An Irish Country Family--An Irish Country Novel

by Patrick Taylor

  Doctor Millar stood in front of them, his hands in front of him at chest level, right hand clasped over left. His gaze never left Dora Peters’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but—” he said.

  Barry held his breath. No. He knew what was coming next.

  “I’m truly sorry, but your husband had a massive stroke. I’m afraid he did not recover.”

  Barry pursed his lips. Screwed his eyes shut for a moment. Inhaled deeply. No. Not my friend Rusky.

  Dora stammered, “Massive? Did not recover?” Her eyes widened. She shook her head. “I don’t—I don’t—Please—I don’t understand.”

  Jan glanced at Barry, squeezed her mother’s hand, and said in a soft, level voice, “Mum, Doctor Millar is saying that Dad has passed away.”

  The consultant nodded, put his right hand on Dora’s shoulder. “Please accept my deepest condolences.”

  Dora Peters shook her head. Her eyes looked unfocussed. Her voice was soft. “No. Not my Rusky. No. He’s a tough man. Them bleedings was working. No. Not Rusky. You’ll see.” Her little smile was self-comforting.

  Barry had had to break this kind of news several times when he was working on 5 and 6. Many recipients tried to deny the facts. He had come to believe it was a deep-rooted defence that allowed them to understand more gradually, absorb the shock over time.

  Jan kissed her mother’s cheek, sat back, and looked her right in the eye. “Mum, I know it’s hard to believe. Doctor Millar knows his job and he’s not making it up.”

  “Och, Jan. No.”

  Barry wondered how Jan, a trained nurse, would handle this. Certainly he didn’t want to interfere, and he could feel his own grief welling up.

  Jan took both of her mother’s hands in her own. She kept her voice level as she said, “Mum. I know it’s hard to believe. I don’t want to believe it either, but Dad’s gone. He really is.”

  Dora Peters’s eyes came back into focus. “Are you certain sure?”

  Doctor Millar intervened. “I’m afraid I am. Absolutely certain.”

  Dora gave one sob, but Barry could sense she was holding herself rigidly. Either refusing to show her pain or still not able to grasp the situation. She said, “Thank you, Doctor Millar. Thank you for telling us the truth.”

  Doctor Millar said, “If there’s anything we can do? Perhaps send in one of our chaplains?”

  She shook her head. “No. It’s all right, thank you.” She swallowed. Exhaled. Her eyes glistened.

  “If you’d like to come and say good-bye?”

  Dora’s voice cracked. “I don’t want to say good-bye to my Rusky.” She patted her left chest. “He’s still alive—in here.” She looked at Jan. “I want til remember him like he was, not all cold.”

  Young doctors and nurses were taught that there was benefit in seeing the departed. Denial was often the next of kin’s first reaction. Facing the incontrovertible facts was the first step in the long process of healing.

  Jan stood and put a hand under her mother’s elbow. Helped her to stand. “Come on, Mum. Dad would want you to.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I do.”

  “Barry?”

  “Yes, I do, Dora.”

  “I really must? We can’t just go home?”

  “I’m sorry, Mum.”

  Together they followed the consultant.

  Barry, out of respect for their privacy, sat down to wait and see if he could offer any comfort when they returned. And being alone, let flow the tears he had been holding back.

  31

  One Man Shall Have One Vote

  May 24, 1969

  “Nail the vote?” O’Reilly said to Bertie Bishop. “I’m certain we will.”

  Bertie smiled. “I hope so. I’ve til bring in the subcommittee’s report, so I’d best join the rest of the platform party.” He pointed to where the marquis, as president, and Fergus Finnegan, as secretary, sat behind a wooden table on a raised platform facing the hall. The marquis had a gavel and Fergus the minute book.

  Flo said, “And I’m going over there til sit with the rest of the committee, Father Hugh and the Reverend Robinson.” She waved at them and they waved back.

  Myrna Ferguson approached, mouthed, “May I join you?” over the now loud hubbub, and pointed at a chair.

  O’Reilly stood. “Of course.” As he held her chair, then sat himself, he glanced ’round. Standing room only.

