An Irish Country Welcome Page 16

  “Come on into the parlour.” She led them into a small, neatly furnished room. “Please have a seat. Just a wee minute,” she said, “I’ll turn off the wireless.” She shook her head. “Nothing but special reports of what’s going on in the Bogside. Petrol bombs chucked at the Peelers. CS gas being fired back. Desperate, so it is.”

  “Not good,” Barry said as he and Sebastian each took a chair.

  “Anyroad, about Stanley.” Alma perched on an olive-green sofa. “Praise be, they took blood, collected Stanley’s pee for twenty-four hours, kept taking his pulse, temperature, and blood pressure.” She inhaled deeply. “It near broke my heart leaving the wee fella there that night, but me and Harry, my husband, went up on Saturday afternoon and the nurse had a houseman talk til us.” Her smile was radiant. “He said Stanley’s urine was clear and he was passing lots, his blood test was normal, and so were his pulse and blood pressure. The senior doctors weren’t sure what had ailed him and wanted to keep him in for a more few days.” She laughed. “Come Thursday he was so well he’d started a pillow fight with another wee lad, and they said would we please take him home.”

  “I’m very glad it turned out for the best,” Barry said. “Could we see him?”

  “You can, but you’ll have to go up til the hill at the top of the estate. Harry built Stanley a guider this year.”

  “A guider?” Sebastian sounded puzzled.

  “Him and his mate, wee Rory Heather, has got one too. You’ll understand when you see them, sir.”

  Sebastian frowned but said, “I’m sure I will. Thank you.”

  Barry chuckled. “Sounds to me as if he hardly needs a doctor.”

  She lowered her voice. “When Doctor O’Reilly said it might be Stanley’s kidneys, I near took the rickets. We’d read about kidney transplants and hoped til God our wee lad wouldn’t need one.” She smiled. “He’s well mended, so he is, but thanks for coming.”

  “Right,” Barry said, rising. “We’ll be off then. And if you need us, you know how to find us.”

  “It’s only a wee walk til the hill. Just turn right and go about a hundred yards. You’ll likely hear them before you see them.”

  Out in the fresh morning air, Barry and Sebastian walked up the way Alma Kearney had directed. “So, what did you learn there, Sebastian?”

  “That doctors aren’t infallible. I was a bit surprised Fingal had admitted up front he might be wrong.”

  “Fingal O’Reilly is a big man in more than one way.”

  “I’m beginning to see that. And I had it reinforced by Mrs. Kearney how that fear of the unknown is hard on people, in this case, parents worried sick over whether their son might need a transplant—”

  From up ahead and around a corner came a high-pitched boy’s voice. “Beat you that time, Rory. Come on back up the hill.”

  “Away off and chase yourself, Stanley. I’ll knock your socks off next time.”

  Barry laughed. “Alma was right. That’s them.”

  “The folks here speak a somewhat peculiar patois. I think I understood ‘knock your socks off,’ but what on earth does ‘We near took the rickets’ mean?”

  Barry laughed. “It means we suffered a severe shock.”

  “Good gracious. I do have a lot to learn.”

  They turned the corner. At the crest of a shallow hill stood two boys, each pointing a little wheeled cart downhill.

  One yelled, “One, two, three. Go!”

  Each bent low, grasped his vehicle, started running, then leaped aboard, steering by means of a rope attached to the front ends.

  Barry could hear the wheels on the tarmac and the excited screams of the two racers. It was a near-run thing, but Rory Heather was true to his word. His guider crossed a chalked finish line, close to where the two doctors stood, a good length before Stanley’s. Rory gloated, “Nah-na-na-nah-nah.”

  But judging by Stanley’s grin it was all good-natured. He climbed out of his cart and looked at Barry. “Hello, Doctor Laverty. How’s about ye?”

  “I’m grand. And how are you, Stanley? And by the way, this is Doctor Carson.”

  Stanley, a short boy of eleven, bowed his towhead in greeting. “Pleased til meet you, sir. I’m all better now, Doctor Laverty. My throat isn’t sore, and I’ve got lots of energy, but thanks for asking. This here’s Rory Heather.”

  “Rory,” Barry said. “Good to meet you.” He turned to Stanley. “We came to see how you are, and clearly you’re fit as a flea. So, can we have a look at your guider?”

