An Irish Country Practice Page 10

  Pleasantries were exchanged. The mechanic appeared to be in his midthirties and had a long narrow face topped with an unruly mop of dark hair with no parting, piercing dark eyes, and a long nose. “John runs the Crosslé Car Company. This is one of his cars. It’s a 16F model.”

  “I’m curious, John,” Kitty said, “is this some kind of international class? Are all the cars the same?”

  “Aye,” he said, “it’s called the international Formula Ford class. They all have to be built around a 1600cc Ford four-cylinder, push-rods engine.”

  “Good acceleration?”

  “Zero to sixty in six seconds.”

  “Impressive,” Kitty said.

  “You’re dead on,” John said. “We’ll be hosting our first Formula Ford championship next year.”

  “I think I’d like to see that,” Kitty said. “How fast will these cars go?”

  O’Reilly shook his head and smiled. While his interests were legion, he’d never understood why some folks, Kitty included, could get so worked up over things like cars. As far as he was concerned they were needed, but the depth of his knowledge was restricted to putting petrol in one end, oil in the other, and water in the radiator. When they refused to go, you consulted a mechanic.

  “I’ve had her up to one hundred and twenty on the straight,” John said.

  Kitty whistled. “That’s amazing.”

  “You interested in cars, Mrs. O’Reilly?” He was clearly surprised.

  “Just a bit,” she said, “and it’s Kitty.”

  “Not many women are, Kitty.”

  O’Reilly saw Myrna vigorously nodding in agreement. She said, “I’m certainly not. In fact, they worry me.”

  “Ah, but, and saving your presence, Myrna, and your well-known dislike of things mechanical, Kitty’s not just any woman, John,” Lars said.

  “Thank you, Lars,” Kitty said, blushing. “I don’t know why, but I find speed exhilarating.”

  “Do you now? Not when I’m driving,” O’Reilly said. “How many times have I heard ‘Slow down, Fingal’?” and he laughed. Then he frowned. Scratched his head. Was he detecting friction between his brother and Myrna? He remembered how when they’d first met, they’d fallen out because of Lars’s conservationist leanings over hunting and shooting, but had agreed to differ on that subject.

  “Anyway,” Lars said, “we’ll be moving on so we can watch the races. Good luck, John.” Lars led the way. “John’s driving his car today. It’s the prototype. He hopes to get into full production in a couple of years.”

  “I remember him starting up his company in 1957,” Kitty said. “He had been a motorbike racing champion, hadn’t he? But he said he’d rather race on four wheels so he built his own racing car.”

  Lars nodded. “I hope he does well today, and I want us to have a good vantage point so we can see all the action. We’ll get the best view from here at the start line. It’s a testing track. Starts with a straight, goes down into Debtor’s Dip. Lots of speed on the back straight before they get onto the right-handed turn at Maguire’s Hairpin just before the finish. It’s going to be great.”

  “I’m not sure machines will replace racehorses for real excitement,” Myrna said. “Like this year’s Grand National.”

  Lars snorted and said, “That’s what the cavalry generals said when they first saw tanks in 1916. You’ll see.”

  They were now in the middle of a small crowd of racing fans, tucked behind the hay bales. O’Reilly grabbed Kitty’s hand so they’d not become separated.

  “Sometimes, Lars O’Reilly,” Myrna said, “I think you like being argumentative for the sake of being—well—argumentative, and I’m not sure it’s an entirely admirable trait. I’ll take a horse over a motorcar anytime. And I’m not just talking about race cars. There are more and more of the damn smelly ordinary things cluttering up the roads. More good land being paved over. Bloody great motorways all over Britain since the first one in ’59. The Germans started it with their autobahnen before the war. Our own M1’s going from Belfast to Dungannon and it’ll be finished next year.”

  Lars inhaled. Deeply. Then said, “You can’t stop progress, Myrna. I suppose you’d rather take a horse and cart to Queen’s every day rather than that smart little Austin you drive. On the old Dungannon Road it took more than an hour to do the journey. No more than forty-five minutes once the M1 is finished. It already has a six-mile straight.” He grinned. “It’s naughty, but I’ve done the ton more than once there in the Jag.”