  The clock above the platform said two o’clock, and the marquis bent his head so his mouth was close to Bertie Bishop’s ear, said something, and nodded in agreement with Bertie’s reply. He sat and rapped his gavel. Conversation lessened. Another rap. The volume decreased. A third rap and he rose. “Ladies and gentlemen. Ladies and gentlemen, may I have silence, please?”

  The only sound to break it was the tapping of Barry’s heels as he crossed the floor and sat beside Sue.

  The marquis smiled at Barry and said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. Thank you for coming to this extraordinary meeting of the Ballybucklebo Bonnaughts Sporting Club to discuss and vote on a proposition to open the club to nonmembers for functions on Saturday nights. First I am going to ask Councillor Bishop to read a report from his committee, then I will ask for a motion in support and a seconder. We’ll open the floor for discussion and then take a vote. In order to approve the committee’s recommendations, we will require a majority of the members present to be in favour.” He paused for breath, then said, “Councillor, if you please.”

  Fergus scribbled in his minute book.

  Bertie Bishop rose and tucked his thumbs under the lapels of his dark double-breasted suit. “My lord, ladies, and gentlemen, arising from a conversation in April, a small group of Father Hugh, Reverend Robinson, my wife, Flo, and me was struck to consider what the marquis just said, having functions here on a Saturday night. We had three reasons in mind, not just wanting a venue where men and women could get together and have a drink or two. One, in light of the recent outbreak of sectarianism, which praise the Lord seems to have settled down for a while but which could rear up again, we wanted til demonstrate how the two communities can and will continue to live in harmony—”

  “Hear him. Hear him.”

  O’Reilly saw Alan smiling at his darts partner and heard the approving murmurs and applause.

  One gavel rap. “Order, please.”

  Silence.

  “Two, we wanted more than a drink. We wanted til hold functions like dances and talent contests, and three, we wanted to charge admission so we might put up seed money for a good cause like sending kids from both communities to camp together in the summer. That there’s the proposal. I need a motion to approve the opening of the club to nonmembers on Saturday nights for the purpose of strengthening our community ties by holding functions, and raising money for charity. I’d like a proposer.”

  Up went many hands, but the marquis said, “Please, minute proposed by Father Hugh O’Toole.”

  “Seconded by?”

  More hands.

  “Please, minute seconded by Reverend Robinson.”

  O’Reilly whispered to Kitty. “When it passes that’ll look good in the County Down Spectator.”

  The marquis said, “Fergus, will you please read the duly proposed and seconded motion?”

  Fergus did.

  “I now declare the motion open for discussion.”

  Mister Coffin, the undertaker, rose. “Mister Chairman, ‘function’ can mean a lot of things. Can we please have clarification of exactly what kinds of functions are to be proposed?”

  “Mister Bishop?”

  “Your committee is thinking of four things: dances to small local bands like the Belmont Swing College or the White Eagles, because they’re not very expensive. That there Come Dancing on BBC with ballroom stuff’s quare and popular with the older crowd. All you’d need would be a DJ. Donal Donnelly’s a dab hand at that—”

  “Dead on, Donal,” someone yelled, and everyone laughed.

  One rap. “Order.”


  O’Reilly whispered to Kitty, “Judging by the mood of the crowd, I think this is going to breeze through.”

  “And so it should,” she said.

  Bertie Bishop continued, “Me and Flo’s got a brave clatter of Glenn Miller and Tommy Dorsey records.”

  Kitty said to O’Reilly, “And you have Count Basie, Cab Calloway, Earl Hines. We used to dance to their records when you were a student.”

  O’Reilly nodded and remembered those days fondly.

  A hand was raised.

  “Yes, Mister Brown.”

  Lenny Brown rose. “That’s all very well for older folks. I’ve a wee lad. Would there be anything for the younger crowd?”

  Bertie said, “If you want to save money, a DJ could play rock-and-roll records. New stuff like The Beatles, The Rolling Stones—”

  Lenny wanted to know, “And would there be stuff by bands like The Who, Led Zeppelin, Creedence Clearwater Revival. Dy’ever hear CCR’s new one, ‘Proud Mary’?” Before the marquis could stop him, Lenny had sung with an affected American accent,

  Big wheel keep on toinin’

  Proud Mary keep on boinin’

  Rollin’, rollin’, rollin’ on the rivah.

