“It wasn’t until she told us her wee neck was stiff and she started to throw off that I told Mairead, no more mucking about,” Gerry said. He put his arm around his wife’s shoulder. “I says to her … I says, ‘I’m for getting himself or your man Laverty, so I am.’”

  “You did the right thing, Gerry.” Barry looked at Mairead and saw the moisture in her eyes.

  Barry saw the father nod to himself. His shoulders seemed to sag less. The mother swallowed, rubbed her eyes with the backs of her hands, and managed a weak smile.

  “I’m pretty sure we’ll get her right as rain in no time.” Proper treatment should effect a complete cure, but there were risks of complications. Cases of subsequent blindness or deafness sometimes occurred. Water on the brain, epilepsy, and muscular spasticity happened, and very rarely a patient died. “I just need,” he said, “to take a wee look at you, Siobhan.”

  The little girl gave him a grave, old-womanish look. “That’s all right,” she said.

  He set the bowl on the chair. Barry’s examination was thorough, and as he worked he asked more questions of Gerry and Mairead. They told him that Siobhan had not had any rigors or seizures. Good.

  Clearly she was not in a coma, but her neck was stiff, and light hurt her eyes. To his relief there was no purple rash or skin haemorrhages, which were invariably present if the germ had invaded the bloodstream and caused septicaemia—blood poisoning—which had a lethal potential.

  Barry stood, shoved his stethoscope into his pocket, and inclined his head toward the hall door. It wasn’t customary to discuss children’s illnesses in front of them.

  Gerry followed Barry into the hall. The moment the door was shut he asked, “Is it bad, Doc?”

  “It could be better, Gerry. I’m pretty sure Siobhan has bacterial meningitis.” He saw Gerry frown. “It used to be called brain fever and—”

  “My God.” Gerry put a hand against a wall to steady himself. “That sounds ferocious bad, sir.”

  Barry shook his head. “Once we know what germ’s causing it, the right antibiotics’ll see to it.”

  “Honest?”

  “Honest to God.” The odds were very good that the child would recover, but they had to act fast. “We’ll have to get her up to Purdysburn in Belvoir Park on the far side of Belfast.”

  Gerry frowned. “The looney bin? Is her brain that bad?” His voice rose.

  “No, Gerry, no. Siobhan’s not going mad. There is a psychiatric hospital there, but Purdysburn’s also where the fever hospital is. That’s where she’s going.”

  “Oh. That’s all right then.”

  Where Patricia would have been in 1951. Barry pursed his lips. He shouldn’t be thinking of her now, but pieces came back to him of the first night he’d met her and he’d walked her to her flat in the Kinnegar.

  He’d asked about her limp, thinking it might be from a field hockey injury.

  “I didn’t hurt it,” she’d told him, quite curtly.

  “What happened?”

  “Nineteen fifty-one.”

  “The polio epidemic?”

  “My left leg’s a bit short. I suppose I won’t be hearing from you now? Men don’t like women who aren’t perfect.”

  “I don’t give a damn about your leg, Patricia. I don’t care at all.”

  Gerry’s voice broke into Barry’s reverie. “Will we need the ambulance, sir?”

  “Sorry, Gerry, I was thinking.” About the stars in Orion’s belt that night, and how their light sparkled like burnished silver from a tear on a young woman’s cheek. And how in that instant Barry Laverty had lost his heart to a girl with a limp.

  “Thinking’s your job, Doc.” Gerry managed a small smile. “Don’t let me interrupt.”

  Barry forced himself back to the now. “Where’s your phone?”

  “Thonder.” Gerry pointed to a small table.

  Barry dialled. Come on. He pulled his fingers through his hair. Come on.

  “Ambulance dispatch.” The voice was impatient.

  He heard phones ringing, other voices in the background. “It’s Doctor Laverty in Ballybucklebo. I’ve a girl with meningitis—”

  “Jesus, Doc. It’s like a friggin’ zoo here tonight. It’ll be hours before I can get an ambulance out to you.”

  “But I need one now.”

  Barry heard the irritation. “You and every other bloody doctor in County Down that’s having too good a Boxing Day to be bothered to see patients. We get nights like this. There’s bugger all I can—”

  “Just a minute.” Barry let an edge creep into his voice, exactly as O’Reilly would have. “I’m here, in her house, with a girl with meningitis who needs to get to hospital now.”

