An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  “Boys-a-dear.” Maggie jammed a fist against her lips and stared at Sonny.

  Barry hurried to add, “But in 1920, doctors found a cure.” He decided against telling Maggie and Sonny that before vitamin B12 had been identified and synthesised in the 1950s, the cure had been to eat raw liver every day.

  “Hallelloolyah, that’s a relief,” she said, clearly reassured.

  O’Reilly chuckled at the Ulster pronunciation with the extra “lool” syllable.

  “Thank you, Doctor,” Sonny said. “I am reassured by your findings, and—” He hesitated. “I’m sorry, Maggie, for yelling at you, and you doctors for my being bloody-minded. I don’t know what came over me.”

  O’Reilly was relieved they did not have to consider dementia any longer. “No need. Being grumpy’s caused by the disease too.”

  Maggie, who must have popped in her false teeth when she was in the kitchen, grinned so widely her hooked nose almost met her chin. “There, you ould goat,” she said. “You’re forgiven for barging at me, going up one side and down the other this morning, and you and your ‘I don’t want no doctors.’ Buck eejit.” But she bent and kissed him—and the room was filled with forgiveness and love.

  She pointed to the tray. “Now, sirs, tea and cake.”

  “That would be really lovely, Maggie,” O’Reilly said, “but the snow is still falling thick and fast out there and we must get back to Number One.”

  Barry picked up his coat and bag. “The ambulance will be here for you tomorrow and I’ll call round to give you the results next week.” He followed O’Reilly, who was making for the door. “We’ll see ourselves out,” O’Reilly said as he hauled on his boots. He was proud of Barry for having worked out a difficult clinical problem, and nearly as proud of himself for gracefully avoiding Maggie’s tea and cake.

  On the way to the car through the continuing blizzard, O’Reilly said, “It’s downhill on the way home. I’ll drive.” He got in. “Well done, Barry,” he said, manoeuvering the big car away from the kerb. “I was getting worried. It was looking like Sonny might have a blood disorder. I have very personal reasons for fearing them. My father died of leukaemia in 1936. But pernicious anaemia is much less serious.”

  “I’m sorry, Fingal. He must have been still a relatively young man.”

  “Och,” said O’Reilly, heading for the Bangor to Belfast Road, “he was. Only fifty-eight, same age I am now. That was thirty-one years ago, but it was hard at the time. Particularly on my mother. Do you think there’s a chance Sonny might—?”

  “Have a leukaemia? The blood tests’ll give us a better notion, but I hope not.”

  “Time will tell,” O’Reilly said, slowing behind a lorry spreading sand and salt on the road, “but for now let’s get back home.” The prospect of a warm fire in the lounge and one of Kinky’s hot lunches in the dining room filled his heart with gratitude for Number One Main. “I wonder,” he said, “if Sonny’s Jasper has found his way home yet?”

  6

  Pregnancy Humbles Husbands

  Someone was knocking on the door of Barry’s quarters. He looked up from where he sat at a small inlaid walnut table under an Anglepoise lamp. He was assembling the mainmast on his model of HMS Rattlesnake and would be until it was time to accept Fingal’s earlier invitation to go upstairs for a predinner drink. “Come in.”

  Nonie Stevenson, who was taking the Monday afternoon clinic, stuck her head round the door. Tasty cooking smells wafted in from the adjacent kitchen. “My,” she said, pointing at the miniature square-rigger, “that’s pretty finicky work. I’m impressed. Are you sure you haven’t missed your calling—say, neurosurgery?”

  Barry smiled. “Modelling’s been a hobby of mine for years. Can’t say the same for neurosurgery.”

  She struck a pose with one foot at right angles to the other, knee bent so her heel was off the floor. With her left hand on her hip, and her right hand behind her thrown-back, half-turned head, she curved her full lips into a slight pout.

  Good God, she could have been posing for Vogue, Barry thought. Even in the white lab coat and knee-length skirt, she exuded a kind of elegant eroticism. He smiled and felt a flicker of temptation. He smiled again. Well, he was only human. He swallowed. Down boy. Think of Sue.

