An Irish Country Welcome Read online

  And with that thought he put the bottle and wrappings back in the game bag, eased himself off the warm rock, and headed back to the car.

  * * *

  Barry let himself into Sue’s room. “Hello, darling.” He bent and kissed her. “How are you today?” She was sitting propped up on pillows, wearing a turquoise-shot-with-rose bed jacket over a pale blue cotton nightie. He noticed that her hair was in its usual single plait and her face showed some touches of makeup. Always a good sign that a woman was recovering.

  She smiled. “Still no more bleeding. No cramps. The pills make me a bit dopey but that’s all right.”

  “That’s great news. I was hoping to be here sooner.” Barry sat on the plain wooden chair at the bed’s head.

  “Your timing is perfect. Harith’s coming to see me any minute. He’s a lovely man, Barry, and you were right asking him to look after me for the rest of my pregnancy and delivery too, so I’ll see him and not have to go to the regular antenatal clinic and see whichever doctor’s available.”

  “He will look after you very well.”

  The door opened and Harith walked in. “Sue. And Barry. I’m glad you’re here.” He lifted her chart from its clipboard and scanned it. “I think you’re nearly out of the woods, Sue, but to be safe we’ll keep you in for a few more days. Your blood pressure’s fine and I’ve got your lab work back. Your urine’s clear. No sugar or protein. You’re not anaemic, your blood group’s O positive, and your Wasserman and Kahn tests are negative.”

  Barry smiled. “The last two are to detect syphilis.”

  Sue frowned. “Surely, Harith, you don’t seriously believe that I might—”

  “Whoa.” He held up his hand. “It’s purely routine for every pregnant woman.”

  “Harith’s right. I know it offends a lot of people, but I’ve seen kids with congenital syphilis, Sue. Poor wee mites, no bridge to their noses, malformed teeth, runny noses. But if the disease is recognised in the mother and she’s given penicillin for ten days, just ten days, before the sixteenth week of her pregnancy, she’s cured. And the foetus is entirely protected. I remember reading in Professor Ian Donald’s textbook: ‘Any doctor who omits syphilis testing in pregnancy,’” Barry heard Harith’s deep voice join his, “‘is almost guilty of culpable negligence.’ And I agree.”

  “So do I,” said Harith.

  Sue’s frown faded. “I see. I understand. Sorry, Harith.” She smiled.

  Harith handed Barry a prescription. “I’ll be starting you on iron tablets and folic acid pills today, Sue, and Barry, you can get that filled for when Sue comes home.”

  “Will do.”

  Sue cocked her head and turned to Harith. “If you’re starting me on these vitamins you must be confident the baby’s going to be all right?”

  “I am. I won’t promise, but Prof Donald in his chapter on antenatal care says the first antenatal session should be ‘the earlier the better,’ so it makes sense to get things going. Once I’ve let you go home, Sue, there are some restrictions. Plenty of sleep, about nine hours a night. Balanced diet. A rest after lunch at least for the next two or three weeks.”

  “Will I be able to start work in September?”

  “I don’t see why not.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No strenuous exercise though. No horse riding at all, and no sex until you’re sixteen weeks—”

  Barry let his face relax into a neutral expression as Sue’s eyes searched his. He’d miss that, but if it was going to help keep their baby, so be it.

  “—and that will be on August the sixteenth, when I’ve scheduled your next antenatal visit.”

  “I’ll be here,” Sue said.

  Barry heard the confidence in her voice, and he must mirror that for her sake but there were some disadvantages to being medically qualified. He knew too much about the things that could go wrong, but he’d continue to keep that information to himself.

  “All right,” said Harith, putting Sue’s chart back on the bed rail. “I’ll be off. I’ll see you tomorrow, Sue, and we’re going to aim to get you home on Monday.”

  “Terrific,” she said. “And thanks again.”

  Harith left.

  “He really is a sweetheart,” Sue said.

  “You couldn’t be in better hands, pet.”

  She laughed. “Sorry about the no sex until I’m sixteen weeks.”

  “I’ll live. It’s much more important that you and our baby keep well.”