  The dispatcher snapped. “And I told you you’ve not a snowball’s chance in …” The voice softened. “Hang about. Did you say Laverty?”

  “Yes.”

  “The fellah that runs patients to the Royal in his own wee German motorcar?”

  “That’s right.”

  “How’s about ye, Doctor? It’s Danny here, so it is. Sorry I was a bit short, sir, but I’m run off my feet, so I am.” His tone was friendly now.

  Danny? Barry had no recollection of the man.

  “I was having a smoke when you brung in a wee girl with the miscarriage in August; then I showed up at a road accident and you’d a sodger with a broken leg and a fellah dead in a sports car—”

  That Danny. “I really do need an ambulance, Danny,” Barry said.

  He heard an in-drawing of breath. “Like I said, it’s a wee bit tricky, like. They’re all out, and the roads is—”

  “I’ve a very sick kiddie here. I have to get her to the fever hospital. Is there nothing you can do?”

  “Gimme a wee minute, Doc. I’ve a half-notion. Might be able to help you out, seeing it’s you and all.”

  It was just as his father used to say about how things worked in Ulster. “It’s not what you know, son, it’s who you know that counts.” He was getting to know people, and not just in Ballybucklebo.

  Barry heard Danny say, “Over,” and realized the man was using a radio-telephone. “Roger that, Joe. Out.”

  “Doc, I’ve Joe McSorely coming in from Helen’s Bay. They’re not far from you. He says he’ll pick up your wee one, go to the Royal with his patient, then on to Belvoir. Would that work?”

  “Marvellous. She’ll be ready to go. The address is 11, Belfast Road. Just past the chapel.”

  “They’ll be there soon.”

  “Thanks, Danny.”

  “That’s all right, so it is.” Over the line Barry heard phones ringing in the background. “Jesus, it’s a right Paddy’s market. Gotta go. Bye, Doc.”

  “The ambulance is coming?” He heard the relief in Gerry’s voice.

  Barry nodded. “Tell Mairead to get Siobhan ready. Clean nightie, wash bag, a favourite toy. I’ll phone Purdysburn.”

  “Right, sir.”

  Barry redialled and waited to speak to the registrar on duty. He knew the proper treatment for bacterial meningitis was usually a combination of sulphadimidine, with the antibiotics benzylpenicillin and chloramphenicol. Once in a while the infective organism was not one likely to respond to that combination. Getting a sample to culture before starting drugs had its place.

  It would require a lumbar puncture to get at the fluid that bathed the brain and spinal cord. Barry shuddered. The prospect of slipping a needle between two of a child’s lumbar vertebrae, even if the skin had been anaesthetized, made him squeamish. He simply could not be a paediatrician. Better to be a country GP and let somebody else do the job, somebody like the registrar he was trying to talk to.

  He reckoned he had been waiting at least five minutes when a woman finally answered. “Sorry to keep you. We’re very busy.”

  “That you, Irene?” He thought he recognised a classmate’s voice. “Barry Laverty here.”

  “Hi, Barry. What have you got for us?”

  “Meningitis. Wee girl called Siobhan.”

  “That’ll be the sixth tonight.” He could hear Irene’s tiredness.

  Barry asked if he should start the antibiotics, but was told not to. He should give Siobhan’s brother, Angus, a prescription for sulphadimidine—half a tablet in milk every four hours for three days. He might have been near whoever infected Siobhan.

  “Thanks, Irene.” Barry put the phone down just as the front doorbell rang.

  The ambulance attendant had dark rings under his eyes, his navy-blue uniform mostly hidden under an army-surplus greatcoat. “Wee girl wi’ meningitis?” He carried a blanket.

  “Come in.” Barry led the man, who Danny had called Joe McSorely, to the parlour. “Gerry … Mairead. The ambulance is here.”

  Gerry bent and picked up a tearful Siobhan. She clutched her teddy bear and whimpered, “I want my mammy.”

  “It’s all right, dear,” Mairead said. “Mammy’s coming too.” She looked at Barry. “I can go, can’t I?”

  “Joe?” Barry asked.

