An Irish Country Cottage--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  If anyone was letting things get to them, it was Barry. It was time he had a word with his best friend. “Fancy a pint, Jack?”

  “You’re on.” Jack rose.

  “Jack and I are going to head to the bar for a Guinness, Fingal. Bit early in the day for the hard stuff for us.”

  “Fair enough,” O’Reilly said. “But try to get back in time for the kickoff. I’ll keep an eye on Sue while you’re away.”

  “Fingal,” Sue said, “I’m not a porcelain doll.”

  O’Reilly lowered his head and began, “I didn’t—” and must have thought it better to say nothing.

  Barry turned to Sue. “Back soon, love.”

  Sue shook her head and smiled. “Enjoy your pints, boys.”

  Barry led the way, with Jack in close pursuit. Before they reached the end of the row, Barry saw Doctor Ronald Fitzpatrick smiling from where he sat, knees under a tartan rug, beside Alice Moloney.

  As Barry and Jack drew level, Fitzpatrick said, “Doctor Laverty. Mister Mills. How lovely to see you.”

  “Ronald. Alice. I didn’t expect to meet you here.”

  “Alice is quite the rugby fan. She even travels down in the bus the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts charter to Dublin to see international matches. She said that Campbell forward pass would get a penalty—and it did.”

  “And Bangor kicked it for three points to tie the game.” Jack raised his eyes to heaven.

  Alice Moloney giggled. “I’m teaching Ronnie the rules—”

  Much as Jack had been instructing Helen, Barry thought.

  “I want him to come to more games. It does you a power of good, dear, to get out in the fresh air.”

  His Adam’s apple bobbed. “And I like to see you enjoying yourself, Alice, although I confess I find this rugby a bit—” He seemed to be searching for a word. “—rough.”

  Jack Mills laughed. “It can be.” He sidled ahead. “Will you excuse us now? We don’t want to miss the second half.”

  They left their row and went down the steps.

  On the pitch, the band was countermarching and had switched to “Kelly the Boy from Killane.” The words of the first lines ran in Barry’s head: “What’s the news, what’s the news, oh my bold Shelmalier / with your long-barrelled guns from the sea—?” The song, glorying a leader of the United Irishmen’s uprising in 1798, was a rebel one, and yet none of the predominantly Protestant crowd minded, it seemed. To most sensible people, pipe tunes were just that. Pipe tunes.

  “Campbell will be getting one hell of a pep talk from ‘Big Bob’ Mitchell and Davy Young,” said Jack.

  Barry remembered the two teachers who coached the first fifteen. “Big Bob” had taught him history, Davy Young English. Both men lived and breathed rugby football.

  “But Campbell will pull it off in the second half. They have to.” Jack was 100 percent in support of their old school.

  “We’ll see,” Barry said, harbouring a soft spot for the underdog, Bangor Grammar. The school had never won the cup. Campbell had recorded nineteen victories.

  The men went across a narrow courtyard and into the packed bar. Jack joined the end of a queue waiting for service. Tobacco smoke blued the air. The sounds of the pipe band were muted in here. Voices rose and fell. Everyone had an opinion about the game.

  “That Bangor scrum-half? See him? He’s getting the ball from the scrums to the backs in no time flat. Reminds me of Roger Young, the Irish number nine.”

  “Aye, right enough, Sammy. Your man Young feeds Michael Gibson the ball before you can blink—”

  “Barry?” Jack said. “Barry?”

  “Sorry, Jack. Bit distracted.”

  “What’s up, ol’ son? We’ve been friends for a very long time, and something is rubbing you up the wrong way.”

  “It’s that obvious, is it?”

  “It is to me. I won’t pry, but is everything alright with you and Sue? I’ve seen the way you keep glancing at her. You’re like a mother cat with a sick kitten.”

  Barry shook his head. He looked around, saw no one they knew. Deep breath. “There is a problem, Jack. Not between us, but we don’t seem to be able to get pregnant.” He pursed his lips.

  “That’s rotten,” Jack said.

  He waited for the doctor in Jack to start taking a medical history, but his friend just put a comforting hand on Barry’s shoulder. “I am really sorry to hear that, chum. Sue’s taking it badly?”