  “I do love you, Barry Laverty.”

  “And I love you.”

  Sue yawned. “Oh dear. These barbiturates really make me drowsy. Would you be offended if I said I’d like to sleep for a while?”

  “Not at all.”

  “And there’s no need for you to sit watching me sleep. You run along but come and see me tomorrow.”

  “Of course. I’ll pop up after work. I’m off now until nine tomorrow. I haven’t seen hide nor hair of Jack Mills since we went down to Cullybackey on the twelfth. Now Harith’s more confident about you, I’d like to get in touch with my old friend. See how he’s getting on.”

  She yawned again. “Good idea. You do that. Give him my love.”

  “I’ll give him a ring. See if we can get together this evening, but I’ll keep you company until you’ve dropped off.”

  “That won’t be long.” She rolled on her side, and in a very short time her breathing slowed and she made little whiffling noises as she exhaled.

  Barry rose. “Sleep well, pet. Sweet dreams.” He silently left her room. Jack might just be free later, and the staff here would surely let Barry use the phone.

  * * *

  “I’ve a soft spot for the old Duck,” Barry said, sitting opposite Jack at a corner table of the Black Swan Pub. “You could have come around to our place, but for once I’m happy enough to get out. The place feels empty without Sue.” Barry managed a smile. “And I don’t keep draught Guinness on tap. Thanks for making the drive out, Jack.”

  “My pleasure. It works out well. I’ve a late start tomorrow in surgery so I’m going to stay the night with Helen and her dad. She understands why you and I want to get together. She sends her love and hopes Sue will be fine. I’ll see them later, and I for one am going to enjoy my pint with my old mate.”

  Barry sat back in his chair and looked around. Wednesdays were never busy. Colin Brown’s father, Lenny, stood at the bar with his pal Gerry Shanks, both men nursing half-finished pints.

  Bertie Bishop sat at a table with Donal Donnelly, deep in conversation. Barry guessed it would be about the new flats. Otherwise the place was empty and there wasn’t the usual ground swell of conversations or fug of tobacco smoke.

  Willie Dunleavy, the pub’s owner, came from behind the bar and set two pints on the tabletop. “Your pints, Doctors.”

  “Thanks, Willie.” Barry paid. “Cheers.” He lifted his straight glass and took his first mouthful, savouring the bittersweet Guinness.

  Jack returned the toast. “To Sue, and you, my friend, and a healthy baby Laverty in twenty-eight more weeks. It sounds like things are settling down.”

  “That’s right. It really was a very small bleed and hasn’t recurred, I’m pleased to say, but it was a bit hairy at the beginning.”

  Jack leant over and touched his friend’s hand. “Hey, bye, it seems a while since you confided in me that you and Sue were dealing with possible infertility—”

  “On Saint Patrick’s Day at the Schools’ Cup final.”

  “And only a couple of weeks since you gave us the good news. I can imagine how you both must have felt when it looked like Sue might miscarry. I really do hope it all settles down.”

  “Thanks, pal.” Barry looked at Jack. “You’re a good friend, Mills.” He took a pull on his pint. “And Helen’s a lamb. How is she?”

  Jack shrugged. Drank. “Looking forward to starting at the Royal in August. You know how we felt back then.”

  “Neither one of us had quite taken it in that we r
eally had qualified after all those years.”

  “But we did.” He stared into his pint.

  Barry hesitated. He’d told Sue he wanted to find out how Jack was getting on, and by that he’d meant on Jack’s home front, but perhaps he didn’t want to talk about it?

  Jack sighed and, taking hold of his pint glass, began to turn it slowly on the table. He kept his eyes on the glass. “Helen’s excited about her houseman year, but both of us are at our wits’ end about what to do about my dad. I let the hare sit for three days, and I know when he’ll not be in the house. Dairy cows have very set routines, so I phoned Mum yesterday evening.” He sighed again. Lifted the glass, took a pull, leaving another creamy ring on his now half-empty glass, and returned it to the table.

  “And?”

