An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  “I know,” she said, “but punctuality is the virtue of princes and we’ve only twenty minutes to kill. I’m anxious to hear what he has to say, you know that, but having a cup of coffee is better than sitting outside his consulting room.”

  Barry took a sip of his and looked around the familiar room. “Wish I had a pound for every coffee I had here between 1960 and 1964. The place never changes. Well, maybe one thing has. I’m sure the tobacco fug was much thicker back then. We were taught in my third year that the relationship between smoking and lung cancer was first suggested in 1950 by a British doctor, Richard Doll. And then confirmed by a massive study of forty thousand doctors reported in 1954. It was still pretty revolutionary thinking back then.”

  “Not anymore,” Sue said. “Things like that are common knowledge now. The American Surgeon General’s report in ’64 was front-page news.”

  “It seems, at least among people in my business, the message is beginning to sink in.”

  “I’m glad you don’t smoke, Barry. Maybe you should try to get Jack Mills to quit.”

  “Or try to get water to flow uphill.”

  Sue looked at her watch and then looked Barry right in the eye. “I feel that way—as if we’re trying to swim upstream when conceiving should be as easy and natural as, well, making love with you. Why does it have to be so difficult?” Sue didn’t wait for an answer. There wasn’t one anyway. That was the problem. “Please, as a doctor, tell me again what you think.”

  “As a country GP, mind, not a specialist.” Barry, to give himself a moment, took a deep swallow of his coffee, then put the cup in the saucer. “All right. Here’s a summary of what we know from the technical point of view. We are a perfectly healthy young couple, both under the age of thirty, who make love with, well, what Graham would probably describe as ‘satisfactory frequency.’”

  “And now we don’t have to perform on cue, most satisfactorily on all counts.” Sue touched Barry’s hand.

  He smiled at her. “Thank you for that.”

  Neither spoke for a few moments, then Barry said, “My sperm counts were normal. You are ovulating. There is no hostility to sperm in your cervical mucus.”

  “I didn’t like that postcoital test, Barry. Making love on cue and then me rushing up here for the test. I know Graham’s a gynaecologist. He’s done hundreds but”—she shook her head—“making love is a private thing between a man and a woman.”

  “It should be.”

  “And, what else?”

  “We know from your laparoscopy that your Fallopian tubes are not blocked or covered in scar tissue, and you do not have endometriosis.” Barry sighed. “You’ve had the whole range of tests and nothing’s shown up.”

  “And that’s what I find so hard to deal with. The not knowing.”

  “I know.” Barry wanted to give her something to cling to. “There is still hope, Sue. It’s been fifteen months. Fifteen months between when you stopped the pill and your last period on April 24. That means that as far as the doctors are concerned, we still don’t really qualify as having a problem. Not until another eight and a half months have gone by. It still may happen.”

  “I know, Barry,” Sue said. Her sigh was vast. “Oh Lord. Another eight months of hoping for the best, then having your world come crashing down. And if nothing does happen, then what?” Her shoulders slumped, and she set her half-finished coffee down.

  “I honestly don’t know. That’s why we’re seeing Graham today. To ask him.” If they’d been in complete privacy, Barry would have taken her in his arms. Instead he kissed her on the cheek, then looked at his watch. “It’s a reasonable walk from here. We probably should be heading over. I know we both have reservations about rushing into adoption until we’ve spoken to Graham. So let’s have that conversation and see if there’s anything else he can offer.” He took her hand to help her rise. And for the life of him, Doctor Barry Laverty did not have a clue what that “anything else” might be.

  * * *

  “I’m sorry you’ve had to wait ten days to see me since your laparoscopy, Sue,” Graham Harley said. He was half standing with his left hip on the plain wooden table in his consulting room. Behind him the high-backed leather swivel chair on casters remained empty. He held a fawn-coloured file containing their chart, open in both hands.

  “It’s all right, Graham,” Sue said. “Barry explained to me that you had to be in London at the Royal College last week.” She glanced at Barry. “Pat Taylor let Barry observe and explained his findings. Barry explained them to me. At that point we knew we’d had all the tests and nothing had shown up. It gave us time to talk to each other about things.”

