An Irish Doctor in Love and at Sea (40 page)

Barry shrugged. “I went down to the yacht club. Your old recipe of keeping yourself busy helped. I'm still worried, but if it can't be cured it has to be endured.” He smiled. “I'm going to try to take your advice, believe there's nothing to worry about—and hope to hell you're right.”

“Good for you, and”—he inclined his head to Donal's table—“whatever Donal wants to tell us might just prove to be a little more of a distraction for you. Are you up to it?”

“Of course I am, Fingal. I'm not sick,” Barry said with an amused smile. “How'd the bird count go?”

“Great afternoon out on the lough. Lars was in excellent form.”

“Your pint, Doctor,” Willie said, handing O'Reilly his drink.

“Ta, Willie. And we're going to sit with Donal. Bring over Arthur's Smithwick's like a good fellah.” O'Reilly turned to Barry. “Doctor Laverty will settle with you later.”

Barry grunted, but smiled and said, “Cheaper than the five-pound bet I'd have been very happy to lose at Christmas.”

“Just be happy by Christmas and for tonight. Come on, Barry, let's see what's on Donal's mind.” O'Reilly moved ahead like a dreadnought through a fleet of corvettes and shouldered his way to where Donal and Dapper were sitting.

“Evening, Doctors.” Councillor Bertie Bishop was at a table nearby with a stranger. “This here's a friend of mine from Belfast, Ernie Ramsey. He's with the Belfast Chamber of Commerce.”

“How do you do?” Barry said.

O'Reilly grinned. Barry's public school education was shining through. Even after all these years of hearing that greeting, O'Reilly still wanted to ask, “How do you do what?”

“Rightly, sir. Grand altogether.”

“Welcome to Ballybucklebo,” O'Reilly said.

The man smiled.

“I'll not hold youse up, Doctors,” Bertie said. “Away you on and sit with Dapper and Donal. I hear he's getting some kind of rare Australian dogs?”

“News to me,” said O'Reilly with a straight face, keeping his promise to Donal not to let on that he was in on the secret. “I'm sure he'll tell us all about them. Enjoy your evening.” He led Barry to Donal's table.

Two other men were standing there finishing pints. “Shuey and Sammy's just leaving, so they are,” Donal said, “so if youse would like til sit with Dapper and me, sirs, we could have a bit of
craic
.”

Barry said, “How's the knee, Shuey?” Barry was treating the ninety-year-old for osteoarthritis.

“I'm still getting about, so I am, but I reckon your man Roger Bannister—”

O'Reilly could remember the excitement when the young physician had broken the four-minute-mile barrier twelve years ago, at the time considered an impossible feat. If Bannister had had Sergeant Livingstone on his tail, he might have gone even faster.

“I reckon thon boy could outrun me now, so he could,” Shuey said.

Everyone in the company laughed.

Sammy, Shuey's sixty-seven-year-old son, said, “Youse can laugh now, so yiz can. But you should have seen my da fifty years ago. Even when he was forty, he was still the best runner with the South Down Beagles, and you've til be bloody fit to run cross-country behind a pack of beagles chasing a hare, so you do. That ould saying ‘He runs like a hare' isn't because hares are members of the snail family.”

While there was a general muttering of assent, O'Reilly wondered if all the exercise—Shuey had been a shepherd and a keen oarsman as well—was the source of his longevity, and if the beagling could have been the cause of his arthritic knee.

“Take it easy, the pair of youse,” Donal said.

“Fair enough, Donal,” said Shuey, and leant on his son's arm. “Good night all.”

O'Reilly and Barry sat. “Under,” O'Reilly said, and Arthur lay down beneath the table.
“Sláinte.”
O'Reilly drank, savouring the bitter taste.

Donal said in a low voice, “The cat's out of the bag now about the Woolamarroo quokka dogs. Wee Colin told a wheen of his friends at school and they told their mammies and daddies, and now everybody knows.”

“Bertie Bishop certainly does,” O'Reilly said.

“'Scuse me.” Willie had come over with Arthur's bowl.

Barry paid and said, “So what's the next step?”

“Everybody knows Donal will be getting them on December the tenth,” Dapper said. “Now,” he lowered his voice, “til avoid any suspicions, like, Bluebird'll come and lodge with me when prospective buyers come over so she doesn't give the game away when people start taking her pups.”