  “Aye, certainly.”

  The low, four-wheeled cart consisted of a box where the driver sat between the two back wheels. A plank stuck out from the front of the box. Stanley pointed to a crosspiece at the other end of the plank, fitted with two more wheels. “See that there bolt in the middle of the crosspiece, attaching to the plank?”

  Barry nodded.

  “The front turns on it so you can steer the two front wheels by that there rope attached to the ends of the crosspiece.”

  “Ingenious,” Sebastian said. “I’d have called the contraption a soapbox.”

  “You would, sir, being a toff and all, but toffs’ kids don’t ride on guiders.”

  Sebastian looked contrite. “I stand corrected.” He smiled. “And like Doctor Laverty, I am delighted you are fully recovered.”

  “Nice to meet you, Rory. Now we’ll be off. Have fun.”

  Barry watched as the boys turned and used the steering ropes to haul their guiders back uphill.

  As Barry and Sebastian were getting into the Imp, Barry heard the racers’ yells once more. “I didn’t realise,” said Sebastian, “rural general practice included consultations in the middle of guider races. I think that kind of thing’s a lot of fun. And young Stanley was right about something else too.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’d never seen a guider in my life, and I suppose I was a toff’s kid.” He frowned. “One shall endeavour—no. I shall try not to come across as too toffy in future.”

  That, Barry thought, was definitely a step in the right direction. He glanced at his watch. “Hang about a minute.” He turned on the car radio and found BBC Northern Ireland. A man’s voice said, “—and reports have been coming in of disturbances in Dungannon, Armagh, Dungiven, and Newry. A police spokesman has said the officers are becoming overwhelmed.” Barry clicked the radio off. “Bloody hell,” he said, quite ignoring Sebastian. “Sue’s going to have to quit NICRA. She’s enough to worry about being pregnant without getting involved in sectarian politics.”

  “Quite.”

  As they turned onto the Bradshaws’ street, Sebastian said, “Neat little neighbourhood.” After Barry had parked, they walked together through the small front garden, where Linda Bradshaw, wearing leather gardening gloves, was pruning a small rosebush.

  She turned from her task. “Doctor Laverty and—?”

  “Our new associate, Doctor Carson.”

  “How do you do?” she said.

  “How do you do?”

  “We’ve come to see young Tony. How is he?”

  “Asleep in his pram,” she said, and pointed at a big Silver Cross four-wheeler with its navy-blue hood up, parked in the shade of the house. “I must say the staff at the children’s hospital were wonderful when he was admitted. He was seen at once and they confirmed your diagnosis, Doctor Laverty. He was operated on two hours later and the surgical registrar came to see Richard and me when it was over. He told us they’d got it all sorted out and Tony was going to be fine.”

  “This is excellent news,” Barry said. “Now, I’d like Doctor Carson to examine your son, Linda.”

  “Certainly.” She stepped to the pram, followed by Sebastian, and lowered the hood.

  “He’s a very handsome little lad, with his dark hair and dark eyes.”

  Barry saw Linda smile.

  “How old is young Tony?” Sebastian asked.

  “Almost eight months.”

  “And what does he weigh?”

&
nbsp; “Twenty-one pounds.”

  “Right in the middle of the range for a baby that age, fifteen and a half to twenty-three, splendid. Is he grasping things?”

  “Only in the last week.”

  “And how does he get about?”

  “He’s been scooting and crawling for the last two weeks and he says things like ‘da-da.’”

  “He’s certainly hitting his developmental milestones.”

  Linda smiled. “And that’s good, isn’t it?”

  “Indeed, it is. Now I’d better take a look. Please pull back his blankets.”

  Linda removed her gloves and did so. “Oh, my, he’s fast asleep.”

  “Let’s try not to wake him. Can you pull up his nightie?”

  “Of course.”

  Sebastian rubbed the bell of his stethoscope to warm it and plugged the earpieces into his ears.

  Barry waited. So far Sebastian was doing things correctly and with consideration.

