An Irish Country Cottage Read online

  “Alright, Dad.”

  “Can I help?” Barry asked.

  Sue laughed. “Nice offer; I know you can change nappies, but I don’t think they’ll have taught you at Queen’s how to put cups on cows’ teats—but I’d like the company.”

  “And we’ll all have a wee hot half when you come back,” Selbert said.

  * * *

  The byre was less chilly than Barry had expected. He supposed the body heat and, he wrinkled his nose, several days’ worth of ten cows’ farts had warmed the place up.

  With big liquid eyes, each cow gazed from her stall. One lowed mightily, as if to say, “Get a move on. My udder is very full.”

  Sue chuckled. “Alright. Hold your horses. I’m coming.”

  Barry smiled. Telling a cow to hold her horses struck his funny bone.

  Sue opened the stall and led the white-and-black-patched beast to the milking machine, something to which it seemed the animal was well used. Sue sat on a low stool and used a cloth to wash the four teats before attaching stainless steel cups. “There’s antiseptic and lubricant in the solution,” she said. “Stops mastitis and udder chafe.” She stood, stepped to the machine, and threw a switch.

  Barry heard a low hum and saw the four black rubber hoses leading from the cups begin to pulsate.

  By the time Sue had the third cow hooked up, the first’s udder was empty, and soon all six had been milked.

  Barry said, “I’m impressed. You’re quite the farmer.”

  Sue, sitting and unhooking the cups, smiled. “You know, I think I’d liked to have been one, but the farm will be sold when … Well, when it’s time to pass it on. My lawyer brother isn’t interested. And besides, no one ever suggested it as a career for a girl when I was growing up. Farming was a man’s job. Girls like me became teachers or nurses or secretaries. And the girls from working-class backgrounds ended up in the mills or as shop assistants until they got a husband.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I’m glad you’re a teacher. I might never have met you otherwise. And you’re a bloody good one, too,” he said.

  “Thank you,” she said, standing and leading the last beast back to her stall. “Just got to clean the machine, then home.” She closed the stall.

  The next-door animal nudged Sue. Its black head was marked by a central broad white stripe.

  Sue turned and scratched its cheek. “Feeling neglected, are we?” She walked in front of the stall and looked in, took a pace back, and covered her mouth with one hand.

  Barry was at her side. “What’s up?”

  Sue shook her head. “You’d think I’d know better. Dairy cows give milk after they’ve given birth and go on doing it until we stop milking them. Farmers give them a rest, then after a while the beast is artificially inseminated, and bingo.” She took a deep breath. “That cow’s well into her pregnancy. Even a bloody cow can get pregnant. Why can’t I?”

  He put his arms round her. “Come on, old girl. We’ve been having a lovely day. Can you not try to put it aside? Just for today?”

  She sighed. “I’ve been trying, Barry. Honest to God I have, but…” She pointed at the cow. “She’s up the spout and we’re not even seeing Graham Harley again for another three and a half weeks.” She shook her head and Barry sensed she was near to tears.

  His heart went out to her, but she was ordinarily such a level-headed woman. I’m getting irritated with Sue and yet you know bloody well, Doctor Barry Laverty, how fragile apparently infertile women can become. Stop it and show a bit of sympathy. “I know, love,” he said. “It’s hard.” He was worried too, but Ulster boys like him, who had attended public school, had been trained by the masters and older pupils in the British stiff-upper-lip tradition. It simply wasn’t done to show you were hurting, even to someone you loved. He stifled his frustration. “I’m sorry, love,” he said. “I do understand. Honestly. But there’s not much we can do, is there?”

  “No,” she said in a small voice, which then rose. “And that’s what’s so damnable. When we were growing up, Mum was pretty traditional. Find a respectable career until you got married and had families. I believed that. Still do, but I’ve told you before, Dad treated Michael and me both the same. He taught us that if we wanted a thing badly enough, it was our job to work hard enough until we’d earned it, and if we didn’t get it, we hadn’t worked hard enough.” She took a deep breath and managed a little smile. “I really wanted to be a teacher. I didn’t like to boast when we met, but I was top of my final-year class at Stranmillis Teachers’ Training College.”

