An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  Oliver Mullan was no longer smiling. His voice was level when he said, “I don’t quite see what this has to do with me.”

  “Come on, old chap,” John said, “surely you understand that your noise complaint to the county council could completely scupper our efforts.”

  “I see.” Oliver rose. Finished his port standing with a quick toss of the glass’s contents. “It has been, up to this moment, one of the most pleasant evenings of my life, but I came to Ballybucklebo for peace and quiet. I am working on a book about my wartime experiences, which can be released once the Official Secrets Act no longer applies. I have a tight writing schedule. Every weekday, one o’clock to four then six o’clock to ten. I do not need noisy neighbours. If tonight was intended to make me withdraw my complaint”—he shrugged—“I’m afraid I must disappoint you.” He bowed to Myrna and Kitty. “Ladies. My lord. Doctor O’Reilly, it has been a pleasure, but now if you’ll excuse me?”

  John MacNeill rose. “Of course. Perhaps it was insensitive of me. Let me get you another port.”

  “Thank you. No.” There was ice in the words.

  John took a deep breath. “In that case, please let me show you out.” He held out a hand to indicate the door.

  “Thank you,” Mullan said, and left ahead of the marquis.

  No one spoke.

  Oops, O’Reilly thought, but that wasn’t helpful. Looks like the club’s out of luck. Clearly the man’s not going to withdraw his complaint voluntarily. Might there be some other way to exert pressure? O’Reilly would be damned if he could see it, and the next council meeting was in mid-May.

  John reappeared. “Ha-hm, awfully sorry about that. Not very polite of me, I suppose. I didn’t mean to upset the fellow.”

  “It can’t be helped, John,” Myrna said. “You were, as always, the perfect host. You were entirely within your right as president of the club to try to protect its interests.” Her smile was wry. “And present company excepted, Kitty and Fingal, I’m usually right not being too keen on people who don’t ride.”

  O’Reilly felt a pang. His brother, Lars, with whom Myrna had had a real falling-out about his preference for motorcars, had eventually fallen into that category, but O’Reilly smiled. Myrna’s little joke, as he was sure she had intended, had lowered the level of tension in the study. It only rose a little bit when John said with a thoughtful look on his face, “Today’s the twenty-first. How is Bertie’s subcommittee coming on, Fingal?”

  “Final report is ready to present to the membership.”

  “Good. Council meet on?”

  “May 19.”

  John nodded, spent a moment in thought, then said, “There’s no point calling a meeting before that in case Mullan’s request is granted, and clearly an appeal to the man’s better nature has no chance of success, but while I don’t share my sister’s views on people who don’t ride, there is something not entirely right about our Colonel Mullan.”

  O’Reilly frowned. “What isn’t, John?”

  “I’m going to be in London in the next couple of weeks. I want to have a word with a friend of mine in the Ministry of Defence. You see, my old school used to play rugby against Dulwich.” He smiled. “Last time I played against them, we won six to three, by the way.” The marquis laughed. “Like most public schools, the boys are assigned to a house, a social group looked after by a house master. I can’t remember all their names, but at Dulwich they were all named for famous Englishmen. Mullan said he was in Drake House. Funny, that. If his family were in Cookstown, he’d have to have been a boarder. Drake and Raleigh were the only houses for day boys. Not boarders. See what I mean?”

  O’Reilly nodded. “Unless he’d been living with family or family friends in London, John. He could have been a day boy then. That would have saved a fair bit of money.”

  “That is true, Fingal. I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s not all though,” John said. “He knew what the Rifles’ regimental motto meant, but their march-past is the Ulster Rifles March ‘Off, Off, Said the Stranger.’ I tricked him with ‘The South Down Militia,’ you see. It’s their slow march. The rawest recruit would know that.”

  O’Reilly took a thoughtful sip of his Jameson’s. “I’m beginning to think, and to quote Hamlet act one, John, you believe ‘something is rotten in the state of Denmark’?”

  “I do. And I intend to find out exactly what.”

  “And if you can find something and we can get him to withdraw, we can call the extraordinary meeting right away and make a start on running our events.” O’Reilly raised his glass. “I drink to the hopes of your forthcoming quest, John MacNeill. I really do.”

