An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  “Well, sir, in truth, they do look a bit the worse for wear, so. And you know how her ladyship liked to climb them when she was a wee kitten. I hadn’t really noticed until Doctor Stevenson said—”

  “Doctor Stevenson, is it? That’s why you’re suddenly so eager to redecorate, Kitty—”

  “Redecorate? Nonsense,” Kitty said, a steely look in her grey eyes. “I just think the dining room needs some new curtains. I’d got used to them too, but Doctor Stevenson mentioned them to me after the last time she was in here.”

  “I see.” He could feel the tip of his nose turning cold and probably white. Nonie Stevenson was a member of his practice, a professional colleague, but she had no business meddling in the affairs of this house, and he’d tell her so the next time he saw her.

  “I’ll be running along, back to my kitchen,” said Kinky, quickly finishing loading up her tray and leaving without a backward glance.

  “Thank you, Kinky,” Kitty called to the woman’s retreating back.

  Kitty, Nonie, and even Kinky seemed to be ganging up on him. Lord, he thought, preserve me from this monstrous regiment of women. Then he grinned. Don’t be such an old bear, he told himself. In a minute he’d be growling “Bah, humbug” if he wasn’t careful.

  “Really, Fingal. Doctor Stevenson just mentioned in passing to Kinky and me what a charming old house it was and were the curtains original. It was a joke. There was no malice in it, but it made me think. And while I’m quite sure you do like them, they are going. And don’t forget, I earn my own keep. I’ll be happy to pay for the new ones.”

  The front doorbell trilled. Unusual, he thought, taking a sip of his tea. Patients normally came to the waiting room door at the side of the house unless there was some crisis. “I’m very fond of those curtains,” he said. “I don’t think they need to go at all. In fact I’m sure of it.”

  He heard Kinky’s voice and some other very familiar female tones.

  Outside the window, flakes were dancing and whirling, clinging to the branches of the old yew trees in the churchyard across the road, lying on the windowsill, and sticking to the glass of the panes. “Would you look at that,” he said, pointing out through the window. As far as he was concerned, the subject of new curtains was closed. “First snow this winter.”

  “Brrr, I hope it blows over soon.”

  Kinky peeked into the dining room, looking from Kitty to O’Reilly. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I do have a very anxious Maggie Houston and one of their dogs in the hall, so. You’ve known Maggie forever and Doctor Stevenson does not. I think the poor woman needs to see a friendly face. Would you speak to her, sir? She’ll tell me nothing.”

  Through the years, Kinky had become a triage officer par excellence, and if she thought a patient should be seen at once O’Reilly knew better than to demur. “Bring her in here,” he said.

  “I think I’ll go and get a tape measure,” Kitty said, and made an obvious wink to Kinky, “and measure the windows here when Maggie’s gone.”

  Maggie MacCorkle, as she had been before she’d married Sonny Houston, had been one of the first patients O’Reilly had introduced to young Barry three years ago, when she had been complaining of headaches—two inches above the crown of her head. She was certainly eccentric, but the fact that she’d not confide her troubles to Kinky, when everyone usually did, boded ill, O’Reilly thought. He fished out his half-moon spectacles and perched them on his nose.

  Kinky opened the door to the dining room. “Here’s Maggie.” She ushered the woman into the room, followed by a large dog. The ungainly animal looked like a cross between a Labrador, a standard poodle, and something with long droopy ears.

  “Morning, Maggie,” O’Reilly said. “Have a pew.” He pulled out a chair.

  Maggie sat sideways. Wellington boots peeped out from under her voluminous black skirt, itself half-hidden under a heavy overcoat. A blue felt hat perched on her grey hair. The wilted flowers that she customarily wore in her hatband had been replaced by a sprig of holly with fresh red berries. Her usually bright ebony eyes were lifeless.

  The dog flopped to the floor at her feet, regarded O’Reilly with doleful eyes, and began sweeping its tail back and forth and drooling onto the carpet.

  “This here’s Jasper,” Maggie said.

  “Morning, Jasper,” O’Reilly said, and smiled. Rural practice had its moments. The dog wasn’t the first animal to be brought to Number One Main Street. Not by a long chalk. Miss Moloney the dressmaker had sought his opinion on the health of her African grey parrot, and just before Christmas, Colin Brown had brought in his pet white mouse, Snowball, the little beast that had got loose at Kinky’s wedding. He did not, however, think Maggie wanted an opinion about the dog. “And what can I do for you, Maggie?”

