The Miracle Man (9 page)

In his consulting room, Doctor Walsh paused before pressing the bell-push to summon his next patient. He turned and gazed out of the window to where a couple of fat wood pigeons sat in a fir tree. Slowly he put his head to one side, raised his arms and squinted along an imaginary shotgun barrel. Bang! He had got both of them with the one shot. Then he watched with glazed vision as they tumbled from the branch, wings flapping in a parody of flight, as though even in death they were attempting to soar to safety. That’s what he should be doing on a fine day like this. Or perhaps he could be along the river bank with a rod, stalking those elusive brown trout in the deep pools beneath the overhanging hawthorn and hazel or on the deck of his little boat, straining to haul a large cod up from the depths. He sighed and turned back to his desk, his hand poised over the bell-push. Perhaps, just perhaps, there would be one interesting case amongst today’s lot, one person for whom he could really make a difference, save a life, or just change a life for the better, rather than the usual crop of ingrown toenails, imaginary cancers and problems that should be dealt with by a social worker. He sat a little straighter in his chair and pressed the white button at the corner of his desk.

The outside door to the surgery opened and Father Burke came
into the waiting room, closely followed by Limpy, wearing the same clothes as he had been the night before – a pair of dark trousers with bulbous knees, a dirty tweed jacket frayed at the edges and one pocket flap torn off, cracked boots and a plaid shirt stiff with dried sweat. As the patients stared at the unlikely duo making their way directly to the consulting room door, they drew back with nostrils twitching at Limpy’s passing. He smiled and nodded to his audience. Maybe some of them had heard already, but if they hadn’t, they soon would. And a celebrity like he was shouldn’t have to wait in a queue. On the contrary. They’d soon be the ones forming the queue to hear his story, to touch the miraculous leg – “the celestial transplant”, sounded better, he had decided – or even to ask for his advice on religious matters.

The man who had risen from his seat at the sound of the buzzer and was reaching out for the door handle of the consulting room, suddenly found a smiling Father Burke at his side.

“I’m sorry,” the priest said, grasping the door handle, “parish business.”

After a peremptory knock by Father Burke, the two men marched into the consulting room and closed the door behind them, leaving the bewildered onlookers to stare in wonderment at each other. What could that old eejit and the new parish priest possibly have in common and why would they be seeing the doctor together?

Doctor Walsh looked from Father Burke, who had taken the only other chair in the room, to the individual who stood before his desk grinning like he was about to be pronounced sane.

“It’s very good of you to see us at such short notice, Doctor,” the priest said. “This is the man I was telling you about – Mr McGhee.”

The odour that wafted across the desk caught the doctor
unawares and he drew his head back sharply, leaving Limpy under the misapprehension that the doctor was mightily impressed by him.

“How’re ye, Doc?” Limpy said. “I’ve never had the pleasure of being unfortunate enough to need yer services. Thank God,” he added, for Father Burke’s sake. Limpy judged that his new status demanded a more formal manner of speech. After all, he wasn’t just anybody now.

Doctor Walsh regarded him with a distaste that would have been obvious to anyone but Limpy.

“You said something about – a leg – Father?” The doctor looked down at Limpy’s lower limbs as if they harboured a virulent plague, something that was not outside the bounds of possibility.

“Yes, Doctor. Mr McGhee appears to have undergone – shall we say an instantaneous recovery from a lifelong affliction. A severe limp.”

Limpy held himself a little straighter and beamed.

“And how long have you had this limp, Mr McGhee?”

“I inherited it from me father. He had one the dead spit of it.”

“You – inherited it.” The doctor sighed, saying under his breath, “Dear God.” Aloud he said, “I see. And now its completely gone?”

“Devil the sign of it. In fact, I would venture my opinion, Doc,” Limpy wound himself up to it, ready to deliver the phrase so lovingly fashioned and burnished in his mind, “that it was nothing less than what you might call – a celestial transplant, thanks be to God.” He slapped his restored leg and said, “She’s as good as new.” And then with his little choking laugh said, “In fact, better than new!”

Doctor Walsh gave a pained look to Father Burke, who did not reciprocate. A strange light gleamed in the eyes of the young priest.