  14

  Fever and the Fret

  August 30, 1963

  “Awake now, are we, Sleeping Beauty? What some people will do to get a couple of days off. I’ve been sitting here for a good five minutes. If you weren’t going to wake up soon, I’d’ve been off.”

  Barry had woken moments ago, eyes unfocussed. His throat was not as raw, his headache was controlled by aspirin, but he was weak and only vaguely aware of someone, a man in mask and gown, sitting by his bedside. He screwed up his eyes but still couldn’t make out the man’s features. “Who—who is it?”

  “Me, you goat. Mills. I had to know if you were dead or alive. Nurse Peters is here too.”

  “Jack.” Barry finally recognised the voice and realised that his best friend, as was typical of an Ulsterman, was hiding his concern behind a mask of facetiousness. He noticed Jan at the far side of the room. “Thanks a million.” Barry’s reply had no hint of thanks in the inflection, but he was still pleased his pal had come to see him. “What time is it?” He vaguely remembered drifting off yesterday evening, being woken once or twice to have his pulse and temperature taken and being given his tablets and a warm salt-and-water gargle, but he had no idea how long he’d been asleep.

  “Ten to noon. Today’s Friday.”

  Barry struggled to sit up and Jan immediately helped him, placing two pillows behind his back, and lowering him onto them. “Thanks, Jan,” he said. “Nearly twelve o’clock? I’ve been out for—” he blinked, found his concentration was better than it had been, and did the arithmetic “—about eighteen hours.”

  “And you needed your sleep, Barry,” Jan said. “How are you feeling today?”

  He managed a small smile. “A bit better. Thanks.”

  “And your temperature was down this morning.”

  “Good,” he said, but he was aware of an urgent sensation. “But I really need to—” The pressure swelled in his lower belly.

  “One or two?” Jan asked.

  “One,” he said, and if his cheeks weren’t already flushed, he knew he would have blushed.

  “Here,” she said, opening his bedside locker and handing him a wide-necked glass bottle that was flat on its lower side and had its neck cocked up at a shallow angle.

  “Thanks.” Barry took the bottle, slid it under the bedclothes, fished himself out from under his light blue hospital nightgown, and into the bottle’s neck. He strained, felt as if his bladder was going to burst—and nothing happened. Bloody hell. He couldn’t pee because he was ashamed to in front of Jan. He had what as students they had laughingly referred to as a “bashful bladder.” There was nothing funny about it.

  She must have sensed his embarrassment. “I’ll leave you for a while,” she said, washed her hands, hung her gown inside the room, and left.

  Dear God, the relief. The pressure subsided, and Barry felt the bottle grow warm between his thighs. He threw back the bedclothes, and taking care not to spill, pulled it out. “Jack, would you?”

  “I will.” Jack took it. “Got a load off your mind?”

  Trust Jack to make light of this too. He went to the door. “Nurse,” he called, handed the bottle over to one, and returned. “It’s off to the sluice,” he said. “Better an empty house than a bad tenant.”

  Barry had to agree, but it struck him how helpless sick people were. How—the
best word he could think of was “degrading”—how degrading it was to rely on others to help you perform basic bodily functions. Even in his muddled state, he realised he was experiencing medicine from the other end of the stethoscope. And he didn’t much like it.

  The door opened, and Jan came in, accompanied by a young man. They both put on gowns.

  Jan returned a clean bottle to Barry’s locker. Rearranged his blankets. “This is Christopher Finn. He’s one of our clinical clerks,” she said.

  That was what medical students attached to nonsurgical wards were called. On surgical units they were referred to as surgical dressers, because in the old days they were responsible for changing dressings.

  “Doctor Laverty,” said the young man, “I’m sorry to disturb you. Doctor Swanson did some blood tests yesterday, but he wanted some more as soon as you were awake.”

  Bloody hell, Barry thought. “That’s all right.” It wasn’t young Finn’s fault. He was only doing as he’d been told. Barry held out his left arm, outstretched, fist clenched. He knew the routine.

