more good than the pills. Have you a glass or anything?”
Christopher pointed mutely to one of his bags on the floor. He could see it had been disturbed and subsequently rearranged.
Cormac rummaged in the bag for a bit and finally surfaced brandishing a battered tin mug.
“This it?” he asked triumphantly.
Christopher nodded.
“Not exactly Waterford Crystal, I’m afraid,” he said.
“No,” replied Cormac as he began to pour a small libation into the cup.
“More like Rathgormuck Brass. But then you wouldn’t know Rathgormuck, would you?”
Christopher smiled.
“Is there such a place?”
Cormac nodded sagely.
“Ay, of course there is. It’s a wee village a few miles from
Waterford. Nothing much goes on there: they’re born, they get married, they have lots of kids, they die, and the kids bury them.
That’s all there is to it. Much like anywhere else, I suppose.” He paused.
“I was in London once. It wasn’t any different.”
He paused again and sipped a measure of poteen before continuing.
“So, what brings you to this wee excuse for a boil on the backside of the Himalayas?”
“Business, Dr. Cormac, just business.”
The doctor raised one grey-flecked eyebrow.
“Oh aye? Is that with a capital “B” or a small “B”? I’m just asking. Look, mister, I’ve lived in this place long enough to fart in Bengali, and I knew what you were the minute I wiped your fevered brow and smelt your vomit. You’re no more a box-wallah than I’m a yogi.”
Christopher sighed. First Carpenter and now this man.
“What do you think I am, then?” he asked.
Cormac shrugged.
“Couldn’t say exactly. ICS, IPS .. . Heaven-born, anyway.
You’ve got the look. You’ve got the manner. And you’ve got the voice, even if it is a wee bit on the shaky side at the moment. Do I get a prize?”
Christopher shook his head. It hurt.
“No prizes. Anyway,” he went on, trying to change the subject, “you’re no more a missionary doctor than I’m the Kaiser’s mother.”
The doctor unplugged his fire-water and raised it to his lips. He made a face.
“Inpoteeno veritas, my son. You might be right.. . and then again, you might be wrong. To tell you the truth, sometimes I’m not too sure me self I am a doctor, mind you the real McKay. The Queen’s University, Belfast, then a wee stint in Edinburgh with Daniel Cunningham, the Anatomy Professor. After that I got a post as a Junior House Surgeon in the Royal Infirmary. That’s where I went wrong.” He paused and took more poteen.
“You see, there was a group of Christians in the Infirmary. You know the type: spotty faces, glandular trouble, masturbation, and daily prayer. Medics for Jesus, they called themselves. I won’t tell }’ you what other people called them.
“I’m still not sure if it was Jesus that formed the main attraction or a pretty wee nurse called May Lorimer. He had the power to raise the dead, but she wasn’t short of a few miracles of the same kind herself. Anyway, I put my name down, stopped drinking, started masturbating, and prayed nightly for the love of Jesus Christ and May Lorimer both.
“I was doing all right for a man with religious mania until there was a big convention out at Inverkeithing. Three days of sermons, prayers, and how’s-your-father. On the last day, there was a call for medical missionaries. If we couldn’t save the black man’s soul, we’d save his body for resurrection and eternal torment.
“Anyway, the sublime Miss Lorimer was on the platform calling us to the Lord. I was on the floor and the flesh was calling me to Miss Lorimer. The next thing I knew, I was on the platform. And before I had time to think about what I was doing, I was on a big ship with a copy of the Bible in one hand and a bag of secondhand surgical instruments in the other. Next stop Kalimpong.”
Christopher pointed mutely to one of his bags on the floor. He could see it had been disturbed and subsequently rearranged.
Cormac rummaged in the bag for a bit and finally surfaced brandishing a battered tin mug.
“This it?” he asked triumphantly.
Christopher nodded.
“Not exactly Waterford Crystal, I’m afraid,” he said.
“No,” replied Cormac as he began to pour a small libation into the cup.
“More like Rathgormuck Brass. But then you wouldn’t know Rathgormuck, would you?”
Christopher smiled.
“Is there such a place?”
Cormac nodded sagely.
“Ay, of course there is. It’s a wee village a few miles from
Waterford. Nothing much goes on there: they’re born, they get married, they have lots of kids, they die, and the kids bury them.
That’s all there is to it. Much like anywhere else, I suppose.” He paused.
“I was in London once. It wasn’t any different.”
He paused again and sipped a measure of poteen before continuing.
“So, what brings you to this wee excuse for a boil on the backside of the Himalayas?”
“Business, Dr. Cormac, just business.”
The doctor raised one grey-flecked eyebrow.
“Oh aye? Is that with a capital “B” or a small “B”? I’m just asking. Look, mister, I’ve lived in this place long enough to fart in Bengali, and I knew what you were the minute I wiped your fevered brow and smelt your vomit. You’re no more a box-wallah than I’m a yogi.”
Christopher sighed. First Carpenter and now this man.
“What do you think I am, then?” he asked.
Cormac shrugged.
“Couldn’t say exactly. ICS, IPS .. . Heaven-born, anyway.
You’ve got the look. You’ve got the manner. And you’ve got the voice, even if it is a wee bit on the shaky side at the moment. Do I get a prize?”
Christopher shook his head. It hurt.
“No prizes. Anyway,” he went on, trying to change the subject, “you’re no more a missionary doctor than I’m the Kaiser’s mother.”
The doctor unplugged his fire-water and raised it to his lips. He made a face.
“Inpoteeno veritas, my son. You might be right.. . and then again, you might be wrong. To tell you the truth, sometimes I’m not too sure me self I am a doctor, mind you the real McKay. The Queen’s University, Belfast, then a wee stint in Edinburgh with Daniel Cunningham, the Anatomy Professor. After that I got a post as a Junior House Surgeon in the Royal Infirmary. That’s where I went wrong.” He paused and took more poteen.
“You see, there was a group of Christians in the Infirmary. You know the type: spotty faces, glandular trouble, masturbation, and daily prayer. Medics for Jesus, they called themselves. I won’t tell }’ you what other people called them.
“I’m still not sure if it was Jesus that formed the main attraction or a pretty wee nurse called May Lorimer. He had the power to raise the dead, but she wasn’t short of a few miracles of the same kind herself. Anyway, I put my name down, stopped drinking, started masturbating, and prayed nightly for the love of Jesus Christ and May Lorimer both.
“I was doing all right for a man with religious mania until there was a big convention out at Inverkeithing. Three days of sermons, prayers, and how’s-your-father. On the last day, there was a call for medical missionaries. If we couldn’t save the black man’s soul, we’d save his body for resurrection and eternal torment.
“Anyway, the sublime Miss Lorimer was on the platform calling us to the Lord. I was on the floor and the flesh was calling me to Miss Lorimer. The next thing I knew, I was on the platform. And before I had time to think about what I was doing, I was on a big ship with a copy of the Bible in one hand and a bag of secondhand surgical instruments in the other. Next stop Kalimpong.”
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