  Myrna shook her head. “I would, actually, prefer a horse and trap, but we’d never get there alive. Especially if there are people like you driving at one hundred miles an hour on the roads. That speed holds not the least attraction for me, and there’s a price for this car worship. I’d have thought with your bird conservationism”—Not again, O’Reilly thought—“you’d have a care for the dozens of badgers, hedgehogs, hares, and rabbits killed on the roads. Have you ever seen a hare caught in headlights? The poor thing is terrified. And how much nesting hedgerow is being destroyed?”

  O’Reilly was torn. He didn’t really want to prolong the argument, but in fairness to Myrna said, “I think Myrna has a point, and it’s not just roads and cars. Houses going up everywhere. Farmland paved over. You all know I love the countryside and the shore.” He sighed. “But Lars has a point too. It is very hard to slow down progress.”

  Kitty said, “I agree about progress, it’s both inevitable and heart-breaking in a way, but still…” She glanced up at the cars at the start. “I can’t help admire the grace of those race cars, the skill of the drivers. I’m sure watching is going to be thrilling.”

  No one spoke for several moments.

  O’Reilly glanced at Kitty and inclined his head. In love Lars and Myrna might be, but they certainly knew how to spar. Had things really gone smoothly in France? To change the subject, he said, “I’m sure the pair of you will be pleased to hear Kenny’s training is progressing. I’ve got him retrieving now and he and Arthur are the best of friends.”

  “Poor Lars. He rattles round in that big house like a pea on a drum,” Myrna said. “Kenny was meant to be a companion.” She shook her head in Lars’s direction.

  Hardly fair, O’Reilly thought. It wasn’t his brother’s fault that he’d developed an allergy.

  “Thank you both for taking him in,” Myrna said. “I know it’s clichéd, but I am glad he’s gone to a good home.”

  “We are very fond of him,” Kitty said, “and—”

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Lars said, “but the drivers are getting into their cars. It’ll be a standing start. Drivers aboard, engines running, but the cars not moving, green flag dropped and off they go.”

  O’Reilly heard the engine notes rising and falling as drivers revved their engines.

  “Green flag’s up,” Lars said, barely controlling the excitement in his voice.

  O’Reilly realised he was catching the feeling from his big brother and craned forward.

  The flag was snatched down.

  Engines screamed up an octave as fifteen racing cars hurtled off, everyone, it seemed, vying for the inside position. One after another they disappeared into the dip only to reappear tearing along another straight.

  O’Reilly heard the deepening notes as drivers changed down to negotiate a right-turn, left-turn complex, then up again for another straight. Behind the cars, which were beginning to spread out, hung a cloud of exhaust fumes.

  “That top right-hand bend,” Lars said, “is called Fisherman’s. The men from Portavogie used to dry their nets on a fence there. I can just make it out and, terrific, John’s in second place.”

  Kitty was jumping up and down beside O’Reilly. Her grin was vast. “Boy, this is exciting.”

  O’Reilly glanced at Myrna. She was inspecting the nails of her left hand, her expression cold.

  The engine noise grew louder as the cars changed gears and drew closer at the final hairpin before the home straight. As each one approa
ched and tore past where Lars had placed his little party, the notes seemed to rise as the car approached and fall as it went away. The Doppler effect.

  O’Reilly saw John Crosslé’s number 6 swing wide and pass the leading car. “Go on you-boy-yuh,” he yelled—as if a driver could hear over the row.

  “Bit hard on the ears this, Lars,” Myrna shouted, hands clapped over hers. She was frowning. “I am going to get a headache if I have to listen to this for much longer.”

  Lars stooped so he could hear her better.

  “How long does it go on?”

  “The meet’ll finish at about five, but we don’t have to stay for it all,” Lars said, straightening up and returning his attention to the track.

  “Lars,” Myrna yelled, “I’d really like to go home. Now.”

  Oh-oh, O’Reilly thought. Now what?

  Lars turned, bent, and O’Reilly heard his brother say, “Myrna, I’m sorry I brought you.”

  Now was that an apology or an expression of regret?

  “Can you stick it out until the end of this race? It’ll be about thirty more laps. Only about another twenty minutes. I’d really like to know if John wins. Then I’ll drive you home.”

  “Oh, very well. If I must, I must.”