  The clerk tied a red rubber tube tourniquet above Barry’s elbow to block the return of venous blood. A fold of skin was entrapped by the tight rubber and nipped his flesh. “Ow.” Barry pumped his fist to distend the vein in the hollow of the elbow, the antecubital fossa.

  Chris Finn dabbed the skin over the vein with cotton wool soaked in pungent-smelling methylated spirits. Barry tried not to flinch when the needle bit as it pierced his skin and hit the vein wall to produce a dull ache. “Damn,” said the young man after moments of wiggling the tip of the needle. “Sorry, I can’t quite get into the vein.” He pulled the needle free. “Sorry.”

  Barry clenched his teeth. The lad was learning, and Barry could well remember the number of times he himself had failed in his first attempts to draw blood, but back then he hadn’t been the one hurting. Now he was.

  Finn confessed failure a second, no less painful, time.

  Barry gritted his teeth, grimaced, and controlled an urge to tell the student to bugger off and go and practice on someone else.

  Jack, who had moved back to give the young student room, now drew closer to the bed. “Tell you what, Chris. Let me do it.”

  There was relief in the young man’s voice when he said, “Thank you very much, Doctor Mills.”

  This time it still stung, but in no time Jack had filled the barrel of the hypodermic, pressed a cotton wool ball over the puncture site, told Barry to hold it firmly there, undid the tourniquet, and withdrew the needle. “Gonna have a bit of a bruise, chum, but it can’t be helped.” Jack injected the blood into three rubber-stoppered glass tubes, which he handed, along with the hypodermic, to Finn.

  “Thanks, Jack,” Barry said, grateful his friend was here. An ordinary patient would have had to submit to the less than skillful ministrations until he finally succeeded. To his shame Barry recalled the very worst of his attempted bloodlettings, six tries on one patient before success. It was all very well saying you learned by your mistakes, but you were making them at someone else’s expense. He’d remember that.

  Finn collected his gear and the samples, uttered a quick “I hope you’re better soon, Doctor Laverty,” bobbed his head to Jan Peters, and fled.

  Barry lay back. Three punctures instead of one. His entire left arm still throbbed, but he could feel the tension begin to leave his body. To be fair, although the bloodletting had been painful, the duration and intensity of the pain came nowhere near that of a toothache. His discomfort probably had more to do with a primitive resentment against the violation of a needle piercing his skin. Perhaps it went back in some ancient group memory of being skewered by a flint-tipped spear.

  He frowned. Why had another set of samples been required, and what had the first ones shown? “Jan,” he said, “I know you’re not supposed to say anything, but have you any idea what’s wrong with me?”

  She shook her head. “Sorry, Barry, I honestly don’t. Sister Lynch asked me to tell her when you woke up. She wants to have a word.”

  A word? With the senior sister. What the blazes was she going to tell him? “I remember her, from when we spent time on this unit being instructed in neurology, remember, Jack? She comes from Ballynahinch in County Down.”

  “Just a wee thing, about the same age as Bernie O’Byrne, but grey-haired? Yes, I remember her. She played cricket for the Irish women’s team as a girl.”

  “I’m sure she can explain,” Jan said, “but before that, my instructions are to give you a bed-bath.”

  “Don’t mind me,” Jack said, getting out of her way. “I’ve seen young Adonis in the shower.”

  Barry was grateful for his friend’s presence while submitting to Jan’s gentle ministrations with a sponge, warm soapy water, and a towel.

  He did everything she asked as she worked, but all the while the question nagged. Why more tests, and just how sick was he?

  Jan finished. “I’ll get you a clean gown. You really did sweat a lot, so we’ll have to get plenty of fluids into you.” She dressed Barry and tucked him in. “He’s all yours, Doctor Mills,” she said. “I’m off to speak to Sister Lynch.”

  “Thanks, Jan,” Barry said. “Thanks for everything.” He watched her go, hoping Sister would come very soon to answer his questions. He hated, hated, uncertainty, particularly when the subject of it was himself. It was time he forced his tired brain to concentrate.

