An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  She took a deep breath, and put her hand on her heart. “Thank God for that.” She was blinking back tears.

  Colin mumbled to himself, “I read once how animals can get it too. I’ll have to learn all about how to diagnose it.”

  “Please carry on,” O’Reilly said to a frowning Emer. And rightly so. Norman was her patient, and she had not sought his opinion or his interference.

  “Doctor O’Reilly’s right. The meningitis caused by the mumps bug is much, much milder. When it does affect the membranes called meninges, the poor patient, that’s you, Norman, usually has a not-too-nice two or three days, but I can give you some medicine that will help to bring your fever down and help the headaches.” She turned to Barbara. “Can you cope with the nursing? We’ll get the district nurse, Colleen Brennan, to drop in every day. Norman should be over this stage in two or three days.”

  “He’ll not have til go til the fever hospital?”

  “No, no hospital for Norman.”

  Barbara folded her arms. “I will cope, so I will.”

  “I never doubted it,” Emer said. “So, let’s see. You got sick last Wednesday the sixteenth, today’s Saturday the nineteenth; you’ll be feeling much better by Thursday, and by the way, Mammy, Norman won’t be contagious after next Thursday, and you should be better by Saturday, son.”

  “Did you hear that, Normie? This time next week you’ll be fit as a flea and we can get your daddy to drive us to Crawfordsburn to look at that pup Colin has been telling you about.” Barbara smiled. “My husband Jamsie’s working this weekend but he’s off the next. Thank you, Doctor Emer. Thank you very much.”

  Colin grinned and Murphy wagged his tail.

  Emer lowered her voice. “One last thing,” she said. “Do you know how to use a suppository?”

  Barbara nodded.

  “You stick them up your—”

  “Colin,” three voices yelled.

  “Sorry.”

  O’Reilly shook his head and hid a grin. You may be maturing at sixteen, Colin Brown, but the lad who told Joseph to “feck off” in the 1964 Christmas pageant was still alive and well in there.

  “I’m going to prescribe something containing Panadol. One every six hours.”

  “Excuse me, Doctor McCarthy,” O’Reilly said. “It’ll be hard for Barbara to get to the chemist’s until her husband comes home tonight.” He opened his bag and handed her a box of six. “That’ll see to Norman until his dad gets home after his work tomorrow with your scrip filled. I know the chemist in Holywood’s open tomorrow.”

  “Jamsie gets free travel ’cause he works for the railway. He’ll nip up and back on the train, so he will,” Barbara said.

  “Good,” said Emer, handing Barbara the prescription, “and now I just need to wash my hands and we’ll be off. And if you’ve any worries at all, call.”

  “I will, Doctor, and thank you too, Doctor O’Reilly, for explaining. When I thought my wee dote had them other menijitees, I near took the rickets.”

  O’Reilly nodded his acknowledgement, but said nothing.

  “Don’t you worry, the pair of you. You’ll be fine, Norman,” Emer said as she dried her hands.

  Colin said, “Thank you very much everybody for letting me watch. I did learn a lot. I think now it’s going to be harder to be a vet than a doctor.”

  “Oh,” said O’Reilly, “why?”

  “’Cause you can ask your patients questions. Can you see me asking a ram, ‘What colour of shirt am I wearing?’ He’d probably butt me.”

  O’Reilly tousled the youngster’s hair. “You really do want to be one, don’t you, Colin.”

  “I’ve never wanted anything as much.” The boy nodded. “And not only will I have Mister Bishop’s scholarship, if I get good enough marks in my exams, I could win a county or a state exhibition, that’s money the government pays for your fees and stuff. It’ll take me five years and then I’ll come back as Ballybucklebo’s first vet.”

  “You study hard, Colin,” Emer said. “All of Ballybucklebo is cheering for you. Don’t let them down.” Barbara handed them their coats and opened the door to a calm, freshly washed world under a clear blue sky.

  On the way home, with the sun splitting the heavens and the road steaming as it dried, O’Reilly said, “Sorry to take over like that. We had an outbreak of meningococcal meningitis here in January of ’67. One wee lad died from it.”