  “She’s being very brave, but it’s a tense business for us. Do you remember, when we were engaged, how I lost my temper sitting beside Eileen Lindsay’s chisslers at Duffy’s Circus? Said something like I’d be damned if I could understand why anyone would have kids.”

  “I do remember,” Jack said. “You and I talked about it the day we were sailing. She wanted to step back for a while. I advised you to let her. Now look at you. Happily married, but—”

  The man in front, carrying a pint of Guinness and a pint of lager, both in plastic glasses, stepped aside. “You’re next, mate.”

  “Two pints, please,” Jack said, and turned back to Barry. “Sorry. Maybe I should have said, ‘Apparently happily.’ You’re not trying to tell me your marriage could be getting off course, are you?”

  Barry inhaled. “No. I’m not worried about that. It’s more feeling so helpless, wondering how I can help Sue. I’ll never forget her words that evening. She said, ‘I couldn’t face a childless future. I simply couldn’t.’ Now we may be facing that after all. I’m not too thrilled about it myself. We’ve been seeing Graham Harley. In fact, we saw him last Friday for a test.” Barry remembered how different had been that morning’s sex prior to the postcoital test from their wonderful lovemaking in Paris a month ago. “Like everything else Graham’s done, the bloody thing was normal.”

  “I’m glad to hear you and Sue are alright. I’m no gynaecologist,” Jack said, accepting and paying for their pints, and moving away from the bar. “Here’s your jar. But I remember Prof. Pinkerton’s lecture where he said infertility with no obvious cause was the toughest for women to bear. No pregnancy, and no reason why not.” They moved toward the door. “And no logical treatment.”

  Once out in the open air and wandering back to their seats, Barry took a pull from his drink. “It’s hard on her, Jack. The only thing left to do is a laparoscopy in May. If it’s normal?” He rolled his eyes.

  “I know.” Jack frowned. “Does Sue mebbe need to talk to another woman? If you think it might help, Helen’s a pretty good shoulder to cry on, and she’s almost qualified.”

  “I’ll ask,” Barry said. “Thanks, Jack, and—” He cocked his head. The pipe tune was “The Brown-Haired Maiden,” and it was usually followed by—he heard the double beat of the big drum signalling the end of one tune. Sure enough, coming from the field rang the opening bars of “The Barren Rocks of Aden.” Barren. Barry Laverty ground his teeth.

  “Pretty bloody ironic,” Jack was saying. “You and Sue trying and me and Helen taking every precaution to avoid pregnancy. Thank God for Pincus, Garcia, and Rock, the Yanks that introduced the pill.”

  “Helen doesn’t mind going against her church?”

  Jack shook his head. “But her church does mind her falling in love outside its boundaries. Helen Hewitt is a very determined young woman. She’s going to have to be. We’ve made up our minds what to do. We’re leaving Ulster as soon as we can once she’s qualified.”

  Barry stopped so suddenly Guinness slopped over the rim of his glass. “No.” Dear God. Barry and Jack Mills had been best friends since 1953—sixteen years. More than half their lifetimes.

  Jack turned and walked back. “I’m afraid yes, Barry. There’s no future for us here.” He took a sip of his pint.

  “No future? But this is your home.”

  Jack shook his head. “My mother will be hurt, but you know my dad’s going to come close to disowning me when he hears I want to marry a Catholic. I’m convinced things are going to continue to deteriorate in this little province j
ust as they’ve deteriorated in my family, Barry. There could be a lot more violence.” Jack stopped, took a long swallow of beer.

  “So, you’re leaving.” Barry kept his voice level but he could feel the shock and hurt of Jack’s news in his guts.

  “They still have each other and tons of relatives,” Jack said quickly, not meeting Barry’s gaze. “It’s more Helen’s dad we’re worried about. He’s a widower, has a brother in South Africa, and that’s about it apart from some distant cousins. Helen’s hardly ever home now. You know how much medical students have to live in the hospitals.”

  “I do.”

  “But at least his wee girl, as he thinks of her, is close now. Toronto’s a hell of a long way off.”

