Five minutes of mad pacing and the phone rings.
“Pop in quickly,” Myra says. “But I warn you. He’s not in good form.”
Grace runs.
In Dr. O’Malley’s surgery, a faint whiff of BO hangs in the air, presumably from the last patient. The doctor glances up distractedly from fast typing with two fingers. He looks hassled. And he still has egg on his tie.
“What is it, Grace?”
“Dr. O’Malley. I was doing the repeat prescriptions, as you know, and noticed that Fred Cronin has never had bloods taken.”
“So?” he asks impatiently, resuming his battle with the keyboard.
She has to be careful here. She doesn’t want him to think she’s checking up on him. Because she’s not. “Well, I think we should run some tests to rule out haemochromatosis. He has a lot of the symptoms.”
“So, call him in. Take the bloods.” He glances up. “Is that it?”
Doesn’t he get the significance of this? He has been giving the man iron. “Yup that’s it. I’ll call him so.”
“And send in the next patient, would you?” he asks as if it’s her fault no one wants to see her.
Grace stands at the door to the waiting room and calls, “Next!”
The usual lack of response kicks in.
“For Dr. O’Malley,” she says as snippy as the doc himself.
An old woman gets up. “Thanks, love.”
Grace goes straight to Myra. Hands on the counter, she leans in. “Myra, can you call Fred Cronin and ask him to come in for a blood test.”
Myra pinches her lower lip. “Is he all right? Should he be worried?”
“No, no. I just want to check something.” She produces what she hopes looks like an optimistic smile. “When he comes – if he can make it today – send him in to me.”
As soon as Young Dr. Sullivan disappears into her surgery, Myra looks up Fred’s number. She knows something is up. That much she can tell. She always liked Fred Cronin. They were at school together. They even did a line for a short time. He just lacked a bit of gumption in the end, she thought. But a good man. A good man. He’ll probably still be milking now given the size of his herd. She’d better call the mobile.
Almost an hour later, there’s a gentle knock on Grace’s door.
“Come in,” she calls.
A tall man with a trusting face and jaundiced (not sallow) skin comes in, taking off his tweed flat cap. “Young Dr. Sullivan?”
She gets up with a smile. “Mr. Cronin?” She offers her hand.
His shake is strong. “Fred. Please.”
“Fred.” She notices, with disappointment, that his dark and soulful eyes are jaundiced too. “Have a seat.”
He sits heavily into the chair.
“How have you been feeling?” she asks.
“Tired. Fierce tired,” he says, nodding as though to confirm his words. “I thought the iron might give me a boost, but nothing seems to.”
Grace rubs her nose. “I want you to stop taking the iron for the moment.”
Fred grimaces. “I actually gave up on it when it wasn’t working.”
Thank God, Grace thinks. “So, you were taking it for how long?”
“About a month. Are you going to give out to me, now, Doctor?”
“No, no.” The absolute opposite. If she’s right, iron is the very cause of his problem. Grace suspects that Fred Cronin has an inherited disease called haemochromatosis which leads to a lifelong build-up of iron in the blood that incrementally damages the liver. The recommended treatment is to regularly lower the iron by draining off blood through phlebotomy. Dr. O’Malley has prescribed doing the opposite.
“Why did you call me in, Doctor?” he asks, twisting the cap in his hands.
“I’d like to take some blood samples, Fred, if that’s okay? And run a few checks.”
“What I mean is, why now?”
She reminds herself that Dr. O’Malley was doing his best, under pressure.
“Well,” she says as she struggles to find the right words, “I was writing your repeat prescription and I thought it was about time you had a check-up.” This is true. She reaches for a blood form, needle and syringe and Vacutainers. “Technically, you should be fasting for these–” And he should. But, if she’s right and he has haemochromatosis, his iron will be so high that fasting won’t make a difference.
He brightens. “Well, you’re in luck, Doctor. I was feeling a bit bloated this morning so I held off.”