  “Not good. She says she’s tried to talk to him twice about it. He just clams up. She says give him more time, but, och, Barry, hey bye, I just don’t know. I don’t think he’ll ever come around.”

  Ulstermen could be stubborn when their minds were set, and Barry was inclined to agree, but he wanted to offer his best friend some comfort. “It may not be as bad as that, Jack. Your mum’s right. Give him some more time.”

  Jack shook his head. “You saw what he was like. You were there when he blew up.”

  “Aye, I was.” Barry had a vivid recollection of Morris Mills striking the table hard with his outstretched index finger to emphasize his points. “It’s true. He was very angry, but even so, people can come around. Your father’s a good man. He’s a product of his time and the way he was reared, but he raised you. And you’re open, accepting. You believe in equality.”

  Jack smiled. “I think I get that from Mum.”

  Barry finished his pint and noticed Jack’s was practically finished. He caught Willie’s eye and held up two fingers.

  Willie nodded and started to pour.

  “I think, Jack, a bit more patience. I’ll come with you again if you like.”

  Jack smiled. “I appreciate that. Mebbe you’re right. Mebbe a bit more time will let him cool down.” Jack finished his pint and frowned. “But if there’s much more sectarian violence, I think he might just dig in and never be moved.”

  Barry looked hard at his friend. “You might be right, and all I can offer is one of Fingal’s adages: ‘Let’s cross that bridge when we come to it.’ And hope it quietens down very soon.”

  12

  To Begin with the Beginning

  O’Reilly, sitting in the dining room of Number One Main, poured himself a second cup of tea and drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. Three weeks ago, he had secured Barry’s agreement to take Sebastian Carson on as a trainee, let George Irwin know of their decision, and called the young man. He had sounded enthusiastic on the phone, agreeing to arrive at eight thirty today, Friday, August the first, for a quick briefing on how the practice ran and then start the surgery with O’Reilly at nine.

  He looked at the Waterford crystal clock that sat on the sideboard. It was now quarter to nine. Damn it all. The young man had been late for his interview at the Crawfordsburn Inn and now he was late for his first day on the job. O’Reilly knew the tip of his own nose would be blanching, as it always did when he was angry. He took a deep breath and told himself to calm down. There was probably an explanation, but it better be good.

  The front doorbell rang.

  O’Reilly waited. The front door opened, and he heard plummy tones saying, “Ah. Yes, madam. I’m Doctor Carson. I believe Doctor O’Reilly is expecting me?”

  “He is, so … and has been for some time. Come in, sir.”

  Kinky appeared in the dining room doorway. “A Doctor Carson to see you, Doctor O’Reilly.” She gave one of her “strong enough to suck a shmall cat up a chimney” sniffs of disapproval.

  O’Reilly rose. “Come in, Sebastian. You’re l—”

  “I’m most dreadfully sorry I’m late, Fingal. There was a bicycle accident on Hawthornden Way outside Campbell College. I had to help until the ambulance came. Poor chap had a broken arm. Held me up for half an hour. I’d actually planned to be here early.”

  O’Reilly bit back the rest of the word “late.” “That was the right thing to do,” he said. “Sit down. Cup of tea?” O’Reilly took his chair.

  Sebastian, in tweed sports jacket, charcoal-grey flannels, a white shirt—and his old Harrovian tie—sat beside O’Reilly. “Jolly good. Milk and sugar, please.”

  O’Reilly poured, handed Sebastian the cup. “Help yourself. And try one of Kinky’s scones and her raspberry jam. They make a change from toast and marmalade.” O’Reilly passed over a plate of freshly baked buttermilk scones.

  Sebastian spread butter and jam. Took a mouthful. “Quite delicious, but ‘Kinky’? Um, I suppose that’s a nickname. It has peculiarly risqué connotations these days.”

  O’Reilly chuckled. “Honi soit qui mal y pense.”

  “‘Evil be to he who has evil thoughts.’ Motto of the Order of the Garter. I was simply making an observation, you know.”

