An Irish Country Cottage Read online

  A harried-looking woman was dragging a boy by the hand and yelling, “Quit your whingeing, Hughey, and get a move on. I want us on the bus and away on home to Ravenhill Road and out of here.” A man with his homburg hat low over his face jogged steadily toward a taxi rank. Barry thought he looked furtive, like a villain from a gangster movie. “Lord, Jack. What’s going on? Even the blind fellah that plays the saw isn’t here tonight.”

  A hoarse, “Youse get the hell out of my country,” was hurled at two anxious-looking uniformed British soldiers, probably from one of Ulster’s resident garrisons on an evening pass from Palace Barracks in Holywood.

  “Lovely,” said Jack. “Céad míle fáilte, Ireland of a hundred thousand welcomes. Aye. Right.” He shook his head. “I think everyone’s worried that another riot might break out.”

  As Barry and Jack turned left onto Queen Street, a car backfired with a staccato crack like a rifle shot. Barry jumped, and all around, pedestrians looked over their shoulders and lengthened their strides.

  “We’re all a bit touchy here in Belfast, hoping things are going to settle. I’ve personal reasons, other than just being a reasonably civilized human being and detesting violence.” He held open the door of the Peacock, Belfast’s finest Chinese restaurant. “I’ll tell you later.”

  “How’s about ye, Doctor Mills? Table for two?” The young Chinese hostess was wearing a floor-length emerald green cheongsam with cap sleeves and slit from hip to hem. And a grin that told Barry Jack’s particular brand of charm had worked here before.

  “Evening, Susie. Yes, please,” Jack said. “And how’s Charlie Chan’s beautiful number one daughter tonight?”

  “Och, quit acting the lig, Mister Mills, and none of your ‘ying-tong iddle I po,’ Goon Show stuff neither.” Susie had a broad smile and her accent was pure East Belfast.

  “No offence meant, Susie.”

  “And none taken. We all know it’s only a bit of craic. Come on now. I’ve work til do.” Armed with two brown leather-bound menus, she led them past full tables through a room with red wallpaper embossed with golden dragons. Overhead, Chinese lanterns cast soft light. Large carp swam in a huge, wall-inserted aquarium where a constant stream of silver bubbles rose and vanished.

  Conversation was muted, Chinese instrumental music drifted from loudspeakers turned down low, a bead curtain rattled as waiters left and entered the kitchen. Barry’s nose was filled with the scents of exotic spices.

  Susie seated them at the back of the room, gave both men a menu, and said, “Your waiter will be with youse soon. Please enjoy your meal.”

  “Syeh-syeh-ni,” Jack said as she left. “That means ‘thank you’ in Mandarin. Susie taught me. She’s a good head. She was born here. Her folks did a bunk from Japanese-occupied China in 1939. I fixed a hernia for her dad last year. He only speaks pidgin English, but she was born in ’46. She’s as Ulster as you and me.”

  Barry chuckled, then looked up. A Chinese waiter stood beside the table. “Mister Mills. So happy to see you.” The man was smiling broadly and made a small, courtly bow in Barry’s direction. “Would you gentlemen like a drink?”

  “And it’s good to be back in the Peacock, Han. So, Barry?”—who only had to nod—“Two pints of Guinness, please.”

  Han said, “I’ll be back with the drinks and take your food order,” and left.

  Menus of extraordinary length were consulted, Han returned with two pints, and food was ordered.

  Jack lifted his glass. “Cheers.”

  “Cheers.” Barry sipped.

  As often happens between two close friends, a companionable silence settled in. The muffled hum of other diners’ conversations and the, to Barry’s ear, discordant music washed over him. By then he’d become inured to the mixed aromas of spices and tobacco smoke. “All very exotic, but you certainly seem quite at home here, my old son, judging by your teasing Susie and the way the waiter greeted you.”

  “You know, Barry, there’s still a lot of the old class snobbery here in Ulster. Lots of folks dining out think of waiters as servants to be ordered around, but waiters are people too. If you treat them with respect, then you’ll get respect, even friendship, in return.” Then he winked and said, “And in her cheongsam, you can certainly see that Susie has a fine pair of pins worthy of respect. I’ll bet they go all the way up to the top.”

