7
My Belly Was Bitter
“This is BBC Radio Four and here is the one o’clock news.” The cultured Oxbridge accent came from the radio in what Barry still thought of as Kinky’s kitchen. “Today, January the first, 1969, in the New Year’s honours list, Sir Learie Constantine became Britain’s first black life peer…”
“Quite the cricketer back in the ’30s, I believe,” said Barry. “Originally from Trinidad.”
“He’s done a lot for race relations in England,” said Emer as she watched Barry take a ready-to-heat dish of mussels in Guinness from the oven for their lunch. “Don’t burn yourself. Mmm, that smells delicious.”
“Kinky’s a culinary champion from County Cork. She made these yesterday morning because she was off yesterday afternoon and today.” He started to serve two helpings while Emer set a loaf of Kinky’s wheaten bread and a knife on a bread board and put them on the table. Two places had been set on either side of a bowl awaiting a flood of empty mussel shells.
Lady Macbeth butted her head against Emer’s shins and mewed softly. “Is the smell of those mussels getting to you, your ladyship? Me too,” she said as she took her seat and bent to stroke the little white cat.
“We’ll have time to enjoy these before we go and see Bertie,” said Barry. “Flo said he has an upset tummy. He’s not in any great pain, but she’s worried.” They were both silent as they dug into the mussels while the radio continued its broadcast.
“Thousands more Asians will soon be on their way to the United Kingdom. The Kenyan government will be taking away their trading licences and they have British citizenship…”
“Poor devils,” Emer murmured.
“Aye. I agree. I don’t mean to sound callous, but there’s not much you and I can do for them. Apparently, they all have British passports. At least they will have somewhere to go. We may not be able to help them, but we can help Bertie Bishop’s tummy-tum.” He grinned. “After last night, I’d hazard a guess it’s almost certainly acute alcoholic gastritis, but Bertie’s had angina and a coronary, so we’ll not dally over lunch.” He buttered a slice of bread, fished out a mussel with his fork, then used its empty shell as forceps to extract the meat of another delicious bivalve. “These are yummy.” Empty shells clinked into the bowl.
“I know. I love them, and so does her ladyship,” said Emer, feeding her a morsel.
“Turning to Northern Ireland, no acts of violence have occurred against the forty marchers of the People’s Democracy, mostly Queen’s University of Belfast students who are on their first leg of a four-day protest march.” Barry’s spoon stopped halfway to his mouth and, he noticed, so did Emer’s. “They are, however, being verbally harassed by gangs of Protestant Loyalists, supporters of the Reverend Ian Paisley. How things will progress on this first stage of the eighteen and a half miles to Antrim is unclear. Barry Cowan will have a full report on Scene Around Six on BBC TV Northern Ireland this evening.
“In sports news, Irish rugby player Willie John McBride—”
Barry switched off the set. “I don’t like the sound of that backlash. Not one bit.” He pushed his plate away, suddenly worried sick about how Sue, who was at home, would react to this news. One thing for sure, they’d be watching the telly this evening. The night of the fire she’d said she might march herself. He hoped to God she didn’t decide to. “That news has killed my appetite,” he said, rising to take his plate and cutlery and the few remaining bivalves to the sink, “but finish yours up and we’ll go to the Bishops’.”
* * *
“I don’t think we’re going to hear the end of this, Barry. I think it’s going to get worse. If it does, I hope it won’t undermine my position here,” Emer said as Barry turned right at the traffic light.
“I don’t think it will,” Barry said. “There’s never been any of the Catholic-Protestant rubbish here. Folks get along.”
“I hope so. You know, all the students are asking for is ‘one-man, one vote.’ It’s just like Martin Luther King Jr.’s people did on those Selma-to-Montgomery marches back in ’65 when they were trying to get more blacks registered to vote.”
“I remember that,” Barry said. “Things did get nasty there. It’s bloody hard to knock down hundreds of years of prejudice.”
“I do know that,” Emer said. There was no bitterness in her voice.
“To tell you the truth, I’ve always taken my vote for granted. I’m not much interested in politics. Sue’s lot, NICRA, are demanding universal suffrage in local council elections as well, and ‘man’ does include women too. She’s tried to explain, but I thought every adult did have the vote.” He slowed down outside the Bishops’ large sea-front bungalow and turned into their drive.
