Patches of moss sprouted from coping stones and the mortar between the bricks. An empty clothesline drooped overhead.
Colin was sitting on a wooden box on the tarmac. Beneath his short pants both knee socks were crumpled round his ankles. One knee was grazed. Barry saw how the lad cradled his pet ferret. The little animal twitched its whiskers and wrinkled its pointed nose, clearly scenting the newcomers. Colin turned and grinned. “How’s about ye, Doctor Laverty? Come to see my Butch?”
“And you, Colin. How’s the wing?”
Colin lifted the wounded extremity in its sling. “Dead on, so it is.”
“May I see?”
“Aye, certainly.” He slipped off the sling.
Barry looked at the white plaster of Paris tube that ran from Colin’s wrist, past a flexed elbow, and halfway up his upper arm. The hand was neither swollen nor reddened. “Wiggle your fingers.”
“See that there?” said Colin, waggling his fingers at Butch. “It don’t hurt nor nothin’. And that ambulance ride was wheeker. Like you said he would, Doctor, your man, the driver, put on his ‘nee-naw, nee-naw’ just like one of them cops and robbers chases at the fillums.”
Barry tousled Colin’s hair. “Good man-ma-da.” He turned to Connie. “You’ll not even know there was anything wrong by the time the cast comes off.”
“That’s great. His daddy’ll be pleased too.”
Barry squatted. “And this is Butch?”
“Aye, and he’s a wee cracker, so he is.”
There was pride and affection in the boy’s voice. Barry bent and stroked the coarse white fur of the animal’s head and noticed the bright gleam in its beady eyes. In spite of himself he shivered. Those were killer’s eyes. Ferrets were related to stoats, weasels, and polecats, and pound for pound they were some of nature’s fiercest predators. “You take good care of Butch, Colin.” Barry stood. “I’ll be off, and you can go back to school on Monday.” He turned and pretended not to see Colin sticking out his tongue.
“I’ll show you out, Doctor,” Connie said. “On Monday, Colin.” She grinned as she turned to lead the way, and when they were in the kitchen said, “Excuse me, sir. You know I was dead sorry to hear about Mrs. Kincaid, so I was. I sent her a get-well card.”
“That was thoughtful.”
Connie blushed. “And if you don’t mind me saying, sir, my Lenny’s a great carpenter, but he can’t cook for toffee apples. I’ve a notion not many men can, you know.”
“You’d be right.”
“If you’d not be offended, sir,” she turned to a counter and picked up something wrapped in a tea towel, “this here’s a Guinness beef pudding. I was going to bring it round.”
“That’s very kind.” Barry accepted the parcel, feeling its weight. He knew Kinky’s suet-crusted puddings were cooked in ceramic pudding bowls just like this one.
“Pop it as it is into boiling water for forty minutes, to heat it up, like.”
“Thanks very much, Connie,” Barry said. “I’ll get the bowl back to you.”
“No hurry.”
“I’d better be running on,” he said. “I’ll let myself out.”
It took him two minutes hurrying through the raindrops of a sun-shower to reach the Duck. He pushed through the swinging doors and walked into tobacco fug and the smell of beer in the low-ceilinged, oak-beamed single room where men in cloth caps and collarless shirts leant against a bar, pints of Guinness in their hands. Others, a few in suits and ties, occupied tables. The wooden tabletops were marked with cigarette burns and rings left by the bottoms of glasses.
No one noticed him come in because Helen Hewitt’s da was singing. Although it was technically against the law in Ulster to sing in public houses, Willie Dunleavy, the proprietor and barman, let men with good voices perform, provided that they sang no sectarian songs. Constable Mulligan always turned a blind eye to a bit of music; indeed after he’d had a few, he could often be persuaded to
Colin was sitting on a wooden box on the tarmac. Beneath his short pants both knee socks were crumpled round his ankles. One knee was grazed. Barry saw how the lad cradled his pet ferret. The little animal twitched its whiskers and wrinkled its pointed nose, clearly scenting the newcomers. Colin turned and grinned. “How’s about ye, Doctor Laverty? Come to see my Butch?”
“And you, Colin. How’s the wing?”
Colin lifted the wounded extremity in its sling. “Dead on, so it is.”
“May I see?”
“Aye, certainly.” He slipped off the sling.
Barry looked at the white plaster of Paris tube that ran from Colin’s wrist, past a flexed elbow, and halfway up his upper arm. The hand was neither swollen nor reddened. “Wiggle your fingers.”
“See that there?” said Colin, waggling his fingers at Butch. “It don’t hurt nor nothin’. And that ambulance ride was wheeker. Like you said he would, Doctor, your man, the driver, put on his ‘nee-naw, nee-naw’ just like one of them cops and robbers chases at the fillums.”
Barry tousled Colin’s hair. “Good man-ma-da.” He turned to Connie. “You’ll not even know there was anything wrong by the time the cast comes off.”
“That’s great. His daddy’ll be pleased too.”
Barry squatted. “And this is Butch?”
“Aye, and he’s a wee cracker, so he is.”
There was pride and affection in the boy’s voice. Barry bent and stroked the coarse white fur of the animal’s head and noticed the bright gleam in its beady eyes. In spite of himself he shivered. Those were killer’s eyes. Ferrets were related to stoats, weasels, and polecats, and pound for pound they were some of nature’s fiercest predators. “You take good care of Butch, Colin.” Barry stood. “I’ll be off, and you can go back to school on Monday.” He turned and pretended not to see Colin sticking out his tongue.
“I’ll show you out, Doctor,” Connie said. “On Monday, Colin.” She grinned as she turned to lead the way, and when they were in the kitchen said, “Excuse me, sir. You know I was dead sorry to hear about Mrs. Kincaid, so I was. I sent her a get-well card.”
“That was thoughtful.”
Connie blushed. “And if you don’t mind me saying, sir, my Lenny’s a great carpenter, but he can’t cook for toffee apples. I’ve a notion not many men can, you know.”
“You’d be right.”
“If you’d not be offended, sir,” she turned to a counter and picked up something wrapped in a tea towel, “this here’s a Guinness beef pudding. I was going to bring it round.”
“That’s very kind.” Barry accepted the parcel, feeling its weight. He knew Kinky’s suet-crusted puddings were cooked in ceramic pudding bowls just like this one.
“Pop it as it is into boiling water for forty minutes, to heat it up, like.”
“Thanks very much, Connie,” Barry said. “I’ll get the bowl back to you.”
“No hurry.”
“I’d better be running on,” he said. “I’ll let myself out.”
It took him two minutes hurrying through the raindrops of a sun-shower to reach the Duck. He pushed through the swinging doors and walked into tobacco fug and the smell of beer in the low-ceilinged, oak-beamed single room where men in cloth caps and collarless shirts leant against a bar, pints of Guinness in their hands. Others, a few in suits and ties, occupied tables. The wooden tabletops were marked with cigarette burns and rings left by the bottoms of glasses.
No one noticed him come in because Helen Hewitt’s da was singing. Although it was technically against the law in Ulster to sing in public houses, Willie Dunleavy, the proprietor and barman, let men with good voices perform, provided that they sang no sectarian songs. Constable Mulligan always turned a blind eye to a bit of music; indeed after he’d had a few, he could often be persuaded to
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