  “Mrs. Auchinleck, our part-time housekeeper, was once, in the ’20s, married to a man called Paudeen Kincaid down in County Cork. She told me he’d nicknamed her ‘Kinky’ because he’d never heard of anything as kinky—the original meaning is odd—as her way of cooking druishín.”

  “Drish—?”

  “Druishín. Blood pudding, a Cork specialty.”

  “Ah.”

  “Kinky fitted well with her married surname, too. She is a gem beyond price, and my first piece of advice to you, now you’re here to work with us, is always keep on the right side of Kinky.”

  “Thank you. I shall endeavour to do that. I shall, in fact, address her as Mrs. Auchinleck until notified otherwise.”

  “Good. Other things you need to know. Surgery opens at nine every day except Saturday and Sunday. We try to get it finished by twelve.”

  “I noticed that on a brass plate beside your front door.”

  “Observant of you. I’ll take you to the room we use when you’ve finished your tea and scone. Barry, whom you’ve met, Emer McCarthy, whom you’ll meet later, and I take it in turns. Just as we each take turns to make home visits during the day and share emergency call from six at night to nine in the morning with Doctor Connor Nelson, whose practice is in The Kinnegar. After which we have the day off. One of us does one weekend in four.”

  “I rather like the sound of that.”

  O’Reilly pursed his lips. Told himself to give the lad some time. See how he performs with the patients. “At the start, you’ll be working with me, and this morning we’re in the surgery. Finished your tea, have you?”

  “Yes. Do you think Kin—I mean Mrs. Auchinleck might give one the recipe for these scones?”

  “You cook?”

  “Oh. No. Me? Not at all. I’d give it to our cook, Mrs. O’Gara.”

  “I see. I’m sure Kinky would be happy to let you have the recipe.” O’Reilly rose. “Now, come on. I’ll show you the shop.” O’Reilly crossed the hall and led Sebastian into the surgery. O’Reilly sat in his swivel chair in front of the open rolltop desk, its back standing against a green wall. Before Barry had joined him, the old desk would have been littered with piles of prescription pads and patients’ records. The records were now stored alphabetically in a filing cabinet at one side of the desk and the desktop was tidy. “Have a pew.”

  Sebastian sat on one of two plain wooden chairs facing the desk.

  “The surgery,” O’Reilly said, raising a hand and sweeping it around. “All pretty basic.” He pointed to an examining table with a neatly folded sheet on top and a set of folding screens jostling with an instrument cabinet against the left wall. A sphygmomanometer was fixed to the same wall. Above the blood pressure machine was an eye-testing chart. He noticed Sebastian pushing himself back up the chair, his brow wrinkled into a frown. O’Reilly chuckled.

  “There’s something rather peculiar about this chair.”

  O’Reilly had a quick flashback to a
younger Barry Laverty saying much the same thing five years ago. “There is. I sawed an inch off the front legs. The one beside it’s the same. Doesn’t encourage the customers to stay too long.”

  “Good Lord.” Sebastian’s laugh was throaty. “I know what you mean. Some folks can be a bit garrulous and I imagine you need to get them in and out quickly.”

  “Not the truly sick or upset ones, just the ones who come for a bit of craic. For that they should come to the Duck.”

  “The Duck?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “All in good time. We will reveal all the mysteries of Ballybucklebo to you slowly.” He indicated an upholstered armchair beside his desk. “Come and sit here.”

  “That’s better,” Sebastian said, settling himself into the new chair. He glanced across to the wall where O’Reilly’s framed diploma hung. “So, you’re a Trinity Dublin graduate, Fingal?”

  “Class of 1936.”

  “And I happen to know you played rugby in the second row for Ireland back then too.”

  That took O’Reilly by surprise. “Are you interested in rugby? Do you play?”

  “Used to. No time as a houseman.”

  O’Reilly was intrigued. “For Cambridge?”

  “Well, um, yes, but one doesn’t like to boast. I played inside centre.”

  O’Reilly leant forward. “Did you get a blue?”

  Sebastian sighed.

  O’Reilly couldn’t decide whether he was genuinely shy about speaking of his accomplishments or simply feigning modesty.