  “And we’d like your advice now,” Barry said.

  Graham opened their chart. “Happy to give it.” He hitched farther onto the tabletop.

  Sue said, “I’m sure you’re sick of being asked, as if it were your fault, Graham, why ‘if everything’s normal, I’m still not getting pregnant—’”

  Graham Harley smiled and nodded.

  “So, I’m not going to do that, but I’d really like you to tell us what our options are now.”

  Graham pursed his lips before saying, “Before we discuss options, can we talk about how you’re feeling, Sue?”

  Barry waited.

  “Disappointed because there’s nothing to fix. Frustrated because I wanted answers and there aren’t any. Grateful to you for helping me understand at our second visit that it’s nobody’s fault. No need to apportion blame. Trying not to say, ‘It’s not fair.’ Trying not to get angry or sad when my period comes. Trying not to take it out on Barry.” Her eyes were damp, but she managed a smile in his direction. “Barry’s been a brick, you know, and I know he’s disappointed too.”

  “I am,” Barry said, “and I hate to see Sue suffer.”

  “Does talking about it help?”

  Sue took a deep breath. “Sometimes. I’ve told my mum. We’re going to Broughshane to see her and Dad for lunch today. I’ll tell her what we’ve discussed this morning.”

  “Barry?”

  “Yes, Graham.”

  “I’m asking you too, does talking about it help?”

  “I—well, Fingal knows. I told him and he’s sympathetic,” Barry said. He decided not to mention the conversation he’d had with Jack Mills at the rugby match in March, because at that time he and Sue had decided to keep their troubles strictly to themselves, and Barry was a bit ashamed that, needing some solace himself, he hadn’t kept his word.

  “I’m glad you’ve told other people. And I do know what a horrible roller-coaster ride it can be. It does help to get it out of your system once in a while, so if you want to talk to me, give me a call or make an appointment.”

  “Thank you,” Barry said.

  “I keep thinking,” said Sue, “that maybe it has something to do with being on the pill. Are you sure it doesn’t cause infertility?”

  Barry recognised that any reason was better than none in most patients’ minds, and waited to see how Graham would respond.

  He leaned back, smiled, and leaned forward. “Women have been using it in the United Kingdom since late 1961. Initially, we thought women became more fertile in the six months after they’d discontinued its use. Subsequent research showed that we were wrong, but for a while we were prescribing a six-month course for women having difficulty and hoping to see that apparent increase, a so-called rebound effect, in pregnancies happening. It didn’t, nor have we been able to establish any correlation between use and subsequent difficulty conceiving.”

  “Oh. Thank you.” Sue sighed. “Deep inside I’m still blaming myself.”

  “Please don’t, Sue.”

  “I’ll try not to.” She looked at Barry. “Barry has explained that the in vitro work of Mister Steptoe and Professor Edwards is exciting but may not be applicable for years.”

  “That’s true, I’m afraid, but their work is enormously exciting—for the future.”

  Barry leaned back in his cha
ir. “So, Graham, what would you suggest we do?”

  “Yes,” said Sue, moving forward to sit on the edge of her chair. “What about these fertility drugs I keep reading about?”

  Barry leant across and took her hand in his.

  She glanced at him and tried to force a smile.

  “That’s what the papers call them—and please don’t think me cruel, but the two kinds are both for one specific kind of infertility, Sue. The kind that occurs in women who aren’t ovulating—and you are.”

  “I see.”

  Barry heard her disappointment.

  “Some gynaecologists believe that, as these drugs often cause more than one egg to ripen and be released, giving the fertility drugs might improve the chances of women like you. Sort of like using a shotgun instead of a rifle. The more pellets, or eggs, the greater the chance of a hit. I’m not so sure.”

  “So there’s nothing we can do,” Sue said. “All we can do is keep plugging away or adopt?”

  “Not quite,” Graham said. “In six months, we’ll be starting a clinical trial comparing three groups of patients.”