  Whistles and catcalls. Applause.

  The marquis played a serious gavel concerto until everyone had settled down, then said, “I have and will continue to allow questioners to interrupt a speaker, but please can we have a little more order?” The seriousness of his words was only slightly diminished by his wide grin.

  Jasus, O’Reilly thought, where else would a man want to live?

  “I’m sure music for the younger set could be arranged,” the marquis said.

  Mister Robinson asked, “Would there not be some kind of fee to pay to the record companies?”

  Bertie dropped a slow wink and said, “What the eye doesn’t see, the heart doesn’t grieve over.”

  “I didn’t hear that,” said the marquis.

  “Besides,” said Bertie, “this will still be considered a private club rather than a public venue.”

  “Ah, thank you, Councillor. An important distinction. Yes, Dermot Kennedy?”

  “If we’re going to have dances for the younger ones, and I know my Jeannie would go, could we serve drink or would the guests have to be over eighteen?”

  The marquis asked, “Constable Mulligan?”

  Malcolm Mulligan, wearing his bottle-green RUC uniform and very much on duty, said, “In a private facility, if food is also served, those under eighteen may be present, but it is still an indictable offence to serve or for them to consume alcoholic beverages.”

  “Thank you, Constable. Please carry on, Mister Bishop.”

  “Thank you, sir. I said there was four things, but the last couple are two sides of the one coin. The Ballybucklebo Highlanders. Them fellahs don’t just play pipes and drums. They’ve a uilleann piper, a fiddler, two pennywhistle guys, a banjo player who also has a mandolin, a squeezebox lad who doubles up on the spoons. That’s enough to hold a traditional céilidh.”

  “Céilidh?” Father O’Toole called. “Then I’m your man, so. I love that music.”

  As do many of your flock, O’Reilly thought. Diplomatic, Bertie. Diplomatic. Although it might appear on first sight that traditional Irish music was more favoured by Catholics, it was actually a division based more on class. The upper and middle tended to be Protestant and liked ballroom dancing and hops. Many more Catholics were working class, and their tastes tended to traditional Irish music handed down from generation to generation.

  “And,” said Bertie Bishop, “we’ve not only talented musicians, we’ve singers and dancers, and reciters. We’ve a notion to run talent contests too.”

  “I draw the line at being a judge,” the marquis said.

  Me too, O’Reilly thought, remembering the judging of a pie contest.

  When the laughter had died down, there was silence for a while.

  The marquis said, “If there are no further questions?”

  A hand went up.

  O’Reilly recognised Hubert Doran as he stood stiffly, his other hand rigid at his side.

  “I thought this here was a sporting club. Them as wants dances is quite at liberty til go til Caproni’s in Ballyholme. I’d rather have a quiet drink here on a Saturday. I don’t approve of this talk of dances and talent contests and céilidhs at all. Not one bit.”

  A voice O’Reilly did not recognise yelled over a communal groan, “Jasus, Hubert, if you ever get til Heaven, you’ll be bellyaching that your halo’s too tight.”

  The groan turned to derisive laughter. Hugh Doran continued to stand, his feet planted widely, as if ready to take on the whole crowd.

  “Thank you, Mr. Doran,” said the marquis. “Your comments will be duly noted in the minutes. Now, if you have no further comments, I believe someone else has something to say. Reverend Robinson?”

  Hubert Doran dropped back into his chair with a grunt as the Presbyterian minister, in black jacket and white starched dog collar, rose, waited for silence, and said, “It’s a small point but I, and I’m sure a large number of people, will want to be reassured that these festivities will not spill over into the Sabbath.”

  “Last orders ten thirty. Twenty minutes’ drinking-up time. Everyone out by eleven o’clock. That’s a promise,” Bertie Bishop said.

  “Bless you.”

  The marquis waited, and waited, and waited.

  O’Reilly rose. “My lord. I call the question.”

