tractor out there?”
Jamie roused himself. “Aye, that’s her, all right.”
“Looks like a very reliable machine. Have you had it long?”
Jamie brightened. “God, Doctor, that tractor’s as oul’ as me.”
“My goodness! I take it, then, that it belonged to your uncle.” Henry made a mental note to inquire about the “adoptive” uncle. But that would come later.
“Aye, that’s Uncle Mick’s Ford-Ferguson Model 9N. It was the first tractor in Ireland tae have a three-point hydraulic hitch and rubber tires, so it was.”
“Really! How very interesting.” Henry was glad he’d found an area of interest where Jamie could forget his blunder with the chair and lose himself for a while. “Pardon my ignorance, but what is a three-point hydraulic hitch?”
“Well, you see, it’s so you can tow a plough or hay-shaker on the back of it. It goes at twenty horsepower, ’cos it has a three-cylinder engine.”
The doctor took his seat again. He was happy to see that Jamie had lost his disconsolate look and was sitting more upright in the chair.
“How interesting! Wasn’t it Henry Ford who said his only competition was the horse?”
“Aye, that was him, all right. Is that your white car, Doctor?”
“Yes, that’s mine. Do you have a car yourself?”
“Naw, never bothered with them. The tractor does me all right, and me bicycle. Takes me into the town and home again. If I have tae go anywhere a bit farther, Paddy and Rose take me.”
“Paddy and Rose are family, are they?”
“Naw, not family. They’re good neighbors of mine, so they are. They take me tae Mass of a Sunday and the like.”
Henry was glancing at his pencil-written notes. He read the first.
“I understand you’re a part-time musician, James. What is it you play?”
He was regretting the words as soon as he’d uttered them. He recalled putting the same question to a Belfast patient several months before: Gavin Considine, a man in his late sixties with bushy gray sideburns and a paunch. Before Henry could stop him, Gavin had whipped a small harmonica from an inside pocket, put it to his lips, and launched into a medley of Larry Adler’s greatest hits. The impromptu jazz performance had continued for a good ten minutes before Henry could—tactfully—put an end to it. He hoped that the harmonica was not Mr. James McCloone’s choice of musical instrument.
He need not have worried. “I play the accordjin, Doctor,” Jamie said proudly.
“Ah! A lovely instrument. There are two types, aren’t there? A big one . . . What’s this they call it? The piano accordion. And the . . .”
“Mine’s a Hohner two-row button,” Jamie said with even more pride. “They’re wild hard boys tae play, so they are. The pianner accordjin is easier—though there’s them that say it’s harder, what with all that pushin’ and pullin’, and the shoulders would be cut off you by the end of an evening.”
“Sounds fascinating. And are you in a band or what?”
“Nah, just meself, Doctor. I give them the odd tune in O’Shea’s of a Sa’rday night, so I do.” He looked at the floor in an endearingly modest manner. “There’s them that would say I’m the best they’ve heard. Rose and Paddy and the like.”
“I’m sure they’re right.” Henry smiled and glanced quickly at his bullet list. “Indalpine. Are they helping much?”
“Helping a bit, Doctor. Make me tired all the time.”
“I know. They sometimes have that effect . . . When did you start drinking again?”
The good doctor had put the question in a light, almost casual tone of voice. Long, hard experience had taught him that it was the method that worked best. He’d schooled himself in taking his client by surprise. When the guard was down.
“The drinkin’?” Jamie looked up at the ceiling. “Must be the three weeks now. Naw, more than that. Must be the month. Aye, the month. When wee . . . when wee . . .”
He could not finish. Silence.
Henry
Jamie roused himself. “Aye, that’s her, all right.”
“Looks like a very reliable machine. Have you had it long?”
Jamie brightened. “God, Doctor, that tractor’s as oul’ as me.”
“My goodness! I take it, then, that it belonged to your uncle.” Henry made a mental note to inquire about the “adoptive” uncle. But that would come later.
“Aye, that’s Uncle Mick’s Ford-Ferguson Model 9N. It was the first tractor in Ireland tae have a three-point hydraulic hitch and rubber tires, so it was.”
“Really! How very interesting.” Henry was glad he’d found an area of interest where Jamie could forget his blunder with the chair and lose himself for a while. “Pardon my ignorance, but what is a three-point hydraulic hitch?”
“Well, you see, it’s so you can tow a plough or hay-shaker on the back of it. It goes at twenty horsepower, ’cos it has a three-cylinder engine.”
The doctor took his seat again. He was happy to see that Jamie had lost his disconsolate look and was sitting more upright in the chair.
“How interesting! Wasn’t it Henry Ford who said his only competition was the horse?”
“Aye, that was him, all right. Is that your white car, Doctor?”
“Yes, that’s mine. Do you have a car yourself?”
“Naw, never bothered with them. The tractor does me all right, and me bicycle. Takes me into the town and home again. If I have tae go anywhere a bit farther, Paddy and Rose take me.”
“Paddy and Rose are family, are they?”
“Naw, not family. They’re good neighbors of mine, so they are. They take me tae Mass of a Sunday and the like.”
Henry was glancing at his pencil-written notes. He read the first.
“I understand you’re a part-time musician, James. What is it you play?”
He was regretting the words as soon as he’d uttered them. He recalled putting the same question to a Belfast patient several months before: Gavin Considine, a man in his late sixties with bushy gray sideburns and a paunch. Before Henry could stop him, Gavin had whipped a small harmonica from an inside pocket, put it to his lips, and launched into a medley of Larry Adler’s greatest hits. The impromptu jazz performance had continued for a good ten minutes before Henry could—tactfully—put an end to it. He hoped that the harmonica was not Mr. James McCloone’s choice of musical instrument.
He need not have worried. “I play the accordjin, Doctor,” Jamie said proudly.
“Ah! A lovely instrument. There are two types, aren’t there? A big one . . . What’s this they call it? The piano accordion. And the . . .”
“Mine’s a Hohner two-row button,” Jamie said with even more pride. “They’re wild hard boys tae play, so they are. The pianner accordjin is easier—though there’s them that say it’s harder, what with all that pushin’ and pullin’, and the shoulders would be cut off you by the end of an evening.”
“Sounds fascinating. And are you in a band or what?”
“Nah, just meself, Doctor. I give them the odd tune in O’Shea’s of a Sa’rday night, so I do.” He looked at the floor in an endearingly modest manner. “There’s them that would say I’m the best they’ve heard. Rose and Paddy and the like.”
“I’m sure they’re right.” Henry smiled and glanced quickly at his bullet list. “Indalpine. Are they helping much?”
“Helping a bit, Doctor. Make me tired all the time.”
“I know. They sometimes have that effect . . . When did you start drinking again?”
The good doctor had put the question in a light, almost casual tone of voice. Long, hard experience had taught him that it was the method that worked best. He’d schooled himself in taking his client by surprise. When the guard was down.
“The drinkin’?” Jamie looked up at the ceiling. “Must be the three weeks now. Naw, more than that. Must be the month. Aye, the month. When wee . . . when wee . . .”
He could not finish. Silence.
Henry
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