Emer shook her head. “A lot of people don’t, and yet some folks have more than one. Until last year I had two votes. So did you. Dad helped me to buy a flat, so I had one for being a property owner—for our Stormont Parliament—and the other vote was to elect a candidate to fill one of the four University seats at Stormont. Only Queen’s graduates got those votes.”
“Didn’t they abolish that last year?”
“They did. Weren’t many of us Catholics who were grads. I’m one of the very lucky few, because my dad got ahead and could afford to send me. He’s a lawyer. And a Queen’s grad. The deed to my parents’ house is in his name, so he got two votes, one as a property owner and one as a Queen’s grad. Mum has one as the spouse of a property owner. Tenants have the vote too, but lodgers don’t. An awful lot of working-class Catholics don’t own or rent houses or flats.”
“That’s hardly fair.” Barry parked outside the house.
“Too true. It’s the same in local council elections. Same property regulations, but it’s a field day for business owners,” she said. “They can cast a ballot for every business they own in different wards, up to a maximum of six. A businessman who lives in Bangor and has a factory in Limavady and a warehouse in Belfast will have three votes. And who are the great majority of property and business owners?”
Barry grabbed his bag and opened his door. He knew the answer. Protestants. He walked round and opened Emer’s door, watching her scramble out of the car, her face flushed, her mouth turned down. “Come on, Doctor McCarthy,” he said, “things are in a muddle, right enough, but we’re not going to unravel the riddle of the Ulster universe this afternoon.” And he wondered again how the hell Sue would be taking it if things got worse on the road to Antrim. “Let’s see how Bertie Bishop is. Now, in case you’re worried because he looks like the kind of bloke who mistrusts ‘lady’ doctors, one called Jenny Bradley saved his life a few years ago. You’ll not have any trouble with him.”
Flo, in a voluminous mid-calf dress the colour of a robin’s egg and matching carpet slippers, met them at the doorway. “Doctor Laverty. Doctor McCarthy. Thanks very much for coming,” she said. “That was a great ta-ta-ta-ra at himself’s last night, but my Bertie’s a wee bit peely-wally. He’s in the lounge. Go on through. I’ll wait in the kitchen til youse’ve finished.”
Barry had been here many times before, but he never went through the Bishop front door without remembering Boxing Day 1964. He had accidentally overheard Kitty being told by his then-love Patricia Spence that their affair was finished. Here he was, four years later, happily married, and yet he could still feel the shock of that overheard conversation.
He led the way along a thickly carpeted hall where, behind oval glass frames, dried flowers adorned the walls, along with a venerable aneroid barometer. Bertie’s Orange sash hung on a coat stand. Barry wondered what Emer would make of it.
He entered the spacious lounge/dining room with its view through a picture window out over an extensive lawn to the waters of Belfast Lough. A dining table in front of the window was covered in a red velvet cloth with gold tassels, and a single brass flowerpot holder squatted in the centre.
The carpet was fitted and bore a pattern of orange circles inside purple diamonds. Those were the
colours of the Orange Order.
A painting hung over the fireplace, Chinese Girl by Vladimir Tretchikoff. The print had been extremely popular fifteen years ago. He found the Chinese woman’s blue-green facial colouring grotesque, but each to his own.
Bertie Bishop, wearing leather slippers, along with bottle green silk pyjamas under a mustard-coloured dressing gown, lay on a couch, his head supported by a pillow. “Thanks for coming, Docs. Sorry til get youse out on New Year’s Day, but I’m just not at myself, so I’m not. Haven’t been all day. And this bloody nonsense with them People’s Democracy marchers is drastic too.”
Barry smiled at Bertie, but his mind was whirling. Given that you are the Worshipful Master of the local Orange Lodge, and Protestant, Bertie Bishop, I do not want any anti-Catholic outbursts in front of Emer. He hurried to say, “Sorry to hear you’re under the weather, Bertie. Remember Doctor McCarthy? You met her last night.”
“I do.”
“She’s going to be managing your case.” He took a chair and put his bag on the carpet.
