by Maeve Binchy
“Alrigth.”
She was a blur of bicycle wheels and then he heard a car coming. Dick Dillon and Gerry Doyle stepped out. The two men he would have picked himself in the whole of Castlebay.
They had been marvelous to him in the hospital, masking their shock that it was the man himself who needed a bed, not one of his patients.
One of his oldest friends Tim Daly was with him in no time. “That’s a light one, Paddy—take more than that to put you in a wheelchair,” he said.
That was what Paddy Power wanted, no fancy chat, no pretending nothing had happened. He knew a stroke when he saw one, and even more so when he had just been through one.
He pointed at his mouth. “Shpeesh,” he said.
“Sure, that can go on for a day or two even in the slightest of strokes, you know that.”
“Shide,” he said indicating the side of his body.
“Same thing. It’s not paralyzed in any strict sense. It’s just a bit numb.”
“Yesh.” Power’s face was sad.
“Will I drive out to Molly myself, and tell her we’re keeping you here for a few days, bring her in with me maybe?”
“Itsh far.”
“No, it’s not. It’s no trouble. And would you like me to tell David? There’s no need, as you well know. You could stay here and come out and he need never be any the wiser. Is that what you’d like?”
“Yesh.”
“Sleep a bit, Paddy. It’s hard I know, but it’s what will do you good . . .”
“Tim . . . Tim . . . locum.” He was straining.
“I have it in hand. I’ve told him three weeks. You’re not to get frightened. I said that so that you can have a real rest, maybe a week away somewhere with Molly.”
Dr. Power closed his eyes, secure at last that everything was under control.
Tim Daly was right. It was a very light one. So light that it was never even referred to as a stroke. Dr. Power said that it wouldn’t give a young mother confidence if she thought that the doctor attending the birth of her first baby might keel over paralyzed. It was described as a little turn and it caused hardly any comment in Castlebay. The locum doctor was a nice man too and not a bit put out by people saying that if he didn’t mind they’d wait until Dr. Power was ready before they’d have their stitches out or go for those blood tests.
Dr. Mackey had lived for a long time in the North of England in industrial towns. He thought the peace of Castlebay was something that should be bottled and put on prescription for those who were tense or anxious all over the world.
“Faith and there’s a fair few very tense and anxious here all the same,” Paddy Power said to him. He, Dr. Mackey, and Dr. Tim Daly were all having a progress discussion. Paddy had been out of hospital for a week: Dr. Mackey was still booked for another ten days. The speech had fully returned to normal and there was no more trace of numbness. But Paddy agreed that it was a warning, and agreed further that his own advice to anyone in similar circumstances would be cut down drastically. He knew there should be no more night calls. He would in fact have to cut out a lot of his long drives over bad roads on home calls. He needed someone else to help him. Since there would not be a living for two doctors, he would need a younger man as an assistant. That man should be the one who intended to follow him. David.
“I have written to him. It was easier to write than to say.”
“You’re not asking him much,” sniffed Dr. Mackey. “To come back to a ready-made practice. You can teach him all he doesn’t know already. You won’t be a dog in the manger trying to keep the good will—an ideal set-up for any young doctor.”
Dr. Power sighed. “Ah yes, but this young doctor was all set to do his pediatrics and then obstetrics and then the Lord knows what . . . he hadn’t it in his mind to come back now. That’s what I said to him, I said I knew it was bad timing. He’s coming home tomorrow. The hospital gave him compassionate leave. He had to tell them I was at death’s doors but he’ll be here tomorrow.”
Molly came in with Nellie and a tea tray. Molly had surprised them all by being so calm. They had expected hysterics and they had got a very practical woman. She had even agreed that David should not be alerted until they knew the extent of the trouble.
Tim Daly thought that he must have misjudged her. He had often said to his own wife that Paddy Power had deserved someone less feathery and citified than Molly; but maybe he had been wrong. Anyway there was never any doubt about that son of his, a big, square, handsome, bright lad. Tim Daly sighed again thinking of the strange hand of fate that had dealt him five daughters in succession and no boy anywhere along the line.
David knew about his father before he got the letter. He had heard from Angela almost immediately after it happened. She wrote that she was becoming increasingly unable to mind her own business as she grew older and unable to avoid meddling in other people’s affairs, but just in case he would need more time to think about it than he would get, his father planned to write to him in a few days and tell him of a mild stroke which was genuinely believed to have been slight and no threat to his life, but which would mean that he might need David much sooner than expected. Angela said that he mustn’t acknowledge the letter or anything, it was just sometimes nicer to be forewarned.
She had written to him at his hospital, and without her having to put it in writing he knew she hadn’t written to Clare. It was to give him time to think. It was all bad news but he thanked her deep in his heart.
He thought. Three times he was pulled up for not paying attention, and on one occasion a patient said to him that he looked as if he was on another planet.