  “Och, Doctor O’Reilly,” she said, and sniffed.

  O’Reilly took a chair opposite and leaned forward. “What’s the trouble?”

  She sighed, placed a huge handbag on the dining room table, and said, “It’s Sonny, so it is. He’s not well.” A tear trickled down one wrinkled cheek.

  He could tell this was an informal occasion. She was not wearing her dentures.

  “The ould goat refuses to see a doctor. Said he’d bar the door if one came til the house, so he did.” She snatched a short hiccup of a breath. “I don’t know what to do. I’m at my wits’ end, so I am. He doesn’t even know I’m here. I took the bus. Said I was going shopping.” She rummaged in the bag, fished out a large linen hanky, and blew her nose with a ferocious honk. “This buck eejit,” she pointed at the dog, who made a strange Aaaarghow, “followed me til the stop and wouldn’t go home. And see that there Sticky Maguire? Him that’s the bus conductor with Ulsterbus? Says he til me, he says, when the bus pulled up at the stop, ‘No dogs allowed.’ And just because your man’s got a uniform and a peaked cap, he’s standing there on the platform like a wee Hitler.” Maggie looked at her handbag. “Says me til him, ‘Away off and chase yourself, Sticky Maguire. You let me and Jasper here on or I’ll—I’ll…’” She pursed her lips then inhaled deeply. “I was so cross. I had til get here til see a doctor and I didn’t want til miss the bus. And poor Sonny sick, so I took this,” she picked up her bag, “and I said, ‘See you, Sticky, let us on or, or I’ll hit yiz with my handbag, so I will.’”

  Fighting words, O’Reilly thought. She must be really worried about Sonny. “And?”

  “Shooey Gamble and your man Fergus Finnegan, the jockey, was on the bus. The pair of them starts chanting, ‘Let her on, Let her on,’ and soon everybody joined in.” She smoothed her skirt. “And here I am.” She replaced the bag on the table.

  “And here you are,” said O’Reilly, who was well used to the solidarity shown by Ulster country folk when one of their own was threatened. “And you’re going to tell me about Sonny.”

  She swallowed. “He’s not well and I’m dead afeared.”

  “Don’t be scared, Maggie. You’ve done the right thing, coming to us,” O’Reilly said. “Now, what do you think’s wrong with him?” He immediately regretted his phrasing. Maggie Houston folded her arms across her chest and snapped, “If I knew that I’d be a doctor myself now, wouldn’t I? Finding out’s your job, so it is.”

  O’Reilly smiled. He’d not made that elementary mistake with the literal-minded Ulster folks for years. “True. Let’s put it this way. What seems to be troubling him?”

  “It’s hard to say.” She frowned. “You’d need for til ask him. But he won’t see a doctor. Says he doesn’t need one.”

  Which, O’Reilly thought, could make things tricky. He hid a smile. Good history-taking was supposed to avoid asking leading questions, but so far he’d learned nothing of use beyond the well-known fact that Sonny Houston was a stubborn man. “Is he in pain?”

  She shook her head.

  O’Reilly waited. He guessed if Sonny had been bleeding, Maggie would have asked for a home visit at once or dialled 999 for emergency services, so that probably w
asn’t the cause.

  She stared at the carpet.

  “Maggie, I really want to help you, but you have to try to help me.” Just about what he’d said to Andy Jackson last Saturday.

  “I don’t know what ails him. He’s just, just, och dear, he’s just not at himself, so he’s not.”

  “Can you describe in what way?” O’Reilly knew the sixty-one-year-old Sonny suffered from arthritis of his hands and mild congestive heart failure that was usually controlled by low doses of digitalis and a hydrochlorothiazide diuretic.

  “He gets awful tired, short of breath and…” She started to wring her hands.

  Typical of heart failure, O’Reilly thought. Sounds pretty straightforward. Perhaps he needs an increase in dosage.

  “I’m ashamed, so I am, til tell yiz the rest.” She stared at her boots.

  “Come on, Maggie,” O’Reilly said, speaking softly, but feeling the rising impatience in his shoulders and neck. “You can do it.”

