An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  Edith nodded an acknowledgement. “Any time you need to talk.”

  Barry put his arm round her shoulders. “And we’ve got each other.”

  “So, I’ll do my damndest not to let this gnaw at me. To get on with our life together, Barry, and I know it sounds silly, but somehow, just somehow, I can’t help but believe that things will work out.”

  26

  Cruel Madness of Love

  November 7, 1963

  “I’ve my bleeper,” Barry said to Sister Kearney, “and things are quiet here. I’m going to pop up to ward 10.”

  She shook her head. “Going to see Jan Peters’s dad again?”

  “Yep. He’s a decent man and I think having me visit cheers him up.”

  “You’re a decent man yourself, Barry Laverty, but you can’t look after every single patient you see forever and ever.”

  Oh yes you can. In general practice, Barry thought, and laughed. “I do know that, Sister. I never try. It’s too busy. But it’s not so much me following patients. Mister Peters seems to follow me around. I admitted him from casualty on the very first day of my houseman’s year.”

  “And we all know his daughter, Jan, of course,” said Sister.

  Barry nodded. “She asked me to talk to him when he was settled in. I did. Played draughts with him. Got to know the man. Now he’s been readmitted and lost a leg, it just seems natural to pop in on him once in a while. I’d do the same for any of my friends.”

  Sister Kearney smiled. “I understand. Off you trot then. I’ll bleep you if I need you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Barry headed along the main corridor. He’d seen the Peterses three times since the surgery, and Rusky’s physical recovery was proceeding perfectly. Emotionally? Rusky was brittle, but he was improving.

  So was Barry’s romance with Virginia. At least he hoped so. He’d taken Jack’s advice and left her alone for five days, but when he’d visited Rusky on ward 10 two days ago he’d looked for her on the ward, found her, and asked her out for dinner tonight. She’d seemed pleased to accept.

  He went through the doors, checked with Sister that it was okay to visit, and let himself into the side ward.

  Dora Peters was sitting on one of the plain bedside chairs on the far side of the bed. The shoulders of her unbuttoned beige woollen overcoat showed traces of damp. Must be drizzling. He could go for hours in the hospital without the faintest idea what the weather was doing outside. Dora was removing a head scarf from her shoulder-length auburn hair. When she smiled up at Barry, the laugh lines deepened at the corners of cornflower blue eyes. “Hello, Barry. Thanks for coming again.”

  Rusky was propped up on pillows. His marquetry gear lay on a narrow, cross-bed Formica-topped table. The bedclothes were arranged over a protective cage. A metal gantry curved from the bedhead and Rusky was able to pull himself up by using a horizontal bar supported by thin chains attached to its ends and the gantry above. “Good til see you, Barry,” he said, and his voice had returned to its usual firm tenor. “Have a pew.” His colour was better too.

  Barry sat in the other bedside chair beside a locker, on top of which sat a bunch of green grapes and a bottle of Lucozade. “How are you, Rusky?”

  The docker shrugged. “I’m getting a bit stronger every day. It’s been a week since the—well, since the operation, and there’s just a wee bit of an ache in the stump and I’ve no phantom pains this time.”

  “And he can’t wait to get fitted for an artificial leg,” Dora said. “Meantime, with a bit of help til get into it, you can get about rightly in a wheelchair, can’t you, love?”

  Barry heard the deep affection for her husband in the woman’s voice.

  “Aye.” He smiled. “And one of them wee physios comes every day. Makes me do exercises for til strengthen my thigh muscles for when I get fitted with a peg leg, and learns me how til get around on crutches.”

  That was the first smile Barry had seen since Rusky’s admission seven days ago. The man was starting to fight back. “Did you ever see that film, Treasure Island with Robert Newton?” he said.

  Barry nodded. “I was ten when it came out.”

  “At the moment all I’ll be needing is a crutch and a parrot, and hey presto, Long John Silver. Aaaar, Jim lad.”

