‘What’s that?’
‘Well, a mate of mine’s wife had a baby born in the house and when he went in for its birth certificate, they just handed it over. No proof required. I mean how did they know he was telling the truth? He didn’t have the baby with him.’
‘When a baby is born at home, the attending doctor or midwife rings the maternity ward dealing with that area – St Martin’s in Dublin, in the case of Clonkeelin – and the birth goes on the register. The registrar’s office only has to ring the maternity ward in question to confirm before issuing the certificate.’
‘In that case, you wouldn’t do me another favour?’
‘What’s that?’
‘Ring St Martin’s and tell them you’ve just delivered a baby.’
‘Eh? What baby?’
‘A girl.’
‘What girl?’
I think taking a revolver out of my inside pocket gave him a hint. It affected his driving anyway. One look at it and he nearly ran into a hedge. ‘Watch the road now,’ I said. ‘We don’t want to be calling any doctors.’
He was a steady old boy, all the same, and soon got a hold of himself. Didn’t look like he was shitting himself or anything. Just like I had his undivided attention. Interesting how people’s faces react to this type of carry-on. Some the blood drains out of. Though it doesn’t always take a gun to make that happen – footsteps approaching the dormitory after lights out used to have the same effect; you get to know the sound of certain footsteps – while others’ ability to make spit runs out on them. The doc was fast becoming the latter. From then on he sounded like he could murder a drink. Still, as long as it didn’t affect his voice too much. It was his voice I wanted. More than likely St Martin’s would recognise it. Of course I could always ring them myself, saying I was Doctor Skeffington, and report a birth, but what if I hit on a nurse who knew him? She’d know right away I wasn’t him. Whereas if he rang, it would all seem authentic.
‘Look,’ he said, ‘I don’t know what all this is about, but—’
‘No buts, Doc. Just pull in at that phone box.’ (I’d clocked it on the drive out, for the return trip.) ‘All you have to worry about is making the call the way you always make it. Then you can go home.’ I find it best not to give people too much information when their lives are under threat. That way they can tell themselves that everything will be OK if they simply do what they’re told. It’s bullshit of course, but that’s self-preservation for you.
He hit the brakes.
‘In you go,’ I said and went in behind him. ‘Tell them Anne Donavan’s just had a baby.’
‘Anne Donavan? But Anne’s not even pregnant.’
What the fuck did that have to do with anything? Some people, I dunno, you have to tell them a dozen times. ‘Make the call, Doc, and stop fucking about. I haven’t got all night. C’mon, move. And don’t forget to tell them her address.’
He did what he was told, fumbling with the dial and pressing the ‘A’ button a couple of times when the hospital answered. ‘Hello, this is Doctor Skeffington … I’ve just delivered a baby to Anne Donavan, Clonkeelin …’ All that crack.
‘A girl,’ I whispered.
‘A girl,’ he told whoever was on the other end. ‘A baby girl.’
I’d decided to call the girl Frances incidentally. Frances Anne Donavan. I like the name Frances. The ‘Anne’ part was for the kid to latch on to as a sign when she grew up. Her birth had now been registered by Anne Donavan’s own doctor.
‘OK,’ I said, ‘back in the car.’
‘Can’t I go now?’
‘You don’t expect me to limp home, do you?’ What kind of doctor was he? It must’ve been the guts of ten miles back to Dublin. Not that I was going there right away. Besides dealing with him, I couldn’t leave my Merc lying around for Winters to find and think: fuck me, that’s Red Dock’s car. Wonder what it means. You know what cops are like, always wondering what stuff means.
I jumped in the back and told him where to go. Then came a spot of reminiscing. ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’
‘No. No, I don’t.’
I’d put on a bit of weight since our last meeting. ‘You made a similar phone call the night I was born.’ No gun needed that night.
‘The night you were born?’
‘You delivered me. My mother was Teresa Donavan. She had twins.’
I don’t think he was much into reminiscing. He was more concerned about his future. But it was coming back to him. Not his future – it was taking its last trip. The memory. Not a pleasant one, if the gob on him was anything to go by.
‘Which one of us was born first?’ I asked. The lady in question having since departed with the info, he was probably the only one left who knew.
‘Ah …’
‘Sean or me?’
‘Ah …’
‘Quit with the “ah”s, Doc. You’re not checking my tonsils. Which of us was born first? Sean or me?’
‘Ah …’ Shit. He hadn’t given it much thought of late. ‘In the name of God, why are you asking me this?’ was the sort of crap he was expecting me to put up with.
‘Answer me.’
‘But I don’t know.’
‘Was Sean first or was I? I’m Robert, by the way, in case you don’t recognise me. Nice to see you again after all these years. Which of us was born first? It’s a simple question. Me and Sean used to lay bets on it. He used to bet me he was. I used to bet him I was. Typical kids’ stuff. So who was born first – me or Sean?’
‘I don’t know,