  “I didn’t know. I’m impressed.” He was.

  “And I got there because I worked hard. And now I want something more than wanting to be a teacher, and I feel as if we’re not doing enough. But what more can we do?”

  He heard the hopelessness. “Darling,” Barry said, “you are doing all you can do, and I’m doing what I can do—loving you and holding you and asking you to try to be patient. It may still only be a matter of time.”

  “I know,” she said. She brushed away the beginning of a tear with the back of her hand. “I’m being silly.”

  “Not silly,” said Barry. Another tear had begun to form, and he brushed it gently from her cheek.

  “Just give me a minute to tidy up here.” Sue went to attend to the machine and Barry, sensing her need to be alone for a moment, ached for his hurting love.

  “Finished,” she said. “Dad’ll get the milk into churns tomorrow for pickup. Come on. Let’s get that hot half-un he promised.” She took his hand and led him to the byre door. “And, Barry? Thank you. I’m sorry I got a bit emotional. I will try not to think about it too much. I promise.”

  “You’ll be fine,” he said. Opening the door for her, he thought, How often have I mouthed that platitude? For in his heart he couldn’t be so sure.

  * * *

  Sue’s mum sat in an armchair knitting a sweater that looked much like the one her husband was wearing, but without the straw. Barry was next to her in the farmhouse’s sitting room, and Selbert completed the little semicircle with Sue, managing to smile, sitting on a leather pouffe close to Barry. Edith Nolan sipped a small sherry while the other three were finishing their hot whiskies. They all faced a television set.

  Warmth came from a fire where cinders of the coal used to get it going glowed cherry red beneath pieces of turf that scented the room. Above its walnut mantel a single-barrel, muzzle-loading flintlock fowling piece was suspended on two pegs.

  “Anybody like to see the six thirty news?” Selbert asked.

  Barry looked over at Sue and wanted to say he would rather not, but felt it would be impolite to say so. Selbert must have taken the silence as agreement, and was walking over to the set.

  The screen flickered and a weatherman appeared, standing in front of a map of the British Isles. The triangles indicating cold fronts stretched diagonally across the east of Ulster. He pointed to the north coast of Wales. “The low-pressure system, which has covered most of County Antrim and North Down in snow, is moving southeast, and snow and gusty northwesterly winds will affect the Isle of Man and North Wales by later tonight.” The camera moved in for a head shot. “And that’s it from all of us at the BBC. Our next broadcast will be at nine o’clock. Please stay tuned for news from your region.”

  The scene faded, replaced by a studio shot of a woman behind a news desk. “Good evening and welcome to BBC Northern Ireland. Here is the news. The on-again, off-again People’s Democracy march was meant to start at three thirty today in Newry town, a place rapidly becoming divided on sectarian lines. It straddles the border between South Down and County Armagh and is only a few minutes’ drive from the border with the Irish Republic. Due to poor organisation, the start was delayed, and by the time it got under way it was estimated that some six thousand people were in the town, some in support of, others in protest against the march.” Barry glanced at Sue. She was staring at the screen, arms crossed in front of her, chin tucked into their V. />
  “When the march finally set off, some of those involved stormed a police roadblock of three motor tenders parked to deny the procession access to the predominantly Protestant district of Merchants’ Quay and prevent potential sectarian violence. So far—”

  “No. No,” Sue blurted out. “We’ve known all along the People’s Democracy is being infiltrated by staunch Republicans, particularly in Newry. People who have no interest in non-violent protests for human rights. They’ll do anything, including violence, to destabilise Ulster trying to get Britain out so they can pursue their old dreams of a united Ireland. They’re the ones using this march to stir the pot. Oh, Barry. God help us. Where is this going to lead?”

  Sue stared at the television. Barry rose, squeezed onto the pouffe beside her, and took her hand. It was icy cold. Wasn’t that just what ordinary Protestants were worried about? Barry thought. They’re scared. Yes, Sue’s civil rights organization believes in simple fairness for the Catholic minority. But could that turn into something more dangerous, a reigniting of a violent campaign aimed at reunifying the country? Had that fear been underlying Julie Donnelly’s concerns about the Irish government outlawing contraception? he wondered.