  Barry and Dora laughed. “Good for you, Rusky,” Barry said, admiring the man’s courage. “Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum.”

  “Aye, I could use the bottle of rum, but I don’t suppose Sister would approve.” Rusky smiled then sighed. “Sure, I know it’ll be a long ould road, I’ll probably never work again now, unless mebbe I can get some kind of watchman’s job, but, och, I am getting better. I still have my Dora.”

  She reached out and took his hand.

  “And I wanted til say thank you til you, Barry.” Rusky reached under the bedclothes and produced a brown-paper-wrapped parcel. “Here.” He thrust it at Barry. “I asked Dora for til bring it.”

  “Thank you.” He stared at the wrapped package, unsure what more to say. This was a first for Barry. Students did not receive presents, and housemen rarely. Received wisdom was that as obstetricians usually had very happy patients, after a long relationship, their cupboards were often overflowing with bottles of whiskey. “Thank you very much.”

  “Go on,” Dora said. “Open it.”

  Inside the paper lay the inlaid draughts board Rusky had made during his first admission, and a box presumably containing draughts. Barry felt the lump in his throat.

  “There’s a wee card, too, so there is.”

  Barry opened the envelope. The words Thank You were embossed in silver on the front. Inside a handwritten message read, With many thanks for your kindness to us during all my troubles. From Rusky Peters to Doctor Barry Laverty, a doctor who cares.

  Barry reread the message. He looked from Dora to Rusky. “Thank you again,” Barry said, “thank you very much. This is something I will always treasure.” He slipped the card back into its envelope. He felt close to tears, at a loss for what to say next, when his bleeper went off.

  “Duty calls?” Rusky said.

  “’Fraid so.” Barry stood. “I’ll have to go, but thanks again. Hurry up and get better, my friend.”

  “You run along, dear,” Dora said. “Away you off and look after some other poor divil.”

  Draughts set and card clutched in his left hand, he opened the door, then looked back. Dora and Rusky were both still smiling at him.

  Barry closed the door. He was far from being a religious man, but he had had religious instruction as a child. “Lord, please,” he whispered, “be kind to Rusky Peters. He’s borne enough.”

  * * *

  “That,” said Virginia, laying her knife and fork side by side and pointing directly across her plate, “was delicious.” She dabbed at her lips with her napkin, leaving a tiny trace of coral pink lipstick on the white linen. “Coq au vin and a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape aren’t often on the menu in Musson House. Thank you, sir.” She inclined her head in his direction.

  “Nor the East Wing,” Barry said, and smiled. Their initial conversation on the drive down to the Causerie, on the first floor of a terrace building on Church Lane, had been a little formal after her gracious acceptance of his apology for letting her down a week ago. She’d even said she was sorry for being brusque with him the next day when he’d come to see Rusky before his amputation.

  Over an aperitif, starters, and the main course, she had become more relaxed, seemed to be the old Virginia again. Wonderful, Barry thought, what the universal social lubricant can do. He smiled at her. Just looking at her green eyes still made him feel weak.

  “Excuse me, sir,” the waiter said. “May I remove the plates?”

  “Please. And please ask Chef to give us a few minutes before starting our desserts.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  Barry looked round the familiar room. He’d been coming here since he’d been a fifth-year student. Their corner table kept company with six oth
ers, each with four chairs. All were occupied, and on each table a Waterford cut-glass vase held a single red rose. A pleasant low hum of conversation and the clink of cutlery on china rose to accompany a hint of garlic mingled with the inevitable aroma of tobacco smoke curling upward to the ceiling. The lighting was pleasantly dim.

  “So,” Virginia said, “how are you enjoying the cardiology aspect of your work?”

  “It’s a very exciting place to be just now. Doctors Pantridge and Geddes are developing the use of a special cardiac ambulance to take a cardiac care team out to patients who’ve had a coronary. Looks like it could reduce the initial mortality considerably.”

  She looked thoughtful. Nodded.