He went into a cubicle in casualty and sat on the bed. Suppose he did go home? In July, when he finished this intern year? Suppose Clare studied on, back and forth from Castlebay to Dublin? Suppose she took her degree and was accepted for M.A.? It was by thesis. You could write a thesis anywhere, couldn’t you? He was desperately vague. Could you do it from Castlebay?
He rang the admissions office of the university, and the voice kept saying he would have to come in and discuss it.
“Goddamn it!” David cried. “There must be a rule. Can people do their M.A. without being in the university or not? Yes or No? Is that too much to ask?”
It was, or the tone in which he asked was too much to reply to.
He couldn’t go back to hide in the cubicle, it was time to go back to work.
He had hidden nothing from Clare up to now and there was no point in pussyfooting around and trying to get nonexistent information about her degree. Anyway, their futures were together. She deserved to know anything that he knew.
He would do no special pleading.
He wouldn’t try to sell her on the idea of going home. He wouldn’t apologize for his father’s ill health.
He would tell her no flowery tales about how much she would love his mother once David and Clare were married.
He would gloss over nothing.
But he must tell her.
There was no bus coming so he decided to walk. He saw her coming up the road toward him, hands in pockets, thoughtful.
“You came to meet me,” he cried.
“Yes, I wondered if we could go somewhere just to have a drink maybe?”
“That’s great.” He tucked her arm into his. It would be easier to tell her in a pub that their life in Dublin, their freedom, their study, was going to be cut short.
He carried the drinks to the corner table. He would tell her at once.
“David. You’re not going to like this. But it’s no use putting it off. I’m pregnant.”
There was a long silence.
“I’m very sorry. But it’s confirmed. I sent a sample to Holles Street. It’s positive, and I . . . well, I know . . .”
“But you can’t be. . . . We took such care.”
“Not enough, it seems.” She looked very small and young and frightened.
“Oh, Clare, Clare,” he said. “What will we do?”
�
�I don’t know. I’ve had two weeks to wonder and worry. And I still don’t know.”
“You should have told me.”
“What was the point? Silly, frightening both of us to death unless it was definite.”
“And it’s definitely definite?”
“It is, David. It is.”
He put his head in his hands. “Oh, Christ,” he said. “Christ, God, isn’t that so unfair? Isn’t that all we need?”
His drink was untouched and so was hers. Nobody was near enough to hear them or have any idea what they were talking about.
She sat icy and withdrawn. She had hoped he would touch her, put his arms around her. Now she felt she would kill him if he tried.
He took his head out of his hands, hair tousled, face flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“What for?”
“For it happening. I’m meant to be a doctor. Some medical knowledge I have.”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s not an exam. Nobody’s going to give you marks or take them away for it.”
“Clare!”
“Well? What else is there to say?”
“I don’t know. I suppose we should think what we’ll do. . . .”
She was silent.
“Make plans . . . It’s just, just such a shock, and such a bloody shame. Now of all times.”
“Yes,” she said.
Her face looked small, white and hurt. He remembered suddenly that he hadn’t told her about his father. She didn’t even know that side of it. He remembered too that she was in the most feared condition of any girl from any small town and maybe any big town in Ireland. She was In Trouble.
He reached out for her hand. “We’ll sort it out,” he said.
She pulled her hand away.
“You haven’t touched your drink,” he said awkwardly.
“Neither have you.” The pint looked too big and too sour.
“I think I’ll have a brandy,” David said. “Would you like that, for the shock? Doctor’s orders.” He tried a watery smile.
“No. Thank you,” Clare said.
When he came back, she leaned across the table. “I’m terribly, terribly sorry. I can’t say any more. I know how frightening this must be for you, David. I’m trying to keep calm and think what on earth we’re going to do. But you probably don’t know what you feel yet. It’s probably still unreal to you.”
“Yes. That’s right,” he said, grateful that she understood that much.
There was another silence.
He drained his brandy. “Will we go home?” he said.
They stood up and left, each afraid to touch the other and walking several paces apart.
Out in the street the yellow light shone down and made their faces look even more strained. They walked in silence toward the bus stop where David had been heading less than an hour before. They sat silent on the bus, too. Once or twice they looked at each other as if to say something but the words didn’t come.
About two stops before their own David stood up. “Will we get out here?” he asked her diffidently.
“Yes. Of course.” She was very polite. Under normal circumstances she would have questioned him and joked and argued.
They were beside the canal. “Let’s walk a little here,” he said.
They walked in silence and both stopped when two swans glided up to them.
“I only have a bit of chewing gum,” Clare said in almost her ordinary voice. “Do you think they’d like it, or would it stick their beaks together?”
“Will you marry me?” David said.
“What?”
“Will you marry me? Please.”
“David?” her voice was low and unsure.
“Please,” he said again.
“David, you don’t have to say anything yet. Don’t say anything now. I don’t expect you to. . . . You don’t have to. Honestly. We’ll talk. We’ll make plans. It’s not the end of the world.”
“I know. I love you,” he said.
