An Irish Country Cottage Page 4

  Barry moved the thermostat setting to seventy-five then knelt at the hearth and switched on a portable two-element electric fire. Sue collapsed onto the love seat in front of the fire and was soon joined by Max, even though he knew it was forbidden. “That was one hell of a night. I don’t have the heart to push him off the sofa—or put him in his doghouse tonight.”

  “Donal did a great job building it with proper insulation so he wouldn’t be cold, but I agree. Make room in the bed, you two,” he said as he squeezed onto the love seat. “If we’re going to let this animal on the furniture, I think we’ll need a larger sofa.” After eighteen months, Barry was as fond of the daft dog as Sue was.

  “Poor Donal. It was very kind of you, Barry, to say we’d help Fingal and Kitty to start sorting things out tomorrow.”

  “Least we could do,” he said, stroking one of Max’s long ears. “Tomorrow’s Saturday, so we’re both free.”

  Sue snuggled as close to him as she could with a three-stone dog wedged between them and kissed her husband soundly on the mouth. “You can be a pet sometimes, you know. The way O’Reilly shoulders all the cares of the world—it’s rubbed off on you. I’m proud of you.”

  Barry savoured the kiss, but shrugged off the compliment. He was worried, and not only about the Donnellys.

  “Sorry I didn’t ask you first before I said it,” he said, “but I know Fingal will charge at the problem like a bull at a gate tomorrow. I thought it was the least we could do.”

  “I agree.” She shuddered. “I have trouble imagining how someone burnt out of house and home would feel under the circumstances. It must be horrific.” She looked around the cosy room. “And so close to Christmas.” She inclined her head to the mantel, groaning under myriad Christmas cards, and to where their tree stood in a corner of the room topped by an angel Sue had had since she was a little girl. “This is a lovely string of pearls”—she fingered the loop round her neck—“you had under the tree for me. Thank you again, darling.” He heard the wistfulness in her voice. “It really is a season for kiddies. Maybe next year…” Her voice tailed off.

  Barry hesitated, kissed her, made a decision, then said, “And I think, my love, you need a bit of comfort too. The Donnellys’ fire isn’t the only reason it’s been one hell of a night. I know you’ve been worried about this protest march coming up on New Year’s Day.”

  “I am, and I’m still worried. That group based at Queen’s University, the People’s Democracy, have announced they’ll march from Belfast to Londonderry on New Year’s Day. Prime Minister O’Neill has begged them not to, and my organisation, the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association, has advised against it. Things could turn nasty if there’s a Loyalist backlash.”

  If he encouraged her now to get her political concerns out of her system, perhaps he could then raise the other subject that Mum had touched on and Sue was hinting at now with her “Christmas really is a season for kiddies.” It had to be addressed, and tonight was as good a time as any.

  “I am worried,” Sue said, “very worried.” She stood suddenly and tugged her cardigan more securely around her. “Barry, let’s go outside for a while. The rain’s stopped. I’m stinking of smoke. You know I love gales. We could use a good blow to get rid of the smell—and the mental cobwebs. Please? I’ll make us some Horlicks when we come back.”

  “Sure.” Barry stood. Sue and he had agreed to disagree about gales. As a small-boat sailor he could live without them.

  In the hall they put on their coats. Sue grabbed a woolly tartan tam-o’-shanter with a red pom-pom and Barry crammed a duncher on his head. Both put on leather gloves and Barry opened a drawer in the hall table to get a powerful torch. “Come on then,” he said, and ushered her through the front door. Max, usually eager for any chance of a walk, had wisely remained on the sofa.

  The wind made Barry’s trousers flap against his legs. He could hear the breakers smashing on the nearby rocks, and the swish of the wind through the leaves of the distant laurel hedges that flanked the lane to the bungalow. The air was heavy, salt-laden. He switched on the torch with his right hand and held Sue’s with his left. The flashlight’s beam cut a shining path through a wall of darkness. The night was moonless, starless. Only the pinpricks of light from the across-lough seaside villages and the faint glow from Bangor ahead of them gave reassurance that they were not completely alone in Ulster. “Right,” he yelled. “Let’s walk into the wind. We’ll have it on our backs coming home.”