  “I’ve been working with you for nine months, Fingal, and I know you’d never let a little matter like a starchy old medical tradition come between you and good patient care. I thought Barbara was going to break down and now I understand why. No need to apologise. You did exactly the right thing.”

  “And so did you, Emer, when you first made the diagnosis of mumps. Not knowing the local history, if you’d whispered meningitis back then she’d have been worried for days and right up to high doh today. You accepted a risk that you could be blamed if a complication arose—which it did, and you did that for the patient’s peace of mind. In my opinion, Emer McCarthy, another three months with us is a waste of time. You’re ready for independent practice right now.”

  Her voice was low, but O’Reilly could hear a trace of pride. “Thank you, Fingal. Thank you very much. It’s good to know you think that. It really is.”

  10

  I To the Hills Will Lift Mine Eyes

  August 17, 1963

  Barry drove Brunhilde, his Volkswagen beetle, toward the car park at the foot of Cave Hill, a 1,200-foot-high mound of ancient basalt that overlooked the city of Belfast. He’d shaved twice today and had been nervous when he’d met Virginia at precisely four thirty at Musson House. The nurses’ home had been named in 1951 for Miss Anne Musson, one of the previous matrons of the Royal Victoria. Virginia had looked lovely standing on the steps of the old six-storey redbrick building, and Barry had told her so. He was rewarded with a smile and a “Thank you, sir.” And her laugh had been like warm honey.

  They’d chatted on the twenty-minute run up to the park north of the city, mostly of inconsequential things, because Barry, still suffering from his closeted boyhood in a boys-only boarding school and his fear of being repulsed, found talking to girls difficult.

  Then, out of nowhere, she had said, “You are a bit shy, aren’t you, Barry Laverty?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Is it so obvious?”

  “Not really, it’s just that us girls, walled up in Musson like a bunch of nuns, did talk about you lads, you know, when you were students. We all thought you, the quiet one, were cute. We liked the way you cared for your patients too, and you didn’t make passes at us. Try to pinch our bottoms like a farmer’s son from Cullybackey I could mention.”

  Barry knew his friend Jack had quite the reputation among the nurses.

  Her smile was radiant. “I find your being shy attractive. And I did think it took real guts to tackle that lout last Friday. Thank you again.”

  As he parked, he berated himself for not having had any better reply than “It’s Norma Fitch you should be thanking.”

  She smiled. “I’m not going to argue with you, Barry, on our first date.”

  Was that a hint she was hoping this might lead to a second? “Here we are,” he said, “and we couldn’t have asked for better weather to climb the hill.”

  “I’ve lived in Ulster all my life. Born and brought up in Magherafelt, County Derry, and I’ve lived in Musson for nearly three years, but I’ve never been up here.”

  “Excuse me.” Barry leant across her, inhaling the suggestion of her light perfume as he unlatched her door. “Hop out,” he said, leaning back. “We’ve four and a half miles to cover, half of it uphill. I’m going to give you the conducted tour. My dad used to bring me here, teach me about the place. There’s a lot of interesting stuff.”

  He reached behind him for his walking stick, an ashplant with a crook for a handle, then joined her in the warm air, pointing to a four-storey granite-block building with a five-storey tower at its rear left
corner. It was a complex design with curved corners surmounted by conical roofs, intricately twisting staircases, and apparently randomly sited bay windows. Small cannons mounted on wooden gun-carriages were arranged in the forecourt. “Belfast Castle,” he said. “Took from 1811 to 1877 to build it, Dad told me. Apparently it’s in the Scottish Baronial style.”

  “Looks like something the Brothers Grimm might have designed.” She took his hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world and said, “Come on then, Mister Tour Guide.”

  “Would you like to use the stick?” he asked. “It gets pretty steep in places.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll bring it anyway and if you do want it, sing out.” He pointed with it. “First left,” he said and set off, “then right at the first junction.”