  “Modelling, that kind of modelling, wasn’t a hobby with me,” she said. “I did it professionally when I was a student. Helped pay my fees. I worked for the Stella Goddard Agency.” She dropped the pose.

  “I’ll be damned. I had no idea. I don’t think I ever saw your picture anywhere—”

  Nonie laughed. “And you wouldn’t have. It was mostly just damned hard work, not the least bit glamorous. But it was easier than waiting on tables.” She ran a finger lightly over the tiny ship’s foredeck railing and looked at him thoughtfully.

  Somehow the modelling didn’t fit with her professional image, and yet, she was a damn attractive woman. He wondered if she was still posing when she looked down, pursed her lips, and said, “I need a favour.”

  He frowned. “Sure.”

  “Can I sit down?”

  Barry pointed to a chair.

  She sat and crossed her, he had to admit, shapely legs. But as his dad used to say, “A cat can look at a king as long as it doesn’t think the king’s a mouse.” She said, “I had a blazing row with my boyfriend last night.”

  It was a comfort to know she had a man in her life. And yet there was something provocative about her, sitting neatly in the faded plaid armchair, her hands restless in her lap. Something flirtatious. Perhaps she was one of the new women who were simply less reserved than their more traditional sisters and enjoyed a bit of flirting. “Nothing too serious, I hope.”

  She pursed her lips again.

  “Want to talk about it?”

  She shook her head. “Thanks, but not in gory detail. He was mad because I kept him waiting for half an hour. I’d had a nap in the afternoon and slept in.”

  Barry stifled a grin. As a student she’d been a great one for snatching forty winks at the slightest provocation.

  “He yelled at me.” She sighed. “God, I’m dying for a cigarette. Anyway, one thing led to another … I really don’t want it to break up.”

  Barry relaxed and waited.

  “I’m meant to meet him tonight at six in Belfast at the Ritz cinema, and the clinic’s running late. I’d best not be late.” She looked Barry straight in the eye. “I didn’t want to ask Fingal to help out. I’ve only been here a couple of weeks, you took over for me last Monday because I was bushed, and I don’t want him to think I’m a shirker always asking for cover, but…”

  “Hang on,” Barry said. “First of all, Fingal’s out, and second, you didn’t ask me last week. I offered.”

  Her smile was full of gratitude.

  “Would I see your last patients?” he said. “Is that it?”

  “Would you?”

  “Sure.” Barry rose and so did she. He’d been on call all weekend and it had been a busy one, but seeing a couple of cases wouldn’t be much trouble. “You run on. Good luck with your boyfriend.”

  “You are a sweetheart,” she said, moved firmly against him, hugged him, and kissed his cheek.

  Barry stepped back. A peck between friends was one thing, but that hadn’t been just a peck. He felt himself start to blush. Don’t be stupid, he told himself. She knows you’re engaged.

  “There’s only a couple of customers left. I’ll run on.” She was already stripping off her white coat as she fled.

  Barry cocked his head. What had she meant by that kiss? Come on, he told himself, don’t let your imagination run riot. He laughed. Nonie Stevenson was probably just an affectionate young woman, and one who surely needed her sleep. Forget it, Laverty.

  He headed into the kitchen, where Kinky was kneading rough white objects shaped like scones. “Cobbler topping,” she said. “Just finishing them off so Kitty can put them on top of the beef stew when it’s finishing off in the oven. Archie will be here to
pick me up at five. We’re going to the British Legion in Bangor tonight, so.”

  The trip to the ex-serviceman’s club, Barry thought, accounted for the smart dress under her apron and her best green hat on a chair. “Have fun,” he said. “See you tomorrow.”

  He looked into the waiting room with its mural of floribunda roses on one wall. He heard a chorus of “Afternoon, Doctor,” from the three people in the room. Donal Donnelly sat with his wife, Julie, and a young woman in her early twenties whom Barry did not know. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but Doctor Stevenson has been called away.”

  “’At’s all right, Doctor Laverty,” Donal said, but the young woman rose and said, “No harm to you, sir, but I really wanted to see the lady doctor.”

