An Irish Country Love Story

by Patrick Taylor

  And Barry Laverty, feeling himself aroused, laughed and shook his head. “Shameless hussy,” he said, “but you have a point. Let’s make it a dozen.”

  27

  One of Those Telegrams

  “So,” said Barry, buttering a fresh croissant, “what’ll we do after breakfast this fine Thursday morning?”

  He and Sue were sitting at a table for two in the small dining room of their pension. Three more tables were occupied. The hum of conversation was muted, the air perfumed by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee and newly baked baguettes.

  “Another belle journée du printemps. Do you know what that means, Barry?” she said with a wink.

  “I do, Miss Nolan, soon to be Mrs. Laverty, and even if it was bucketing down, it would still be a lovely spring day as long as I’m with you.” He looked over at her, admiring her fawn-coloured sweater and how it complemented her copper hair, then laid his hand on hers on top of the white linen tablecloth.

  She laughed and turned her hand so she could hold his. “You are sweet,” she said, and lowered her voice, “and a terrific lover.”

  Barry blushed. Last night, contentedly full of oysters, bouillabaisse, and several glasses of the Chope D’Or’s vin blanc, he had walked her back to the pension and taken her to bed, softly, gently, with none of the urgency of their first lovemaking. His only thought on waking had been how wonderful it was going to be for the next five days finding this beautiful warm creature beside him every morning and, once they were married next month, for the rest of his life.

  “I know,” she said quietly, as if he had voiced every thought he had just had. He felt his face colour again and yet it was oddly reassuring to know that someone could read him so well, know what he was thinking and feeling. He looked over at her. “Just thinking about it leaves me speechless, Barry. I love you.” She smiled at him, squeezed his hand, and let the silence hang for long moments before saying, “You asked me what’ll we do after breakfast?” and inclining her head.

  He chuckled, nodded, and said, “We could, but perhaps we should do a bit of sightseeing first.”

  She laughed. “All right. There’s so much to see and a lot of it’s in easy walking distance. We could go to La Vieille Charité first. It’s about a twenty-minute walk. The old building was originally an alms house, but now there’s a museum with all kinds of archaeological specimens and a gallery with African and Asian art.”

  Not entirely Barry’s cup of tea, but he knew how much archaeology fascinated Sue.

  “Then on the way back it’s not far from there to Rue Henri Barbusse and the Marseille History Museum. There are some marvellous old Roman ruins there.”

  Barry tried to look enthusiastic. Maybe she wasn’t as good at reading his mind as he thought.

  “Or,” she said, and giggled, “knowing how absolutely fascinating you find old ruins, I thought I might surprise you—”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve booked one of the local fishermen to run us out to the islands for the morning. I’m told the grouper fishing’s very good out there and I’ve heard a rumour that you love to fish.”

  Barry laughed. “You, Sue Nolan, are an awful tease rabbitting on about your ruins. That’s a wonderful idea to go fishing. Thank you.” He frowned. “But will it not be terribly expensive chartering his boat?”

  “It would be,” said Sue, “except he’s Marie-Claude’s uncle. He’s taken me and her out lots. He knows I’ve learned about boats and he often lets me steer. And before you ask, no, she’ll not be coming with us.”

  “You,” he said, “are a very thoughtful woman.”

  “We’ve only got five days. I didn’t think you’d like to spend them in musty old museums. On Saturday, Marie-Claude’s going to run us out to the Calanques, east of here. They’re like mini-fjords. Very pretty. But today after we come in from fishing, we’ll head to the Canebière for a leisurely lunch.”

  “Sounds like a pretty full morning,” he said. He looked her right in the eye. “After all that fresh air we might need an afternoon nap.”

  “Indeed, sir, we very well might, and it’s only five minutes from the bottom of the Canebière back to here.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with a napkin and said, “If you’ve had enough breakfast…?”

  “I have.”

  “I’d suggest we get started.”

  * * *

  They retraced their steps of last night along the Quai des Belges where the fish market was in full swing. As they passed the fishermen and their stalls surrounded by busy buyers, Barry admired the row upon row of gleaming silver fish, fresh from the Mediterranean Sea. He inhaled. With those smells there could be no mistaking this place for anything other than what it was.