Mary Dunleavy's Chihuahua, Brian Boru, the unwanted sire, wandered over and stopped at the table.

Donal, to O'Reilly's surprise, leant down and patted the wee dog's head. “Good boy.” He straightened up. “No point bearing a grudge.” His voice was barely audible over the pub's din. “The wee man was just doing what comes natural. And if our scheme works, and we make a bundle, he's the one responsible. Bloody good thing he's a long-haired Mexican. Makes the pups look less like greyhounds. In fact, them funny-looking craytures are like no dogs I've ever seen in my whole puff, so they're not.”

Brian Boru disappeared under the table to see his friend Arthur, and the sounds of lapping doubled.

“I thought at first it was a disaster,” Donal said, “but it's looking better now. Just goes til show that it's a sick wind that blows nobody any good.”

“Ill wind, Donal,” O'Reilly said.

“Aye, right enough. Ill. Anyroad,” and he took no care to speak softly now, “we're just waiting for the news to travel, maybe up til Belfast and some rich people, like the ones who live on the Malone Road or Cherryvalley.”

“Have you any notion how to get the word further afield?” O'Reilly asked, but was going to have to wait for an answer because a hush had fallen over the entire pub.

O'Reilly looked over at the doorway, where Lenny Brown stood holding his son Colin's hand. “Willie, I know youngsters aren't allowed in pubs,” Lenny said, “but this here's very special, so it is, and all the people we want til thank is in here.”

“Sure isn't Colin eighteen?” Willie said with a huge wink. “And isn't Constable Mulligan over in Newtownards the day? No problem. Come on on in.”

Lenny moved to the bar, lifted Colin so he could stand there, albeit stooped over because the wooden-beamed ceiling was so low. As usual, one knee sock was crumpled round one ankle.

“Now, gentlemen,
and
Donal Donnelly, who hardly qualifies.”

Prolonged laughter in which Donal joined. Ballybucklebo folks were masters of the gentle art of slagging, trading good-natured insults with no malice intended.

“Away off and chase yourself. Sure it takes one to know one, you know, Lenny, seeing as how you're not qualified yourself,” Donal said, returning the insult with interest, to more laughter.

“Nice one, Donal,” Lenny said, then waved an envelope over his head. “Everybody. This here come in this morning's post.” He paused for dramatic effect, then said, “Wait til youse hear this. Wait til youse hear this. My wee Colin's passed his Eleven Plus. He—”

Lenny got no farther. The room erupted in applause, a couple of whistles, several cries of “Dead on.”

Colin waved his clasped hands over his head like a victorious prizefighter.

Lenny waited until a semblance of silence returned. “I want til thank Miss Sue Nolan, who's not here.”

O'Reilly glanced at Barry, who was nodding, a melancholy smile on this face. “I'll tell her in my next letter. She'll be thrilled.”

“Thank you for that, and with Doctor O'Reilly and Alan Hewitt, who got me to see the light that letting him sit it was the best thing to do for my dead brill wee son.”

O'Reilly felt a constriction in his throat. Other people's success, particularly children's, always affected him.

“And Councillor Bishop. I had a wee private word with him this morning to let him know. He knows why I'm saying thanks til him and I think some of youse maybe do too, but he asked me for not til make a fuss about it, so he did. Anyroad, on behalf of my son,” Lenny lifted Colin down from the bar, “thank youse all.”

Once more the Duck sounded like Belfast's Hippodrome after a headliner had finished their act.

O'Reilly rose. “This should call for Champagne,” he said, “but—”

Willie interrupted. “We don't keep any of those fancy French fizzes here, sir.”

“And that's all to the good,” O'Reilly said, “for I'm not made of money, but I'd like to buy you a drink, Lenny, and can Colin have a lemonade or an orange crush?”

“I'll take a pint, please, Doctor,” Lenny said.

“Maybe,” Willie said as he started to put a pint on, “Colin would like one of those American Coca-Colas? I've a few in the fridge.”

“Wheeker,” said Colin. “Sticking out a mile.”

O'Reilly rose and made his way to the bar. He was aware that Bertie Bishop was at his shoulder. “Lenny,” O'Reilly said, “I'd like to shake your and Colin's hands. It's a great day for you two and Connie, Colin's mammy.” He shook with Lennie, but before taking Colin's hand he palmed a half crown. “Congratulations, son,” O'Reilly said, winked, shook, and felt the coin vanish.

