Only with Blood

by Therese Down

  When at last silence resumed, Caitlin looked towards Jack. He had not moved. He lay face down and inert.

  “Hey,” she called to him, “are you all right?” She still could not say his name. He didn’t answer her. She ran across the yard and hunkered down at his head. He was barely conscious. His eyes were half open as though he had just woken up and his mouth was open. A thin rivulet of blood and spittle oozed from one corner into the mud. “Come on,” she urged. “Get up.” But Flynn did not move. His eyes continued to stare lazily into the space to his right and his breath came in rasps. Caitlin stood up and half shouted half screamed in frustration. She could not leave him here, face down in the mud. But she could not move him. Maher! Halfway between here and her father’s farm was Pat Maher’s house. She would run there and get help. Caitlin ran the mile or so to Maher’s house. He emerged from his tea chewing soda bread and staring at her as if she reminded him of someone. What was left of his snow white hair stuck out at odd angles and his braces were shiny with years of dirt.

  “What?” he asked when she had breathlessly garbled her story. She could not start again.

  “Will you come quick! Get your pony or your horse and come quick, for the love of God. There’s been an accident above at Flynn’s.”

  “Flynn’s?” Maher squinted at her, wiped his mouth. “An accident?”

  “Yes!” said Caitlin. “It’s serious and he needs a doctor. We have no horse. Will you please get yours and take me back up there?”

  “I know you,” said Maher at last, craning his neck forward and peering at her.

  “There’s no time for this now, Pat!” shouted Caitlin, unwilling to get into a row about the stolen pony. She was very relieved when Maggie Maher came to the door.

  “What’s all the noise?” asked Maggie, peering around her husband’s shoulder. “Caitlin! What’s the matter?”

  “It’s Jack Flynn,” explained Caitlin again. “He’s had a fall, Maggie, and I think it’s serious. We have no horse – it’s lame – I can’t get him up. He needs a doctor.”

  “For the love of Mike, Pat,” admonished Maggie, “will you quit gawping at the child and hitch the horse to the cart!” Maher complied at once, scratching his left buttock as he ambled away, muttering to himself. “Michael!” shouted Maggie over her shoulder, and within seconds an overweight man of about twenty appeared at the door.

  “Yes, Ma? Hello, Caitlin,” he grinned at his neighbour. His mother scolded him.

  “Never mind hello – go on up with your father and help Caitlin get Jack Flynn off the ground.”

  “Eh?” Michael looked puzzled and stared open-mouthed at his mother, breathing thickly over his half protruding tongue.

  “Just do what I say,” snapped Maggie. “Or rather, do as Caitlin tells you.” Michael turned to Caitlin again and grinned.

  “Hello, Caitlin.”

  “Oh, for the love of Pete!” Maggie rolled her eyes at Caitlin and folded her arms. She looked impatiently up the yard towards the field at the end of it, from which Maher had just led his heavy grey horse.

  “Go on up and help your father hitch that horse to the cart, will you? He’s as likely, now, to hitch it to the buggy – go on.”

  Flynn was still on the ground when they reached him half an hour later. “I should have covered him over with something!” exclaimed Caitlin aloud as they entered the yard. She leapt from the cart and hunkered down at Jack’s head again. His eyes were closed but he was still breathing. The sight of the prostrate man seemed to jolt both Maher and his son to sense. Between them they lifted him and each took an arm and a leg. Caitlin opened the door.

  “Where shall we put him, Missis?” asked Maher, struggling for breath. Jack had grown thin since his illness had become serious but he was still a considerable dead weight.

  “Can you get him up the stairs?” asked Caitlin. Maher and his son looked at the stairs, estimating the likelihood of success.

  “We can try,” said Pat. “Come on, Mikie.” Lowering Flynn’s legs, putting their shoulders under his armpits, they made for the stairs. Following Caitlin’s instructions, they half lifted, half dragged him to his room. There, they dropped him heavily onto his back on his bed and he stirred fitfully. His eyes rolled open for a second, but he did not wake.

  “He’s in a bad way,” observed Pat, while Michael leaned against the door frame and caught his breath, mouth wide open. “Will I get the doctor?” Caitlin fought the urge to roll her eyes.