  “Aye, certainly. We’ve another patient on board, but we’ll make room. The wee button’ll be scared shi … scared witless without her ma, so she will. Here,” he said, giving Gerry the blanket. “Wrap her in that there.”

  “Can you carry her, Joe?” Barry asked.

  “Aye, no trouble.” He reached out to take the little girl.

  “It’s all right, Siobhan,” Gerry said. “Mammy’s going with you. I’ll need to stay at home to keep an eye to your brother.”

  “We’d best be going, Doc,” Joe said.

  “Thanks for coming, Joe.”

  “Sure isn’t it what we’re here for?” Joe, with Siobhan cradled in his arms, started to move past Barry. Siobhan took a deep breath, made a whooping noise—and vomited all over Barry’s clean pants.

  “My God,” Gerry said. “I’m sorry about that, Doc.”

  Barry shrugged.

  “Could we get them dry-cleaned for you?” Gerry asked.

  Barry shook his head. “It’s all right.” He started to lift his coat from the rack. “I’ll write you a prescription for Angus—just a precaution—then I’ll be running along home.”

  Running? It was a figure of speech. Why should he rush? What was there to hurry back to Number 1 for?

  6

  Put the Car Away

  O’Reilly was looking forward to getting home. He chuckled and would have rubbed his hands together had he not been steering. He drove past Palace Barracks and into Holywood, the only Irish town other than Ballybucklebo to have a Maypole. Not much farther to there now.

  And Kitty would be coming down on … damn it all, why not ask her to stay for the whole weekend? He grinned and let go a blast of smoke from the pipe he’d lit only seconds after getting into the car. He would ask, by God. As an old bachelor—well, old widower—he had forgotten until five months ago how enjoyable it was to be in the company of a woman, and a bright, feisty, bloody good-looking woman at that.

  He’d tell Barry to take the weekend off, and would give Mrs. Kincaid a few days as well. She had a married sister, Fidelma, and nieces and nephews down in County Cork. Fidelma’s husband, Eamon, farmed near Beal na mBláth. O’Reilly’d speak to Kinky tonight. By God, he would.

  He sang to himself:

  Oh love is pleasing and love is teasing

  And love is a pleasure when first it’s new …

  He accelerated, knowing he should stop thinking of Kitty O’Hallorhan and concentrate on his driving. The traffic was light, but the roads were still slippery despite their having been salted and sanded.

  On the far side of Holywood he hit a right-hand corner and felt the back end of the Rover start to go. O’Reilly wrenched the steering wheel into the skid, hoped to God nothing was coming the other way, and by brute effort forced the car back on course. He grunted and muttered, “Bloody slush.”

  The spire of the Ballybucklebo Catholic church loomed to his right. O’Reilly turned into a sharp left and headed for home, where he’d get his supper and a Jameson. He’d settle down in front of a big fire, get stuck into a plate of cold ham and turkey, see how young Barry was, and … “Christ Almighty.”

  He wrenched the wheel to the right, slammed on the brakes, and rammed the heel of his hand on the horn. Someone was wheeling a bicycle across the road in front of the car. He hauled the wheel back left, but this time nothing could bring the big car out of the skid. An unstoppable juggernaut, it crabbed ahead, missing the cyclist by inches. The crunching as the car’s nose slid into the ditch underscored the horn’s blaring. Steam hissed as it jetted from the radiator. O’Reilly sat rigidly now that the movement had stopped. “Bugger,” he muttered.

  Ignoring the steam, he put the car in reverse and floored the accelerator. Perhaps he could get the old Rover to limp home. The engine howled, the back tyres screeched, and the stink of burning rubber filled his nostrils. He decelerated, then tried again, with exactly the same results. “Bugger,” he said again, switching off the engine and pounding his fist on the steering wheel. “Hellfire and damnation.”

  O’Reilly grabbed a torch from the glove compartment and climbed out. The Rover’s nose was well into the ditch, and the rear tyres had dug muddy trenches and thrown twin plumes of darkness onto the skid marks behind. “Blue blazing buggery.” He’d have to leave the car and walk home. When he got his hands on the buck eejit with the bike—

  “Excuse me, Doctor sir.”

  Donal Donnelly stood in front of O’Reilly. Donal’s duncher was pushed back over his carroty hair, and he scratched his scalp. His other hand held his self-decorated bike of many colours by the handlebars.