  “Those big ugly ones with thick lips are groupers,” Sue said. “That’s what we’re after today. And the flat olive ones with red spots and brown blotches are flounders, but those two are the only ones I recognise.”

  “Those silver ones with two dorsal fins and bluey-green stripes are mackerel,” Barry said. “My dad used to take me fishing for them when I was little.”

  “We were lucky, weren’t we? Both to have dads that took their kids on outings? Some of the poor little mites at school never seem to see their fathers. But mine was great. He taught me to ride,” Sue said. “I was a slow learner, but he’s a wonderfully patient man, is my dad.” Barry heard the deep affection in her voice. “I wonder how he and Mum are. We’ll nip down and see them as soon as I get home. I’m sure everything will be under control for our big day, but I’d just like to be sure.”

  “March the twenty-eighth,” said Barry. “Roll on.”

  Sue smiled at him and squeezed the hand she was holding. “Barry,” she said, pointing to a middle-aged man with a face engraved by the sun, the winds, and the rain, “this gentleman,” she bowed, “is mon ami Marius Dupont.” He looked like a man who had spent a lifetime in the open air. He stood in front of his small boat moored to the stone pier and accepted Sue’s hug with a quiet dignity and a fatherly affection. “He’s going to help us enjoy this morning’s part of our holiday.”

  The way she stressed “morning’s” left no doubt in Barry’s mind that they would need no outside help this afternoon.

  “Monsieur Dupont,” said Barry, and shook the man’s calloused hand.

  “Bienvenue au Marseille, m’sieu le docteur,” Marius said, and busied himself with his dock lines.

  “I’m afraid Marius doesn’t speak any English, but he’s a wonderful boatman.” She chatted away with the fisherman in what seemed to Barry to be effortless French. He cast a sailor’s eye over the little craft. She was beamy, with both bow and stern coming to points, a design that seamen called a double-ender. She was about twenty-five feet long, open fore and aft, with a windowed structure near the stern that was covered by a flat roof. The gunnel, a foot-wide band encircling the boat, and the interior were painted sky blue and the rest white. A large reel was mounted on the prow. Her name painted on her stern was Ange de la Mer. Barry could translate that. Sea Angel. “Hop aboard, Barry.”

  He did, aft of the deckhouse, and held out his hand to help Sue.

  Once aboard, she fiddled with levers and valves on the large inboard engine as if to the manner born. Cranking on the starting handle with a grunt, she smiled up at him as the engine came to life with a bang and a rumble, then took her place on the starboard-side thwart beside Barry.

  Marius meanwhile had cast off the dock line and jumped aboard. He said something to Sue then with a wave and a shy smile moved into the deckhouse, took the wheel, and guided the little craft away from the quay.

  “He says as he doesn’t have English he’s quite happy to run the boat. Leave us alone to blether away.”

  Barry wondered if Sue might not have asked Marius for that courtesy. There was nothing shy about Sue Nolan.

  The water in the harbour was flat calm, and the Sea Angel pushed ahead at a steady five knots, passing ranks of moored luxury yachts.

&nbs
p; The harbour mouth was guarded by two huge stone forts, one on each side.

  “That’s Fort Saint Nicholas to port and Fort Saint-Jean to starboard. There were fortresses there built by the Knights Hospitaler of Saint John in the twelfth century. Louis XIV extended them in the seventeenth. In more modern times, Saint-Jean was where recruits to the French Foreign Legion were housed before being shipped to Algeria for basic training.”

  The boat began to pitch gently as it encountered the Mediterranean waves, but the wind was light and the sun shone overhead. The engine’s note changed as Marius increased speed to, judging by the way the wind of their passage ruffled Barry’s hair, ten knots.

  “The Frioul archipelago is two miles offshore,” Sue said.

  Twelve minutes at ten knots, Barry thought. Lord, but it was good to be out in the sea air with Sue, far away from coughs and colds and doctors who fell asleep while attending to their patients. Out here he could see the humour of the situation with Nonie, get perspective on the possibility of Fingal and Kitty losing Number One Main.