  Barry laughed. “Down, boy. You’ve got Helen.”

  Jack beamed. “It’s more than that, mate. I proposed to Helen on New Year’s Eve. She accepted.”

  Barry stifled a whoop. “Engaged? Well, I’m absolutely delighted, and Sue will be too. Every happiness, old friend. I raise my glass and drink your health.” Barry drank, then offered his hand. The two friends shook.

  “I never thought I’d take the jump, Barry, but I’m daft about her. She’s an amazing girl. Smart and beautiful, with a sense of humour as warped as my own. And she’s going to be an excellent doctor, Barry. It was just a complete cock-up about my timing.” Jack snorted.

  “Oh?”

  “Couldn’t have been worse,” Jack said. “We’re engaged for less than twenty-four hours and the whole bloody Burntollet thing happens.” He took a pull on his pint. “Being engaged to a Catholic is why I have personal reasons for hoping all this, pardon my French, sectarian shite blows over.”

  “I hope for your sake it does.”

  “Thanks, mate.” Jack lowered his voice. “And I’ll be calling on you as best man, bye.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “By all means tell Sue, but otherwise please keep it to yourselves. We haven’t told anyone else—yet.”

  “Of course, if that’s what you want. But why keep quiet?”

  Barry had to wait for the answer because the waiter appeared with a trolley bearing steaming dishes under aluminium covers. He uncovered them in turn and set them on the table. “Wonton soup, chicken fried rice, sweet-and-sour pork, and Chinese duck with taro. Please enjoy.”

  “Syeh-syeh-ni, Han.” Jack ladled soup into two small porcelain bowls. “On purely practical grounds, we’re doing nothing until after Helen qualifies in June. She’s far too much to worry about studying for Finals to start being married as well. You know, Barry, what it’s like coming up to the last hurdle before you qualify.”

  “I do,” Barry said. “It’s bloody awful. I think the pair of you are being very wise.”

  “Here.” Jack gave Barry a bowl and took a spoonful from his own, then swallowed and sighed. “That is good soup. But, hey, it’s not just Helen’s Finals. There’s still the Orange and Green thing too.” He set his spoon down. “Helen thinks her dad’s an open-minded Nationalist. He’s always been civil to me,” Jack chuckled, “I imagine all fathers of daughters regard any young man with suspicion if he’s pursuing their daughter. Alan—we’re on Christian-name terms—has lots of Protestant friends, but—but she just doesn’t know how he’ll react and doesn’t want to risk any family upset. Not until she’s qualified. I said in that case we’d not tell my folks either. Thank God I did.”

  Jack, a Presbyterian, had never shown the slightest political leanings in all the fifteen years Barry had known the man. He’d always assumed that meant his country parents in Cullybackey were unlikely to be fervent Loyalists.

  The soup was finished. “Funny, isn’t it?” said Jack, serving himself from each of the main-course dishes. “Ulsterfolk, conservative in all things, not liking change, have reckoned forever that a big night out was fish-and-chips or meat, usually overcooked, potatoes, and two veg. Now we’re taking to Chinese nosh like locusts to a field of corn. Look at me.” He picked up a set of chopsticks and, using them like someone native-born, began to eat.

  Barry started loading his own plate with food. Jack would tell him in his own time. For now, he’d have to be content to enjoy his meal.

  They ate together in silence, then Jack pursed his lips. “Last week I was home in Cullybackey. Helen was on call in the Royal. I haven’t been down since Christmas so I
’d not seen my folks since Burntollet. They’ve met Helen, Lord only knows how many times. We’ve been walking out since 1966. We told them early on that Helen was Catholic. My old man was clever enough not to try to forbid me from seeing her, if he’d actually been feeling that way. I’d no reason to think he was.”

  “I know,” Barry said. “That only drives two people closer together.”

  “I didn’t think he minded much anyway. The folks have been polite, maybe a bit reserved, but no hostility until now.” He sighed and managed a small chuckle. “You remember, Barry, how some poor bloke would come to the special clinic and say, ‘My friend thinks he’s got the clap,’ when he was really asking about himself?”

  Barry nodded.

  “I just had to know. So, I told my folks that a friend, a Baptist, was going to propose to a Catholic girl.”