  Sue nodded.

  Making conversation was not going to be easy heading into this. He had to lean forward to make progress, reckoning on at least thirty knots of wind—force seven on the Beaufort scale.

  Together they plodded forward, shoes swishing through the frost-rimed marram grass, crackling over icy puddles. Barry’s duncher was caught by a gust and vanished into the darkness. “Blether,” he said to himself as his hair was tossed like loose straw on a haystack. Oh well. He’d more caps at home. The torch’s beam hit the edge of the wall surrounding their neighbour’s house. They’d soon be in the shelter of its lee.

  As soon as they were, he stopped, turned to Sue, and shone the light across her face. Her nose and cheeks were red, her green eyes sparkling. And now he could speak without having his words blown back down his throat. “You alright?”

  She nodded.

  “Bloody cold,” he said. And enveloped her in a bear hug.

  “Bloody exhilarating,” she said. “And I’ve had time to get my thoughts straight and yes, I am worried, Barry. You know as well as I do the Catholic community here in Northern Ireland is treated unfairly. Has been for nearly four hundred years, long before partition in 1921.”

  Barry nodded. He did know. The split between the Orange and the Green had been a factor his entire life. He could understand, if not approve of, why the Protestants in Northern Ireland tried to suppress the Catholics. The fear was that if Ireland ever did become united—and there were Nationalists who still wanted that—Protestants would find themselves in a minority in a land where sectarian tension had been a daily part of life since Prince William of Orange, a Protestant, had defeated the Catholic King James and taken the British and Irish thrones. “It’s a bloody shame, this sectarian nonsense. Jack Mills is a qualified surgeon now, you know, and he’s told me in confidence that he hopes to marry Helen Hewitt when she qualifies as a doctor next June—and Helen’s a Catholic. He’s my best and oldest friend and Helen is a real humdinger. I wish them both happiness, but there could be bumps in their road ahead.”

  Sue nodded. “I hate to think what might be in store for those two if things get worse. And that’s one reason some folks, me included, have been working to try to ease the bad feeling, bring the communities together. Ensure that the Catholics are treated fairly.”

  “I know.” Barry shuddered. “I know, love. Look, I’m foundered,” he said. “Tell me more on our way home.”

  It was easier walking with the wind at their backs. It harried them along, pushing them in sharp gusts toward the house. The light leaking through the bungalow’s curtains was a tiny beacon of promised warmth.

  “You know fine well,” Sue said, “there’s been increasing Protestant backlash this year, physical backlash, Barry, particularly at any peaceful protest asking for an end to discrimination. We’re worried that if the People’s Democracy march next Wednesday goes ahead there could be real trouble.” She inhaled deeply. “Barry, I’ve been wondering about marching with them.”

  Barry stopped dead. He put his arms round her, looked into her eyes, and said, “Please. Please do not join the march. You are the bravest girl I know. I love you. And I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He kissed her long and hard. “Please don’t.”

  She looked at him. “I love you, Barry.”

  He set off again, still holding her hand.

  Sue was deep in thought until they had nearly reached their back-garden wall. “Alright. No promises, but let’s just see how things turn out. It mi
ght go off smoothly, we’ll start to know in five more days.”

  Thank God, she had at least agreed to wait and see. Barry opened the back gate, ushered her through, and closed it.

  “Barry,” she said, “could you shine the torch in the corner, there?” She pointed. “Something moved.”

  “Good Lord,” he said as Sue went to the corner and knelt down. “It’s a kitten. How on earth did it get here on a night like this?” he asked.

  “That doesn’t matter,” Sue said. “It is here and it’s shaking like a leaf.” She scooped up the little animal. “Open the door,” she said, and rushed through into the kitchen.

  Barry shut the door, relishing the warmth. He heard a pathetic mewing, the clink of a bowl of something being set on the floor. The mewing stopped. That was all they were short of. A stray.

