The Miracle Man (11 page)

“He’ll be going back to Limavady on his knees after a few days with that lady, so he will.”

Pig added his medical opinion on the illicit affair. “Aye, and maybe taking home more than he bargained for.”

Ahearn sat down, punched one hand in the other and said, “Well, damn me. Six months ago the man was at death’s door with the bad back. ‘Dan,’ he sez to me, ‘they took me in the hospital and had the gall bladder out of me and then they find out it wasn’t the gall bladder after all.’ ‘Well,’ sez I, ‘did they
put it back in?’ ‘Bugger me, d’you know what, Dan? I never thought to ask that,’ says yer man.”

From the back shop Peggy May came with a big mug of tea, but despite her rigid carriage a quarter of the contents were spilled on the journey.

“And how’re you today, Peggy May?” Pig Cully looked at the young girl with lascivious eyes.

“I’m doing very well, Mr Cully,” she said pleasantly, having put down the cup beside Kilbride. As she turned towards the back shop she added, “And Mr Simpson said that I have the nicest wee arse he’s seen in a month of Sundays.” With a prim little smile she went through the doorway to a squeak of laughter from Pig Cully and a frown of disapproval from Kilbride.

“Holy God,” Ahearn bellowed, giving his knee a loud slap, “would you listen to that.”

Pig Cully’s laughter had no sooner died to a whine than the door opened and Limpy came in, his old greasy cap perched jauntily on the side of his head, his face registering a frown as he looked at Cully and Ahearn.

“Well, well, the things ye see when ye haven’t got a gun.” Then he broke into a smile and said, “How’re we doing this fine day, boys?”

Kilbride barely glanced up from his ledger as Limpy walked in measured steps towards the counter. In an exaggerated manner Pig Cully looked at his watch and said,

“Well, if it isn’t Lazarus himself. Must’ve been a bloody miracle to get you out of the bed before midday, McGhee. It’s hardly gone eleven.”

Limpy’s smile faltered. Had somebody told them already and denied him the pleasure of breaking the news? Ahearn grabbed Cully’s wrist and pulled it round to read the watch, almost hauling the unfortunate Pig off the bench.

“So she is, Cully! Eleven o’clock and no more.” He threw
back the wrist with a force equal to that with which he had grabbed it. “Well, that beats all hell,” he said, but did not elaborate.

“What got you out the pit, McGhee?” Pig Cully asked. “Fleas having a banquet?”

“I’ll ignore them remarks, Cully,” Limpy said grandly, “in the spirit in which they was intended.” Kilbride glanced up and shook his head. Limpy came and stood with his back to the counter. Beside Kilbride, Peggy May had come to stand and watch the comical figure. At least he’d never tried to put a hand up her dress.

“Did yous boys notice anything when I walked in here?”

“I thought the air smelt a bit different,” said Cully with a snigger. Ahearn’s eyes narrowed and he scrutinized Limpy from head to toe. Limpy strutted towards the door, his old boots clacking on the tiled floor, before executing a neat turn which was almost a pirouette and marching back again.

“Well? Did you get her? Eh? What’s different about me?”

“There’s another hole in your jacket, Mr McGhee?” Peggy May ventured.

Limpy gave another walking demonstration, half way through which Ahearn leapt up, clapped his hands and shouted,

“Jasus and his wee brother, I’ve got it!” He hit Pig Cully a thump on the shoulder that raised him from his reclining position.

“It’s the legs of him! It’s the bloody legs, man.”

“What the hell about his friggin’ legs?” Cully said angrily.

“The wee bugger can walk. His limp’s gone!”

Limpy gave a huge grin and slapped his hands together.

“Spot on, the big man!” he declared.

Then several times Ahearn punched one hand into the palm of the other as he walked around and around Limpy and stared down at the miraculous leg. Frank Kilbride, who had
been smiling quietly to himself as if he knew something the others did not, began to take an interest and asked to see a further demonstration, which they all watched with fascination.

“I decided to take a short cut – by way of abbreviation – across the field beside the house. Just when I was passing the Mass Rock, this woman in a white get-up and a kind of a light around her head is sort of floating above the Rock, with the arms out, looking at me. Well, I needn’t tell ye boys, I nearly fell over.”

“Ye were pissed,” Cully told him.