  Sue said, “Can I be in the trial? I’ll try anything.”

  Barry ached for her. He understood how desperate infertile women could be.

  Sue looked at Barry before saying to Graham, “Please just help me have a baby, Graham.”

  Graham nodded. “I do understand, Sue, believe me, but I’m still going to have to ask you to be patient. Only women under thirty who have completed a workup like yours and been trying for at least two years will be admissible. One group will receive a pill called clomiphene, one injectable hormones, and one no treatment.”

  Sue frowned, turned her head half sideways, regarded Graham, and asked, “How can I be sure of a place in a treated group?”

  “Because only current patients from my practice and the Royal clinic will be invited to volunteer for treatment. The data from the untreated group will be culled from earlier records.”

  “I volunteer.”

  Graham laughed. “Hold your horses, Sue. Let’s give it a few more months. Statistically, it still is likely that good things will happen. And we may have a few results from the study by the time you are eligible, so I can give you better advice.”

  “God, I hope things do work out, but at least I have a straw to cling to if they don’t.”

  “I sincerely hope by the time you are enrolled—if that becomes necessary—it will be more than a straw.” Graham scribbled briefly in the file before saying, “Sue, I know you are disappointed, upset. Let me say again, the odds are still in your favour.”

  She nodded.

  “And I don’t want to overwhelm you with details of the trial, which I hope you won’t need to enter, but if you do start treatment with us I’ll explain everything about it then. But for now, do either of you have any more questions for me?”

  Barry shook his head. “Thanks for explaining what you have.”

  Sue nodded. “Thank you, Graham, for giving us hope.” She rose. “I think we should be running along, but thanks. Thanks for everything.”

  Graham slid off the desk to put an avuncular arm round Sue’s shoulder. “And I meant what I said. If you simply need someone to talk to between now and then, you only have to ask, and if things don’t work out I’ll see you in six months, give you both a detailed explanation, and we’ll enroll you in the study, to start treatment three months later.”

  * * *

  “We’ll see you later, Selbert,” Edith Nolan said to her husband when lunch was finished, and the table had been cleared. “Sue wants to visit Róisín.”

  Selbert rose. “Enjoy seeing your old horse, Sue. If you need me, Edith, I’ll be in the barn. I have to tinker with that tractor, hey. It keeps stalling on me.” His County Antrim accent made “tractor” sound like “trektur.”

  No coats were needed. The late-spring day was on the cusp of summer. The sun swung from a cornflower blue sky. As Barry opened the gate from the farmyard to the path leading to the paddock, the continuous melodious warbling of a skylark came from high overhead. He glanced up and was able to make out a tiny dark dot.

  “Your father-in-law has a skylark plot, Barry.” Edith followed his eyes to the sky, shading hers with her hands. “Their numbers have been going down, according to the Royal Society for the Preservation of Birds, because farmers have changed from autumn to early summer harvesting of cereals. So Selbert keeps a wee patch of later-growing cereal so the birds can nest and find food. The same pair or their weans come back every year and rear a couple of broods.” She opened the paddock gate, let them in, and closed the gate.

  “I can’t imagine this farm without the sound of the skylark,” said Sue, looking down to the ground. “Lovely to think of them rearing their families here each year.” Sue leaned on the gate and was silent. The liquid warble continued to fill the warm, still air. “Mum, Barry and I saw Doctor Harley today.”

  “Oh? And?”

  “All our tests are completely normal. He’s finished the investigation.”

  “I see.” Edith frowned. “So, what did he advise?” Before Sue could answer, Róisín whinnied, tossed her head, and trotted across the pasture. The Irish sport horse stopped in front of Sue and nudged her mistress. There was welcoming love in those deep, limpid eyes.

  Sue stroked Róisín’s cheek, muttered endearments, fished in a pocket, and produced a sugar lump, which was devoured with great smackings of rubbery lips.

  “She’s glad to see you, hey,” Edith said. “She misses you, girl. We try to give her attention, but you’re the one she loves.”

  “And I her.” After another cube, Sue said, “Off you trot, girl. I want to talk to Mum. No riding today.” She slapped the horse’s rump and the animal ambled off.