  A long way off. How often would Barry see his friend once he’d moved? For a moment Barry thought of all the stories he’d heard over the years about how hard it was for Irish emigrants to return to Ireland to visit. “At least with two doctors’ incomes you can afford to get back and forth.” I don’t want you to go at all, thought Barry, but it had to be Jack’s choice. I mustn’t interfere other than to support him.

  Jack drank. “That’s not all that’s bothering her. She’s starting to feel guilty as sin about the marquis too. She took his scholarship money and Ulster’s not going to get her services in return.”

  Barry drank to give himself time to think. “I’m afraid I’ve no advice about how to deal with your families, Jack, but Lord John MacNeill, from what I know of him, is a very understanding man. I’m sure if Helen went and talked to him—?”

  Jack nodded. “Mebbe.”

  To Barry, the prospect of leaving Ulster was terrifying. Everything he loved was here, and that included Jack Mills. “Jack, how do you feel about it? About leaving?”

  “Sad. Very sad. I’ll miss so much. I’ll miss Antrim—the hills, the little fields bordered by dry stone walls. I’ll miss sailing on the lough, rugby internationals, the craic.” Jack patted Barry’s shoulder. “And I’ll miss having a pint with you, my friend.”

  “Aye,” Barry said, feeling the lump in his throat.

  “But,” and Jack sighed, “but we can’t see any other option. We are going. I have a contact at the Toronto General Hospital. He can arrange a residency there for me and an internship for Helen.”

  “So, your minds are really made up?”

  Jack finished his pint and nodded. He wouldn’t meet Barry’s gaze.

  It will be sad for me, Barry thought, losing you both, but he said, “Jack, my old friend, you have to do what’s best for you and Helen. I wish you success over there.”

  “Thanks, Barry. Thanks for understanding. We were supposed to be talking about you and Sue, but I knew I had to tell you. I didn’t want to tell you and I don’t want to leave. It’s not going to be easy. First thing we both have to do is sit a Canadian examination here in Belfast so we can practice in Canada. We can do it in June.” He finished his Guinness. “And if I was you, I’d think about taking the Canadian exams too.”

  “What for? I’m not leaving Ireland. Ever.”

  “Barry, you may get cross with me, but please listen. You and Sue want to start a family, and I’m sure you will.”

  I wish I was sure, Barry thought, but he’s right. We do.

  “Things could get bad here in Ulster. There could be more violence. You may decide it’s no place to raise weans. If that did happen, what would be so wrong in being prepared by getting the ticket that would get you a medical licence as soon as you got into Canada?”

  “Alright, I’ll think about it.” Barry heard the big drum’s double beat. He finished his pint and chucked the plastic glass in the dust bin. “The band’s stopped. We’d better get back to see the second half.” Although he wasn’t sure how much of his attention would be on the game.

  * * *

  Barry, sitting between Jack and Sue, had tried to concentrate on the game’s ebb and flow but Jack’s words about violence in Ulster had struck a raw nerve. Emigrate? Things would need to be pretty bad before he’d consider leaving his home. Of more immediate concern was the apparently irrevocable decision Jack and Helen had taken. Damn it, he’d really miss them, but, oh hell, let the hare sit, he told himself. Watch the rugby, and try to tune out Jack’s tutoring of Helen on the finer points of the game.

  For more than twenty minutes of the thirty-minute second half neither side had been able to gain much ground. Both sides had tried to smash their way past the opposition, but the tackling had been strong and accurate.

  Barry heard Helen say, “Tell me again, Jack, what’s a ‘try’?”

  “When a player grounds the ball behind his opponents’ goal line. It’s worth three points and allows that team to try to convert it to five points by kicking the ball over the crossbar and between the uprights. That’s called a converted try.”

  Neither side had succeeded in scoring a try so far, just a three-point penalty each in the first half.

  “And you can kick the ball ahead, but you can’t pass it ahead of the line of play, right?”

  “Right. Look now. Watch how each back tries to pass the ball on.”

  Campbell had the oval ball ten yards inside the Bangor half.

  “That player is the out-half.”

  Barry watched as the lad, ball held between his hands, ran straight at his opposite number. As the space closed between them, the Campbell player swung his arms to his left as if to pass to the next man. But at the last minute, when the Bangor player had aborted his tackle, assuming it to be a waste of time, the Campbell man drew the ball back to himself, took a step to his right, and accelerated.