  “And?”

  “Got the shock of my life. My dad—what do the Yankees say? My dad went into orbit. Damned and blasted those Fenians for going on about civil rights, causing riots, upsetting life here in Ulster. Looking for a fight. Mum tried to calm him down, but he raved on about Ulster for Ulstermen and that meant Protestants, bye.” Jack clutched his chopsticks in his right hand and hunched his shoulders.

  “My father was Ulster in a nutshell. You remember I talked about malaria breaking out over and over? Dad’s Orange side broke through.”

  Barry inhaled. “I’m so sorry, my friend. Your dad always struck me as so even-tempered when we were growing up. It’s strange to think of him talking like that.”

  “That’s not the half of it. There’ll be no welcome anymore in Cullybackey for Helen Hewitt.”

  “I’m really so very sorry.” Barry was struggling to find a way to help his best friend, but there was a reality to be faced. “I think if this internecine rubbish keeps up, attitudes are going to harden on both sides.”

  “Aye,” said Jack, “bloody right they are. Helen and I have talked it over. We’re going to let the hare sit until she’s qualified. Then decide what to do.” He looked Barry right in the eye. “It’s not going to be easy.” He lowered his voice. “Barry, I love my parents—but damn it, I love Helen too.” His voice cracked.

  Barry had never seen his friend in tears, but the man was close to it now. At a loss about what to say, Barry put his hand over Jack’s where it lay on the table. “I know.” He held Jack’s gaze, then after a moment said, “I think that waiting and playing your cards close to your chest makes a lot of sense.”

  Jack nodded.

  “Maybe things will settle down in the next six months or so.”

  “I bloody well hope so.” Jack withdrew his hand. “But I’m none too hopeful.”

  And Barry had heard the uncertainty in his own words, words he was saying to try to offer Jack some comfort. He took a mouthful, but somehow the piquancy had gone out of the sweet-and-sour pork.

  23

  Nothing Profits More than Self-Esteem

  A demented barking came from the kitchen. Max, in his self-appointed position of fearless watchdog, was announcing the arrival of a car.

  “Stop that, Max,” yelled Barry as he headed in the direction of the barking. Sue mustn’t have shut the guest room door properly and Max had escaped from where he was usually penned when the Lavertys had company.

  The dog’s tail wagged so hard his backside swung in time. The barking increased and Barry sighed. As the doorbell rang, Barry grabbed Max by the collar. “It’s open. Come on in.”

  “Evening, B-Barry. Is it safe?”

  Connor Nelson, now thirty-one, was a man of medium height with receding ginger hair above a high forehead. A sharp nose separated two lively eyes. He had a slight stammer, and a limp, the result of the polio that had put him in hospital for six months when he was only five. He was carrying a bunch of tulips.

  “Make yourself at home, Con. You know your way around. I’ll put this daft dog in the bedroom.” He dragged a still-protesting Max away, inhaled the aroma of Sue’s lemon chicken with mustard sauce, and sidled out of the room before Max could greet Connor in the only way he knew how, barking, jumping, licking, and wagging his tail. Lord, Barry thought, for the tractability of a Labrador.

  Barry met Sue in the hall. At the sight of his mistress, the dog settled. “You look lovely,” Barry said, and caught the slightest whiff of Je Reviens.

  “Thank you, kind sir. Max, dear, you are an eejit. Sorry, Barry. I must not have closed the door properly. I take it Connor has arrived.”

  He nodded. “You know Max. One word from me and he does as he bloody well pleases.” He was smiling despite his annoyance and Sue laughed as together they herded Max into the guest bedroom and then went into the lounge.

  Connor was standing in front of the fire, the tulips cradled in his hands. “Nippy enough out.” He smiled. “And if you ever tire of Barry here, will you r-run away with me, Sue Laverty?” He hadn’t quite lost the stammer of his childhood. “You do look stunning this evening.”

  “Away off and chase yourself, Connor Nelson.” But Sue’s grin was ear-to-ear.

  “Here,” he said, giving her the posy, bright in whites, yellows, and reds. “Tulips literally from Amsterdam.” He began to sing, horribly off-key,

  When it’s spring again

  I’ll bring again

  tulips from Amster—

  From the back of the house came the sound of Max barking again.

