An Irish Country Welcome

by Patrick Taylor

  “I’ll wrap your sandwiches, Doctor Laverty,” Kinky said. “You can get a quick bite before you go to Dundonald, so, without having to come back here.” She grabbed his plate and trotted off.

  The nutty fragrance of Kinky’s wheaten bread disappeared with her and Barry sighed as he looked at his watch. There were some advantages to being a doctor, he thought. If he missed visiting hours, his professional status would still guarantee he saw Sue this afternoon.

  * * *

  Barry parked the Imp on the street outside a three-storey set of neat post-war semi-detached houses. Six identical pairs of dwellings, their white window frames bright in the sun, sat tall on either side of the short street that ran off Station Road behind the Duck. Each had a steeply pitched slate roof under which sheltered a dormer window. This redbrick one was surrounded by a well-trimmed privet hedge, the same boundary that separated each of the properties’ adjoining front gardens. He’d been here before. This was a street popular with young professionals and not one but two estate agents. Dapper Frew’s house was two semis up on the opposite side.

  Barry got out, shut the car door, and headed across the footpath, through a wrought-iron gate, and across the flagstones of a path dividing a small but well-cut lawn.

  Two raps with a brass knocker brought Linda Bradshaw to the door. He could hear a baby crying. “Thank God you’re here, Doctor.” Linda was twenty-six, married to an accountant. Her shoulder-length dark hair was untidy, and the deep brown eyes above her snub nose looked moist and troubled. “Poor wee Tony’s in a state and I can’t comfort him.” She stepped aside. “Come on in.”

  Barry followed her into her lounge, where a pale-faced little boy lay restlessly in a spacious wheeled pram. His breathing was shallow, and he kicked and tumbled about. Barry knew these involuntary movements in babies were usually an attempt to get away from colicky pain. “So, tell me what happened, Linda.”

  She took a deep breath. “He was quite all right until about an hour ago, when he vomited. Twice. Then he filled his nappy, so I changed it. Then he started to howl and toss about. I just changed his nappy again there now just before I phoned. I kept it for you to see. I have it here.” She lifted a cloth napkin and opened it.

  Barry immediately noticed the lack of faeces but a mixture of mucus and blood, the characteristic “apple jelly” stool of the condition he already suspected from the other symptoms. “I just need to feel his tummy.”

  Tony had already kicked off his blanket. Barry lifted the little boy’s nightdress and probed gently with his fingers, paying particular attention to the right side over where the ascending colon lay. As he expected, he found a small sausage-shaped swelling. The diagnosis was not in doubt. He replaced the clothing and pulled the blanket over the boy’s body. The little lad was for the Royal Belfast Hospital for Sick Children.

  “I’m afraid Tony has what is called an intussusception. I know that’s a mouthful—”

  “Sweet Jesus, it sounds awful.” Her hand flew to her mouth. “Can you fix it?”

  Barry shook his head. “Not me, but it certainly can be fixed. He’ll need an operation. The bowel has somehow managed to slide up into itself, like a telescope. You know how the narrow bit slips into the wider bit?”

  Linda nodded, her eyes wide and troubled.

  “That’s what’s happened to Tony. It causes a blockage. The contents can’t get moved along and it causes severe colic, the poor wee mite.”

  Linda picked up the child and pressed her lips to the top of his downy head. “An operation.”

  “Yes, but time is on our side. You said it started an hour ago.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Which means we’ve got five hours. It seems that if the surgeons can get the bowel back to its normal self within six hours from the time of onset, the patients are fine.”

  “Honestly?”

  “Honestly. Let me use your phone.”

  “In the hall.”

  It took only moments for Barry to get through to the children’s hospital, be assured that an ambulance would be dispatched with all speed, and that the surgeon would be immediately available to confirm Barry’s diagnosis and operate. He replaced the receiver and went back to where Linda was sitting in an armchair, holding little Tony and trying to comfort him.

  “That’s all set, Linda. The ambulance will be here as quickly as possible and take you and Tony to Belfast. I’ll keep you company until it’s here and I’ll write a letter for you to give the doctors. Can you get hold of your husband? Let him know what’s happening.”