  “We take you now to Newry and our reporter Fergal McCann, who will bring us up to date on how things stand there at six thirty-five.”

  Barry put his arms round her. She was trembling. He didn’t know what else he could do.

  The screen was filled with a picture of a blazing police tender, a fire engine, and firemen. A man’s voice said, “I’m on Merchant’s Quay, which is deserted now. But earlier today, in order to circumvent the roadblock and incite violence in the Protestant neighbourhood, the PD marchers pushed two of the police vehicles into the waters off the quay. The third, as you can see from this footage taken earlier, was set alight.”

  The camera moved in for a close-up of the face of a young man holding a microphone to his lips. “Subsequent speeches were made by leading nationalists like Kevin Boyle, John Hume, and Michael Farrell—”

  “I know Michael,” Sue said. “He’s on the NICRA executive and was a founder of the PD. He’s more of a Socialist than a Nationalist.”

  “—who favour a democratic reunification of Ireland, but with the consent of all parties involved. They do not condone violent means. They all pleaded with the rioters to disperse, but to no avail. A state of anarchy and rioting continues between the PD and their supporters, and Loyalists, some of whom seem to have travelled to Newry in the hopes of such a confrontation. The police are unable to quell the disturbance, which is now out of control and shows no signs of abating. We will take you now to—”

  Edith Nolan said quietly, “Switch thon thing off, Selbert.”

  Sue was still, staring at the screen, her body now rigid and unmoving in Barry’s arms.

  Barry heard the click.

  An hour ago, he’d had his old Sue back, her troubles, if only for the moment, forgotten after romping like a couple of kids in the snow. But now? Now they had been dragged back into the grown-up world of personal worries and the pain of the Six Counties. All that Sue and her friends in NICRA had been struggling for—fairness in voting, housing, jobs, and policing—was going up in flames in Newry, flames lit not by Sue’s NICRA, but by radical members of the very community for which she had been working.

  “What have I done?” she said quietly. “Where will it all end?”

  He pulled her closer and kissed her coppery hair. Where indeed. And what could a country GP do about it anyway?

  19

  Wherefore Didst Thou Doubt

  O’Reilly and Emer sat at the dining room table, the white cloth dotted with coffee cups, plates, a toast rack, and the morning post. O’Reilly was speaking, but broke off when he saw Barry in the doorway.

  “Morning,” Barry said.

  “Ah, Barry. Morning. Emer joined me for coffee. Want a cup before you two make the home visits? Plenty of time before I start the surgery.”

  “Please.” Barry sat beside O’Reilly and accepted a cup just as Kinky appeared carrying a tray.

  “Morning, Doctor Laverty. Fine clear day for the time of year it’s in, so.” She began clearing the table.

  “Morning, Kinky,” Barry said. “Pleasant enough, but I don’t think we’ll be seeing many cases of heatstroke today. Still a bit nippy.”

  “Go ’way with you, sir.” She chuckled and her chins wobbled. “Heatstroke indeed.”

  “More to the point,” Barry said, “who do we need to visit today?”

  She shook her head. “No one’s phoned yet, sir. Not a single call this morning.”

  “But there’s still some folks you’ll want to see,” O’Reilly said. “I was just telling Emer when you came in that—”

  “Excuse me, sir,” Kinky said. She tutted and dabbed an egg stain on O’Reilly’s tie. “Please take that off, like a good doctor. I’ll see to it later and bring you a clean one now.”

  A meek-looking O’Reilly obeyed.

  Kinky took the tie, shook her head, and lifted her now full tray. “I’ll be off. I’ll come back later for the cups and saucers.”

  “Excuse me,” Emer said, rising. “Just need to powder my nose. Only be a tick.”

  O’Reilly said, “Doesn’t look like you’re going to be too busy, Barry. Do me a favour, will you?”

  “Sure.”

  “If you do have to go out, take Kenny and give him a run when you’ve finished your calls.”

  “Love to.”

  The sound of the phone in the hall signalled the start of the workday at Number One Main.

  Barry grinned. “Could be Kenny’s in luck.”