  Barry recalled a line from Sir William Osler, a famous late-nineteenth-century Canadian physician: “There are three sexes, men, women, and doctors,” but smiled and said, “That’s perfectly all right. She’ll be here on Wednesday afternoon and unless it’s urgent…” The recognition that some women did prefer being seen by another woman was, after all, one of the main reasons Nonie had been appointed to replace Jenny Bradley.

  “Thank you, sir. I’ll come back.” The patient let herself out by the side door.

  Barry felt a flicker of irritation. It hardly seemed fair that the stranger should be inconvenienced because Nonie had wanted to get away early, but then in fairness the patient could have seen Barry if she’d wished.

  He smiled at Julie. “Come on, you two,” Barry said, and waited for the Donnellys to follow him. “I know why you’re here. Donal told us when we were on the beach a couple of weeks back. A little brother or sister for Victoria?” He ushered them into the surgery.

  They sat on the two hard wooden chairs and he took the swivel one in front of the old rolltop desk.

  “And this is your third pregnancy, Julie.”

  “Yes, sir, you’d remember,” Julie said. “I lost the first.”

  “I do indeed,” Barry said. Hadn’t he run her up to the Royal in his own car when she’d miscarried her first? “But then you had wee Tori.”

  “She’s at her granny’s so we could come in and see you,” Donal said.

  “I appreciate that,” Barry said. Consultations without the pleasure of the company of active toddlers always went more smoothly. “Now,” he said, crossing to the filing cabinet where records were stored, “let’s get some details.” Barry went through the routine questions so familiar to him now as to be second nature. “Right,” he said, doing Naegele’s calculations in his head, “that makes you fifteen weeks today.” He knew what Julie’s greatest fear would be, so added, “Past the time most miscarriages happen.”

  “That’s a relief,” she said. “I’d not want to lose another one.”

  “Not likely now,” Barry said, “and your due date’s July the twelfth.”

  “Wheeker,” said Donal with a broad grin. “The anniversary of the Battle of the Boyne. If the wee lad arrives on time, we’ll call him William after King Billy of glorious and immortal memory, so we will.”

  “Donal,” Julie said. “It might be another wee girl.”

  “Will it be a boy or a girl, I wonder.” A frowning Donal looked at Barry as if he might know the answer to the question.

  “Yes, it will,” said Barry. “I can promise you that.”

  He could see by the way Donal’s face screwed up that the truth of the statement was taking a moment to sink in. Then he chuckled and said, “No harm ti yiz, sir, but you’re so sharp you’ll cut yourself, so you will, Doctor Laverty.”

  Barry laughed, and said, “Exactly, Donal. I’m a doctor, not a fortune-teller.” He rose. “Come on, Julie, let’s get a good look at you.”

  She stood and handed him a small bottle containing amber fluid. “I brung my specimen,” she said.

  “Thank you. I’ll test it while you’re getting ready.” He pulled back the screens round a new examining couch that Nonie had suggested was needed the day she’d been interviewed last year. Barry smiled. Fingal was a good man and he could not have asked for a better partner, but when it came to spending money, the man would wrestle a bear for a halfpenny, as they said in Ballymena. But he had been persuaded to make the purchase when Nonie had pointed out that the costs could be a deduction from his income tax.

  “Just be a minute.” Barry worked over the sink. The reagent-impregnated cardboard sticks were a great advance over having to mix stinking chemicals with the urine. He was happy to see that none of the Dipsticks had changed colour. “Urine’s clear,” he said, rinsing out the bottle. He went in behind the screens.

  A complete physical examination confirmed that Julie’s uterus was of the correct size and its top had already risen into the abdomen. It was too early to listen for a foetal heart. He had detected no unusual signs except that her systolic blood pressure, the pressure in the arteries at that point in the heart’s cycle known as systole, when the great pump contracted to push the blood round the body, was 130. It should be 120, but it was a well-known phenomenon that the stress of merely visiting a doctor could affect the systolic pressure. Of more import was her diastolic pressure, that which occurred when the heart relaxed to fill up with returned blood. It was only 80, and with a pregnant woman the doctor’s alarm bells should only start to ring if the level was 85 or higher. But he made a note on the chart. It would bear keeping an eye on at subsequent antenatal visits. Julie finished dressing and together they went back from behind the screens.

