An Irish Country Courtship

  “Why don’t you? If she needs a visit, I’ll go,” Barry said. “I want to pop in and see Alice Moloney anyway. I’ve been meaning to since the Bishops’ party.”

  And it quite slipped your mind. I understand, O’Reilly thought. “Fair enough,” he said. “Give Alice my regards.”

  14

  Tread Safely into the Unknown

  Barry’d been able to answer Aggie’s question on the phone and so had gone straight to the Ballybucklebo Boutique.

  “How nice to see you, Doctor Laverty.” Miss Alice Moloney smiled as Barry entered her dress shop. There were no customers in the little establishment. Sally, the eighteen-year-old assistant, smiled at him. He’d seen her last month for acne. She still had an angry-looking pustule on her chin, but her cheeks looked much better.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he said.

  Sally bobbed and blushed.

  “And Doctor O’Reilly sends his regards, Miss Moloney.” Barry noticed that Alice’s pepper-and-salt bun was not as tight and tidy as usual. Her skin really did look pallid. It had been no trick of the light at the Bishops’ party. She wore low-heeled brogues and a maroon, knitted, midcalf-length skirt. The way it sagged at her hips was a marker that she had lost weight. Her hazel eyes seemed dull, but there was no yellow tinge in the whites. That discolouration would be the first hint of jaundice, so at least he needn’t worry about that. “I was passing and wondered how you were getting on,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She sighed. “To tell you the truth, Doctor, I could be doing better. I was going to come and see you. I’m not altogether at myself.”

  “I thought you looked a bit peakèd last time I saw you.”

  “Very observant.”

  Barry looked around. This was not the place for a consultation. “I’d like to take a look at you.”

  “We’ll go upstairs. Take care of things, please, Sally.”

  “Yes, Miss Moloney.”

  Barry followed her through the shop to her upstairs flat.

  “Please sit down.”

  He sat in a Queen Anne armchair and waited as she shooed away a spherical tortoiseshell cat and perched herself on a Victorian side chair.

  Billie Budgie, her budgerigar, screeched, “Who’s a good boy then?”

  Not you, you little twerp, Barry thought, stroking the finger the bird had bitten last month. The place looked exactly the same. Antique furniture and souvenirs of Miss Moloney’s life growing up in India were arranged precisely. They rubbed shoulders with cheap mementos of her solitary trips to London, the Isle of Man, and the Highlands of Scotland, holidays taken since her return to Ulster. On the walls, prints by Degas and Monet kept company with framed dried flowers and an embroidered sampler of the Lord’s Prayer. Barry noticed that the sampler hung slightly askew, and there was a fine layer of dust on the surface of the table.

  “Tea?”

  “No, thank you.” Barry had to stifle his urge to straighten the sampler.

  She cleared her throat. “Before we talk about me, Doctor Laverty, and I do not mean to pry, I have been told that Miss Spence and you are no longer keeping company. I try to disregard gossip, but if it is true, I am deeply sorry. I think I understand a little of how you must feel.”

  “I’m sure you do, Miss Moloney,” he said. If anyone understood, it was Alice Moloney. She’d been in love—once. “I thank you for your concern.” He stole a glance at a photo of a handsome young man in the uniform of Skinner’s Horse. He hoped she wasn’t going to dwell on Patricia.

  She inclined her head. “I told you, it’s Alice, and I believe you came because you are interested in the state of my health.”

  Thank you for changing the subject, he thought. “Yes, Alice, I am.” Barry looked straight at her.

  Her lips narrowed. “I was so relieved when you diagnosed my anaemia and I’ve been taking the iron treatment and trying to eat properly, but I don’t seem to be getting any better. I’m tired all the time—”

  While she was speaking, Barry started fitting the pieces together. He knew she was fifty-two, childless, menopausal; she’d had piles treated by Fingal; and there was nothing else of importance in her history. Tired? It was early yet for her anaemia to be responding dramatically, and tiredness was a symptom. He studied her pale face. It was a pasty off-white colour. What did that mean? Anaemic people were pale.

  “I’m irritable. I’m ashamed to say I yelled at Sally twice this week, and sometimes I sweat at night—”

  Irritable? Wasn’t he that way himself at the moment? Night sweats? She was menopausal.