  “Thank you.”

  Myrna leant over and said in O’Reilly’s inclined ear, “Sometimes, Fingal, I think your brother and I are more different than I originally believed.”

  Brakes screeched, O’Reilly inhaled the stink of tyre rubber burning and heard the clangour of metal on concrete as a car overturned at the apex of the nearby hairpin bend, burst through the wall of hay bales, and slewed onto the grass on this side of the track.

  O’Reilly reflexively started running to it. From the corner of his eye he saw the fire engine and ambulance speeding to the wreck, stewards flagging other cars down. He hoped to God the driver was all right and just had time to wonder if anything else had crashed this afternoon.

  11

  My Stomach’s Not Good

  Barry struggled up from sleep as deep as the Irish Sea. The phone extension in his quarters was ringing. He piled out of bed and grabbed the receiver. “Doctor Laverty.”

  “Come quick.” It was a boy’s high-pitched voice. A terrified boy’s voice.

  Barry blinked. “Who’s speaking?” He rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

  “It’s Sammy Lindsay. It’s my mammy. She’s come over all queer, so she has, and I don’t know what to do.” A sob came over the wires.

  Barry still wasn’t quite awake. “What’s wrong with her?” Stupid question to ask an eleven-year-old, he told himself.

  “She’s talking, but I can’t understand all of what she’s going on about, but she says her tummy hurts and she’s—she’s thrown off, and—” More sobs, then, “Me and Mary and Willie don’t know what to do.”

  “I’m on my way, Sammy. Try not to be scared. I’ll be there soon.”

  Barry rang off, grabbed the phone book, and looked up the number of the tobacconist’s on the estate. They lived over their shop and once before Barry had used their phone to call an ambulance. Not all the council houses had phones. He dialled.

  “Do you know what the hell time it is?” answered a man who was clearly not happy about being woken up at this hour.

  “Mister Jackson, it’s Doctor Laverty.” There was no time for apologies. “It’s an emergency. Can you and your wife run down to Eileen Lindsay’s. She’s ill, very ill, and her kids are all alone. I’m on my way. Thank you.”

  He didn’t wait for a reply, and as Barry threw on his clothes he offered up thanks for how the villagers could be relied upon to come to each other’s aid.

  It took less than ten minutes to get to Comber Gardens in the council estate where the Lindsays lived at number 31. Barry had ignored the red traffic light. At three thirty on a Tuesday morning, the roads were deserted.

  He hammered on the door.

  Bloody hell. He’d just been trying to help the poor woman’s insomnia. Vomiting, stomachache, bouts of delirium. The symptoms could be due to a host of conditions, but the most likely culprit was the medication Barry’d prescribed. Though rare, this side effect usually manifested itself within twenty-four to forty-eight hours of starting the drug. A simple urine test would tell, and if that wasn’t possible, the history and physical findings would be pretty convincing.

  The door was flung open by an unshaven, unkempt Tom Jackson, who wore a duffle coat over his pyjamas. “Thank God you’re here, sir. Come on on in.”

  Barry remembered the little house from more than two years ago when young Sammy had contracted Henoch-Schönlein purpura, an autoimmune response causing joint pains and blotchy rashes following a mild upper-respiratory infection. He’d made a complete recovery in time for Christmas.

  “The missus has Eileen tucked up in bed, first on the right upstairs, and she’s stayed with her because she’s blethering on about all kinds of things. I’m keeping the youngsters company in the sitting room.”

  “Good man,” Barry said, “and thanks for coming.”

  Tom shrugged. “Away off and chase yourself, sir. Sure, aren’t them and us neighbours?”

  And, Barry thought, that was all that needed to be said. “I’ll head up and see her.” He started to climb the stairs as Tom went back to the small parlour. Barry could hear two women’s voices. One querulous, the other soothing.

  “You’re leaving me and the kiddies? You’re going to England?” Eileen’s words were strong. Aggressive. “What am I going to do? What about me?” The “me” rose in pitch. The strength was gone now. It was a touching, pleading sound.

  In her delirium, Eileen Lindsay seemed to be reliving a conversation she’d had with her husband when he’d left her in 1962.

  “There there, Eileen, lamb. Hush now. Lie down. You’ll tire yourself out.”

