right on my own.”
“Aye, so,” she said, “but you’d not be if you didn’t have that nice young Doctor Laverty to share the load.”
“True on you, Kinky,” he said. As he climbed the next flight, he wondered how the young man was getting on with the home visits.
Barry had parked Brunhilde by the kerb of Comber Gardens in the housing estate. He’d found an empty space between other parked, older-model cars. One he reckoned had to be twenty years old if it was a day.
He grabbed his medical bag, got out, closed the car door, and turned his coat collar to the bitter blast. The wind behind him whipped the tails of his raincoat past his legs, and the material was chilly against the backs of his calves. He was outside Number 19, and with the system of odd-numbered houses on one side of the narrow street, even numbers on the other, there were only five narrow terrace houses between Numbers 19 and 31, his next port of call.
He strode rapidly but not rapidly enough. He was overtaken by dead leaves and fish-and-chip wrappers being bustled across the footpath’s badly laid paving stones. He almost tripped where one concrete slab had ridden up like some urban tectonic plate over its neighbour. Typical, he thought, of the shoddy workmanship of Councillor Bertie Bishop, whose work crews had built the estate.
Barry stopped in front of Number 19, where Kieran and Ethel O’Hagan lived. He lifted the cast iron knocker and let it fall. One sharp knock was all it took to get Ethel to the door. The couple would have been waiting for his arrival, and although she was more than eighty, Ethel had the quick, bustling movements of a much younger woman. “Come on in, Doctor, out of that. It would founder you, so it would.”
“Thanks, Ethel.” Barry stepped into a narrow hall, and as the front door was closed behind him he shivered. It wasn’t much warmer inhere than it was on the street. That would account for why Ethel O’Hagan was wearing a heavy sweater, a knitted bonnet, and woolen gloves with the fingers cut off. Not only did Bishop’s workmen lay bloody awful footpaths, they hadn’t a clue about proper insulation of brick walls or such niceties as double glazing. Finding central heating in a Bishop-built house would be as likely as finding an orangutan perched on top of the Ballybucklebo maypole.
“Kieran’s in the kitchen.”
Barry followed Ethel. The last time he’d been in this house, poor old Kieran, who was suffering from benign prostatic hypertrophy, had been experiencing an episode of acute urinary retention. He’d had his surgery in September and had made a complete recovery. Kinky had said today’s call was something to do with the man’s finger, and Ethel didn’t want to take her elderly husband out in the gale.
The kitchen was small and snugly heated by a wall-mounted gas fire that popped and spluttered and threw out a cheering warmth. Kieran sat on a simple wooden chair beside a cleanly scrubbed pine table. A saucepan simmered on the stove. The window in the back wall was covered with chintz curtains.
Ethel loosened the strings of her bonnet, took off her gloves, and filled a kettle from a single tap over the porcelain sink. “Would you like a wee cup of tea in your hand, Doctor?”
Barry smiled. The cup of tea. It had to be offered, but no offence would be taken if it were to be declined. God, if he accepted a cuppa in every house where he called, his tonsils would be as well afloat as Noah’s ark. “No thanks, Ethel, but you go right ahead.” Barry took off his raincoat and folded it over a chair back. Then he asked, “So Kieran, how’re the waterworks?”
The man’s old, lined face split into a huge grin. “You know the waterfall at the head of the Bucklebo River, sir?”
Barry nodded. “I hear there’s big trout in the pool under it,” he said with a grin.
Kieran chuckled. “Ever since my operation, Doctor, I’ll give that pool a run for its money. I’m pissing like a
“Aye, so,” she said, “but you’d not be if you didn’t have that nice young Doctor Laverty to share the load.”
“True on you, Kinky,” he said. As he climbed the next flight, he wondered how the young man was getting on with the home visits.
Barry had parked Brunhilde by the kerb of Comber Gardens in the housing estate. He’d found an empty space between other parked, older-model cars. One he reckoned had to be twenty years old if it was a day.
He grabbed his medical bag, got out, closed the car door, and turned his coat collar to the bitter blast. The wind behind him whipped the tails of his raincoat past his legs, and the material was chilly against the backs of his calves. He was outside Number 19, and with the system of odd-numbered houses on one side of the narrow street, even numbers on the other, there were only five narrow terrace houses between Numbers 19 and 31, his next port of call.
He strode rapidly but not rapidly enough. He was overtaken by dead leaves and fish-and-chip wrappers being bustled across the footpath’s badly laid paving stones. He almost tripped where one concrete slab had ridden up like some urban tectonic plate over its neighbour. Typical, he thought, of the shoddy workmanship of Councillor Bertie Bishop, whose work crews had built the estate.
Barry stopped in front of Number 19, where Kieran and Ethel O’Hagan lived. He lifted the cast iron knocker and let it fall. One sharp knock was all it took to get Ethel to the door. The couple would have been waiting for his arrival, and although she was more than eighty, Ethel had the quick, bustling movements of a much younger woman. “Come on in, Doctor, out of that. It would founder you, so it would.”
“Thanks, Ethel.” Barry stepped into a narrow hall, and as the front door was closed behind him he shivered. It wasn’t much warmer inhere than it was on the street. That would account for why Ethel O’Hagan was wearing a heavy sweater, a knitted bonnet, and woolen gloves with the fingers cut off. Not only did Bishop’s workmen lay bloody awful footpaths, they hadn’t a clue about proper insulation of brick walls or such niceties as double glazing. Finding central heating in a Bishop-built house would be as likely as finding an orangutan perched on top of the Ballybucklebo maypole.
“Kieran’s in the kitchen.”
Barry followed Ethel. The last time he’d been in this house, poor old Kieran, who was suffering from benign prostatic hypertrophy, had been experiencing an episode of acute urinary retention. He’d had his surgery in September and had made a complete recovery. Kinky had said today’s call was something to do with the man’s finger, and Ethel didn’t want to take her elderly husband out in the gale.
The kitchen was small and snugly heated by a wall-mounted gas fire that popped and spluttered and threw out a cheering warmth. Kieran sat on a simple wooden chair beside a cleanly scrubbed pine table. A saucepan simmered on the stove. The window in the back wall was covered with chintz curtains.
Ethel loosened the strings of her bonnet, took off her gloves, and filled a kettle from a single tap over the porcelain sink. “Would you like a wee cup of tea in your hand, Doctor?”
Barry smiled. The cup of tea. It had to be offered, but no offence would be taken if it were to be declined. God, if he accepted a cuppa in every house where he called, his tonsils would be as well afloat as Noah’s ark. “No thanks, Ethel, but you go right ahead.” Barry took off his raincoat and folded it over a chair back. Then he asked, “So Kieran, how’re the waterworks?”
The man’s old, lined face split into a huge grin. “You know the waterfall at the head of the Bucklebo River, sir?”
Barry nodded. “I hear there’s big trout in the pool under it,” he said with a grin.
Kieran chuckled. “Ever since my operation, Doctor, I’ll give that pool a run for its money. I’m pissing like a
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