“A celestial transplant,” the doctor said through clenched teeth. If he had had that shotgun, it wouldn’t be the pigeons he would be aiming it at now.

“I’d like you to examine him, Doctor, if you would. To verify that the leg is in perfect working order.”

Doctor Burke’s gaze slowly descended from Limpy’s matted grey hair to the toes of his battered boots.

“A visual examination, I think.”

There was a riverful of fish waiting to be caught and he had to be stuck with these two fools. He waved a hand.

“Just – walk up and down there a bit Mr McGhee, will you?”

Limpy promptly complied, with an enthusiasm born of novelty, and almost goose-stepped back and forth across the small room, whirling round at each end by means of a fancy three-step routine that seemed to have come naturally to him, as it had been entirely unpractised.

“Amazing,” Father Burke murmured. “Amazing.”

“Mr McGhee,” Doctor Walsh barked, “I didn’t ask for the Highland Fling. Just walk up and down in what passes for a normal manner.”

When Limpy had done so, the doctor asked him to get onto the low examination table and slip down his trousers. This revealed two skinny and hairless legs and a pair of tattered underpants, all of which were covered in a grey patina of dirt. Limpy looked down at his legs as though he had just made their acquaintance.

“It’s this one, Doc. I swear to God it could run a mile on it’s own.”

Doctor Walsh regarded the miraculous leg.

“Now that would be a miracle.” He took a pencil from his desk and poked the flesh around the hip joint. “Judging by the colour of this limb, Mr McGhee, it would appear that your so-called “celestial transplant” was from a donor of somewhat
more Asian origins than yourself. Tell me – and I hesitate to use a profanity in front of a man of the cloth – but, do you have such a thing as a bath in your house?”

“Ah, you obviously don’t know his house, Doctor,” the priest said. “Pre-Renaissance Celtic.”

The doctor nodded.

“Our family was never very big on washing,” the little man on the couch replied. “My old Da used to say washing takes the bloom off yer skin.”

“If I could see yours,” Doctor Walsh said, “I might venture an opinion.”

Then the doctor had Limpy turn this way and that, stretch and bend his leg while he watched the action of hip, knee and ankle, after which he sat down behind his desk and motioned Limpy to dress.

“As far as I can see, Father, the leg is perfectly normal – apart from the colour, of course, which is not. But naturally, as I haven’t seen his previous disability, I’m unable to comment on the nature of the recovery.”

Father Burke looked so pleased that he might have effected the miracle himself.

“Thank you, Doctor. Thank you very much indeed. I think we may have something very exciting here. Possibly even – “ he stopped to savour the word, “miraculous.”

Limpy stood dressed and ready for further instructions. Doctor Walsh rose to indicate that they should leave.

“In this trade, Father, there’s not a lot of room for miracles,” he said, glaring at Limpy. “Soap and water – and a lot less drinking – those are the only miracles that are required here.”

“Ah now, Doctor,” said the parish priest with an indulgent smile, “everything in its place. The Good Lord sometimes works in mysterious ways.”

Perhaps he could see his way to working on these two, Doctor Walsh thought as he prodded the little man through the
doorway. When both of his visitors had gone, he rushed over to the window and flung it open.

Dermot McAllister sat in his tiny office under the front stairs of the Glens Hotel and wondered how best to break the news to the Garrison sisters. He had been over it four or five times in his mind, rehearsing different approaches, now hard and unyielding – the ruthless capitalist who pursued old women for money – now caring and understanding, ready to accept that it was merely a hiccup in their financial affairs and that they would soon be placed on a sound footing once again. No doubt the South African diamond mines had been having a difficult time, the Shell and Esso dividends had been a little disappointing, or else the rise in the birth rate had done the London Rubber Company shares no good at all. No, that wouldn’t do. Best keep it simple. And yet it all seemed so unlikely. Everybody knew the Garrisons were well-heeled, had been for decades, and it would surely be just a matter of days before they came up with the cash. There was probably no need for such an unpleasant confrontation. But unfortunately Agnes had been looking through the accounts and had noticed the missing payment from the previous month. It was pay up or get out, she had said. The place didn’t make enough as it was, without entertaining freeloaders. And of course she was right. Hadn’t he only been saying something of the sort himself a few weeks ago. Dermot sighed and began to go over the last few months accounts again. Perhaps he had made a mistake.