“And I love you. That’s never changed—that never will.”
“So,” he said, eyes shining, “we’ll get married. Now rather than later. Won’t we? Say yes. Say, ‘Yes, David.’ ”
“You know I’d love to, but there are other things, other possibilities which we should discuss. You know that.”
“Not with our baby, our own child. No other possibilities.”
She stared at him, her eyes filling with tears.
“You haven’t given me your answer, like they do in stories.” He was eager and still not sure what she would say.
She paused and took his face in her hands. “If you mean it . . .” she began.
“That’s not an answer—that’s a conditional clause,” he said.
“I would love to marry you. Yes. Yes, please.”
They walked home and bought chips, and wine, and a chocolate cake. They sat down by their oil stove to make plans and to think about the future.
“Can we get married here? In Dublin? I couldn’t bear it at home.”
“That’s not the way my wife is going to talk about our big day!”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yes. Of course we’ll get married here. Wherever you like. London. Paris. Rome.”
“And then we’ll come back and get ourselves a bigger flat, and wait till the exam and the baby. There’s a month between them. The finals are over at the end of September and the baby arrives in October, the third week.”
He held her hand between his. “Isn’t it marvelous?” he said again.
“I’m so glad you’re pleased. I was afraid that when you get your job in the hospital, you wouldn’t like coming home at night to a baby.” She smiled at him. He said nothing.
“I mean it’s not what a young doctor, a junior hospital doctor wants to come back to, a flat of nappies and a wife at her studies . . .” She was worried by his sudden silence. “But the great thing is that I will be able to do a lot of work at home, I was discussing it with one of the postgrad students. She said that as long as they know your circumstances and can see that you’re in there and doing the work and consulting every week or so, you don’t have to present yourself every day or anything.”
“Oh.”
“What is it?”
Then he told her about his father’s stroke, and that they would have to go back to Castlebay.
Because of Angela’s letter, they had five days. Five terrible days. Sometimes they raged at each other, sometimes they just clung together. There were times when they were calm and worked out the alternatives. There were no alternatives. Sometimes Clare taunted him and said he was a Mummy’s Boy. No other man would throw his whole career away. Sometimes he wounded her and said that her love was meaningless and shallow if it could change because of place. True love survived wherever it lived. They knew of a doctor that Clare could go to—he had been struck off the medical register, but he did a steady practice in terminations. Because he was a doctor, it wouldn’t be dangerous. Then they could think again. But they never talked of that seriously. The miracle of a child of their own seemed about the only cheerful thing in the middle of all the tears and confusion. They would solve none of the dilemma if the baby were taken out of the picture. The pregnancy, and having to tell both families, was not the biggest thing.
The biggest thing was going back.
Neither of them wanted to.
David was going to.
That was where it stood when David got the letter from his father.
Clare cried and cried when she read the letter. It was so generous, so understanding. The old man had put down on paper all the things they had been talking about during the week. He said he regretted so much asking this of David that he barely had the strength to write it. He set out clearly the impossibility of asking another doctor to hold the fort for three or four years until David might feel ready to return. He sympathized almost dispassionately with David.
What is very hard, for both of us, is this emotional blac
kmail. I hate to ask you back: you hate to give up your plans. But I have to ask and you have to say yes or no. If I had died, then your decision would be much more clear cut. If you had not wanted to take over this practice then it would have been far easier for you not to have done so. Your mother might have moved to Dublin and nobody would have been greatly hurt or let down. This, I am afraid, is the hardest way and I am well aware of it.
All I can do is try to make it as attractive for you as I can. This house is yours, as you know, but you might feel more independent if you had a place of your own. We could do up the Lodge for you so that you could have a private life of your own and not feel like a little boy again. But the other thing of course, David, is that a doctor in a small community like this can’t have much excitement in his private life, if you know what I mean. It’s all very hard on you, boy, it’s a letter I hate having to write to you . . .
The Lodge. It was a small house just within the half-acre garden of the Powers’ residence. It needed a new roof. It had about four rooms, David thought. No kitchen, and only an outside lavatory. They had always been intending to get it done up. At the moment it just housed extra furniture.
It would be their new home.
They traveled back on the train together.
This time they were quiet. They looked out as the fields and telephone wires flashed by. At one place where the train slowed down there were children at a gate waving excitedly at the passengers. A six-year-old held up a fat baby who waved like mad with his two fat arms and his face split into a grin showing one tooth. David and Clare automatically reached for each other’s hand. By Christmas they would have something like that. Not as big, not with a tooth, but a bit like that. They gave each other encouraging smiles. They weren’t silent out of pique, or despair. It was just that they had been over the plans so often they didn’t even want to mention them again.
The plans were complicated. Clare was going to stay on the train while David left as one of the first passengers. His mother would meet him and he would hasten her out of the car park as quickly as possible. Clare had asked Angela to arrange for someone to meet her. She had telephoned Angela at school, and could almost see the disapproving face of Immaculata.