  Sue took a deep breath. “He said that medically we’re not really considered in trouble until another nine months have passed. To be patient—which is what you advised too. And you said that things often had a way of working out.” She sighed. “I hope you’re right, Mum. I really do.”

  “How do you feel, Barry?”

  Barry looked at his shoes and back at Edith. “Sorry for Sue, frustrated, still hopeful, and, Sue, Graham did hold out another glimmer of hope.”

  Sue looked at Barry. “You explain to Mum, pet.”

  Barry said, “We have to wait for nine months more before we can be subjects in one of Graham’s research programmes, where Sue will receive one of two medications to stimulate ovulation.”

  “But I thought you did ovulate?”

  “I do, Mum, but this treatment will produce more than one egg per cycle.”

  Edith frowned. “I’m not sure I understand, but will it be safe for Sue, Barry?”

  Barry wasn’t certain.

  “There may be some risks, and I know we’ll find out more before treatment—if we need it—but I trust Graham Harley implicitly.”

  “So do I,” Sue said.

  “Please take care of her, Barry.” Edith looked at Sue. “Have you considered adoption?”

  “We were both a bit uncertain about how we felt about it, so we decided not to talk about it until after we’d seen Graham today. We did discuss it on the drive down.”

  “And?”

  Róisín had come up behind Sue and was nuzzling the pocket that had produced the sugar cubes.

  “Hang on, Mum.” Sue gave the horse another cube. Gentled her.

  “I think Sue would like to get moving straightaway.” He saw Sue nodding as she gave the animal another lump.

  “There’s a belief that couples who adopt a child often fall pregnant soon after. When we were students, all Graham would say was, ‘Those are the ones you hear about. You never hear about the ones who don’t.’ I’m the stumbling block. I wasn’t sure about having one of our own initially, now I want one very much.” He inhaled. “But I’m not so sure about taking on someone else’s. I told Sue.”

  Sue said, “I think you’ll come around, Barry. At least I hope yo
u will.”

  “I need a bit more time,” Barry said.

  “Barry, I think you’re being very sensible—”

  “Mother—”

  “Sorry, Sue, but I do. But I have a suggestion if you’d like to hear it?”

  Tactful, Barry thought. Very tactful. “Please go ahead.”

  “Would you be averse to making enquiries about how to go about it should it become necessary? I think it can be quite a time-consuming business. It wouldn’t hurt to get a head start.”

  “I agree, Mum.” Sue had an arm draped over Róisín’s neck, probably taking comfort from the nearness of a very old friend.

  Barry took his time before answering. “That makes sense. I can ask our health visitor. She often helps couples get the process going.”

  Sue let go of Róisín, hugged Barry, and gave him a huge kiss. “Thank you, darling. Thank you.”

  And he hated what he was going to say next, but it had to be said. “I’m happy enough to get the ball rolling, as long as we understand I’ll not be ready to accept a child until I’m comfortable that I’m really committed.”

  Edith said, “I think that’s very wise, Barry. Your dad and I, Sue, raised you and your brother. Being a parent will take a lot of hard work—from both of you. It’s not an easy job.”

  “I know, Mum.” Sue hugged her mother. “Thank you for all you and Dad did, and still do, for both of us.” She turned to Barry. “And thank you for being honest, pet. I know you don’t feel ready for adoption now, but it took you a while to want to be a daddy. But you did. You do.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And don’t forget, you still have each other,” Edith said. “I can see how much in love you both are, and that kind of honesty with each other, even if it’s painful, is part of the rock-solid foundation of a strong marriage.” She smiled. “You’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

  Sue took Barry’s hand. Looked into his eyes. “Mum’s right.” She squeezed his hand. “We’ll get through this together. I’ve had time to let what Graham has told us sink in. And now we have a plan, to explore adoption—even if we don’t go ahead at once, to have a chance of trying a possible treatment. I feel that some of the horrid uncertainty, the not knowing, has been removed.” She looked at her mother. “You’re always a comfort, Mum.”