  She sat more primly in her chair. “I get periods of colic and …”—a wry smile played on her thin lips—“I’ve been farting like a cavalry charger.” She leant forward. “A stallion at that.”

  Barry sat bolt upright. Farting? Alice said, “Farting”? Like a stallion? He chuckled—he couldn’t help it—but why shouldn’t she say it? She was familiar with cavalry regiments. The expression must come naturally to her. “Colic? Wind? I see,” he said, but he didn’t. He couldn’t make her symptoms add up, no matter how picturesquely expressed. They could be associated with diseases of the lower bowel, like diverticulitis or ulcerative colitis, but she’d had a barium-enema X-ray recently and it was entirely normal. Those symptoms often simply meant the complainant had eaten something that, in common parlance, disagreed with them.

  Contrary to popular belief, he, like all doctors, rarely made a diagnosis by examining a patient. Rather they’d sift the history, and by the time of the examination would be seeking confirmation of a strong suspicion already formed. Was there something she was not telling him?

  “Have you any pain anywhere? Diarrhoea?” She had grown up in India. “Have you ever had dysentery?”

  “No pain. No diarrhoea. Everyone had Delhi belly once in a while out there, but I was never in hospital with it.” She grimaced. “I do remember in forty-six there was an outbreak in troops coming home from the Far East. Several sowars and one daffadar actually died. Very sad. The medical officer said it was amoebic dysentery.”

  “I’m sorry … sowars? Daffadars?”

  She smiled. “Sometimes I forget I’m not talking to an old India hand.”

  Barry heard India as “Injah.”

  “In the Indian cavalry, a sowar was a private and a daffadar a sergeant. Poor chaps. None of us Europeans was affected, thank goodness.”

  “I see.” Another blind alley. Barry frowned. He’d examined her last month and found nothing. Her skirt was loose at the waist now. Weight loss could be due to advanced cancer, but really advanced cancer was often accompanied by tightness of the waistband. The belly was distended because it was full of fluid called ascites.

  So. Paleness, weight loss, tiredness, irritability, colic, wind, anaemia?

  Barry did not know where to go for corn. He was stumped. “Can we use your room, Alice? I have to examine you.” He did have to, but it was going to be a fishing expedition.

  And it was angling without so much as a nibble. Apart from the paleness, he found nothing physically abnormal. He did notice the flock wallpaper, the pink canopy over the bed, and a large, battered, and obviously much-loved teddy bear propped up on the pillow of Alice Moloney, spinster of this parish. The sight brought a lump to his throat.

  He went back to the drawing room and was admiring a photograph of Alice’s father standing with Mahatma Gandhi when she reappeared.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “To be honest, I simply don’t know.”

  “I see.” She looked crestfallen.

  “But it doesn’t mean I can’t try to find out.”

  “More tests? I didn’t like that enema.”

  He shook his head. “Not yet. I’ll get a second opinion from Doctor O’Reilly, and I’ll go back to my books, see if they can help. If that doesn’t work, we’ll send you to see a specialist.”

  “I’d appreciate that, Doctor Laverty.”

  “We’ll get to the bottom of it, Alice.”
r />   “I know you will.”

  Her confidence pleased him.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said, “I’ll let Sally look after things. She’s quite able. Can you see yourself out?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you. I’d be grateful. Climbing the stairs is a burden.”

  She was sitting in a chair when he left, shoulders drooping, her face … her face that peculiar alabaster tint that afflicted the tip of Fingal’s nose when he was furious.

  * * *

  Barry was still thinking about Alice Moloney as he let himself in through the front door of Number 1. He really was at a loss, but perhaps he might find a clue to the nature of her illness in one of his textbooks.

  He hung his coat, then shuffled through the mail on the hall table. He could tell the contents of most envelopes just by looking at them. Lab report, lab report, bill for car insurance—blether. More expense. Something personal for O’Reilly. An envelope from Purdysburn, probably a report on Siobhan Shanks’s meningitis. It usually took this long to get reports from hospitals.

  The last envelope bore familiar handwriting. Barry froze. His hand shook. He didn’t have to look at the postmark to know the letter had come from Cambridge. He swallowed, tried to reread the writing, but the words had blurred.