  “I’ll phone his office in Belfast.”

  “Let me hold Tony.” Barry took the squirming little lad in his arms, stroked his back, made soft cooing noises while Tony whimpered and occasionally yelled. Barry’d always had sympathy for the parents of sick children. Now with the prospect of having his own family becoming a reality, he could really put himself in Linda’s place and feel the kind of anguish she must be going through.

  She came back into the room. “Richard says he’ll drive there and meet me at the hospital. That way he can bring me home when the operation’s over. Now, let me take Tony so you can write your letter, Doctor.” She planted a kiss on Tony’s forehead. “Hush. Hush. It won’t be long, and the nice doctors will make you better, darling.”

  * * *

  Barry stood on the footpath and watched the ambulance with Linda and Tony Bradshaw aboard drive off. The driver had his flashing lights and siren on. Good luck, little Tony.

  Barry took some deep breaths and turned his face up toward the sun. He hated seeing people in pain, but especially small children. If he couldn’t stop the pain, there was no way to tell them help was on the way. He headed out to the street and along the short distance to Dapper Frew’s semi and through his small front garden.

  The door of the house was already open and a smiling Dapper Frew, wearing carpet slippers, neatly creased trousers, and an open-necked shirt, stood in the doorway. He also sported a knitted brimless woollen hat. “How’s about ye, Doctor?” He stood aside to let Barry enter. “First on your right, sir, and thanks for coming. I heard the ambulance and looked out and saw you through the lounge window heading this way. One of the Bradshaws?”

  “Sorry, Dapper. Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  “Aye. Right enough. Hope it’s nothing too serious. Come on in.”

  Barry went through the door into a small lounge, well furnished with a modern three-piece lounge suite, some expensive-looking hard-backed chairs, and a table with narrow curved legs and a drop leaf on either side.

  Dapper must have noticed Barry looking. “My folks were poor as church mice. That’s why ever since I was wee I’d made up my mind to get a decent-paying job, and this one’s been good to me. When I was starting out, my boss used to take me to estate sales. Taught me a bit about antiques. That there’s a Pembroke table by Chippendale.”

  “It’s very elegant.”

  “Surprising what you can find when you’re asked to sell a house.” He indicated a small footed bowl on the mantelpiece. “That’s a sugar bowl, George the Third Irish silver.” The piece was surrounded by get-well cards. Dapper pointed to a TV set in one corner. “I’m not much for the telly but you can be sure I’ll be tuned in tomorrow when that there aircraft carrier, the USS Hornet, picks up Apollo 11 after they splash down in that wee capsule. Can you imagine, Doctor, hurtling through space crammed into something that looks like a giant badminton shuttlecock? It’s daft, so it is.”

  Barry laughed. “You’d not get me up in one with two other blokes. I get a bit uncomfortable in a telephone box. I don’t like small spaces.”

  “Now, Doctor, if you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit done in. I’m sure you’d like to sit down.” Dapper pointed at the settee, on which lay a rumpled tartan blanket and a copy of Moby Dick, spine up. “I never read much as a youngster but when I was about sixteen, I saw the film A Christmas Carol with Alastair Sim. I got the book out of the Carnegie libra
ry in Bangor. It was terrific so I read the Pickwick Papers next, and then all of Mister Dickens’s novels. I’ve been reading ever since. Anyroad, that there’s my seat,” he said, “but please make yourself at home, Doctor.”

  Barry sat on an upholstered armchair close to the settee. “Now, Dapper, how—”

  “Mind you, that there Moby Dick’s more a textbook on whales than a story, but it’s got a great couple of opening lines.” Dapper picked up the book. “Listen to this. ‘Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.’” Dapper shook his head. “‘See the watery part of the world.’ I like that. And thon Queequeg’s a humdinger of a character. But look at me, blethering away. Sorry, Doc. Not used to being home alone all day. You was saying?”

  Barry smiled. “You’re missing your work and folks at the office, I’m sure.”

  “In soul I am, Doctor.”

  “Doctor O’Reilly filled me in on your case, Dapper,” he said, “and he’s sorry he can’t come himself today, but he sends his best wishes. He knew I’d be passing your house, so—” Barry removed an envelope from his inside jacket pocket and gave it to Dapper. “Here’s your sick line. Doctor O’Reilly said it would save you a trip to the surgery. You should be able to go back to work on the eighteenth of August.”