  Eileen spat, “Bastard. Selfish bastard. Go on then, get out. Get out—” The strangled sobbing tore at Barry’s heart. He and Patricia Spence hadn’t even been engaged, but he would never forget how he’d felt the night he’d discovered their love affair was over.

  The little bedroom was lit by a single overhead bulb in a pink lampshade and a light on a bedside table. There was a strong smell of vomit coming from an enamel bowl set on the dressing table. Eileen Lindsay had propped herself up on her elbows, and Daphne Jackson was still trying to persuade her neighbour to lie down. She was holding one of Eileen’s hands. “Hello, Doctor,” Daphne said. “Am I dead glad til see you! Poor Eileen’s gone astray in the head, so she has. Talking and talking.” Daphne whispered, “She thinks I’m her sister, Jean. She lives in Brisbane. And she keeps grabbing her tummy like it’s sore. She’s boked twice.” Daphne inclined her head to the bowl.

  Eileen’s eyes were staring and clearly she did not recognise him. Nevertheless he said, “Hello, Eileen. Sorry you’re not so well.”

  “Is that you, Johnny. Is it?” At least her words were calmer. She sighed and lay back on her pillows.

  She must think I’m Johnny Jordan, the man who’d tried to romance her after Christmas 1964.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. “I’ve tried. God knows I have. I really have.” She shook her head. Her words were flat. Affection? Guilt? Barry wasn’t sure. “You’re a good man, so you are, but Johnny. I don’t love you … and I won’t pretend.”

  She certainly could have made life a lot easier for herself and her three kids if she’d married Johnny Jordan, but from what Barry knew of Eileen, a marriage of convenience would have been totally out of character. More of an idealist than a realist.

  And she certainly wasn’t in touch with reality now. He wasn’t going to get any history from this patient. Not while she was delirious. He sat on the bed and took her pulse. One hundred and ten. Too fast and very strong. Her skin was hot to the touch. Barry took a cuff and his stethoscope from his bag. Her blood pressure was 160 over 98. That was too high, her pulse was too fast, and she had a fever. It was adding up. “Don’t be
scared, Eileen,” Barry said, and tried to look under her lower lip. A sign for one possible cause of her illness would be visible there. Lead poisoning, which he thought unlikely, often produced a stippled blue line where the teeth left the gums. He could see nothing.

  She tore her head back and shouted, “Take your hands off me, Jim Taggart. You think any of us shifters is fair game just because you’re the foreman. Especially a woman whose husband’s run off? You touch me again, you hoor’s git, and I’ll bloody well geld you.”

  Barry could imagine the scene in the linen mill. Eileen Lindsay was a tough young woman and a fighter. She had to be to raise three kids single-handed. But even if she didn’t want to be touched right now, he had to examine her. “Daphne, give me a hand, will you?”

  Between them they pulled down the bedclothes so he could see Eileen’s abdomen.

  “Thanks.”

  Barry said softly, “I’m your doctor, Eileen. Don’t be frightened.”

  She started keening a low, harsh sound, then said, “The rent’s due on Tuesday. We don’t get paid til Friday. What’ll I do?”

  Barry shook his head. While Daphne sat on a chair by the bed, he inspected Eileen’s abdomen. He saw nothing out of the ordinary. She didn’t seem to mind his gentle palpation, so there was no question of peritonitis. He listened with his stethoscope and was rewarded with hearing loud borborygmi, the gurgling noises the bowel makes when it is pushing its contents along. Eileen writhed and clutched her tummy. He straightened up and removed the earpieces. She was having colicky pains all right.

  She seemed to calm down, then smiled broadly. “Honest to God, Mister Callaghan, you can wait til Friday for the rent? You’re one of God’s angels, so you are.”

  Was it any wonder, Barry thought, with all these pressures surfacing, all the stress Eileen Lindsay was living under day to day, that she was having difficulty sleeping?

  “Is she—is she going til be all right, Doctor?” Daphne asked.

  “I think so.” Barry turned to her. “I’d know better if I could get a urine sample, but even without it—” He could get one by passing a catheter into her bladder, but would rather not. “I’m pretty sure I know what ails her. She’s reacting to her medication.”