  “Four islands,” Sue said. Barry gave himself a little shake and looked to where Sue was pointing, resolving to no longer think about Ballybucklebo for the rest of his holiday. “That one’s called Tiboulan, which is Provençal for ‘small piece of island,’ and I’m sure you know about ‘If.’”

  “With its famous chateau immortalised by Dumas père in The Count of Monte Cristo. You told me you’d visited it.”

  “Pretty dank and musty indoors. Not somewhere I’d like to have lived,” she said, and shuddered.

  “You’ll not have to,” Barry said, “but if you like the bungalow I wrote to you about…”

  “Oh, yes, Barry, tell me more about it,” she said, and her green eyes sparkled.

  “It’s no distance from the village on the Bangor side. Completely private, on its own little peninsula.”

  “So I can sunbathe and get an all-over tan,” Sue said, raising an eyebrow.

  Barry felt an immediate frisson. “Only in the summertime,” he said with a laugh. “The rest of the time you might end up with hypothermia like Andy did when he cowped that dinghy in January, but there’s a lovely fireplace in the lounge. I’ll get you a bearskin rug to curl up on in the winter.”

  Her chuckle was throaty and, glancing at Marius to make sure his back was turned, she kissed Barry. “I love you,” she said.

  “And I love you … and you are going to love the view from our first home. Just a small garden and a rocky shore then all the way across Belfast Lough to the Antrim Hills.”

  Her sigh was contented. “I think,” she said, “you’ve been very clever, Doctor Laverty. I can’t wait to see it.”

  “First thing we’ll go and look at once you’re home,” Barry said. “I’ll line Dapper up to give us a viewing.”

  “Lovely,” said Sue. “Lovely, and speaking of houses, what’s the word of Number One Main?”

  By the time Barry had explained about the council meeting, the decision to give O’Reilly time to locate any original leases, and the real possibility he and Kitty might lose their home, the engine note had slowed.

  “Pardon,” Marius said, moving past them and going for’ard.

  Barry watched as the man lowered an anchor hand over hand. Then he began preparing three rods and reels.

  “We’re on the fishing ground now,” Sue said. “And that great pile,” she pointed inshore, “is the notorious Chateau d’If.”

  Barry looked up at an irregular shoreline of white rocks surmounted by high walls surrounding a plateau. On it perched a small lighthouse with a red domed roof and behind that he could see three circular towers, one taller than the other two, linked by a wall surmounted by large gun embrasures.

  “It was built as a fortress,” Sue said, “but was turned into a prison. Thirty-five hundred French Huguenots were locked up there simply for being Protestants.” She shook her head and Barry knew she was thinking of her work with campaigning for civil rights for the Catholic minority in Northern Ireland. “I wonder when the human race is going to stop persecuting people just because of how they worship.” She exhaled and smiled. “And we’re not going to talk any more about that on your holiday. We’re going to catch ourselves a grouper. Marius, of course, will keep the catch and sell it to the restaurant I’m going to take you to for lunch.”

  “Grouper,” Barry said. “I once read a book called Diving to Adventure, by a man called Hans Haas. He used to spear them when he was snorkelling in the Med. You saw what they looked like in the market. Huge mouths and they can weigh up to fifty pounds. They hide under overhanging rocks.”

  “I’ll bet you,” said Sue, “one or two won’t be able to hide from Marius.”

  And she’d been right.

  Barry had been idly jigging his bait up and down when something the size of a midget submarine hit. The reel shrieked and the line was stripped. Barry, well experienced in the ways of brown trout, was caught by surprise, but soon recovered. He pointed the rod tip up so the line never went slack, which would have given the fish the opportunity to throw the hook. It took fifteen minutes of alternatively reeling in the line like a madman then letting the fish run before he was able to bring the monster alongside the boat for Marius to gaff. Which he did, muttering, “Bon. Très très bon.” When put on the boat’s scales, the fish weighed twelve kilos.

  “Lord, I’ve got aches in muscles I never learned about in anatomy class. I think after lunch, Sue, I’m going to need a massage.”

  She was still giggling when her reel began to scream.