  “That’s the best ‘dummy’ sold this afternoon,” said Jack. “The Bangor man must feel a right eejit.”

  The Campbell out-half was now behind the Bangor defensive line, going hell for leather for the goal line with only the Bangor fullback angling across the field to intercept the man with the ball.

  Barry knew his and every other spectator’s pulse would be increasing. He heard himself muttering, “Go on you-boy-you, go on.” His remarks were aimed at the Bangor fullback.

  The entire stand was on its feet.

  “Sure thing now,” Jack said to Helen. “The Campbell man has the ball with two players outside and a bit behind him. Just before he’s tackled, he’ll pass, and there are no more defenders left before the goal line.”

  As the Bangor fullback closed in, a chant of “Pass it. Pass it.” erupted, but the Campbell player tucked the ball under his right arm and with his outstretched left hand tried to fend off the tackle. He was two yards from glory, but he failed. As the Bangor defender wrapped his arms round the Campbell attacker’s thighs, the man tumbled to the ground and released the ball, which flew forward.

  “Mother of—” Jack groaned.

  “That was a forward pass, wasn’t it, Jack?” Helen asked.

  “Yes. Campbell will be penalised and Bangor get a free kick. It should have been a try. You watch. Bangor will kick the ball as far up the field as possible.” Jack looked back at Barry, who couldn’t decide if his friend’s hangdog look was disappointment for the team he supported or sympathy for his oldest friend.

  I’ve known since I was thirteen years old that you and I would be friends forever, Jack Mills, Barry thought. And we will, of course, but long-distance isn’t the same. He forced a smile back and shrugged.

  The referee’s shrill whistle’s note was drowned out by a huge communal groan of disappointment, or relief, depending on who was supporting whom. Barry remained silent. The people standing sat, and he saw Fitzpatrick shaking his head.

  Bangor’s kicker took the ball. He produced a towering eighty-yard punt that went into touch, twenty yards from the Campbell goal line. Play would not restart until after the ball was returned to the pitch, but the clock kept ticking.

  “Campbell’s line out now. They get to throw the ball in,” said Jack. Both teams started jogging to the spot where the ball had crossed the touchline at the far end of the pitch. He
re it would be put back into play by a Campbell player throwing it between the eight forwards of each side, lined up facing each other at right angles to the touchline.

  As the teams continued down the pitch, Barry glanced at Sue. She was shaking her head, clearly disappointed that Campbell hadn’t scored. Everyone had thought a Campbell try was inevitable. Sue had been sure she was pregnant when they returned from Paris last month. For the Campbell supporters, the disappointment was real, but it was only a game. For Sue, the disappointment had bordered on heartbreak. He stretched out and took her hand.

  She looked at him and smiled.

  Barry smiled back. “You alright?”

  “I’m fine,” she said, “although I’m sorry the young man didn’t score. If he had, he’d have a memory to last a lifetime, and Campbell would be ahead.”

  “There’s time yet,” he said, and thought, for more than one goal to be achieved. He stared at the pitch, where the forwards were taking their places for the line-out and the backs stood in two spread-out rows, waiting to see which side would win the ball.

  The crowd was silent. It had nothing to cheer. Barry knew time was running out.

  “Do you know,” Jack said to Barry, “if Campbell can’t score now it looks like this’ll be the fifth time in ninety-three years they’re going to have to share the trophy with the opposition. The score that was tied three to three at half-time will stand if it’s still a draw at full-time.” Barry shook his head. Jack was well versed in the statistics of rugby football. Barry saw the referee glance at his watch. Surely there couldn’t be much more than a couple of minutes to go.

  The referee blew his whistle. The Campbell player threw and the ball arced over the lines. Up jumped two opposing men.

  There was anguish in his voice when Jack said, “Och no. Nooo.”

  Against the odds, the Bangor forward had won the ball. He passed it to their scrum-half, who turned and, to give the pass more power, added the momentum of his dive to the thrust of his arms as he passed to the out-half. The man caught the ball and, instead of running, took a step back and studied the uprights of the goalpost.