal.”

  Barry fished in his pocket for the note Doctor Bereen had scribbled, and gave it to O’Reilly, who read it, brows knitted, and handed it back. “Interesting,” he said. “Certainly worth a try.”

  “I wonder,” said Barry, “if we shouldn’t ask Mrs. Bishop to come in tomorrow? The sooner we have an answer, the better.”

  O’Reilly raised one eyebrow. “Better for whom?”

  “Well . . .” Barry understood the question. O’Reilly was wondering if Barry was more interested in being proved right than in helping Flo Bishop. “The patient,” Barry said firmly.

  “Aye,” said O’Reilly. “I hoped you’d say that.”

  “There’s something else.”

  “Oh?”

  “It occurred to me that if we do fix Mrs. Bishop, the councillor m
ight feel he owed us, well . . . a bit of gratitude.”

  “And leave the Duck alone?” O’Reilly laughed. “And here I thought I was the only Scottish Italian in Ballybucklebo.”

  “Scottish Italian?”

  “Aye. Mac. E. Avelli.” He finished his tea. “You could be right,” he said. “It’s worth a try, but somehow I’d be hard to convince Bishop could spell ‘gratitude,’ never mind know the meaning of the word.” He rose. “I’ll think on it, but I suspect we’ll need more strings to our bow than that. Once Bishop gets pound signs in front of his eyes—”

  “I thought they were dollar signs.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “True. But never mind the currency. The bugger smells a profit. I think it’ll take more to get him to change his mind, but I’ve no notion what that something else might be.” He shrugged into his tweed jacket and tightened the knot of his tie. “Let’s mull it over, see Flo on Friday, see what happens when you fill her full of neostigmine and atropine. There’s no point going off half cocked. Patience,” he said, “is a virtue.”

  Barry sighed. “All right. I’ll wait.” Wait. Barry was tired of waiting. Waiting to see if he was right about Mrs. Bishop. Waiting to hear from Harry Sloan. Waiting to see how Patricia fared in her examinations. “If you say so.”

  “I do,” said O’Reilly. He bent and scratched the cat’s head. “It’s all very well for cats to hit twenty-six and gallop off in all directions, but—”

  “I understand,” Barry said.

  “Good. Now nip down to the surgery and pick up the maternity bags. I’ll go and get the car. Meet you at the front.”

  “You want me to come?”

  “Of course I do. And get a move on. Time, tide, and women in their second labours wait for no man.”

  O Why Was I Born with

  a Different Face?

  Barry set the two heavy maternity kits on the hall floor of a small, pebble-dashed bungalow. O’Reilly had gone ahead as soon as he parked the Rover, striding along a short driveway and in through a front door. He’d told Barry to bring the bags. At least he’d left the door open.

  Barry was panting. So was someone else, and he could hear a voice he recognized as belonging to the district midwife, Miss Hagerty. “Good girl, Jenny. Huff. Huff. That’s it.”