The Miracle Man by James Skivington Page A

hunched forward, his pale face under the lank hair showing signs of anxiety. Over the past few months he had been steadily working his way through the illnesses in his copy of “The Home Doctor”, and having been mentally if not physically debilitated by the vicissitudes of anaemia, botulism, two minor cancers, (with a temporary diversion by way of ovarian cysts), some physical benefit had at last accrued by the yoga-like contortions he undertook while examining his toes for Foot,Athlete’s. Now he was in the grip of an unknown fever, and was also momentarily expecting an attack of haemorrhoids so severe that he wondered whether he should really be standing up. Having sneaked a preview of Verrucae, he had pondered the fascinating possibilities of simultaneously suffering these and haemorrhoids, in which case neither sitting nor standing would be possible. This was the first time that he had succumbed to two illnesses at once, and he looked forward with pleasurable dread to the many combinations he might exhibit before finally expiring, his place in Irish medical history secure.
    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 cameinto 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