  She sniffed, pursed her lips, and screwed up her eyes. “Except for til discipline his dogs,” she looked down accusingly at Jasper, now sound asleep and snoring gently, “Sonny Houston’s never raised his voice in anger til a living soul. Except maybe that great glipe Bertie Bishop over the roof business.” She looked down at her hands, which were gripped tightly together in her lap, then looked O’Reilly in the eye. The words came out in a rush. “This morning I spilled milk when I was putting it on his cornflakes. He—He—” She shook her head. Silence.

  O’Reilly leant forward, put a hand on her arm. “Come on, Maggie,” he said, “you can spit it out if you try.”

  She inhaled, paused, and said, “He shouted at me. Called me a clumsy oaf. A stupid old woman. He was fit to be tied. Yelling at me. Spittle flying.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He put the fear of God intil me, so he did, and that’s not the first time lately, neither. That’s why I come here. He’s not my old Sonny.”

  O’Reilly sat back. “That doesn’t sound like Sonny,” he said, while trying to recall what, if anything, he knew about the significance of sudden and completely out-of-character changes in behaviour. They sounded more like some psychiatric disorder. Whatever it was, it needed sorting out, and soon. “I know that’s what’s got you worried most, Maggie, and I can understand why, but I still need your help. Have you noticed anything else wrong? Anything at all.”

  She nodded. “He’s getting awful forgetful, and he has headaches and he says his hands and feet are numb.”

  “Mmmm,” said O’Reilly, stroking his chin. Those symptoms were not usually associated with heart failure and sounded more like a disorder of the nervous system. That and the sudden outbursts? O’Reilly was still at a loss. “Anything else?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No. But he’s not right, so he’s not. I’m scared he might—he might hit me or, or hurt himself. I think he’s losing his mind and I don’t want til see him locked up in Purdysburn.”

  It was a distinct possibility that Sonny Houston was going to require psychiatric help in the province’s asylum, Purdysburn Hospital, but although O’Reilly could not formulate a working diagnosis now, perhaps there was an underlying physical cause that might be amenable to treatment?

  Maggie was crying quietly when she said, “I want yiz til do something, Doctor O’Reilly. Give me something til make him better. Please?”

  “Give me a minute,” O’Reilly said, trying and still failing to arrive at a diagnosis or at least a list of possibilities. Despite patients’ beliefs that the examination was all-important, the physical findings in most instances simply confirmed what had been suspected by analysis of the symptoms. Not in this case. O’Reilly knew that all he could do was take a thorough look at Sonny and hope something helpful turned up. Either that or, and it was something O’Reilly disliked doing unless absolutely necessary, admit he was out of his depth and simply refer him to a specialist at the Royal or Purdysburn. But which specialist? “Maggie,” he said, “I know your husband doesn’t want to see a doctor…”

  “He’ll not let you near him. You know how pig-headed he can be.” She was wringing her hands. “What’ll I do?”

  Jasper woofed once and got to his feet as the door opened.

  O’Reilly turned to see Barry in the doorway. “I just got in. Kinky told me Maggie was here. Morning, Maggie.”

  Maggie sniffed. “Morning, Doctor Laverty.”

  Barry said, “And that you had plans to take Kitty out. Can I help? I am officially on call now. Is Maggie sick?”

  O’Reilly shook his head. “It’s Sonny.”

  Barry frowned. “But he’s not here. I don’t understand.”

  “Maggie,” O’Reilly said, “I’m going to ask Doctor Laverty’s opinion.”

  “Fire away, sir,” Maggie said.

  “Sonny has a number of symptoms that have got Maggie worried. I’m afraid they don’t quite add up. I’m not sure what’s going on.”

  Maggie’s sniff was huge. She dabbed her eyes with her hanky.