“Fine by me. As long as you put me right, dear.”
Barry saw Emer stiffen at the “dear,” but her voice was quite level when she said, “What seems to be the trouble, Bertie?”
Barry, who was taking a chair, smiled when he saw Bertie baulk at her neglecting to use the formal “Mister” or “Councillor Bishop.” O’Reilly would have passed his “Never, never let the patient get the upper hand” law on to Emer.
“Och,” he said, “when I got up this morning I couldn’t face any brekky … I felt like I was going til throw off, in fact I did once.”
Emer asked, “Did you notice if it was bloodstained?”
Bertie Bishop shook his head. “But I’ve got ferocious heartburn there, so I have.” He pointed to the place on his upper belly where his ribs met.
“And…” He lowered his voice. “I’ve had the runs. That’s about it … miss.”
Practically a full house of the classic symptoms of acute alcoholic gastritis, the vomiting of which could be bloodstained.
“I see. Doctor Laverty tells me you have angina and you once had a heart attack, Mister Bishop.”
“I did that—Doctor. I near kicked the bucket. Wee Doctor Bradley saved my life, God love her. She got the firing squad ambulance til come out and give me the kiss of death and I got better, so I did.”
Barry had difficulty hiding another smile. It wasn’t the first time he’d heard an Ulster native referring to the flying squad as the firing squad, but CPR being called the kiss of death was a new one to him.
“Have you had anything like the pains of the heart attack or angina? Any pain in your arm or jaw?”
Good lass. A heart attack could present like a stomach upset.
“Not at all. Nothing like that. If I had”—he pointed to his dressing gown pocket—“I’d’ve had one of them TNT pills under my tongue as quick as a flash.”
Bertie Bishop, like all angina or post-coronary sufferers, at all times, carried sublingual nitroglycerine, a potent vasodilator.
Emer checked his pulse and blood pressure. “Both normal,” she said. “I don’t think I need ask you to let me examine your belly, Mister Bishop. I’m certain you’ve got acute al—post-party gastritis.”
Clever that, not saying “alcoholic.” But when Barry saw Bertie frown as Emer said she wouldn’t examine him—country patients set great score by the physical—he decided to support her. “I completely agree with Doctor McCarthy’s diagnosis.” The only other possibilities were a peptic ulcer, either gastric or duodenal, and in a man of Bertie Bishop’s age, gastric cancer always had to be considered. But only if the symptoms had persisted for at least three weeks or blood had been passed. Barry smiled. “It was a great party. My own head was a bit thick this morning.” He rose. “I’ll go and get Flo so my colleague can explain to you both what comes next.”
He returned with a frowning Flo in tow. “Have a pew, Flo,” Barry said, seating himself. “Doctor McCarthy?”
Flo plumped down in another armchair and grabbed the fingers of one hand with the other.
“We’re sure there’s nothing to worry about with what ails Mister Bishop.” She smiled. “And he wasn’t alone—but he seems to have overindulged himself a bit last night at the O’Reilly’s party.”
Flo tutted and wagged a finger at her husband. “I told you til lay off the whiskey, so I did.”
“I’m sorry,” Bertie said. “It was New Year’s, Flo.”
“Huh. You’re no spring chicken, Bertie Bishop. You should act your age. Eejit.”
But Barry heard affection.
“So, it’s just bad indigestion,” Emer said, “technically gastritis. We can put it right in no time. The first thing is to get some milk into you.” She turned to Flo. “Mrs. Bishop?”
Flo was on her feet. “Back in a jiffy,” she said. For a woman of her size she was remarkably fast on her feet.
Emer called after her. “And have you any baking soda?”
“I have.”
“We’ll need some of that too.”
Barry would have prescribed that as well. As a recent graduate, he had thought Emer might order magnesium or calcium carbonate. The same chemicals could be combined with phosphate, and all four compounds were available as antacids. But possibly she had had the benefit of O’Reilly’s wisdom. “Gastritis? Give them good old-fashioned soda bicarbonate. It is a good antacid and it makes gas, and the louder they fart the better they think the stuff’s working.” Barry could still recall back in ’64 O’Reilly saying that about a farm labourer with indigestion.