  Moments later, Kinky stuck her head round the door. “That was Flo. Bertie’s not so hot and she’d like someone to come out.”

  “Did she say if he was bleeding?” O’Reilly asked.

  “No, sir, and I did ask. He’s sick, but not drop-everything-and-rush sick.”

  Barry nodded. After all her years with O’Reilly, Kinky was as good a triage officer as a trained nurse—

  “And while I was getting your trousers ready for Alice Moloney—she’ll be picking them up today to let out the waistbands, so, I got you this clean tie, sir.” She handed it over.

  —and as efficient as a gentleman’s valet.

  “Good God, I haven’t seen that one in years. Where’d you find it?”

  “It was hanging at the very back of the tie holder, sir. I thought a change was as good as a rest.”

  O’Reilly looked at the tie, navy blue silk with a pattern of small white tulips etched in gold, then tossed it around his neck and began knotting it. “Thanks, Kinky. A friend of Lady Myrna’s sent me this tie for Christmas ten years ago. Some honourable or other. Can’t remember her name. She was visiting for the weekend and fell off a damn horse and broke her wrist.”

  “Do try hard to keep it clean, sir,” Kinky said, and left.

  “Kinky,” said O’Reilly, “sometimes reminds me of a certain colour sergeant in the Royal Marines on HMS Warspite.”

  “Colour sergeant? Come on, Fingal, that’s not kind. She’s more like a mother hen to both of us,” Barry said. “She is a wonderful one of a kind.”

  “She is. But once in a while she can be a bit … Och, never mind.” O’Reilly nodded, then said, “So tell me about Bertie. You and Emer have been seeing him.”

  “Not a great deal to tell. We saw him on New Year’s Day. Diagnosed alcoholic gastritis. He seemed to recover on antacid therapy. Last Friday he started showing signs consistent with a diagnosis of gastric ulcer. We decided on bed rest at home, a bland diet, and more antacids. Saw him this Monday and he seemed to be improving.”

  “You worried about him now?”

  Barry shook his head. “Can’t exclude gastric cancer, but I honestly don’t think it’s likely, and we’ve already told him and Flo that if he didn’t improve he’d be off to the Royal and have a barium meal and specialist treatment depending on the X-ray results.”
/>   “Sounds entirely appropriate to me,” O’Reilly said. “Bertie will probably be fine, but I’m worried about Emer. She was questioning herself over her management of Willie Lindsay. I think I got her to see sense, but she’s a very conscientious young woman. Has a habit of blaming herself.” O’Reilly leant forward. “Did she work out Bertie Bishop’s management?”

  “Yes, but with my concurrence.”

  “Don’t let her self-flagellate if he’s perforated, Barry, or, despite Flo’s assurance otherwise, he’s bled.”

  “I won’t. Emer’s good and she mustn’t lose her self-confidence.”

  “One thing might help. I got a letter about Willie Lindsay from the Royal in the morning post.” He gestured to the pile of mail on the table. “He’s all better and went home yesterday. If you’ve time, pop in. Let her see all’s well that ends well as far as he’s concerned.”

  Barry smiled. It had been some time since they’d played the duelling quotes game. “And am I to play Shakespeare’s Bertram, and Emer Helena from the play of the same name?”

  O’Reilly laughed. “Not at all. You just go on being Barry Laverty and help Emer to be herself. You’ll both be fine.”

  Barry made sure his timing was perfect before saying with a sweeping bow, “And it’ll all turn out to be—much ado about nothing.”

  O’Reilly groaned.

  * * *

  “No,” said Barry, and his voice was firm. “No, Emer, I don’t think you were wrong about Bertie Bishop. He seemed to be recovering when we popped in to see him earlier this week.”

  “But I think I may have missed something initially.”

  Barry shook his head. “Look, I’m certain his New Year’s Day gastritis was alcoholic, and it did clear up according to plan. You were right then.” He stopped at the traffic light, indicating for a right turn onto Station Road.

  “I suppose so,” she said.

  “We saw him together—together, remember—last Friday. You took a proper history, examined him, excluded perforation, checked him for anaemia, concluded he had a gastric ulcer that could be treated at home. I concurred. I thought the answer was as plain as the nose on your face.”