  The surgery door was open. He crossed the hall, closed the door behind him, went to O’Reilly’s desk, and stood staring at the letter. Why now? Not a word for a month. Now this. Why would she write to him now? He still hurt, but after the initial awful moment, then the numbness, his pain had slowly settled to a steady background grumbling. But little things could produce sudden surges, sharp as the spikes of an electrocardiograph tracing. It was like a toothache that was bearable until a careless bite sent shock waves.

  He groped for O’Reilly’s letter opener.

  Had she had a change of heart? Was she apologising, asking for another chance? Barry felt a smile start. It had to be that. Had to be. She’d seen sense. She must have. He chucked the bone-handled paper knife aside, ripped the letter out, and unfolded the single page.

  Dear Barry,

  I am finding this difficult to write, but felt that because of the abruptness of our parting I still owe you an explanation. I know you were in love with me. I know I have hurt you terribly. I don’t think you will ever be able to forgive me—and I don’t think you’ll ever understand …

  Barry let the arm that was holding the letter drop. Patricia, if you walked through that door this instant, I’d forgive you. And I do understand. I wasn’t good enough. You found someone else. It’s as simple as that. He pulled the chair out from the desk, sat, and for a moment simply cradled his head in his hands. Then he lay the letter on the desk and began to read again.

  Barry, I made a mistake. You did nothing wrong. You are a dear, sweet man, and I know you’ll be a wonderful country GP. But I’m not suited for country life. I’m sorry. I need a wider horizon. I hope one day you will be able to forgive me and look back fondly as I do on our few months together. I’m not sure how to finish this, so I’ll ask your forgiveness once more and tell you I wish everything good for your career and you.

  Patricia

  Barry’s hand fell to the desktop. He let the sheet of paper slip from his grip and leaned back in the chair. Forgive her? Of course I forgive you, Patricia. You do that if you love somebody. I forgive you. I’ll grieve for you, and I’ll never forget “our few months together.” He let his head loll until he was staring with tear-filled eyes at the ceiling above. It was painted a gloomy shade of hospital green, flat and featureless. As flat as his prospects for happiness.

  15

  Thaw Not the Frost That Binds

  O’Reilly scratched his nose, screwed up his eyes, and inhaled deeply. His sneeze made the decanters on the lounge sideboard rattle. He dragged out his hanky and snorted into it.

  “Bless you, Fingal O’Reilly,” Kitty said. “I hope you’re not getting a cold.”

  “Divil the bit.” He sat back in his chair and shoved his handkerchief back in his pocket. “Just a nose tickle.”

  Kinky brought in a tray of coffee. “I thought, sir, you and the lady would enjoy a hot cup before you left for His Lordship’s shoot.”

  “Indeed we would,” O’Reilly said.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Kincaid,” Kitty said. “Lovely day.”

  Kinky set the tray on the sideboard. She sniffed. “You never can tell in late January if it will last, so.” Without another word, she left.

  “Oops,” said Kitty, moving to pour the coffee. “I think I’m still in the doghouse, and it’s not only because we didn’t soak the pancake dishes last time I was here.” She handed Fingal his cup and went back to pour her own.

  “’Fraid you’re right on both counts,” O’Reilly said. “It’s not like Kinky to bear a grudge for so long.” He sipped his coffee. “It’s been nearly three weeks.”

  “I told you back then, Fingal, I think I have her worried about her position here.” Kitty sat in the other chair.

  “She needn’t be.”

  Raising an eyebrow, Kitty smiled and said, “I know. You’ve not asked me to marry you yet.”

  O’Reilly choked on his coffee, hacked, and spluttered. He was grateful to feel Kitty slapping him on the back.

  “And I’m not in a rush for you to,” she said, looking him right in the eye.

  “Phew,” he said. “Well … that is … I—”

  Kitty sat again. She reached across and squeezed his arm. “I love being with you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.”

  He looked at her and saw softness in her eyes.

  “You make me feel like a teenager,” she said.

  She had the same effect on him.

  “I told you I’d not rush you. And I’ll not,” she said.

  “Thanks, Kitty.”