  Jack turned the bedside chair round, sat with his arms draped over the back. His flippant tone vanished. “I’m sorry for your troubles, Barry. Sounds like you have a pretty nasty flu.”

  “Mebbe,” Barry said, “but I didn’t know there were any blood tests for flu. It’s usually a simple clinical diagnosis based on symptoms and signs. And Jan could have told me that.”

  “But from what she told me while you were asleep, you have them all, in spades. What you need, Barry, is lots of kip, plenty of fluids, and tincture of time. I’ll bet they discharge you home to your folks in Ballyholme as soon as the results of that bloodletting are in.”

  “I hope you’re right.” Barry did take some comfort from his friend’s confidence, but still something nagged, and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. Och, to hell with it. He was too tired to think about it now. Later he would, after Jack and Sister had gone and he’d had another sleep. Barry wondered what was keeping her.

  A squeaking of trolley wheels came from outside the door. Jack shook his head. “You’d think someone would have the wit to oil the things. It’s noisy enough in a hospital. Anyway, on a more practical note, I phoned your folks last night, told them you had flu or just possibly some other bug.” He chuckled. “I think your mum was about to drop the phone and head for the car until I explained that we’re not sure exactly what the bug might be, so you’re not allowed to have visitors. She says I’ve to tell you to do exactly what your doctors tell you to do, keep warm, keep out of draughts—and don’t forget to brush your teeth. They’ll be up to see you the minute they’re allowed. She and your dad send their love.”

  Barry managed a weak smile. “That’s Mum. How’d she sound?”

  “Worried. That’s mums the world over. Anyway, she made me promise to give them regular bulletins.”

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “I’m sure you’ll be able to set her mind at rest once you get home.”

  “Aye. Once I do get home,” he muttered. Where the hell was Sister Lynch? She must know he’d be waiting for news.

  “From a practical point of view, you know ward 21, neurosurgery, usually has two housemen? Well, they’ve pulled one off the ward and sent him to casualty, so we’re coping in your absence.”

  “Good.” Barry hated to admit it, but, at the moment, that was the least of his worries.

  “And,” said Jack, “I’ve been saving the best to last: your friend Virginia sends her wishes for a speedy recovery and her love—and, brother, judging by the light in those green eyes when she said it, I don’t think it was one of those c
asual greetings. I don’t know how you did it, but I think you’ve scored a winner there.”

  For a moment Barry wondered if he were imagining what he had just heard. “Do you mean that, Jack?”

  “My old son, if I don’t know girls, who does?”

  Barry closed his eyes and relished the thought. Now he really had to get better and get the hell out of here. “Thanks, Jack. Next time you see her—give her mine.”

  Jack rolled his eyes. “Head over heels again? Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” He stood. “Anyway, it’s time for me to run away on back to casualty, but I’m off duty tonight, and you know the little redhead from Antrim Town?” He winked. “You get better soon. You need anything? A book? Lucozade? Grapes?”

  Barry shook his head. “What I need is for someone who knows what’s going on to let me in on it. I don’t like uncertainty.”

  “Nobody does, but I’m sure you’ve nothing to worry about.” Jack stood. “All right. I’ll pop in tomorrow. See how you’re doing.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot, Jack,” Barry said to his friend’s departing back. Dear God. Virginia sent her love, and the shiver that ran up Barry’s spine wasn’t because of his fever.

  He was still smiling when the door opened and the ward’s senior sister, Sister Lynch, came in. “Good afternoon, Doctor Laverty. How are you feeling today?” She put on a gown over her red uniform dress and spotless white apron.

  “A bit better, thank you, Sister.”

  “Good,” she said. “Now we need to have a chat.”

  Barry stiffened. It only took three words to say “You’ve got flu.” Why a chat? “We thought you had simple flu—”

  Barry didn’t like the sound of that. If it wasn’t flu, what could it be? Not all fevers were caused by infection. They could signify something serious.

  “—but Doctor Swanson is a very thorough young man. We’re fond of him here. When he examined you—and he went over you from head to toe—apart from your temperature and pulse being up and your throat a bit inflamed, he noted enlargement of your cervical lymph nodes.”