  Sue was reaching up to a cupboard beneath which nestled an Electrolux washing machine that had replaced the Millers’ old Hoover model. That had been their first renovation to the house. His wife had already put on the milk to heat and poured some into a saucer on the floor where the tabby waif was crouched, lapping. Barry shook his head.

  Sue placed malt tablets in two mugs. “Look at the poor wee mite tuck into that milk. It must be famished.” She managed a sad smile. “It’s a night for the homeless, the Donnellys with Fingal and Kitty and this wee thing staying with us until we find out where it belongs.”

  Barry, who was no great cat fancier, decided to bow to the inevitable. “Fair enough,” he said.

  The milk bubbled and Sue grabbed the pan’s handle, lifting it off the heat before it boiled over. As she poured milk into the two mugs and stirred to dissolve the malt, the kitten butted its head against her shins.

  Barry heard the little animal purring.

  “Here,” Sue said, giving him both mugs. “Back to the lounge.” She grabbed a tea towel, then stooped and picked up the little creature. “I’ll bring our guest.”

  The lounge was toasty warm even though the wind groaned in the chimney and rattled the windowpanes. Max had moved onto the floor closer to the fire, so they sat side by side on the sofa, each with their mug of Horlicks. The kitten, after getting a gentle rubdown with the towel, seemed to be perfectly at peace in Sue’s lap, and Max was so soundly asleep after the evening’s excitement that he was unaware of their uninvited guest. No question, his Sue was very good with small children and with animals, like her pony, Róisín, still living at her parents’ farm in Broughshane.

  He leant over and tickled the kitten’s head. “I fear we’re going to have a lodger for a couple of days. We’ll be too busy tomorrow with the Donnellys.”

  “And we’re going to have to introduce the kitten to Max.”

  “It will probably be alright,” Barry said. “Max isn’t aggressive and it’s such a wee thing…” He let the thought trail off and sipped his Horlicks.

  Sue cradled the little cat much as she might a newborn and Barry’s heart ached for her. For a second he wondered if their bungalow was jinxed. Lewis and Gracie Miller, the home’s previous owners, had had great difficulty conceiving too. Although, he comforted himself, they had managed to have one daughter. He hadn’t forgotten his resolve to broach the subject of the delay in Sue’s falling pregnant. He inhaled. “Sue, I saw how you baulked when Mum asked about our starting a family. I know you’re getting worried that it’s taking a while. Want to talk about it now?”

  She looked down at the kitten, now curled up on her lap again, then turned to Barry and said, “Yes. Yes, I do.” She swallowed. “I am getting concerned, pet.” She pursed her lips. “None of my girlfriends have taken as long as a year.” She looked at him and he saw the pain in those green eyes. She sighed. “Every time I get my period I start to despair, and I’m due again in eight days.”

  Barry leaned over and gave her a gentle kiss. “I don’t suppose it would help if I told you that we were taught not to worry until a couple had been trying for two full years?”

  “Not really,” she said. “What if something’s wrong that could be put right at once? Would it not be better to find out now?”

  “Yes, it would, Sue. Look, I know you’ve been worried, so I did some reading at the medical library last time I was at the Royal Victoria. A Professor Jeffcoate has made a strong case for beginning investigations after one year. Perhaps we should seek help sooner rather than later,” he said. It was little comfort, he knew, but after four and a half years in practice he was very well aware that uncertainty was the hardest thing for patients to handle and doing something positive, like starting to investigate, always brought comfort. He himself was more worried about Sue’s feelings than his own. Ulstermen were brought up to think that pretty much everything to do with babies was women’s business, but he hated to see Sue suffer.

  They sat side by side on the sofa and sipped their drinks. The noise from the chimney went up an octave and the window rattled as if it were having a seizure.

  “Heaven help a sailor on a night like this,” Sue said. She snuggled against him. “At least we’re cosy in here.”

  Barry put his arm round her shoulder. Here he could protect her from the storm, but how could he protect her from her worries? “I think the first step would be to get the best advice possible. Doctor Graham Harley at Royal Maternity. He’s senior lecturer, an academic with research interests in infertility. He’s a good head, and one advantage of my being in the trade is a thing called ‘professional courtesy.’”