  As they trod together along the footpath toward a small wood of birch and fir, he admired her sensible outfit. A green headscarf bound up her auburn hair. The collar of a silky green blouse was folded over the neck of an Arran sweater, which hung loosely over black pants. Heavy brogues would be ideal for scrambling up over the rougher ground where they were going. Despite the cerulean cloudless sky, cold winds could tear in across Belfast Lough, and once past the wood there was no shelter. The three caves were well above the path and difficult to climb up to.

  They entered the wood, and the sharp, clean, resin smell of the fir trees filled him with a sudden sense of well-being. Out of sight of any other walkers he stopped, moved to her, took the plunge, and gently put his lips to hers. She did not, as he half expected, pull away. Their softness and the taste of her made him shiver, and that she responded made his pulse quicken. They parted. “Nice,” he said. “Very nice.”

  “Mmmm,” she said, and her green eyes sparkled. She cocked her head and smiled at him. “I think I could grow quite fond of you, Barry Laverty.” And she kissed him back.

  He was a little breathless when they parted. “And—and I of you, but Virginia, it’s about a two- to three-hour hike, and—”

  She chuckled. “Lead on.”

  They left the wood and Barry said, “The view is even better from higher up, but it’s worth stopping here too.”

  “Golly,” she said, “it’s quite the panorama. Belfast, the River Lagan, the lough, the County Down shore in the distance, and Antrim directly below. And is that a hint of Scotland’s Mull of Galloway in the far distance? It really is very beautiful.”

  “Just wait until we get to the top.” He pointed ahead at a basalt outcrop. “That’s what the locals back in the early nineteenth century called ‘The Emperor’s nose and cocked hat.’”

  She peered at the black ridge. “It does look like them,” she said, and clapped her hands. “It really does.”

  Barry smiled at the innocent way she took enormous pleasure from this new sight. “The emperor was Napoleon. It’s said that Jonathan Swift saw it, imagined it was the head of a giant keeping watch over the city, so he trotted off and wrote Gulliver’s Travels.”

  On they tramped, climbing, descending into little valleys, and climbing again. The earthen footpath wound among hillocks of springy grass highlighted by clumps of purple heather and yellow gorse that bathed them in its almond scent. When they crested one hill and went down into a small valley, Barry noticed they were alone again, but before he could act, Virginia said, “My mum always says that when gorse is out of bloom, kissing is out of fashion.” And she kissed him long, deep, and hard, her tongue tip flickering on his.

  “Golly,” Barry said as they parted.

  “I told you I thought I could become fond of you.”

  Barry, still savouring her kiss and her words, was tongue-tied, and before he could think of anything witty to say, a middle-aged couple had crested the hill behind them. “Um, I think, ah—” He gave up and sighed. “Next left.” And holding her hand more tightly, he climbed with her to the new hilltop. “Look, that jumble of rocks and boulders to your left is the Devil’s Punchbowl. Celtic farmers kept their cattle penned in there. The path goes down to it then passes beneath a large cave off to the right and begins climbing again.”

  They kept on, occasionally being overtaken by other hikers. As they passed beneath the first cave, he said, “That one is twenty-one feet long, eighteen feet wide, and varies from seven to ten feet in height, and—”

  She snuggled up against him. “Oooooh. It looks dark and spooky in there.” She laughed and snuggled closer. “Barry, please don’t think me ungracious, but isn’t there a bit of the ‘seen one, seen them all’ about caves if we can’t go in? Bloody great holes in the side of the mountain?”

  He laughed. “Point taken.” She was right, and besides, he was much more interested in this lively young woman. She caught him off guard when she stopped and faced him. “What I’d really like is a short travelogue round Barry Laverty. Please tell me about yourself.”

  “There’s not too much to tell.” Particularly, he thought, when you’ve had it drummed into you since you were a nipper that gentlemen do not blow their own trumpets. “I’m twenty-three, born in Bangor, Bangor Grammar School, Campbell College, got my colours for swimming. Queen’s for six years, and now I’m a houseman trying to make up my mind what to do next year.”

  He heard the tinkling of a bell and pulled Virginia to one side of the path as a boy in a Belfast Royal Academy school cap, open-necked white shirt, and shorts, sweat running down his cheeks, puffed past, pedalling like crazy on a three-speed bicycle.