  “Yes please, Pat; would you do that?” she said.

  While she waited for the doctor, Caitlin washed Flynn’s face of mud and blood and cleaned his hands. She could not have undressed him even if she were able to move him, but she covered him with blankets from her own room. “Now what?” she asked herself yet again. She drew up the wooden chair over which Flynn threw his clothes each night, sat beside the bed, and folded her hands in her lap. She could not decide what to think of Donal Kelly. With his good looks, youth, and fine brain as well as his apparent courage, he had appeared like a champion – but one who had missed his cue. And much as Caitlin loathed Flynn and the situation to which he had brought her, she had not enjoyed watching him thrown onto his face in the mud. What part her father was playing in all this she could only guess, but Flynn was right about one thing – that horse should have been his.

  And so, Caitlin sat quietly at Flynn’s bedside, unable to think or feel her way past the trauma of the last hour or so, her head full of memories of the chestnut horse flailing and lunging in the yard, Donal Kelly’s brown curly hair flying backwards in the wind as he rose to his feet to enable him to bring the reins down harder on the rump of the terrified horse. She looked at Flynn, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath the blanket, listened to the rasp and catch of every breath he took. It occurred to her that he was lucky he had any breath at all after that.

  “He is gravely ill, I’m afraid.” Doctor Bergin unhooked his stethoscope from his neck and packed it away in his leather bag. Pat and Michael Maher had driven to his home in Pallas Green where his surgery served villages within a ten-mile radius. Surgery had been over for the day, and Doctor Bergin had been looking forward to a trip with his wife to the new Excel cinema in Tipperary. Then an old man had turned up on his doorstep, cap in hand, and had said he must come quick, that Jack Flynn had had a fall.

  “Who is Jack Flynn and where is he?” the doctor had asked, immediately irritated by what sounded like a complete kibosh on his plans. The irritation was not diminished by the old man’s apparent inability to answer either question. Eventually, the doctor had established that he needed to go to Dunane and find a man called Jack Flynn who owned the farm up the road.

  “Up the road from where?” the doctor had asked, perceiving the need to be patient.

  “From where I live,” came the reply.

  “And where is that?”

  “Dunane – on the Golden road.”

  “Ah. At least now I know which end of the village to aim for, eh?” The doctor had enough information. There couldn’t be more than three farms on the road out of Dunane to Golden. He’d find it. He apologized to his wife for their spoilt evening, put his jacket back on, and, grabbing his emergency bag, headed for his car.

  “Was it the accident, doctor?” asked Caitlin.

  “Well, the fall didn’t help – I gather he fell? How did that happen?”

  Caitlin wasn’t sure what to say. She wasn’t sure if what she had seen truly was an accident. As she had sat waiting the hour from the Mahers’ departure till the doctor’s arrival, she had not been able to come to a decision.

  “He was thrown, by a horse.”

  “I see, well, no bones broken as far as I can tell,” said Doctor Bergin. “It is not the fall itself which has made him so ill.” Caitlin looked at the doctor with an expression of relief.

  “I presume you are his daughter?” She coloured, looked down quickly. “You are his wife?” The doctor could not keep the incredulity out of his voice. �
��And you do not know what is wrong with him?” Caitlin still did not look up. Her cheeks were burning. She shook her head. “He has tuberculosis – and it is very advanced. This man has not more than a few weeks to live.” Caitlin met his eyes, her own wide with shock. “Why these men carry on till they drop is a mystery to me. I’ve seen it several times. Is it pride?” he seemed to be wondering to himself. He looked at Flynn’s sunken face and open mouth, listened to the rattle in the man’s chest, which seemed to fill the room. “He has probably had this disease for several months – although he may not have begun to suffer badly till quite recently.” Doctor Bergin studied Caitlin, folding his hands across his midriff as though he were a headmaster asking her name and form. “How long have you been married to him?”

  “About seven weeks.” A horrific thought struck her. “Is it catching?”