There was no-one in the foyer except Mr Pointerly, who was standing at the window looking forlornly out at the rain which came drifting across the bay in waves, obscuring the far shore and scarring the glassy surface of the river water. Now his walk would have to be postponed. He squinted in the other direction, the one from which the prevailing weather came, up towards the round-topped mountain that was the infallible
barometer. “If you can’t see the top for cloud,” a local would tell a tourist, “the weather’s going to be bad. And if you can see it – it’ll be worse.” The mountain-top was covered in cloud, so perhaps in a short time he could take a stroll – up the river would be nice – see if there was anyone about, any boys fishing there. He could talk to them, tell them about how that place had been a favourite fishing spot of his as a lad, give them the benefit of his years of experience and perhaps even share their sandwiches with them. A little frisson of excitement ran through his stooped frame and he wished that the rain would hurry away. He turned to see the two Misses Garrison coming down the stairs. He nodded gracefully.

“Ladies.”

“Mr Pointerly,” they replied, almost in unison. Like himself, he thought, from the old school. He almost regarded them as family, they had been residents together for so long. As he turned back to check on the progress of the rain – another reason why boys might be fishing, he happily realised – the two sisters opened the door of Dermot’s office and squeezed themselves inside.

“Ah, Miss Margaret, Miss Cissy,” Dermot said, taken a little unawares and rising so quickly that he bumped his head on the sloping ceiling. He sat down abruptly. “Please – take a seat.”

“Thank you, Mr McAllister,” Margaret said, and with some difficulty they wedged themselves into the available space, with Cissy noisily passing wind. She gave a little smile, and her sister and Dermot pretended not to notice.

“We received your message, Mr McAllister,” Margaret said superfluously.

“Ah, yes. Thank you for coming down, ladies. I – “ Dermot shuffled his papers. “There is a matter of some – well, delicacy – and importance – that I need to talk to you about.” Not for the first time he remarked to himself on the fact that when he conversed with either of the two sisters, he tended to adopt the
same somewhat stilted manner as they did. “It concerns the payment, or should I more properly say the non-payment, of your monthly bill.” He lifted a cheque and held it up to show where it had been stamped in red on the front. “I’m afraid to say that this cheque, Miss Margaret, has – well – bounced.”

Cissy Garrison looked at the slip of paper as if she had never seen a cheque before in her life, which may well have been the case, while Margaret gathered her huge handbag to her bosom, glared at Dermot and said,

“Bounced, Mr McAllister? Bounced? Garrison cheques do not bounce!” She waved a hand dashed with large freckles and when she spoke again her pouted lips lent yet more disdain to her voice. “There’s obviously been some administrative error at our accountants. I have no doubt whatsoever that it will be corrected very quickly.”

“Well, I hope so, Miss Margaret, I really do. But I have to say – it isn’t the first time this has happened. The cheque for the previous month, it also bounced. I had to re-present it.”

“Mr McAllister, you have my assurance,” her voice rose half an octave, “ – my absolute assurance – that I will speak personally to my accountants immediately. I’m quite sure there is nothing with which you should concern yourself. Nothing at all.”

Dermot shook his head. This was harder than he had imagined.

“I’m not a hard man, Miss Margaret, God knows, but I do need to tell you that, if another cheque bounces – well – I’m afraid that’s it. I really don’t have any choice. You and Miss Cissy, I’m afraid, will have to – go.”

Margaret looked at Cissy and then turned to stare at Dermot.

“Go?” she said. The word went through Dermot like a lance. “Go where, might I ask?”

Cissy passed wind with a squeak but this time she did not smile.

“I – I don’t know where, Miss Margaret. That would be up to you.”

The elder sister looked at him in frank amazement.

“But we do not have anywhere else to “go”, as you so crudely put it. We sold our house all those years ago, when we came to live here, when we made this our – home. My sister and I are not “going” anywhere.”

With a long sigh and a scratch of his head, Dermot tried again.

“Miss Margaret, you must see my position. I’m not a charity. I simply can’t afford to keep people here free of charge. I am running a business, after all.”