  “And he’s refusing to see a doctor.” O’Reilly whipped off his spectacles. “Typical Sonny Houston. Gets a bee in his bonnet and ten strong men wouldn’t move him. Huh. Well, he’s not the only bloody-minded man in this village. Yes, Doctor Laverty, I would like you to take over Sonny’s case, but a bit later.” He turned to Maggie. “Doctor Laverty knows a lot more of the new medicine.” He saw Barry smile at the compliment. “And sometimes two medical heads are better than one.” He looked out the window to see snow falling more heavily. “Maggie, wait here with Jasper for a wee while until I come back for you. Doctor Laverty, it’s your case, but what was called in the navy ‘a ship of force’ is sometimes required. That’s me. He’ll see me or else.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “The Rover’s in the garage. Barry, get your coat on again and your Wellies and go on out to the car. I’ll nip upstairs, tell Kitty where we’re going, then come back and we’ll put snow chains on the tyres. I’ll tell you what I’ve found out about Sonny while we work and on the drive out.”

  “Right,” said Barry, and left.

  “Sit tight, Maggie,” O’Reilly said, then rose and left to climb the stairs.

  “How is she?” Kitty sat in an armchair before a fire where Arthur Guinness lay stretched out. Lady Macbeth was on Kitty’s lap, along with an open magazine.

  “Maggie’s worried about Sonny, and I’m not sure exactly what’s wrong with him. He’s refusing to see a doctor. Both Barry and I are going out to see him. Sorry about that, but…” He stared out at the blizzard. “I’m not sure we’d have made it out for lunch anyway.” He thought of the dining room curtains. Nor would they get to Bangor. Inwardly he smiled.

  “That’s all right,” she said. “Now drive carefully. I’ll let Kinky know there’ll be two more for lunch.”

  O’Reilly bent and dropped a kiss on the top of her head. “I’m off,” he said, heading for the door.

  As he went downstairs he felt regret about missing lunch with Kitty but an even greater curiosity to find out what the devil was wrong with Sonny Houston.

  5

  And They Ran Awa’

  “Hellfire and damnation,” O’Reilly yelled as the final clip on the tyre chain snapped shut—and skinned his knuckles. He reflexively sucked them.

  “You all right, Fingal?” Barry asked.

  “I’ll live,” he said. “Time we were off, and I want you to drive.”

  “Oh?”

  “That hill up to the Houstons’ can be a bugger when it’s slippy,” O’Reilly said. “You drive and if needed I’ll get out and push.”

  The two men got in and Barry reversed out of the garage.

  As they drove up to the front of Number One the snow was falling fast, whirled into spirals by a vicious northeaster. Although it was only midmorning, the steeple of the Presbyterian church opposite Number One was difficult to make out, and the old yews were bowing under the weight of the damp flakes.

  “I’ll go and get them
,” O’Reilly said when Barry had parked. It really was as cold as a witch’s tit, he thought as he hurried along the short path and on into the house. “Come on, Maggie, and bring Jasper.”

  On the way back to the car the gormless animal kept bounding and clicking his jaws, trying to catch snowflakes in his mouth.

  “In you get,” he said, holding the back door open and closing it behind them. He climbed in the front. “Off we go.”

  Barry pulled away from the kerb and drove along roads where the few vehicles caught out in the storm crept along. Nobody in their right mind would be driving in this unless they had to.

  “Can yiz no’ go any faster, Doctor Laverty?” said Maggie from the backseat. “I’m main worried, so I am. We’re only hirpling along like an ould snail with rheumatism.”

  “I’m going as fast as I can, Maggie. There’s a lorry up ahead and I can’t pass him in this lot.”

  The swirling snow was barely kept at bay by the windscreen wipers.

  “Poor Sonny’s all alone, bless him,” Maggie said, “but for his dogs. I hope til God he’s had enough wit til get a fire lit. It would skin you alive out there.”

  “I’m sure—” O’Reilly began, but Maggie continued. “Och, but I don’t know. The last wee while I’ve had til remind him til brush his teeth. Comb his hair. I telt him yesterday he’d forget his head if it wasn’t screwed on his shoulders.”

  Memory loss, O’Reilly thought, emotional lability, and the loss of temper she’d already described? He knew they occurred with toxic confusional states or—and please don’t let it be—dementia. But how did that relate to numbness of the extremities and shortness of breath? O’Reilly shook his head and stared at the red taillights of the lorry that Barry was using as a pathfinder through the blizzard.

  “Maggie,” O’Reilly said, “I’ve been telling Doctor Laverty most of what you’ve told me about Sonny. I’m going to tell him the rest now.”

  “You fire away, sir, but don’t make the young doctor slow down any more.”