  “That’s great. Thanks, and no harm to Doctor O’Reilly, but I’m just as happy to see yourself, Doctor Laverty. Sure, after five years don’t we all know and trust you?”

  Barry smiled. That was one of the greatest perks of general practice. He felt warm inside. “Thanks, Dapper.” He closed his bag. “So, you got home on Monday? Mister Greer said in his letter that your wound was healing well—”

  Dapper whipped off his woolly hat. “See for yourself, sir. Joan Eakin at the office knit me this here hat. Said she didn’t want me head getting cold. Even if it is July.”

  The skin incision, while still pink, was completely closed. There was no wound discharge. Any scalp swelling—and there always was some after open brain surgery, as Barry had learned when he’d been a houseman on ward 21 in 1965—had gone down. “It looks grand.”

  “Aye.” Dapper replaced his woolly hat and grimaced. “I just look like a fellah whose scalping didn’t go quite as expected. I’ll be right glad when my hair grows back. Lucky I don’t have long hair like one of them rock stars. Mine shouldn’t take long. I’m going to be seeing Joan in a few days when I’ve got more of my strength back. I’ll want to look my best.”

  Barry shook his head. “Your hair won’t grow back as soon as that.”

  “Och, well, she’s just coming here for tea and sure hasn’t she seen me half-baldy-nut already? But I’ve always liked to look my best when I’m in company, so I’ll have to bide.”

  The nickname “Dapper” suited this man. He had always dressed well, although in his work a male estate agent was expected to be a suit-tie-and-polished-shoes man. “It shouldn’t take too long before you have your hair back, and Mister Greer said your arms and legs are all working properly now and you’ve no difficulty speaking. But you have had a few attacks of what he calls minor epilepsy.”

  “That’s right.” Dapper flexed and extended his left arm. “Good as new. No trouble with the words, but the nurses told me I had a few what they called absences. I’d stop in mid-sentence, close my eyes for a few seconds then open them and pick up the conversation exactly where I’d left off. But I’d no confusion and never went into coma. They said it’s quite common after my kind of surgery. Mister Greer gave me some pills starting a week ago—”

  “Troxidone three hundred milligrams.”

  “If you say so, sir. Three times a day, and I don’t believe I’ve had any more wee turns. It’s great I can go back to work in August, but Mister Greer said on account of the absences and the pills, I wasn’t to drive until I’d seen him for my postoperative visit on August the twenty-second. Still, there’s paperwork to be completed in the office.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be fine, Dapper. Now, I must be off. I’ve to see a patient in Dundonald Hospital.”

  “Oh, aye. Would that be your wife, Doctor? We’re all right sorry to hear she’s poorly. Aggie Arbuthnot was in Dundonald visiting a friend last week and she heard your missus was a patient. When she got home, she told Cissie Sloan, and—” Dapper shrugged and held out his hands palms up.

  Barry shook his head. Ballybucklebo. Trying to keep a secret here was like trying to keep Houdini in a straitjacket. “She’s having some women’s problem, but I hope she’s on the mend.”

  “I hope so too. So, run you away on, sir.”

  “Thank you, Dapper. I appreciate that. But before I go, can I do anything else for you?”

  “No thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t hesitate to call if you need us.”

  “Thanks a lot, sir. I really do be grateful for your coming.”

  Barry rose and was about to leave when someone rang the front doorbell.

  Dapper yelled, “Come on on in.” Dapper’s pencil moustache rose as he smiled. “That’ll be Donal Donnelly.”

  Donal came into the room, stopping in the doorway when he saw Barry and snatching off his duncher. “Hello, Doctor Laverty. How’s my oul’ mate doing?”

  “Hello, Donal. Dapper’s getting much better.” Barry would have left but Donal was still in the doorway and talking twenty to the dozen.

  “Dead on,” said Donal. He held out a brown-paper-wrapped parcel. “These here roast beef sandwiches and slices of cherry cake Julie’s put up for your lunch will strengthen you.”