“I was damn all of the sort, Pig Cully. God forgive ye. ‘Mr McGhee,’ sez she,” he stuck his arms out in front of him, “‘I have long been troubled by your haffliction, and this very evening you will receive permanent relief from it.’ And then there was this dazzling light came flying down to my bad leg – “ he gave it a resounding slap, “ – and the next thing I knew – I was walking perfect.” Limpy slowly looked from one face to the next for approval.

“Damn me,” Ahearn said softly. “The Virgin Mary herself.” He crossed himself and stretched out his hand towards Limpy’s formerly bad leg.

“Would ye mind if I touched the article in question?”

“Not at all,” said Limpy, “not at all,” almost indicating with a nod of his head that they should form a queue. “That’s what it’s there for. In fact, I sometimes feel as if it’s almost no longer mine. Like, it’s been given over to – “ he searched for the appropriate word, and having found it, held it aloft with evident satisfaction, “ – the faithful.” He must remember that. Father Burke would like it.

Ahearn’s trembling fingers pressed against the torn and grubby material of Limpy’s trousers.

“Jasus McGonagle,” he almost whispered, “you can feel a – a sort of – electric thing running through it.” He quickly
withdrew his hand. “Boys,” he said with slow deliberation, “if this here isn’t a miracle – then Ian Paisley’s a Fenian.”

And Limpy puffed out his chest and smiled and smiled.

Mr Pointerly stood on the bridge and looked out towards the mouth of the river, where the incoming waves met the steady flow of brown water. From time to time the spit of sand across the river from the hotel would change shape or partly disappear, depending on the tidal action of the sea and on the river’s flow, but apart from that, everything looked the same to him as it had done all those years ago, when he had first rowed his little dinghy in and out between the moored boats and cast his line in the hope of bringing a salmon – or at least a brown trout – home to Mother. Now, as he wandered around the village and the strand, the faces of the young people echoed those he had known, so that he was never quite sure of the generation to which they belonged and sometimes even fancied that it could be one of his boyhood companions who had never grown old, and that he himself was still in his youth. It was most disconcerting. But then so had been many things in his life. He had wanted to be a painter, or a poet – something of that sort – but Father wouldn’t hear of it, and Father had held the purse strings. So he had been forced to go into the family business, to spend long boring hours in that hateful factory with its clattering machinery and meaningless metal parts turned out by the thousand, and then in the office with its ledgers of interminable rows of figures. But in the years since he had acquired the time and the income to indulge his artistic leanings, he had never once been able to resurrect them. They had been tragically stifled at birth. It really was too bad.

Glancing to one side and up the village street, he saw a small figure approaching. Quickly he turned his head away to look across the river. It was that dreadful McPhee chap, the one with the bad leg. Rarely sober, he was. It made you wonder
where they got the money. Mr Pointerly watched as a large car pulled up in front of the hotel and a man, a woman and a boy of about ten got out and went into the foyer. He watched the front door intently, until the man came out again and began taking suitcases from the boot to carry inside. They were staying. They were actually going to be staying at the hotel. Would he make their acquaintance? He gave a little shiver of excitement. And then the McPhee person accosted him.

“And how’re we this fine morning, Mr Pointerly?” Limpy leant on the parapet beside him and looked as if he was settling down for the day. At least he was down-wind.

“Very well, thank you.” The man was a perfect pain. Why didn’t he go and bother someone else? Mr Pointerly anxiously watched the front door of the hotel.

“Have ye heard the news?”

There was no reply from Mr Pointerly who stood like one of the herons to be seen up river, eyes locked on its objective.

“Well, ye wouldn’t have, would ye? My leg, the bad one, ye know? It’s had a miracle cure, Mr Pointerly.” Limpy looked up at the silent man who was gazing into the distance. “I know, I know, it’s hard to believe, but that’s what it was. A miracle cure, as sure as this leg’s walking straight – or will be as soon as I start it off again. Got the power of two now, Mr Pointerly,” he slapped the leg, “the power of two. I swear to God, it could walk two ways at once.”

Mr Pointerly half turned towards Limpy and gave a wan smile, his gaze remaining firmly on the hotel door. “Is that so?”

So Limpy began to tell his tale once more, adding a few little flourishes here and there for effect, while Mr Pointerly nodded and said “Really?” and watched the luggage being taken piece by piece into the hotel and the sturdy boy with the golden hair darting in and out of the front door. Here he was trying to keep an eye on things and this idiot beside him was banging on something about a leg. They loved to talk, these
people. Any old thing as long as it was talk. Why, when he was a boy there used to be three men and when the weather was fine they would stand on the bridge – this very bridge – and talk the whole day, disputing and arguing, alternately laughing and cursing each other. Sometimes he came out of the hotel in the morning and half expected to see them still there, still arguing about things of little consequence, still laughing about less.