  “It makes so much sense,” Barry said, “going directly to the patient, rather than the patient coming to us. I mean, it wouldn’t work for everything—” He noticed the way she was fiddling with her napkin and wondered if he dared ask if he was boring her by talking shop. Yet it was she who had introduced the subject. No, he’d press on. “But when a defibrillator could be the difference between life and premature death—”

  “Excuse me, sir, madam. Shall I prepare your desserts now?”

  “Please,” Barry said.

  The chef, in his white jacket and tall hat, had pushed a two-element portable burner on a trolley beside their table. He began to smother two yellow pancakes folded into triangles in a frying pan with a warm orange sauce from a saucepan sitting on the second burner.

  “I know you’ve had crêpes Suzette before.” He’d tried to impress her with them, a lass from a small town, the first time he’d brought her here. Then wide-eyed, she’d studied the chef’s every move and had made little throaty, approving noises. He’d always liked girls who showed enthusiasm. Tonight he was trying to recapture the pleasure of that evening. “But I thought you might enjoy them again.”

  But Virginia barely seemed to notice what the chef was doing or when he lit a match.

  The first time her hand had flown to her mouth as flames, blue at their base, danced, shimmered, and hovered over the frying pan before dying away. She’d applauded while grinning and laughing.

  This time she said, “It was exciting the first time, but after a while?” She shrugged.

  Barry winced. Was she trying to tell him something?

  “Tell me more about your cardiac ambulance.”

  Before Barry could speak, the chef had spooned crêpes onto Virginia’s and Barry’s plates, bowed his tall-white-hatted head, said “Bon appétit,” with a thick Belfast accent, and pushed his trolley away.

  “The Daimler should be arriving any day. I’ll be the backup to John Geddes, during the daytime if he’s not available. It’s a bit scary, but exciting too. After six there’s a fourteen-houseman rota, so at least I’ll only be on that about once a fortnight, so we can easily avoid those nights when we’re planning our dates.” He smiled at her and took a mouthful of crêpe.

  “Good. It’s probably selfish, but I really don’t like getting all gussied up, looking forward to a night out—and having to play second fiddle to your work. It’s happened four times in three months. I know as a nurse I should understand, but—” She took another mouthful.

  Barry left his dessert. He didn’t like that remark. As a nurse indeed she should understand, but he said, still trying to be placatory, “I am truly sorry,” although why he should have to apologise for simply doing his job was beyond him.

  “I think sometimes, Barry, you take your responsibilities a bit far. When we worked together on 5 and 6 last year, most of your mates couldn’t wait to clear off at the end of the day. I remember you often coming back when you were off duty to look in on a patient you were worried about. I admired that then, but I know your hours are brutal now. I try to understand, and yet you keep on coming to see Mister Peters, and he’s not even your patient.”

  “He’s a friend.”

  She sighed and took another mouthful.

  “And your seeing him is very commendable.” She finished her crêpe, looked Barry in the eye, and said, “Have you made your mind up about what you’d like to do after this year?”

  “Yes. I’m pretty certain I’m going to try general practice.”

  “Where you can get to know all your patients the way you’ve got to know Mister Peters?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” She sipped her wine. Nodded to herself and again looked at Barry. “Pet, that dinner was delicious. Thank you. Thank you for explaining about the cardiac ambulance. I’m sure we can work ’round it. I love you, Barry, and I’m sure we can make it work.”

  “And I love you, Virginia. I’m sure too.” He was glad she’d said that, because he very much wanted it to work. Yes, perhaps she’d been a bit unreasonable, but she was getting over it. She was. And she was so, so lovely. So kissable. He gazed into those sea green eyes and found himself saying, “Lawrence of Arabia with Peter O’Toole, Alec Guinness, and Anthony Quinn is showing next week. What nights are you free?” A gesture of good intentions.

  She grinned. “I think Peter O’Toole is a dish. I saw him in The Day They Robbed the Bank of England. I’m off every night for once.”