  “TB? Certainly – if it is Mycobacterium tuberculosis.” Caitlin’s hand flew to her mouth and she backed to the chair, sat down. “You will need an examination and tests straight away, Mrs Flynn.” He pitied her; she was so young. What the hell did these people think they were doing? When, in God’s name, were they going to come out of the Dark Ages? “However,” and his voice was kindly now, “if it is Mycobacterium bovis that has made your husband so ill, it is hardly ever passed from person to person. He will in all likelihood have contracted it a long time ago from drinking tubercular milk.”

  “He had cows slaughtered a while back – he’s just got the all clear to start milking again!” blurted Caitlin.

  “And you married him seven weeks ago?” Caitlin nodded quickly, doing her best to wipe away tears. “I am sorry to be indelicate, Mrs Flynn, but in the interests only of your health, is there any chance you may be with child?”

  “No!” she said emphatically. “He has never touched me.” She rummaged in her sleeve and pulled out a handkerchief, blew her nose.

  “Really?” he seemed pleased. “Well then, it is not likely you are infected. You are young and strong. There is little point in my examining you now. You will need to get yourself to the hospital at Nenagh. I shall write you a letter of urgent referral.” He opened his briefcase again, took out a pad and pen, and began writing hastily. “Give them this,” he said, handing her the letter. “They will conduct a number of tests to detect the presence or otherwise of TB and determine, if it shows up, what strain it is. I have taken spittle and mucus samples from your husband. I’ll get them to the hospital laboratory myself. Can you get to Nenagh tomorrow?” Caitlin nodded. She would have to miss school and ask her father to take her in his truck. “Excellent. Now,” continued the doctor, looking again at Flynn, “let me tell you how to look after this man.” He told her to feed him with soup and give him plenty of water. She was to wash her hands after every occasion on which she touched him or the cutlery and dishes he used. She was to buy at least a gallon of Lysol disinfectant when she went up to Nenagh and cleanse everything thoroughly which came into contact with Flynn.

  “If you are not infected, Mrs Flynn,” he assured her, “it is quite easy to ensure you remain infection free. People have been nursing tubercular patients for many years now. Very seldom indeed has there been a case of cross contamination, to my knowledge.” He picked up his bag, made for the stairs. “Keep him warm and as comfortable as possible. Have you anyone to help you? It is no small job, to nurse a man to his death.”

  “I am not sure,” said Caitlin. The reality of her situation would not settle.

  She had read Alice in Wonderland when she was a child. Her Aunt Bridie and Uncle Conor in Wexford had given the story to her oldest sister, Finnuala, as a birthday present, before Caitlin was even born. As she followed the doctor down the dark stairwell and listened to his instructions on how to nurse the man who had just married her against her will, Caitlin was reminded of how Alice had found herself in the middle of bizarre and sinister events with no apparent reason or coherence. Unlike Alice’s, however, Caitlin’s life was all too real, with no plot to make eventual sense of the world at whose centre she seemed to be.

  When they reached the kitchen and the doctor was about to take his leave, he turned and looked at her again, his watery eyes and doughy jowls intent on making forceful and clear his last instructions. “I warn you, Mrs Flynn, at the end, there is much blood. Do not get close to him at that stage without covering your mouth – use a handkerchief or tea towel; perhaps rip up a sheet.” He stared at her for a while after he had finished talking. She looked frail and terrified and very young. “I will ask Nenagh to send you a nurse to check on things in a week or so.”

  The arrangement regarding the horse, which Mick and Donal had contrived, was that Donal would use the horse to get to and from work for a week, then decide if he wanted to buy him and the cart for the same price as had been quoted to Flynn for the horse alone.

  “Your need is greater, Donal,” said Mick. “Sure Flynn have a bucket load of money. You have nothing. He can buy himself any horse he likes.”

  Each morning of the three days a week Donal worked at the school, he would unhitch the horse and leave him in Spillane’s barn, pick him up each afternoon when he had finished teaching, and drive back to Golden. On the second afternoon of the arrangement, Donal was accosted by a highly excited Mick Spillane as he crossed the yard to the barn.