  “Thanks, Donal, and thanks to Julie again. You two’s been very good to me since I got home.”

  Barry tried to sidle by, but Donal seemed oblivious and stood his ground. “Sure, isn’t that what friends are for? And speaking of friends, I’ve a wee favour to ask. Can I use your motor for some personal business? I want til look at a new building site.”

  “Of course you can, you great glipe. It’ll be good practice for when I need you to chauffeur me around the odd time when I’m still not allowed to drive.”

  Donal smiled. “I’m your man.”

  Barry said, “Now, Donal, if you’d let me through—”

  Dapper said, “Doctor Laverty’s heading to Dundonald Hospital for to see Mrs. Laverty.”

  “Poor Mrs. Laverty. Julie heard your wife was in, and we both hope she gets better soon.”

  Barry smiled. “So do I, and I’ll find out sooner, Donal, if you’d move and let me out.”

  “Aye, certainly.” He stepped aside.

  As Barry was leaving, he heard Donal say, “Sit where you are, oul’ hand. I’ll get the kettle on and we’ll have a cup of tea.”

  11

  Hope That Keeps up a Wife’s Spirits

  Barry sped over the Ballybucklebo Hills as his stomach grumbled its protest. Those few delicious bites of Kinky’s ham sandwich had not been enough, and he pictured the rest of the sandwich sitting in the outside pocket of O’Reilly’s game bag in the backseat of the car. He looked at his watch. He had time for a quick stop, and he knew the perfect spot.

  A few miles farther down the road he turned down a rutted lane and parked beside Ballysallagh Reservoir. The local angling club kept the waters stocked with rainbow trout. He left the car and walked down to the rough-dressed granite blocks that formed the banks of the man-made lake where he sat, legs dangling over the water.

  He opened the pocket to find the ham sandwiches wrapped in greaseproof paper. A second parcel held three pieces of Kinky’s shortbread, and a small bottle of brown lemonade complemented his impromptu picnic. His mouth watered.

  He tucked into a sandwich, savouring its smoky flavour and the air’s piney scent coming from a small wood of conifers where wood pigeons made burbling coos. The calm waters of the lake, reflecting the cerulean of a cloudless sky above, were only disturbed by the
passage of a family of mallard at the far end and the concentric rings which from time to time appeared as trout rose to swallow a floating insect.

  No one was fishing today. Most of the anglers would be at work on a Wednesday so he had the place to himself. He listened to a rustling in the grass that suggested otherwise and, turning slowly, saw the black nose, long whiskers, pointed muzzle, ebony eyes, and tiny ears of an otter. It humped its way across the grass, clambered down the granite, and entered the water, swimming easily using its round tail for a rudder. The otter dived with a swirling of water.

  Barry took a swig of lemonade and finished the sandwich, delighting in the warmth of the sun on his back, the utter peace of his surroundings. He hadn’t been here since he was a young teen when his father, who knew a club member, had brought him and Jack Mills to the newly constructed reservoir to practice their fly-fishing casting. Almost fifteen years later, signs of construction had all but disappeared and the peaceful, man-made body of water had settled into its environment.

  Perhaps one day he and Jack would bring their own children here to learn how to cast. He found a pebble and made an overhand toss into the calm water. He’d longed for Sue dreadfully since she’d been admitted in those very early hours of Monday morning. He had spent time with her, as promised, later that day. Fingal and Emer had been decent about letting Barry slip away. Sue’d slept well and there’d been no more bleeding, thank God. Nor had there been any by last night when, as soon as he’d finished his day’s work, he’d nipped over to Dundonald. He hoped her condition was still improving today.

  As soon as he’d eaten the last piece of shortbread and had had one more swallow of lemonade he’d make the short drive to the hospital. And when he’d kept her company he’d head back home, give the idiotic Max his walk, feed him and Tigger, and make himself a bit more to eat. He smiled. Max might be unruly and Tigger, like all cats, somewhat aloof, but they were company in the bungalow that simply wasn’t the same without Sue’s presence. He wondered what it would be like when there was—when not if, he said to himself firmly—when there was an addition to the family in January. That was something to look forward to. But for now, he had an idea for avoiding the empty house tonight.