“Thanks very much, Doctor,” Colin said.

“Now,” said O'Reilly, “you're going to grammar school. You make sure you work hard and make us all proud.”

Before Colin could answer, Bertie Bishop had edged past O'Reilly. “Congratulations, Colin,” he said. “I want you to have this.” He proffered a ten-shilling note.

Colin's eyes widened at the money, four times the amount O'Reilly had just given him. “All for me?”

“Every penny.”

“My God,” Colin said. “I'm getting rich, so I am. Thank you very, very much, Mister Bishop.”

Willie said from behind the bar, “Your pint, Lenny, and your Coke, Colin.”

“You enjoy your drinks,” Bertie Bishop said. He turned to O'Reilly. “Doctor, I wasn't eavesdropping nor nothing, but I overheard something Donal said and I've a wee notion I might be able to help.”

O'Reilly's mouth opened. How much had he heard? O'Reilly studied Bertie's face, but there seemed nothing there but genuine interest. Since the man's illness there had been a sea change in the most miserable gobshite in the village and townland. Maybe, O'Reilly thought, Ebenezer Scrooge hadn't needed three ghosts to make him change his ways. A serious illness could have done the trick. “Push your table up fornenst ours,” O'Reilly said.

When the seating arrangements had been made, Bertie said, “Donal, it's none of my business and if you want to tell me to take a hike that's all right, but I heard you saying you want rich people in Belfast to know about them there new dogs that's coming. I think I can help.”

O'Reilly watched as emotional warfare broke out on Donal's face, judging by his changing expressions: a frown for initial disbelief, a pulling up of one side of his mouth suggesting puzzlement, the lifting of his duncher and scratching of his carroty mop meaning he was wrestling with the dilemma of whether or not to trust a man who not long ago had tried to cheat Donal and his friends out of their shares in a racehorse. Finally, after replacement of the cloth cap, there came a beaming smile, which must mean that greed had triumphed over prudence. “Fire away, sir. I'm all ears, so I am.” Donal exchanged a look with Dapper.

“Right,” said Bertie. “You want to get the word about your Woolamarroo quacker—”

“Excuse me, sir. It's quokka.”

“I stand corrected. Quokka.”

Watching Donal, of all people, correcting another's pronunciation required O'Reilly to call on all of his self-control to stop himself guffawing.

“Me and Mister Ramsey here's”—the stranger bowed his head—“in the chamber of commerce up in town. They'll be having our Christmas dinner party on December the seventeenth. Mister Ramsey's having me and Flo as his guests. Would you consider bringing a couple of the pups to the predinner cocktails?”

“Why?” Donal asked.

“Ernie could put the word out beforehand about these amazing dogs, couldn't you?”

“Aye, certainly,” Ernie said.

“How much a pup?” Bertie asked.

Donal never hesitated. “Twenty pounds, sir. Them's pedigree dogs and I have the papers til prove it, so I do.”

Bertie whistled.

“I know twenty quid sounds like a lot,” Donal said, and continued with great solemnity, “but you only get what you pay for.”

“Right enough.” Bertie clapped Donal on the shoulder and said, “Twenty quid's pocket money to the likes of folks that run Mackie's Foundry, Harland and Wolff's. It'll be a wee doddle getting them til pay up.”

Donal looked sideways at Dapper, who nodded once and said, “If you say so, sir.”

“I do say so, Dapper Frew,” said Bertie, showing some of his former feistiness. He turned back to Donal. “Now, you're the dogs' owner so I'll bring you and a couple of pups to the party. Right, Ernie?”

“Right,” Ernie said, “and I'll get you on as a special agenda item before the dinner, during the cocktails.”

Bertie said, “You get that pretty wife of yours to tie some red ribbons round the wee doggies' necks. They'll fit right into the festivities.”

Donal scratched his head. “I'd like that, sir, but how am I going to get home? You'll be staying for the dinner, but I'd not fit in with all those highheejuns.”

“I'll run you up, Donal,” O'Reilly said quickly, “and home again.” And if I can't finagle my way in to watch Donal pull off the con trick, then my name's not Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly.

“That would be dead on, Doctor,” Donal said.

“Fine by me,” Bertie said. “Sounds like you've got valuable property there.” Bertie clearly believed every word Donal and his friend Dapper were saying.