  “It is warm,” Virginia said. “Hang on.” She crossed her arms in front of her and stripped off her sweater. As she tied the sleeves around her waist Barry was treated to a breathtaking view between the creamy roundness of two delightful breasts. He felt his pulse quicken and, realising he was pretty warm himself, took off his tweed sports jacket and carried it over his shoulder. He was so entranced with her he barely noticed the spectacular, ever-changing views. They climbed steps leading to a cattle grille in a fence.

  “All right, that’s your professional biography. I want to know a bit about who you are. What do you do in your spare time?”

  Barry laughed. “You’re a student nurse. When you turned me down you told me that getting qualified was important to you.”

  “It is. Very. But all work and no play—”

  Barry smiled. “If you’re working as hard as I had to to get through, and I’m sure you are, you should know the answer to that is ‘What spare time?’” He only hoped she was going to be able to find more for him in the future. “I used to like to sail, build model boats, fly-fish, read—” They were alone, so he kissed her long and tender before saying, “And I love climbing up Cave Hill with beautiful green-eyed nurses.”

  She squeezed his hand as they crossed the metal strips of the grille to walk on a grass path. “Less of the nurses, plural, Doctor Laverty.” Then she stopped in her tracks. “Oh dear Lord, look at that. I’ve never seen a view like it. This must be how a bird sees the world.” She shook her head in wonder. “Tell me what I’m seeing, Barry, please.”

  They had come to the summit.

  It had been on the tip of his tongue to say it was her turn to tell him something about Nurse Virginia Clarke, but her enthusiasm was infectious. “All right, you already know that all of the city of Belfast and Belfast Lough are in the foreground. You can see the gantries of the shipyard, the enormous yellow Goliath crane, the steeple of Saint Mark’s at Dundela, Holywood, Ballybucklebo, and Bangor on the far shore, and on this side the semicircle sweep of the Antrim shore.”

  “And is that Strangford Lough in the middle distance and Scrabo Tower at its head?”

  “It is, and beyond that you can make out Slieve Croob in the middle of County Down, and behind it the Mourne Mountains. Now, look left. Do you see the far horizon under that thin white bank of low clouds?”

  She turned to stare.

  “You were right, that is the Mull of Galloway in Scotland to your left, and way away to your right in Saint George’s Channel is the Isl
e of Man.”

  She stood in awe, saying nothing, and Barry decided not to tell her about the legend of Finn MacCool, the Irish giant who had built the Giant’s Causeway in order to fight the Scottish giant Benandonner. When the Irishman had run out of stones, he’d torn out a sod and hurled it. The crater became Lough Neagh and the sod the Isle of Man.

  “Gosh, Barry,” she said. “Thank you for bringing me here. It’s wonderful. Makes me feel small and insignificant. I like the feeling. Puts things into perspective.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said. “I was seven or eight the first time Dad brought me up here. He had to haul me up some of the steeper places. He made me look out at that panorama and I’ll never forget what he said. ‘Take a good look, son, and always remember this any time you feel important. Man in comparison to nature is really not important at all.’”

  She smiled. “I think I could like your dad, Barry, even if I’ve never met him.”

  Barry, who was not close to his father, said nothing.

  Rising on a thermal, three glaucous gulls, wings stiffly arched to catch the air currents, rose higher above the escarpment.

  “Look at that,” she said. “How lovely. So graceful, and just after me saying this must be how a bird sees the world.”

  For moments neither spoke.

  “And what’s that?” She pointed to a crumbling earthwork wall running from one side to the other across the narrow escarpment where they stood.

  “It’s an old ráth, a hill fort. On this side, it’s protected by that earthen wall and a deep ditch, and there’s a steep cliff at the far side. It’s called MacArt’s Fort. The two leaders of the United Irishmen, Wolfe Tone and Henry Joy McCracken, both Protestants, met here in 1798. They wanted civil and religious freedom for everyone, regardless of creed, and took an oath of allegiance before the uprising.”

  She chuckled. “So not only are you a sailor, model boat builder, fly-fisherman, and reader, you’re a wonderful tour guide—”