The Miracle Man

THE MIRACLE MAN

JAMES SKIVINGTON

Copyright © 2010 James Skivington

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

Matador
5 Weir Road
Kibworth Beauchamp
Leicester LE8 0LQ, UK
Tel: (+44) 116 279 2299
Fax: (+44) 116 279 2277
Email:
[email protected]
Web:
www.troubador.co.uk/matador

ISBN 978 1848763 418

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Typeset in 11pt Palatino by Troubador Publishing Ltd, Leicester, UK

Matador
is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

In memory of my uncle, Dan Brogan

At a seat near the window of the Glens Hotel bar, Limpy McGhee hooked out his top dentures with his thumb and began poking at the brown-stained plastic with the blackened end of a spent match. On the other side of the table, young Danny Kyle was hunched behind a copy of the Northern Reporter in which he was reading reports of Sunday hurling matches and now and then saying in a doleful voice,

“Ah, Jasus,” and “Damn it to hell, they don’t deserve to win nothin’!”

Limpy’s pouchy face, hoar-frosted with three days of grey stubble, contorted into gargoyle features as he concentrated on his task. From his mouth came alternate sounds of soughing and whistling and his top lip billowed and fell like curtains at an open window. Jabbing at the immovable matter on the dentures, he broke the match. “Whuck it!” he said and picked another one from the ashtray, scrunched the end of it on the table to remove the cindered head then began jabbing at the teeth once more.

At the next table three ruddy-faced men, just back from the sheep sales, sat and complained about the scandalously low livestock prices, unable to figure out for the life of them why
the government had not intervened. But only, of course, when prices were low. When they were high, they certainly did not need the damned government poking its nose into a man’s business. Beneath the table a black-and-white collie dog lay dozing, its long muzzle resting on its paws. For Limpy, further poking with the match was to no avail and so, throwing it down in disgust, he rummaged through the pockets of his ragged jacket until he found a stubby pencil. He was in the habit of taking this out now and then to hold poised before him and above a scrap of paper, so that an onlooker might conclude that the scruffy little man was about to record some gem of wit or acute observation. But now, he dug the dull lead into the offending material and heaved. The pencil skidded off the teeth, leaving the broken lead behind.

“Whuck it!” he said again, and gouged at the dentures. With an air of defeat, Danny Kyle slowly lowered his newspaper, saying,

“Hey, McGhee, did you read this bit about – ? What the hell are you doing?” His lips curled in disgust.

“Trying to sort whese whuckin’ teewh,” the old man said, digging viciously with the broken pencil. “Whem bloody sweets owh Kilbride’s. A new sort of mints, he said. Fwiggin’ concrete they are!”

“Jaysus, McGhee, you haven’t the manners of a pig. Would you put them bloody teeth back in your mouth before I throw up!”

Young Danny averted his eyes and his hand went involuntarily to his mouth. Beneath the table, the dog opened one eye.

“How can I put whem back when where’s a whing like a bloody gumboil on whem?” He bored at the remains of the mint with the pencil.

“Just get them back in, will ye!”

“Nowhing wrong wiwh whem? What the hell’s what,
when?” He reached across the table, shoving the upper denture close to the face of his companion, who sprang back.

“Get away, you filthy old git!” His face was suddenly pale and his abdomen jerked as his stomach contracted.

“Look! Bloody concrete!” Limpy’s jab at the teeth pushed them from his grasp and they plopped into Danny Kyle’s glass of beer.

“Oh – jeez,” the old man said. “Now look what you made me do.”

“You – eejit! You . . . ”

Limpy looked at the teeth which wobbled and grinned back at him from the bottom of the brown liquid. It was like smiling into a mirror at twilight. He lifted the glass and shook it. The teeth clinked against the sides.

“You’ll need to drink some of what so I can get whem out,” he said.

“With your teeth in it? Are you mad? You owe me a pint, McGhee!”

Danny Kyle’s stomach heaved again.

“Ah, for Jasus sake, Kyle.” A grubby hand with long, dirty nails was plunged into the glass, fingers wiggling to catch the teeth. “Where y’are,” Limpy said, plucking them out and holding them up. He licked the beer that ran down his hand then shoved the beer glass in front of Danny Kyle again. “Here.”

As the young man looked at the beer a kind of leaden pallor slowly suffused his face. “I’m not – drinking that,” he said in a slow and heavy tone. “There’s – bits floating in it.” Then the chair legs suddenly scraped on the floor as he jumped up, wheeled and raced for the toilets, hand to his mouth and stomach churning. Limpy merely shook his head and turned his attention to the teeth once more.