  * * *

  By twelve Marius had landed Barry and Sue and two large fish on the quai. Marius stayed behind to see to the boat as Sue and Barry headed for the restaurant. By one thirty, they were well fed on langoustine and were walking along the Canèbiere. Pedestrians and pigeons milled on the footpath; Renaults, Peugeots, and Citröens competed with mopeds and Vespa scooters for road space. And all, at least to Barry’s eye, were driving on the wrong side of the road. French drivers were not shy about using their horns.

  “I’m glad you were there to translate, love. The Cuisine Algérienne on the menu had me stumped. I don’t know what I would have ended up eating without you.”

  She laughed. “Okay, class, time for a review: couscous is steamed semolina, merguez is a lamb sausage with cumin and hot peppers, and shakshouka are poached eggs in a chili pepper sauce.”

  “And you were right about that semolina pastry, what’s it called, makroud? Yummy.” He held Sue’s hand and listened to the sounds of traffic, the hoarse, shrill cries of gulls. They turned left onto Cours Jean Ballard. The street was deserted so he stopped, forcing her to stop too, wrapped her in a great hug and kissed her long and hard, tasting the honey, dates, and cinnamon of the dessert they’d just shared. “I love you, Sue Nolan,” he said, “and I’m the happiest man in France. Come on.” He set off at a trot, tugging a laughing Sue after him. “Here we are.” He stopped at the door to the pension and opened it to let her enter first. He noticed a 2 CV parked near the door.

  Sue inclined her head. “Thank you, kind sir,” she said, and went in, smiling broadly.

  As Barry followed he saw Marie-Claude standing wide-eyed in the foyer. She was a nice girl, but his plan had been to have Sue to himself this afternoon. He didn’t need someone playing gooseberry.

  “Sue,” Marie-Claude said, “a telegram came to the school for you. I-I know everyone back in Ireland thinks you are in school today.” Marie-Claude’s gaze darted to Barry and back to the telegram still in her hands.

  “I thought it must be urgent. I brought it straight here. I was going to leave it with the concierge, but you arrived before I could.” Marie-Claude thrust the flimsy into Sue’s waiting hands.

  Barry felt his irritation turn to concern.

  Sue ripped the telegram open, read, clapped a hand to her mouth, and whispered, “Oh God. No.” Tears were already welling in her eyes and spilling over as she handed Barry the message.
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br />   He read aloud. “Dad had heart attack Stop In Waveney Hospital Stop Come home Stop Love Mum.” Dear God.

  Marie-Claude gasped. “Oh, Sue, je suis désolé. I’m so sorry,” she said. “I knew it must be important, but I hoped it wouldn’t be bad news.”

  “Thank you,” Barry said, moving to Sue and putting an arm around her shoulder, drawing her close into the protection of his chest. “Darling, we’ll have to go home at once.”

  “Yes, yes. As soon as possible. Oh, Barry.”

  “Pack your valises,” said Marie-Claude. “I can drive you to the airport. Someone will cover for me at the school. There’s a four o’clock flight to London that Air France made a fuss about introducing last year. You might be able to get on it. And don’t worry about your classes. I’ll explain. They’ll understand.”

  28

  As the Heart Grows Older

  Barry took Sue’s hand and together they walked into the entrance hall of the Waveney Hospital. He could sense her trembling. The hospital smells of floor polish and disinfectant hadn’t changed since he’d worked here in 1965. His eyes felt gritty and his chin was rough with stubble. The flight yesterday afternoon from Marseille to Heathrow had been uneventful, but they had had to wait until seven the next morning to catch the early flight to Aldergrove.

  He looked over at her now, seeing anxiety and frustration etching their marks on her smooth skin. They were still pretty much in the dark about her father’s status. The telegram had been short and to the point. Such was the nature of telegrams. She’d phoned her parents’ home last night as soon as they were in the London terminal and spoken to an aunt, who’d come to the farm to answer the phone so Irene Nolan could stay close to her husband’s bedside. All Sue’s aunt could say was that he’d been admitted and according to the hospital was “comfortable.” Sue had cried her relief standing at an airport call box as Barry held her close, protecting her as best he could from the rush of commuters laden with luggage and briefcases and shopping bags. At least they knew Selbert Nolan had been alive at 5 o’clock last night.