Bloating is not the good news Fred thinks it is. Later, Grace will have to add it to his notes as yet another symptom of the disease she doesn’t want it to be. She snaps on her gloves, wishing she could turn back time.
Fred rolls up his sleeve. “How are you settling in, Young Dr. Sullivan?”
Grace looks him straight in the eye. “Fred, I may as well admit it. There’s a room full of patients out there all waiting for the same doctor. And that’s not me.”
Fred nods slowly. Then he scratches his chin thoughtfully. “Have you tried going to Mass?”
She laughs. “I’ll be there on Sunday. Front row.”
“You’ll want to be up at dawn to get the front row.”
Grace smiles. What a lovely man. She has never wanted to be wrong more than now.
“Okay, you’ll just feel a little prick.” Despite everything, this statement has the same effect on her that it always does. She quells the urge to giggle. “You’re doing grand,” she says as she fills the last of the Vacutainers with blood, removes the needle and presses cotton wool on the injection site.
“What are the tests for, Doc?”
“Iron, liver function tests, full blood count….” She’s not going to mention genetic testing unless she has to.
“I’ll be in trouble with Dr. O’Malley if the iron is down.”
Grace could shake Dr. O’Malley. “You were right to stop it if it wasn’t having any effect.” She tapes the cotton wool down. “Right, as soon as we have results, either myself or Dr. O’Malley will be onto you.”
“Liver function tests,” Fred says, thoughtfully. “So, you think it might be the liver?” Grace opens her mouth to speak. “My father died of cirrhosis,” he adds before she can reply. “But then I’m not a drinker like he was.”
Grace’s stomach churns. She doesn’t tell Fred that drinking may not have caused his father’s cirrhosis. News like that should wait until she is one hundred percent sure.
“We’ll know more once the bloods are back.” She snaps off the gloves. “Thanks for coming in.”
Fred gets up. “Thanks, Doc.”
“My pleasure.” Grace walks him to the door. “You take care,” she says with so much meaning.
“You too. You too.”
She closes the door and bites down on her fingers. She will die if she’s right.
17
Des puts on his tweed jacket and flat cap and reaches for his blackthorn stick. Jack’s school finishes ten minutes before Holly’s. They might have time for a short stroll – and a chat – before she gets out.
As he makes his way to the school, Des wonders how he ever managed without the stick. In a way, it’s like a calling card. This man walks tall. This man has style. Best of all, this man is not to be messed with.
The boys are already on their way out. In groups of varying sizes, they respectfully greet him by name. He returns their greetings with fondness. He delivered most of them into the world.
At last he sees Jack emerge, chatting with a red-haired boy, his demeanour so much lighter than earlier. Des is thinking of making himself scarce when Jack spots him and his face lights up. Surprised and heartened, Des raises his stick in greeting. Jack says bye to the boy and strides over to his grandad.
“That was the guy,” he says under his breath. “You were right. He’s harmless.”
Des smiles. “Harmless?”
“And actually okay.”
“Glad to hear it.” He glances up the road in the opposite direction
to the bus stop where most of the boys are headed. “D’you want to go for a little stroll before Holly gets out?”
“Sure.”
They take off.
Des breathes in the sea air, looking out towards the horizon. It’s good to get out of the house alright.
“Thanks for today, Grandad. I’d have got expelled without you.”
“Indeed and you would not.” Des turns to his grandson. No time like the present. “I was wondering, though. D’you think that something might have been on your mind that caused you to lash out at the boy? ’Twas just a thought I had – now that I have all this time on my hands to be thinking.” He says it lightly, like he’s mocking himself.
Jack looks at him for a long time, then shoves his hands into his pockets and glances down at the ground.
“This isn’t easy, all this change,” Des nudges.
Jack looks up again, out over the graveyard to the blue of the sea. He sighs.
Des waits, hoping that the boy can get it out, whatever it is.
Jack turns to him. “You can’t tell anyone.”
“Of course, I won’t.”
“Especially not Mum.”