  He laughed at himself. “Caruso I am not,” Connor said.

  “Thank you very much, Connor,” Sue said. “I do love spring flowers. I’ll put them in water and see how dinner’s coming on.” She headed for the kitchen.

  Connor Nelson had been O’Reilly’s first GP trainee and was now principal of what had been Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick’s practice in the Kinnegar. A working-class lad from Rydalmere Street off the Donegal Road, he had overcome some amazing difficulties to pursue his dream of becoming a doctor.

  “Have a pew, Con. The usual?”

  “Please.” Connor took an armchair at the left end of the sofa facing the fire. He must have noticed Tigger lying in front of it.

  Barry poured two glasses of Bass pale ale.

  “New addition to the family since I was here last?” Connor asked.

  “Meet Tigger, a stray we brought in out of that storm just after Christmas.” Barry handed Connor his glass, inwardly heaving a relieved sigh that the man hadn’t made the remark in front of Sue. She had been more cheerful since her morning temperature had risen seven days ago. Neither of them had said anything, afraid that it would be tempting fate, but Barry knew she must be feeling hopeful. As a physician, he was sure that she had ovulated. If her temperature remained up and her period was late it would be a great reason for both of them to hope.

  He buried that thought, raised his glass, and said, “Cheers.” He drank. “Glad you could make it, Connor.”

  “Cheers. Happy to come. Sue’s a great cook.”

  “She is that, but there’s no such thing as a free lunch. As I told you briefly, we need your help with Emer. She has a patient who might have stomach cancer, and she’s blaming herself for not considering the diagnosis earlier. Jack Mills removed a polyp on Tuesday. There’ll be no path report until next week. The poor girl’s on eggs.”

  Connor nodded. “I don’t remember her as a student, but from what I’ve seen of Emer since she came here, she’s always struck me as a perfectionist medically.” He managed a wry grin. “Takes one to know one,” he said, “and it can be quite the cross to bear.”

  “Only if you let it, is what O’Reilly taught me. I’d like to get her to try to understand that too.”

  “I’m your man,” Connor said. “I’ll do whatever I can. Sometimes just letting someone talk helps.”

  Barry nodded. It had always amazed him that in six years of medical training, the students had not received one single hour of instruction in practical psychology. You just had to learn it as you saw patients.

  Barking again came from the bedroom
and then a ringing doorbell. Sue’s voice, “Come in, Emer.”

  Connor stood, as a gentleman should when a lady entered a room.

  Sue, holding a glass of white wine, ushered Emer in.

  The usual greeting pleasantries were exchanged.

  “Emer? Drink?” Barry said.

  “A glass of white would be lovely.”

  “I’ve a bottle of Liebfraumilch open in the fridge,” said Sue. “Just be a jiffy. Please have a seat.”

  Emer parked herself on the other armchair. She crossed her legs with a gentle hiss of dark nylon. She wore a long-sleeved mini-dress in a riot of irregular yellows, pinks, and maroons and red mid-calf boots with low heels.

  Barry said, “How’s your weekend been so far?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve kept myself busy. I went for a swim this morning at the Templemore Baths and Swimming Pools.”

  “When I was a wee lad,” said Connor, “the working men and women from East Belfast went to Templemore on Fridays to get a b-bath before they went to the dance halls.”

  “I didn’t know that,” Emer said. “Anyway, it put in a good chunk of the morning. I’ve joined an Irish dance studio in Belfast. I’ve been missing the music. I went there this afternoon. Nice crowd.”

  But Barry could not detect any of her usual enthusiasm in her voice.

  “I’m glad you’re having fun on your time off,” Barry said.

  Emer sighed. “I wish I was, but—och, never mind.” She shook her head. “Pay me no heed. I don’t want to be the ghost at the feast.”

  “Here you are, Emer,” Sue said, handing her a glass of wine and sitting on the sofa between the two guests. “I heard that,” she said. “And why would you be a killjoy? You’re always so bubbly and cheerful.”

  Well done, Sue. Naturally Barry had told Sue all about Emer, and at that moment Sue’s seemingly innocent question had given him the opening he needed. “Still brooding over Bertie Bishop, then?”