  “Very well, Doctor. Mister Secretary, please read the motion once more.”

  Fergus did.

  “Those in favour?”

  O’Reilly’s raised hand was lost in a forest of others.

  “Those against?”

  A single hand went up and O’Reilly recognised the owner. Hubert Doran. He leaned over to whisper to Kitty, “That little gobshite could sow dissension in a deserted house.”

  “Luckily, we have a full house today,” Kitty said with a smile.

  “Those abstaining?”

  Not a hand.

  One gavel bang. “I declare the motion carried. Now, unless there is any other business?” The marquis scanned the room. “No? I declare this meeting adjourned. Thank you all very much.”

  He rose, left the platform and, accompanied by Bertie Bishop, joined O’Reilly and company. “That was all very satisfactory, I thought.”

  “I agree,” Myrna said. “It’s been a while since I watched you chair a meeting, John. Nicely done.”

  Kitty said, “I agree. I thought you handled that perfectly, John.” She turned to Bertie. “Your report was terrific. Clear, brief, and right to the point.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “It ought to have been. How many years have you been in local politics, Bertie?”

  “A brave wheen,” Bertie Bishop said, “but thanks for that. All I did was reflect the great work done by my committee.”

  John MacNeill said, “I think that even though things have been politically quiet for a while, the whole business of cross-community bridge-building is vital. I for one, and I think I can speak for Myrna, are very happy to be a part of it.”

  “I’ll drink to that,” O’Reilly said, “and as the bar won’t open here until five, I propose a quick nip down to Crawfordsburn and the inn’s Parlour Bar.”

  “I’ve a better idea,” John MacNeill said. “Bertie, why don’t you get your lovely wife and Father Hugh and Mister Robinson, see if they’d like to join us and let’s all go back to Ballybucklebo House. I’m sure Thompson will be able to find something in the cellar to toast tonight’s achievement in private.”

  “By God,” said O’Reilly. “I’ll certainly drink to that.”

  32

  I Have of Comfort and Despair

  February 17, 1963

  Barry had said good-bye to Dora and Jan on ward 22, leaving Dora to weep softly in the quiet room and Jan to work with the staff on the formalities of a death certificate, registering the death, and making t
he funeral arrangements. He had promised to attend the funeral.

  Ignoring the usual comings and goings, Barry walked slowly along the main corridor toward the stairway to The Huts. He still needed sleep but knew his concern for Rusky’s family—and being deeply saddened by the loss of the one patient he had really got to know—was going to make dropping off difficult. He took a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks as he exhaled. He might as well get something to eat even if he wasn’t particularly hungry.

  He turned left into the junior doctors’ and students’ quarters and into the common room to find Jack Mills alone, sitting in an armchair with his feet up on another, smoking a cigarette. “Hello, mate. Off early?”

  “Mmm.” Barry flopped into a chair. He didn’t feel much like chatting.

  “Me too,” Jack said. “Things are quiet on 5 and 6 and Harry’s covering me this evening. You remember that wee blonde staff nurse from Carrickfergus who works there?”

  Barry nodded. She was a good-looking lass.

  “I’m picking her up at seven and—”

  “That’s nice.” Barry’s voice was flat.

  Jack frowned at Barry. “You all right?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “What’s up?”

  Barry heard the concern in his friend’s voice. “I just lost a patient.”

  “I’d have thought after six and a half months…” Jack paused and gazed at his friend. “Don’t mean to sound callous, but it is part of our job and I’d’ve thought you’d have got used to that by now. Was this one special?”

  “Yes. Yes, he was.” Barry looked Jack right in the eye. “Very. It—”

  Two other housemen came in, loudly discussing how a surgical team in Leeds General Hospital had carried out the first kidney transplant from a cadaver last Friday.

  Jack looked over at the two men, stubbed out his cigarette, and stood. “Come on. I know you need to talk about it. I’m taking you to the Oak for a bite to eat. You can tell me all about it there once you’ve got a pint in front of you.”

  * * *

  They sat at a Formica-topped table in the window alcove of the upstairs room of O’Kane’s Bar, the nearest pub to the Royal and much used by students and young doctors.