  O’Reilly roared, “Donal? Donal bloody Donnelly, you great glipe, you unmitigated amadán. What in the name of the sainted Baby Jesus in velvet trousers were you doing crossing the road? You’ve put me in the fornicating ditch.”

  “Makes a change,” Donal said.

  “You impertinent—” But O’Reilly had already seen the funny side. He’d lost track of the number of times his driving had forced cycling locals, including Donal, off the road. He cleared his throat and tried to scowl at Donal, but then he said, “Fair play. Touché. You’re all right, Donal? Not hurt?”

  “Och, I’m grand, so I am, sir, but when I came to see how you were, I took a quick gander up front. There’s a brave dent in the bonnet of your motor; I think the radiator’s banjaxed. She’s stuck in thon ditch too. I doubt we’ll no’ get her out the night.”

  “I’ll have to leave her, get someone to bring a tractor round tomorrow and drag her out.”

  “I’ll get hold of Charlie O’Hara first thing,” Donal said. “He’s got a big Massey-Harris. Charlie’s a good head. He’ll see you right in the morning, sir.”

  “Thanks, Donal.” O’Reilly remembered his promise to Kitty. “I need another favour too.”

  “Fire away.”

  “If the road’s better tomorrow could you drive Miss O’Hallorhan’s car up to Belfast?”

  “Aye. In soul, I could. Me and Julie’s going down to Rasharkin to see her folks. It would save us the train fare to Belfast.”

  “Pop round about nine. I’ll give you directions—and a couple of quid.”

  “I’ll be there, sir.” Donal fidgeted. “Would you like a lift home now, sir?”

  “You’ve no car.”

  “No, but I’ve the bike, so I have. You could sit on the crossbar, like.”

  O’Reilly roared with laughter. He’d not been transported sitting sidesaddle on a bicycle since he was a chiseller, but why not? “You’re on,” he said, and with very little effort the archtrickster of Ballybucklebo was soon trundling along the road with the village’s senior medical practitioner clutching the bike’s crossbar.

  “Home, James, and don’t spare the horses,” O’Reilly roared. “I want to know the state of play at Number 1.”

  Donal wobbled near the snowy ditch, but regained his balance, and Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly threw back his head and in his mellifluous baritone belted out, “Daisy, Daisy, give me your answer, do …”

  He and Donal were finishing the final chorus, “But you’d look sweet upon the seat of a bicycle built for two,” when Donal stopped, put one foot on the ground, and said, “Here y’are, sir. Home sweet home.”

  “Good night, Donal. Thanks for the lift.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly?” Donal asked quietly.

  “Yes, Donal.”

  “It’s dark and it’s cold and this is no place for a chat, but I’m sore troubled by a wee money matter.”

  “Julie and the photographer?”

  Donal shook his head. “No. It’s to do with a horse.”

  “A horse?” O’Reilly pricked up his ears. When Donal was involved with racing greyhounds or horses, there was usually a bob or two to be made. “Tell me more.”

  “It’s too long a story, sir. I promised Julie I’d be home—”

  “Tell me when you pop round tomorrow.”

  “Would Friday suit, sir? Like I said, Julie and me’s going down to Rasharkin to see her folks for a few days.” He lowered his voice. “She’ll be with me tomorrow and I’d rather not talk about it in front of her.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Fair enough. Friday morning it is. I’ll be waiting with bated breath.” He leaned closer to Donal and lowered his voice. “I hope it’s a good story, Donal.”

  “Huh. It is not, so it’s not. It’s all about shares in a horse, you know.”

  “Shares?” O’Reilly frowned. “In a horse?”

  “Aye. And Councillor Bishop. My boss.”

  “Donal Donnelly, come inside this minute. I want to hear all about—”

  “Saving your presence, Doctor O’Reilly, I really need your advice, sir, but I promised Julie—”

  “All right, all right. Go on home, but I’ll expect you tomorrow at nine and at ten on Friday.”

  “I’m your man, sir. Thank you. Good-night, sir.”

  O’Reilly stood for a moment chuckling and watching Donal’s departing back. Shares in a horse and Bertie Bishop? He’d look forward to hearing that story.

 

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