This time he held them flat on the table, as if they were biting into the wood, and applied the edge of a coin to the
sticky blob, leaning forward to exert the maximum pressure. The coin skidded, the hand holding the teeth lost its grip and they were catapulted off the table to land in front of the dog who opened his eyes and took an immediate interest in the object before him.

“Bugger!” Limpy held his hand out towards the dog, who was sniffing the teeth. “Good dog.”

It gave a low growl and nudged the teeth towards itself. The men at the table with their backs to Limpy carried on talking in loud voices.

“Good dog,” Limpy said, hunkering down on the floor and giving the animal the bottom half of a smile. “Give. Where’s a good boy.” Again the dog gave a warning sound, picked up the dentures in its mouth and turned back under the table with them.

“Whuck it,” said Limpy.

As someone came to the punchline of a story, a roar of laughter erupted from the next table, the man nearest Limpy shaking his huge frame and drumming the table with his fist. From behind the bar, the hotel owner Dermot McAllister glanced up briefly from his newspaper. With some difficulty, Limpy got down on his hands and knees and began to crawl after the dog, but had barely got his head and shoulders under the table when a big hand grabbed the seat of his trousers and slowly dragged him out. He looked up to see three ruddy faces staring down at him. “Well what d’ye know, it’s a leprechaun,” he told his friends. And then to Limpy, “What the hell are you playing at?”

“That mongrel of yours. It’s got my bloody teewh.”

The men glanced at each other and smiled. They had always known that the villagers of Inisbreen were a little eccentric. That’s what came of living beside the sea on the road to nowhere.

“I can assure you, Mister, that my dog’s had the same set of
teeth since he was a pup,” the man said with mock seriousness.

“Damn it to hell,” Limpy said, “he stole my whuckin’ teewh!”

“I’d say,” the man cocked his head to one side and looked at Limpy through narrowed eyes, “I’d say you probably look better without them. What d’you think, boys?”

All three of them began to laugh and the little old man’s face twisted in annoyance. The sheep farmer pointed under the table. “You better mind how you go under there. He can be vicious when he takes the notion – and you wouldn’t want to be bit by your own teewh.”

One man struck up with a helpless, whining laugh, while the other two followed in a deep, rumbling chorus. Dermot McAllister, who had been observing all of this from the counter, simply smiled and shook his head as, red with anger, the old man began to crawl under the table, saying,

“Come on doggy, where’s a good boy.”

When he had at last recovered his teeth and finished his drink, Limpy McGhee hobbled out the front door of the bar, made his way round to the back of the building and went through a gap in the wall into the yard behind the hotel kitchen. Going quickly across the yard to the kitchen door, he looked around furtively before knocking on it. On hearing from inside the footsteps approaching, he at once hunched forward and composed a look of utter dejection on his face. There was a pause, and then the door scraped open to reveal his sister, Mrs Megarrity, known as the Winter Cook at the Glens Hotel. A small, stout woman, she wore a crumpled mauve jumper and a black skirt covered by a stained apron. Her feet were barely contained by soft shoes which listed like badly loaded barges. She nodded and gave a smile at her reprobate brother.

“Ah, it’s yourself, John. Come away in and I’ll make you a drop of tea. McAllister’s down in the bar,” she gave a sly smile
as she turned away, adding, “though I daresay ye’d know that yerself.”

Limpy hobbled through the doorway and stood there, his hands clasped before him, his head slightly bowed in deference to the sister from whom he was once more about to extract some money.

“I’ll hardly bother with the tea, Lizzie. I was just passing and I thought I’d better call in and see how ye were doing.”

The Winter Cook manoeuvred a large black kettle onto the hot-plate of the stove.

“Passing, is it? Haven’t ye been in that bar this last hour or more.”

“Ah well, I must admit I have, Lizzie. I have that.” He gave a dry cough. “I was coming down the hill there and I was took breathless, and says I to myself, ‘John McGhee, the hand of time’s upon ye.’ So I just popped into Dermot McAllister’s for a wee whiskey to ease the congestion in the tubes. And sure enough, it did the trick.” He demonstrated his newfound ability to breathe easily.

“Jasus tonight,” his sister declared, “ye must have a chest like a cabin trunk, the amount of whiskey ye pour into yerself. Ye go whippin’ in that bar door like ye was on rails.”

“Ah now, Lizzie, don’t be hard on me.” He gave her a pathetic look whose frequency of use had rendered it all but ineffective. “I’m not getting any younger and it’s no easy job getting about now, with the bad leg.” He gave it a hefty slap. “An’ with money short, an’ all – well, it’s hard enough getting good grub.”