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Authors: Patrick Taylor
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dozer, Donal Donnelly,” O’Reilly said, chuckled, and leant closer. “As one betting man to another, how in the name of the sainted Jasus were you sure you were going to win?” Donal had a reputation for arranging for dogs to win greyhound races.
Donal shook his head and held a finger to his lips.
“All right, Donal. I understand.”
“But I would have won. Sure thing.” He winked at O’Reilly.
O’Reilly rose.
“Excuse me, sir, could I ask you a wee quick question, like, before you go?”
“Of course.”
“When I get home and my feet under me, would you and maybe Doctor Laverty have time to look at a house?”
“A house? What house?” For many Ballybucklebo folks their doctor was, along with their priest or minister, the font of all wisdom and expected to render opinions on nonmedical matters too.
“I may be a bit hazy about the crash and what went before, like,” said Donal, “but Julie told me I won a right clatter at the races and she’s got a wee bit put by.”
O’Reilly smiled. He’d helped Julie acquire some of that “wee bit.”
“We’d like for to buy a house, so we would. Nothing special, like, but a place of our own, and I’ve heard, on the quiet like, of one that might be going cheap, you know. It’s a lovely wee place, so it is,” Donal said. “It’s only a ways out of the village on the Bangor side. Where there’s a big hairpin bend in the Bangor Belfast Road? It’d be close enough for me to ride my bike to work.” He grinned. “Or nip into the Duck.”
“You’re a bloody menace when you’re sober on that multicoloured bike,” O’Reilly said. “I shudder to think of you with a skinful riding it on the Bangor Belfast Road.”
Donal looked at O’Reilly in much the way, he thought, Arthur Guinness could, and said, “When the wean comes in another three months I’ll be going dead easy on the booze.”
“You’re looking forward to being a daddy, aren’t you, Donal?”
“It’s going to be the best thing since sliced pan, so it is. Dead wheeker. And that’s another thing about the house. Julie can get the bus for to go to the shops, do her messages, like, and there’s a lovely kindergarten just up the road. For later, like, when the nipper’s starting to grow up.”
“You’ve it all planned, haven’t you?”
“Aye,” said Donal, “and there’s one more thing. It’s got a great wee garden behind a hedge where I can put in a kennel and a dog run for Bluebird.”
“Still racing her?” O’Reilly asked. He had a soft spot for Donal’s racing greyhound.
Donal shook his head. “I can’t get decent odds no more, she’s so bloody fast. All the tracks know the dog, but,” he dropped a slow wink, “I’ve a half-notion how to — ”
“Uh-uh, Donal. I don’t want to know.” O’Reilly had been involved in a few of Donal’s harebrained schemes. Not this time.
“Fair enough, sir,” Donal said. “What the ear doesn’t hear, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”
“Finish telling me about the house,” O’Reilly said. “I will have to be trotting soon.”
“It’s lovely and private, so it is. Quiet, like, you know? At the end of a wee lane. The hairpin bend’s like a big ‘U’ and we’re in the middle, between the arms, but you can’t even hear the lorries and motorcars going round the bend on the main road.”
“Bejasus, I know the place,” O’Reilly said. He did. It had been vacant for a year, since its owner, Myrtle Siggins, had died at 101. “It’s a lovely cottage.”
“You know the curve too, Doctor O’Reilly. Talking about me being a menace? You put me off my bike into the ditch there once, so you did, charging along in your big motorcar like your man Stirling Moss, the race car driver.”
O’Reilly harrumphed and said, “I must have been on my way to an emergency.”
“Aye. Or to the Duck,” Donal said.
O’Reilly was so taken aback by Donal’s newfound confidence he said nothing as the little man continued,
Donal shook his head and held a finger to his lips.
“All right, Donal. I understand.”
“But I would have won. Sure thing.” He winked at O’Reilly.
O’Reilly rose.
“Excuse me, sir, could I ask you a wee quick question, like, before you go?”
“Of course.”
“When I get home and my feet under me, would you and maybe Doctor Laverty have time to look at a house?”
“A house? What house?” For many Ballybucklebo folks their doctor was, along with their priest or minister, the font of all wisdom and expected to render opinions on nonmedical matters too.
“I may be a bit hazy about the crash and what went before, like,” said Donal, “but Julie told me I won a right clatter at the races and she’s got a wee bit put by.”
O’Reilly smiled. He’d helped Julie acquire some of that “wee bit.”
“We’d like for to buy a house, so we would. Nothing special, like, but a place of our own, and I’ve heard, on the quiet like, of one that might be going cheap, you know. It’s a lovely wee place, so it is,” Donal said. “It’s only a ways out of the village on the Bangor side. Where there’s a big hairpin bend in the Bangor Belfast Road? It’d be close enough for me to ride my bike to work.” He grinned. “Or nip into the Duck.”
“You’re a bloody menace when you’re sober on that multicoloured bike,” O’Reilly said. “I shudder to think of you with a skinful riding it on the Bangor Belfast Road.”
Donal looked at O’Reilly in much the way, he thought, Arthur Guinness could, and said, “When the wean comes in another three months I’ll be going dead easy on the booze.”
“You’re looking forward to being a daddy, aren’t you, Donal?”
“It’s going to be the best thing since sliced pan, so it is. Dead wheeker. And that’s another thing about the house. Julie can get the bus for to go to the shops, do her messages, like, and there’s a lovely kindergarten just up the road. For later, like, when the nipper’s starting to grow up.”
“You’ve it all planned, haven’t you?”
“Aye,” said Donal, “and there’s one more thing. It’s got a great wee garden behind a hedge where I can put in a kennel and a dog run for Bluebird.”
“Still racing her?” O’Reilly asked. He had a soft spot for Donal’s racing greyhound.
Donal shook his head. “I can’t get decent odds no more, she’s so bloody fast. All the tracks know the dog, but,” he dropped a slow wink, “I’ve a half-notion how to — ”
“Uh-uh, Donal. I don’t want to know.” O’Reilly had been involved in a few of Donal’s harebrained schemes. Not this time.
“Fair enough, sir,” Donal said. “What the ear doesn’t hear, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”
“Finish telling me about the house,” O’Reilly said. “I will have to be trotting soon.”
“It’s lovely and private, so it is. Quiet, like, you know? At the end of a wee lane. The hairpin bend’s like a big ‘U’ and we’re in the middle, between the arms, but you can’t even hear the lorries and motorcars going round the bend on the main road.”
“Bejasus, I know the place,” O’Reilly said. He did. It had been vacant for a year, since its owner, Myrtle Siggins, had died at 101. “It’s a lovely cottage.”
“You know the curve too, Doctor O’Reilly. Talking about me being a menace? You put me off my bike into the ditch there once, so you did, charging along in your big motorcar like your man Stirling Moss, the race car driver.”
O’Reilly harrumphed and said, “I must have been on my way to an emergency.”
“Aye. Or to the Duck,” Donal said.
O’Reilly was so taken aback by Donal’s newfound confidence he said nothing as the little man continued,
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