  “Pulse rate one hundred beats per minute, respiratory rate thirty-six breaths per minute. Perfectly normal. There is a well-healed abdominal midline incision and”—he moved the bell of his stethoscope—“lots of borborygmi.” He straightened up and removed the earpieces. “‘Borborygmi’ is a very cumbersome word, Mrs. Bradshaw, for tummy gurgles. Having them means there is no bowel obstruction.” He smiled. “You have a perfectly healthy little boy, I am glad to say. You can wrap him up again.”

  The smile in Linda’s deep brown eyes was that of a mother well contented.

  Now that Sue was nearly fourteen weeks and no longer bleeding, her pregnancy seemingly progressing well, Barry was less worried about her. But as he noted the relief in Linda Bradshaw’s expression, he knew he and Sue were at the beginning of a long journey as parents, with many potential trials ahead.

  Tony muttered as his mother tucked him in but did not waken.

  “Thank you both, Doctors. You for making the right diagnosis, Doctor Laverty, and you for being gentle and explaining things so well, Doctor Carson.”

  Barry saw the faintest flush suffuse Sebastian’s cheeks. “Um. Well. Yes. Of course.”

  The man did have an endearing modesty and was even a bit shy, Barry decided. Fingal had earlier in the week discussed with Barry the young man’s unfortunate tendency to want to get away early and his seeming lack of consideration for the feelings of the patients, but he had done a good job here today. “We’re pleased it all turned out for the best. Tony had a rare condition. It affects about one in two thousand infants, and I’m happy to say the outlook for young Tony is excellent. And now, if you’ll excuse us, Linda?”

  “Of course, and thanks for coming.” She raised the pram’s hood and put on her gloves.

  As Barry and Sebastian drove off in the Hillman, Barry said, “Well done, Sebastian. You explained things very well.”

  “Thank you, Barry. I wasn’t taught to do that until Fingal showed me.” Sebastian smiled. “I must say it does give one—you—a certain satisfaction when you sense the patient’s, or in this case the mother’s, relief when you’ve helped them understand.”

  “It does. I honestly think setting folks’ minds at rest is just as important as making the correct diagnosis and giving the right treatment,” Barry agreed.

  He, and it seemed Sebastian, were content to carry on in silence until Barry had turned onto the drive to Ballybucklebo House. He parked outside the front door. “Here we are. Hop out.”

  Thompson greeted them. “Doctor Laverty. Doctor Carson. Please come in. His lordship will be pleased to see you.” He guided them to the study. “My lord, your physicians.”

  The bespectacled and jacketless marquis sat at an open Chippendale slant-top desk. He turned from the papers he’d been studying. “Thank you, Thompson. Good morning, Doctor Laverty. Doctor Carson.” He stood. “Just been doing some accounts. A rather wearisome business but needs must. Come, have a seat. Thompson, I think coffee would be in order.”

  “Coffee, sir?”

  “Yes, Thompson, coffee.”

  “Er. Certainly, my lord.” Thompson left, closing the door behind him.

  The marquis led them to the fireplace, where he settled into the sofa, flanked by Barry and Sebastian in comfortably padded armchairs. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “Doctor Carson and I were going to be in the neighbourhood, so Doctor O’Reilly asked us to drop in and see how you are, sir. He knew you’d seen Mister Wilson on Monday.”

  “Monday,” John MacNeill said, “the day before all hell broke loose in Derry.” He sighed. “Myrna and I are very concerned. I’m not going to like having her going to Queen’s when term starts again in September. I can only hope matters are settled by then.” He smiled. “But you didn’t come here to hear my political concerns. It is most considerate of you, Doctors. I’m happy to tell you your dietary suggestions, Sebastian, have greatly alleviated my condition—”

  Barry was not surprised by the marquis’s use of Sebastian’s Christian name. Fingal had explained to Barry last week that the marquis and Sebastian’s family were acquainted.

  “And Mister Wilson concurs with your opinion, but to be on the safe side has arranged for me to have that barium meal you mentioned, next Friday, so it seems everything’s under control.”

  The study door opened.

  “Ah. Thompson. Splendid.”

  Thompson set a silver tray on a nearby table, poured three cups, offering milk and sugar to the guests then the marquis. “I’ll leave the pot, sir, if you promise—”

  “Yes, yes, Thompson, I promise. Just one cup.”

  “Very good, sir.” The butler straightened, turned on his heel, and left.