Des stops walking. “Jack, you can tell me anything. I promise you it’ll go no further.”
Jack blows out a long breath. “It’s my dad.”
Des nods. Then listens intently as Jack shares with him that he has a SIM card he shouldn’t have, giving him access to all that his father has been saying, threatening. Des’s grip tightens on the stick as he listens. He pumps the ground once – hard – with it. “Now you listen to me. That is bullying.”
“Yeah but what’ll I do?”
The poor lad is in a state of panic. Des grips his wrist to snap him out of it. He looks deep into his eyes. “You’ve done the first thing, Jack. You’ve told your grandad. Now we’re in this together.”
Relief floods the boy’s eyes.
Des taps the stick against the graveyard wall as he thinks, then he looks at Jack. “Right. The first and most important thing now is that we don’t fall into his trap. We don’t play his game.”
“But he’ll come down!”
“Let him.”
“He’ll kill her!”
Des grips his stick. “By God, he won’t. I might kill him, though.”
Jack smiles like he’s found an ally. The tension in his face eases.
“You’ve done really well, Jack, holding off. If you’d given into him, he’d have hung this threat over you and manipulated you with it.”
Jack nods.
“No. Let him come. Let him break the barring order. See what happens. This mightn’t be Dublin with its fancy lawyers but we look out for each other in this village.” A car passes and Des raises his hand in greeting.
Jack freezes. “But nobody knows, right? You haven’t told anyone, have you?”
“Lord, no.” Des reminds himself that telling Paddy is like telling the priest. “But if I need to call on someone, I can. So, don’t reply, don’t give in to him. Absolute thug, blackmailing a child like that.”
“I’m not a child.”
“No. But you’re not eighteen either. Now, as soon as we get in home, I want you to give me that SIM card and I’ll get rid of it.” By “get rid of” Des means, he’ll hold onto it and keep track of what that creature is up to. Then he’ll keep that information well and truly to himself. He will, however, be prepared.
“Okay but you can’t tell Mum I had it. You can’t tell her anything.”
“I’ve no intention of telling her.” Worrying her.
Jack tenses again. “What if he doesn’t pay the maintenance?”
The boy is far too young to be worrying about things like that. “Now, you listen to me. Your mother is an independent woman now, making her own way. She doesn’t need or want to rely on him. It would be just one more thing to hang over her. And, sure, we’re not living in a metropolis, here in Killrowan. What would ye want to be buying anyway?”
Jack smiles. “Where have you been all my life?”
Good point. Where has Des been? Beavering away in his surgery, not checking up on his only daughter. Well, he’ll make it up to her now. If it’s the last thing he does.
He checks his watch. “Right. Will we go meet Holly?” He turns around. “Ah, there they are, getting out now.” A great swarm of girls spills from the school, a sea of blue.
Big steps, Des reminds himself.
Jack matches his slow pace.
Des nudges him with an elbow. “Not walking too fast for you, am I?”
“You are a bit,” Jack jokes.
Des chuckles, loving that there is the tiniest Cork lilt in his grandson’s voice. “By the way. You needn’t worry that I’ll be turning up at the school gates every day. I’ll get some keys cut for ye all tomorrow.”
“Turn up anytime you like, Grandad.”
Jack spots his sister emerge from the school and something inside him lifts. The “loner” in Dublin, is talking animatedly with two girls, one on either side of her. They seem to be hanging on her every word. Jack reminds himself that it’s just the first day. Still, it’s like a huge neon sign saying: “This is going to work out.” He feels like high-fiving her.
“Yeah, we probably shouldn’t interrupt her,” he says. “We can just take up the rear.” He’d suggest leaving her to it completely – if she had a key.
“You’re a wise man, Jack Willoughby.”
“Sullivan,” he corrects.
Des pats his grandson on the arm. “Now that is music to my ears.”