  “Grand. I’ll check my schedule, get cover, and I’ll take you for a snack in O’Kane’s pub across from the Royal and on to the cinema. And I promise I won’t stand you up. Honestly.”

  “Good.” She blew him a kiss.

  And Barry grinned at her, pulling his dessert plate back. He felt hungry again and was really looking forward to being in a darkened theatre with this lovely girl. He’d make damn sure they’d get a seat in the back row so he could kiss and caress her, letting himself be transported by his love and his need for her.

  27

  And Great Was the Fall of It

  May 13, 1969

  O’Reilly turned the collar of his raincoat up against the steady drizzle—the classic “grand soft day”—and listened to the intermittent shrill blasts of a referee’s whistle and occasional shouts from the muddied players. Teams from two neighbouring schools without their own sports fields were playing seven-a-side rugby football.

  Colonel Mullan’s tidy two-storey redbrick house with its low bottle-green verandah dated back to the mid-1880s. It had been the farmhouse when the sporting club had bought the property in 1934. The necessary ground for playing fields and clubhouse had been kept, the arable land rented to a neighbouring farmer, and the house sold to a series of retired gentlemen, of which Mullan was the latest. The rugby pitch that it faced had been part of a ten-acre field. Mullan’s home was within easy earshot of the playing field and clubhouse.

  O’Reilly had arrived two minutes before the assigned two o’clock meeting and, hearing its engine, turned to see his friend’s 1962 Ford Cortina come to a halt and the Marquis of Ballybucklebo get out. His Gannex raincoat, made from the same material that sheltered the Royal Corgis, would protect him. He waved and called, “Hello, Fingal.”

  O’Reilly waved back.

  “Soggy day,” John said. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Wouldn’t miss this. From what you told me on the phone on Sunday about Mullan and the Royal Ulster Rifles, we’re certainly going to cook his goose.”

  The two men began walking past the sevens game, then John stopped to watch. “You have to be fit to play a game like that. Great training for real life—getting knocked down and being able to get up again and carry on as strong as ever. From what I learned, Oliver Mullan got knocked down but he never really got up again. Pity.” He continued walking and O’Reilly followed.

  O’Reilly had thought he was going to be like a spectator waiting to watch a demolition crew make a building implode. He looked over at his friend’s serious face. Now he wasn’t so sure. “Let’s get this over with.” He opened the gate and stood aside to let John precede him, closed the gate, and followed.

  John MacNeill lifted a brass lion’s head knocker and rapped twice. The door opened almost immediately, as if Mullan had been watching them approach. He
shook his head and looked O’Reilly up and down as much as to say, You’ve got a brass neck coming here after I faced you down the last time, then turned to the marquis. “And to what do I owe this pleasure?” By his tone and frown, the term was clearly nothing but forced politeness. “Particularly during my working hours?”

  “Good afternoon, Colonel,” the marquis said. “May we come in?” His smile was open and friendly.

  “Well, I—”

  “I think you’ll find it to your disadvantage if we don’t.”

  Mullan took a pace back, the frown deepened, and he cocked his head. “Please do come in.”

  The man had little choice, O’Reilly thought. It’s simply not done to slam the door in the face of a peer of the realm, and especially not one who has issued a veiled threat.

  Mullan led them along a carpeted hall. O’Reilly was surprised that no pictures adorned the walls, but then Mullan had not lived here long, only three months. The living room was small but neatly furnished. The fire was not lit, despite the damp day. A portrait of a younger, uniformed Mullan with the two pips of lieutenant on the shoulder straps of his khaki blouse hung above the mantel. A picture window at the end of the room gave a view of the pitch and the game in progress and on out to Belfast Lough and the distant Antrim Hills.

  “Take a seat.”

  So far O’Reilly noticed Mullan, a stickler for titles himself, had not recognised the marquis as such, never mind a mere physician.

  O’Reilly sat in a red velvet armchair and John O’Neill took another, both facing the picture window. “I prefer to stand,” Mullan said. “Now, if you’d be so kind, why would turning you away be to my disadvantage?”