  “You mean an old boys’ club?”

  “More like honour among thieves,” Barry said, trying to lift her mood, “but it means that as a colleague of mine, Doctor Harley will see you privately, speed up a request for an appointment, and because I’m in the business, will let me sit in on the consultation.”

  Sue frowned and said, “I’m no doctor, but unless I’m very much mistaken, unless you’re an amoeba and reproduce by splitting in two it generally takes a woman and a man to make a baby. Why wouldn’t the man be involved in the investigation?”

  Barry smiled. “I’m afraid the male role is pretty simple. Provide healthy sperm. He only gets investigated, and usually not by a gynaecologist, if his sperm count’s not good. I can’t order one for myself and I’m not keen to tell our local colleagues just yet. It’ll be one of the first things Doctor Harley will want to do.”

  “I see. I suppose there are all kinds of infernal things to be inflicted on us poor girls?”

  Barry hesitated. Some of the tests were unpleasant. “I think we should make a start after your next period—if you have one.”

  Her voice was flat when she said, “I will. I just know it.”

  “We’ll see,” he said. And tightened his arm round her.

  She looked up into his face. “So, what will we do to make a start?”

  “You have a regular cycle, and you always get cramps on the first day so you almost certainly are ovulating, but we can confirm it.”

  “How?”

  “A woman’s temperature goes up by point four to point eight degrees Fahrenheit after she’s ovulated. You take your temperature first thing every morning and plot it on special graph paper. There’s lots of it in the surgery and we have clinical thermometers here.” He laughed. “I’m forever breaking them so I keep spares handy.”

  Sue frowned. “Seems simple enough, but I thought we were going to consult your Doctor Harley. Should he not be doing that test?”

  Barry shook his head. “It would give us a head start. I’m not sure how long it will take to get an appointment.”

  Sue nodded slowly. “That makes sense, and honestly, Barry, it is going to be a comfort to be doing something instead of sitting around wondering, hoping, getting frustrated.” She finished her drink and kissed him gently. “Thank you.”

  Barry thought she sounded more at peace.

  The kitten stood up on Sue’s lap, arched its back, stiffened its tail, and yawned as if it wanted to unhinge its jaws.

  “Now,” she said, “I’ll take p
uss to the kitchen, spread some newspapers, put water in one of Max’s spare bowls, and leave a towel for it to sleep on. Won’t be a jiffy.” She picked up the kitten and left.

  Barry finished his Horlicks. He loved Sue for being such a solid young woman, quite able to rise to the occasions of homeless Donnellys, stray kittens, and her own concerns about their apparent infertility. But, he wondered, how will she cope if the investigation drags on, without result, and no spontaneous pregnancy happens either?

  Sue reappeared and sat beside him. “I’ve shut the doors so kitty and Max don’t meet in the middle of the night. The wee one’s all tucked in.” And it tugged at his heart because he knew how much she wanted to be able to say that about their own human wee one.

  She snuggled against him and said, “Thank you, Barry, for being so understanding. Thank you for having a plan—and don’t shrug and say, ‘I’m a doctor. It’s what doctors do.’” She kissed him. “And thank you for loving me, and…” She pressed herself against him and kissed him and said, “We could save ourselves a lot of trouble if we scored a winner this month.” She rose and took his hand, forcing him to stand. Her voice was husky, but it held a tinge of uncertainty. “If you’re not too tired, Doctor, should we give it a try?”

  4

  A Mighty Maze, But Not Without a Plan!

  Last night’s gale had blown itself out and weak sunshine wandered into the dining room, making tiny bright diamonds of the cut glass on the chandelier. Number One Main had received no more calls, Connor Nelson was on duty for the weekend, and O’Reilly was grateful for time to concentrate on Donal and his family.

  During a breakfast of porridge, orange juice, and tea, followed by poached kippers at the big bog-oak table, the O’Reillys, Lavertys, and Donnellys had kept to light-hearted topics and focused on the absorbing sight of the twins consuming their pureed apple and milk.