  “Come in!” instructed Spillane in a harsh whisper, as if he might be overheard by someone other than his pigs. “Come in till I tell you the news!” As soon as the door was shut Mick spoke. “Sit down, Donal – you might want to be sitting down when you hear this!” Donal complied. “Jack Flynn is dying.” The younger man seemed to pale. He swallowed hard, said nothing. “I took Caitlin to the hospital above in Nenagh yesterday – we were there all day, boy.” Spillane put one hand on his hip, leaned on the kitchen table with the other, and shook his head.

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  Mick looked at Donal. A glint of mischievousness took the edge off his otherwise grave announcement: “He has TB – only weeks to live!” Kelly breathed deeply, looked less tense. There was a long pause in which each man considered the consequences and possibilities of the news. Then a sudden thought occurred to Donal.

  “Is Caitlin OK?”

  “Ah, now,” said Spillane. “They are pretty sure she is. They think Flynn have a kind of TB that comes from cows. It’s very hard for people to pass it on to other people, like. Sure he had a few cows slaughtered by Bord na Bainne a few weeks back.”

  Donal nodded. There was another pause. “Here’s what we’ll do, Mick,” he said. “Will you sit down?”

  “Oh, hello, Donal!” Mrs Spillane’s tone betrayed her delight upon seeing the young teacher at her table. “Do you like the horse?” She leaned on the back of a chair and smiled into his eyes.

  “The horse is grand, Missis,” he replied, smiling.

  “Mary, go on out and feed the pigs,” said Mick. “I want a word with Donal.”

  “I’ve just fed the pigs!” retorted Mrs Spillane. “Amn’t I just after coming in from feeding the pigs?”

  “Well… check on the horse. Donal will drive him home in a while… hitch him up, will ya?”

  “What? I can’t lift that cart to the harness!”

  “What can you do? Think of something you can do and go and do it!” Donal looked down throughout the exchange and bit his lip. As Mrs Spillane was about to turn and leave the kitchen and Mick was still facing her, Donal glanced up and winked. Her hurt expression dissolved into smiles again.

  “It’s lovely to see you, Donal,” she said, then glared at her husband and left. Mick sat down.

  “What about this, Mick,” began Donal again, staring earnestly into Spillane’s narrow blue eyes. “We both want the same thing, right?” Mick nodded, looked serious, but he was not entirely sure what they wanted. “I want Caitlin, and I’m guessing you want a son-in-law who is strong and healthy and can help you about the place.” Mick nodded more confidently. “Well,” said Donal, “what if – now I’m j
ust thinking on the spot here, Mick, OK? What if I were to move in here…” Mick frowned and sat back. “Wait, listen – I could walk to work each morning, see a lot more of Caitlin. Sure if he’s that sick and I’m just down the road…” Mick grinned.

  “I see that, now,” he said. “Go on.”

  “Well, the way I see it,” continued Donal, “you can’t lose. You already have the money Flynn gave you for Caitlin and if you hook up with me, you’ll end up with another farm. And until I inherit my own place, sure I’ll help you run this one. Once Flynn is dead, won’t Caitlin get his farm?” Mick’s eyes almost popped out of his head. Donal pressed home. “You could be a very rich man, now, in a short period of time, but you’ll never manage three farms on your own and you don’t want Caitlin getting in the way of things.”

  Mick stopped smiling. Caitlin had not spoken more than a few words to him all day at the hospital. She had ignored any attempt he made at conversation, staring away from him as if he were not with her. She hadn’t even said thank you when he had dropped her off home. Still a scut. “Forgive me, now, Mick, if this seems out of order, but I don’t think Caitlin is all that fond of you at the moment.” He stopped and searched Mick’s eyes, which had grown stern and distant. Donal put a comforting hand over one of Mick’s and patted it.

  “What shall we do?”

  “Well, leave Caitlin to me,” said Donal. “Once she’s with me, she’ll forgive and forget – let you manage Flynn’s farm because I’ll be persuading her, like. But this is not just family stuff, Mick.” Donal sat back, assuming a serious expression. “You and I are businessmen.” Mick frowned slightly. “I’m a maths teacher – sure who better to work out sums and figures and come up with a business plan? If we are running three farms between us, we’ll need one.”