  “I’m pleased to say that everything seems to be spot on.” Not entirely true, but concerning her now about what was probably a finding of no consequence would serve no useful purpose. “I just need to give you the lab forms to take to Bangor hospital.” He kept some already filled in for routine antenatal care and simply had to add her personal details. Work of but a few moments. He gave her the requisitions.

  So far progress was essentially normal, but of course that was the thing about obstetrics. No pregnancy was low risk until the bairn was in the crib and the mother doing well. “Everything looks fine. No reason you can’t have the wean at home. Off you trot now, and come back in three weeks or if anything worries you,” Barry said.

  “Thank you, Doctor Laverty,” she said.

  Barry walked with them to the door of the surgery. “Safe home,” he said as they left the house.

  Barry stood for a moment, then turned and surveyed the slightly shabby, old-fashioned room with its brand-new examining couch. New life was growing inside Julie Donnelly and the thought gave him a sharp thrill of delight. Midwifery was fun. Nearly all the time you ended up with a healthy baby and happy, grateful parents. It made up for some of the more depressing times, dealing with fatal or crippling diseases, which fortunately were not common in general practice. Julie was going to be fine. Second, third, and fourth pregnancies usually were.

  And Nonie and her antics? He grinned. Nothing to worry about. Not a damn thing. He started to climb the stairs.

  He was looking forward to that jar. O’Reilly was probably home by now. He’d had to go to Bangor for something this afternoon and had, as was ethical, suggested to Barry that as he’d be passing the Houstons’ he might just pop in even if the lab results were not back yet. Barry certainly had not objected. He was well aware of his senior’s propensity for keeping an eye on his more vulnerable patients.

  7

  He Is Lost to the Forest

  “It is quare and decent of you til pop in like this, Doctor O’Reilly,” Maggie Houston said as she fondled the remaining ear of her cat, General Sir Bernard Law Montgomery. “You’re holding your own, aren’t you, Sonny. He’s still not at himself, but he’s no worse than he was on Friday, and now that them tests have been done, it’s easier to bide til we see what’s what. But it’s a shame about Jasper.”

  “It is, Maggie. It is.” O’Reilly glanced out the window to the threatening skies as he tugged the blood pressure cuff from Sonny’s arm. Maggie pursed her lips, inhaled, then brightened.
“Doctor, are you sure you’d not like a cup of tea in your hand and a bit of plum cake for your sweet—”

  “I am truly sorry the animal’s not home yet,” O’Reilly said with some feeling, hoping his remark might waylay Maggie’s question. “I don’t like to think of him out there on his own.” He wound the tubes of his sphygmomanometer into a coil around the cuff and tucked it into his bag. All of Sonny’s vital signs were good, and he thought the man’s colour was better and his breathing a little less laboured.

  “Aye,” said Sonny, “I’m worried too. You know, Doctor, I’ve always had a wheen of dogs. Some of them wander off once in a while, particularly if there’s a bitch on heat around, but only in the summer, and they always show up in a couple of days.”

  “But Jasper’s eyesight’s going. So’s his hearing,” Maggie said. “I don’t think the poor thing has been able to find his way in the snow. Maybe he can’t pick up scents no more neither. He’ll be lonely, and scared, and cold.”

  “Getting old stinks,” Sonny said. “Look at me.”

  “For a man of your age, Sonny Houston, you’re not in bad shape at all,” O’Reilly said, “and Doctor Laverty will have you in fine fettle very soon.” As soon as Sonny’s test results were in, Barry would get right on top of things and O’Reilly would not interfere. The young man was fulfilling his earlier promise of being a first-class GP.

  “I hope so.” Sonny moved in his chair to make more room for a rotund little dog, Missy, who had whelped last May. One of her pups, Murphy, was Colin Brown’s now. “At least I’ve all kinds of people looking after me. Poor old Jasper has nobody. Got him when he was just a wee pup. I was walking through the Ballybucklebo Hills one October day and there he was hiding in a culvert. I took him home, called a few people. I went over to my next-door neighbour Mister Doran … I’d heard he’d got a pup.” Sonny shrugged. “I got told in no uncertain terms to mind my own business. Asked if I was insinuating he’d abandoned the wee pup.”