18
Grace has seen one patient today and still arrives home shattered. She drops her bag and kicks off her shoes, unable to get Fred Cronin out of her mind. But then she sees her daughter and her concerns become more feral. She opens her arms wide. Holly comes to her, fitting into her embrace like a matching jigsaw piece.
“How’s my baby? How was your first day?”
“Grand. No bother,” Holly says in a definite Cork accent.
Grace pulls back and looks into her daughter’s eyes. The relief is huge.
“Holly, girl, you sound like you were born here,” Des says, exaggerating his own accent.
Holly turns to him. “Fake it till you make it, Grandad,” she sings, sounding more like a native with every word. A very happy native.
“You’re a smart cookie, all the same,” he says, ruffling the hair she has now taken down.
“I’ve got a second chance. And I’m going to make the most of it.”
Grace snatches a fake microphone out of the air and starts to sing to Holly. “You bring meaning to my life. You’re my inspiration.”
Holly grabs another imaginary mic. “You bring feeling to my life. You’re my inspiration.”
“Want to have you near me. I want to have you hear me saying ‘No one needs you more than I need you,’” they shout-sing together.
Jack rolls his eyes but happily.
Grace leans against the worktop. “I’m serious, though, Hol. You are my inspiration. You went in there and made the most of it.” Grace remembers Jack’s bumpy start. “I’m so proud of you both,” she says with real emotion. “You were great today, Jack.”
Holly lifts her head proudly. Jack bows his.
Grace rubs her hands together. “So! Who wants pizza?” In Dublin, takeaway would not have been acceptable to the plastic surgeon. Well, they’re not in Dublin. There’s no way she’s cooking.
“You can get takeaways here?” Jack asks.
Des slaps him playfully on the arm. “Give it a rest, boyo.”
Jack smiles. “Let’s get two, extra-large. I’m starving.”
Pepperoni pizza and vegan pizza. In Killrowan. Who’d have thought? They bring their plates to the blazing fire, this new family unit, tucking in and chatting. Jack and Holly discuss the nationalities in their class. Germans, English, Dutch. Killrowan is way more cosmopolitan than they’d expected.
Des turns to Grace. “How was everything at
the practice?”
“Oh, fine. Just settling in.” She doesn’t want to let him down by telling him that no one wanted to see her. Or worry him about Dr. O’Malley’s… oversight. Still, she’d love some insight. “How is Dr. O’Malley?”
He doesn’t look surprised by the question. That’s the first thing she notices.
“I thought you might ask.” He shifts in the chair. “Tom’s eye has been off the ball a little since his wife, Tricia, died last year. I was carrying him a little to be honest. You might have to put a bit of work in, there, till he gets over the worst of the grief. But he’s a good man, Grace, and a great doctor. He’ll get through this bad patch though he may be doubting that himself. That’s where it’s at with Tom.”
“Right.” That helps. Hugely.
“How was Myra?”
She smiles. “Thawed out as the day went on.”
“Ah, good old, Myra. I’m fierce fond of her. D’you want to know the way to her heart?”
“She has one?” Grace swats the words away. “Ah no, I’m only joking. I actually like her. Even though she terrifies me.”
He smiles. “Those giant chocolate chip cookies they have in The Coffee Cove. That’s the secret.”
“Giant chocolate chip cookies?” She raises her eyebrows. “I must get down there.”
“I used to bring her one every morning. And she loved me.”
Grace smiles. “I’ll give it a try so.”
Grace’s phone pings. It’s a text from Yvonne.
Don’t suppose the blow-in is up for a drink?
Grace was planning an early night but finds her inner eighteen-year-old texting back:
I’d kill for a drink!
Ahern’s at eight? Comes Yvonne’s reply.
It’s a date!
Grace sings in the shower about girls just wanting to have fun. It’s like time has rewound and she’s getting ready to go out with her best bud. She dries herself briskly, feeling a new energy rush through her body. But then she eyes her clothes, lying in a heap on the toilet lid, charcoal grey and conservative. It’s like the music stops. The last thing she wants to do is put them back on.
Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over Page 9