  The marquis crossed his legs and adjusted the set of his sharply creased charcoal-gray trousers. “Thompson has taken your dietary suggestions to heart, Sebastian, and is trying to limit my coffee intake to one at eleven and another at eight. He’s a good man.” He sipped from his cup. “And he does make a fine cup of coffee. Now. Let’s put my health behind us. How are you enjoying general practice, young Carson?”

  “Very much, sir. I’ve two fine teachers.”

  “Indeed, you do.”

  Barry shrugged and wondered why the compliment embarrassed him a little. Was he becoming more like Fingal?

  “And how’s your mother?”

  Sebastian sighed. “Probably as well as can be expected. I try to help out as best I can.”

  “Good lad, and are you looking after yourself?”

  Barry sipped his coffee and listened.

  “I don’t have a great deal of spare time, sir.”

  Only working one night and one weekend in four? Barry’s eyebrows rose. What the hell was occupying all that free time?

  “You must have some relaxation, Sebastian. When you were younger you used to enjoy a day on our beat on the Bucklebo River. The trout are doing well this year. And you, Doctor Laverty. It’s been quite a while since you’ve asked permission for a day on our water. Why don’t the pair of you go out together when you both have the same day off?” He finished his coffee.

  Sebastian looked at Barry, who was remembering the man’s job interview when, not entirely warming to Sebastian, Barry had deliberately not suggested they go fishing together. Now he was willing to give the man a chance. “I’d like that very much, sir. Thank you. Sebastian?”

  “Um. Well. Yes. Rather.”

  “Good. Good,” said the marquis. “That’s settled, then. I’ll let the keeper know.” He looked at the others’ now-empty cups. “More coffee, anyone?”

  Barry shook his head. “No, thank you, sir. We should be getting back.”

  “But of course.”

  Barry rose and put his cup and saucer on the tray. “Thank you for the coffee, my lord. We’re pleased you’re feeling better and are sure everything will be fine next week.”

  John MacNeill rose. “Yes, I’m sure it will. Let me show you out.” And he escorted them to the door. “I’ll expect you both on our water soon.”<
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  “Thank you, sir,” Barry said, and climbed into the Imp. “Lord John MacNeill is the most gracious man I’ve ever met.” He turned left onto the Bangor to Belfast Road and joined the traffic for the short drive to Number One. “You’ll enjoy fishing on his lordship’s water, Sebastian.”

  “Yes indeed. Most generous of the marquis to offer. I certainly had some good days there when I was home from school for the holidays.”

  Barry indicated for a left turn onto the road that led to the lane behind Number One.

  Sebastian sighed. “I suppose if we’re going in through the back garden, we’ll have to brave the affections of Fingal’s hound of the Baskervilles?”

  “Kenny?” Barry said as the big chocolate Lab wandered over to them and licked Sebastian’s hand. “He’s a big softy. And,” he opened the kitchen door, “don’t call him that in front of Fingal. Particularly not today?”

  “Why ever not?” Sebastian closed the door.

  Barry smiled. “I only know of one thing more ferocious than a bear with a sore head. An O’Reilly with a sore tooth. I wonder how things will go for him with Mister Drew, the dentist.”

  17

  Another Race Hath Been

  O’Reilly, driving down to Bangor for his one-thirty appointment with Mister Drew, turned on the car radio, already tuned to pick up the BBC Northern Ireland one o’clock news.

  “It seems there is no improvement in the trouble spots,” said a woman’s voice. “In Londonderry, where the police are trying desperately to keep the two sides apart, gangs of teenagers on the roof of the Rossville Street flats have been showering the RUC with homemade petrol bombs and rocks. The Nationalist MP, Bernadette Devlin, has been filmed breaking up paving stones to be used as ammunition while her fellow Nationalist John Hume has been urging the Catholic rioters to stop petrol bombing. He has been trying to arrange a truce between the rioters and the police. Rosemount Police Station is on fire.”

  She paused and O’Reilly shook his shaggy head. He took a deep breath and turned onto the Crawfordsburn Road.

  The news reader was continuing, “Meanwhile in Belfast, both Catholics and Protestants are mobilizing and RUC forces are strained to their limits trying to keep the peace…”