  “There’s been a void in your life since Deidre died. I know that.”

  “And in Kinky’s since she lost her husband,” O’Reilly said, grateful for a cue that let him change the direction of the conversation. “She was widowed very young. Never remarried. The day she took the hump with you she’d just come back from visiting her married sister in Cork.”

  Kitty frowned and put her half-finished cup on the saucer. “And you wonder if seeing her sister, with all the things Kinky never had—husband, children, house of her own to call home—made her sad?”

  “More than sad. Number 1, Main Street, is all the home she’s known for nearly forty years, I’m her only family here, along with Arthur and Lady Macbeth, and I suppose Barry now. I think you have her terrified.”

  Kitty rocked in her chair. “I understand. I’ll have to see how I can make her feel more comfortable with me.” She stood and walked over to stand in front of O’Reilly and kissed his forehead. “Because I’ve no intention of not coming here again.”

  O’Reilly stood to hug her, giving her a resounding kiss. “Nor I of not asking you down again.” He glanced at his watch. “Eight o’clock,” he said, kissing her again. “I’d like to continue this”—he cleared his throat—“this … discussion, but we’d best be off. The marquis expects punctuality. You didn’t mind getting up early to drive down here?”

  “Not at all. I’m looking forward to today.” Kitty put their cups on the tray and picked it up.

  “Leave it,” he said. “Kinky’ll—”

  “Appreciate it, I hope, if I save her having to climb the stairs.”

  Kitty had a point. O’Reilly let her precede him. She suited the midcalf tweed skirt and thick woollen stockings that vanished into a pair of laced, brown brogues. Not the rig for a ballroom, but sensible wear for an Irish winter’s day out of doors.

  The kitchen was pleasantly warm. “We’re off, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. He heard the rattle as Kitty set the tray on the counter.

  “Thank you, Miss O’Hallorhan,” Kinky said stiffly, “but I am able to carry a tray myself, so.”

  Come on, Kinky, O’Reilly thought. Can’t you see Kit
ty’s trying to be friendly?

  Kitty’s tone was soft. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid,” she said. “I did not mean to give offence. I brought it down because I’m a nurse.”

  Kinky sniffed, then said, “And what has that to do with carrying trays?”

  “When we make ourselves a cuppa in the ward kitchen there’s a printed sign over the cooker—”

  “And what does it say?”

  O’Reilly detected a hint of curiosity in the way Kinky frowned and leant a bit closer to Kitty.

  “It says, Your Mother Doesn’t Work Here. Tidy Up after Yourself. That’s all I was doing.”

  Not trying to usurp your place. O’Reilly understood clearly what Kitty was implying.

  Kinky cocked her head, frowning. “Your Mother Doesn’t … I see. It was only helpful you were being?”

  “It was. Why else?”

  “Miss O’Hallorhan? A moment ago you said you meant no offence. None is taken.” But her words were formal.

  “Thank you,” Kitty said. “And I’ll say it again. I’m sorry about the pancake dishes not getting soaked the last time I was here.”

  “Och,” said Kinky, “least said, soonest mended. Now if the pair of you will excuse me”—she looked pointedly at O’Reilly—“as you will be out tonight, sir, I’ve only Doctor Laverty to see to. I’ve a nice piece of filet steak for his tea, and I thought I’d start him off with a prawn cocktail. The Marie Rose sauce for the cocktail won’t make itself.”

  “Begod,” said O’Reilly, feeling his mouth start to water. “And are you doing your béarnaise sauce for the steak?”

  “I am, so.”

  “Kinky Kincaid, if I’d not promised Kitty her dinner out, I’d stay home. There’s not a woman in the Six Counties—six, bedamned, there’s not a woman in all thirty-two, from Cork to Donegal, from Dublin to Galway City, the whole length and breadth of Ireland—who can cook a steak to match yours.” You’re laying it on with a trowel, he thought.

  Kinky grinned. “Get away on with you out of that, Doctor O’Reilly, sir. You’d turn a poor countrywoman’s head with your flattery.” She turned to Kitty. “Miss O’Hallorhan, just you watch that tongue of his, or he’ll feed you cotton wool and have you believe you’re eating smoked salmon, so.”