“What d’you think of that, Mr Pointerly? A bloody miracle. As sure as a gun’s iron. You can touch it if you want to.”

“I – beg your pardon?”

“I said you can touch my leg if you want to.”

“Wh – Why should I want to touch your leg, Mr McPhee?”

“Then you’ll feel the tingling. Other people do.”

The old man turned and gave Limpy his full attention.

“Good grief, man, not in the street. D’you want to get us both arrested?”

“What?”

“How was I supposed to know? You’ve never given any indication before.”

“Any indication of what, Mr Pointerly?”

Mr Pointerly nodded and winked. “You know. I mean, if you had come to me – discreetly. Got to be discreet, old fellow. Good Lord, you must know that. Look,” he glanced around him before delving into his pocket and pulling out two five-pound notes, which he crumpled in his hand and then held out to Limpy, “get yourself a drink. We can have a little private talk sometime soon, mh?”

Limpy glanced down at the two notes that had been thrust into his palm and his fingers quickly closed around them. This was better than working for a living, although as he had had no recent experience of that, he had to rely on his imagination, which fortunately was prodigious. Clearly, he should’ve had this miracle years ago.

“Thanks very much, Mr Pointerly.”

“Not at all, McPhee, not at all. Now you run along, like a good man.” He winked. “I’ll be in touch with you soon, don’t worry.”

Limpy touched the peak of his cap.

“Good luck to ye, Mr Pointerly,” he said, then quickly added, “and God bless ye.” He was a man of religious significance now, a living example of the power of the Lord, so he had to keep on the right side.

He set off across the bridge towards the hotel at a jaunty pace. Mr Pointerly looked after him and wondered if at last his luck had turned. Here was someone right under his very nose, and he hadn’t even noticed. Not the most appealing of specimens, of course, but then how particular could he afford to be? A bit of a wash and brush up would work wonders. Mr Pointerly gave a little shiver of excitement and anticipation. He would have to arrange a meeting with him, somewhere discreet. Perhaps up in that little old house of his on the back road, where they would be undisturbed. That sounded ideal. And if the man was a little shy, which was understandable in the circumstances, then no doubt a pleasant surprise would easily overcome his reluctance.

At the end of the bridge Limpy turned onto the narrow road that ran alongside the river and towards the Glens Hotel. Ten quid for nothing. Maybe he should chat to Mr Pointerly every day. Ever since the miracle, things had been looking up, so maybe now was the time to take the bull by the horns, while his luck was in, and do what he should’ve done years ago. Only it would need to be done on the sly, at first anyway. Given half a chance, Lizzie would have her nose poked into his business. And that sister of Cissy’s, Margaret, treating her like a child, “Cissy come here, Cissy do that”. He sure as hell didn’t want to get the rough edge of her tongue. So as he approached the
sitting room window of the hotel he paused to check what was supposedly stuck to the sole of one of his boots and then took a swift sidelong glance into the room. It was empty. He smiled and carried on walking, past the hotel, past the bar – a unique event which substantially tested his determination – and round the corner to the lane at the back.

Standing just inside the back door Limpy looked around him and listened intently. He thought he could hear some noises from the kitchen. That’d be Lizzie getting the grub ready. All he had to do was make it to the back stairs and he would be okay. All at once and up on his tiptoes he ran down the hallway and was climbing the stairs two at a time as if both Lizzie and Margaret Garrison were chasing him. Unused to rapid movement or indeed any substantial physical exertion, Limpy rapidly became breathless, so that by the time he reached the landing of the first floor his sides were pumping like bellows and he had to cling onto the banister. Maybe this was a job for a younger man. But he’d come this far and he wasn’t going to give up now. He’d given up before, all those years ago, and look what had happened. He pulled himself upright, smoothed his hand over his hair and surveyed the four doors on the landing. One sunny afternoon he’d caught a glimpse of Cissy looking out of her bedroom window, the one directly above the hotel entrance, and he’d taken a mental note of which one it was. It wouldn’t be difficult to work out which was her bedroom door. It was obvious that only the two middle doors led to rooms which faced the front of the building and after a few moments reckoning Limpy decided that the left hand one was Cissy’s. That had to be it. He’d worked it out.