Flo reappeared. “Here you are, love. Nice glass of milk.”
“Please put two teaspoons of baking soda in it, Mrs. Bishop.”
Flo spooned the white powder into the milk and gave it an enthusiastic stir. “Get that into you, you ould goat.”
A meek Bertie swallowed the tumbler-full in three swallows. “Yeugh,” he said, and handed the glass back to Flo.
“Now, Mister Bishop,” Emer said, “you’ll need to drink that mixture every two hours while you’re up and doing. You should see some relief very quickly, and I reckon you’ll be better in three or four days.” She rose. “The holiday’s over tomorrow. We don’t mind coming to see you today, but if you’re not better by Monday, could you please come to the surgery, and of course feel free to come sooner or phone if you are concerned about anything.”
Bertie sighed. “Do you know,” he said, “I think that stuff’s working. I feel a bit easier already. Thanks, Doc.” He scowled. “You’ve set my mind at rest about my stomachache, but this march, this bloody march.” He banged his fist on the gold-covered cushion beside him. “It’s got me concerned as hell.”
Barry flinched. “Try not to worry about it, Bertie. Stress makes more stomach acid. We think it’s the main cause of ulcers, and high blood pressure, and with your history we don’t want you getting either.” He hoped that would slow down the tirade.
“Look,” said Bertie, “Doctor Laverty, you know I’m a highheejin with the Orange Order…”
Barry saw Emer stiffen.
“But here in Ballybucklebo, it’s only for the craic. Sure, aren’t some of the Ballybucklebo Highlanders pipe band Catholic? Don’t the two churches have a combined Christmas pageant?”
Emer’s shoulders relaxed.
“Aren’t our minister, Mister Robinson, and our priest, Father O’Toole, golfing partners?”
Flo said, “And isn’t one of my best friends, Cissie Sloan, a Fenian?”
In just about anybody else’s mouth, the word “Fenian” would have been vile and mortally insulting, but coming from Flo it sounded like a term of endearment. Barry laughed and to reassure Emer, said, “There’s no two women closer in Ballybucklebo and the townland. Three, if you add in Kinky. And she’s a Presbyterian.”
“That’s my point,” Bertie Bishop said. “I know the students mean well, but you catch more flies with honey than vinegar. We all get along he
re just fine, but if things turn ugly for the marchers—and I think they will”—He took a very deep breath—“before we know it we’ll be fighting the Battle of the Boyne all over again.” He shook his head. “I love Ulster. I don’t want violence, but there’s not a damn thing I can do but wait and see.”
Barry hoped that Sue would be able to do that too. The prospects of her joining the march terrified him.
“Mister and Mrs. Bishop,” Emer said, “I’m not devout, but I am a Roman Catholic—”
“Saving your presence, Doctor,” Flo said, “and sorry til interrupt, but you’d have till look under a quare few haystacks to find a Protestant doctor called Emer McCarthy who trained at the Mater. Sure, the whole village had that figured out the day you arrived. No one gives a tinker’s damn.”
“And,” said Bertie, “not a hard word’s been said.”
Barry thought it did seem from what Bertie and Flo were saying that Emer need not worry about her position being undermined.
Bertie stretched, rubbed his tummy, and said, “I do believe the treatment’s working already,” and to underline his words, produced a basso rumbling fart. “Beg your pardon.”
Barry, before dissolving into laughter, could not resist saying, “Bertie, I do believe you’re right.”
8
A Row and a Ruction Soon Began
“I’m simply not going to talk you out of this, Sue, am I?” Barry said, holding the Imp’s passenger door open. The sky scowled down from angry clouds and a stiff, chill breeze hissed through the marram grass of the little peninsula where their bungalow stood. Rain looked likely.
She got in without answering and he walked round the car to join her.
Sue sat in her beige raincoat, hair done up under a Pony Club silk scarf with pictures of horses’ heads on the cream fabric. Her back was rigid, arms folded, lips tight. She turned to him. “Barry, I’ve stood aside for three days.”
He started the engine and put the car in gear, driving over the short stretch of moorland to the lane that led to the main road. Let her talk. Get it out of her system.
An Irish Country Cottage Page 8
