An Irish Country Courtship

  She coughed again and clutched her right side.

  “It’s all right,” he said. “Don’t try to talk. Just concentrate on breathing.” He let go of her hand. “I’m going to examine you, but I’ll close the curtains first.”

  He crossed the floor. If Barry was right about Alice having an amoebic abscess, it was almostly certainly the cause of Alice’s collapse. The damn things could rupture at any time, and he was certain this one had. Thank Christ he’d been passing.

  He drew the curtains shut and locked the door. “There,” he said, “privacy—unless you count Arthur as an audience.”

  She managed a weak smile.

  He went back to her, his mind like a detective’s reconstructing the probable course of events. The pus in the abscess had lain dormant for more than twenty years, like magma beneath the crust of a sleeping volcano. The diaphragm was a big flat muscle. It lay as a transverse partition between the liver in the abdominal cavity and the lungs in the chest. It and part of the liver were the dam holding the pus, the lava, in.

  Just as a volcano may start venting steam and causing small earth tremors as warnings, so had Alice developed anaemia, had an earthy complexion, and lost weight. Barry, more power to his wheel, like a good vulcanologist, had read the signs of potential eruption.

  The pus had ripped through the diaphragm and the pleura, and gone into the lung. No wonder she’d passed out.

  He knelt, rummaged in his jacket pocket, hauled out his stethoscope, and put the earpieces around his neck. “I’m going to pull up your top things.” From the waistband of her skirt he hauled up her jumper, a nylon blouse, and an interlock-cotton liberty bodice.

  O’Reilly’d thought that piece of antique feminine underwear had gone out with the horse-drawn tram. “Can you sit up?” he asked, and as she started to move, he helped her with an arm around her shoulders. She was light as an empty egg carton. The skin of her belly was pasty-coloured.

  O’Reilly laid the palm of his left hand flat beneath her right shoulder blade and tapped the middle finger with his right index and middle fingers. He heard a resonant sound. He gradually worked down her back, percussing all the while, until he encountered a dull “thump.” There was fluid at her lung base, something easily confirmed when he stuck his stethoscope in his ears and asked her to take the deepest breaths she could tolerate. Air made a particular sound when it entered a healthy lung base. In Alice Maloney that sound was absent.

  She started coughing, and O’Reilly was treated to an amplification of the harsh racket through the stethoscope. He yanked the earpieces free. Her cheeks were puffed out as if she were holding something in her mouth. O’Reilly fished out a handkerchief. “Alice,” he said, giving her the hanky, “spit into that.”

  Her eyes widened and she shook her head. A woman of her breeding would die before spitting in front of anyone.

  “Please, Alice. I need a specimen.”

  She put the cloth to her lips, turned her head away, and spat. Still looking away, she handed him the hanky.

  O’Reilly examined the specimen. It was odourless and a dull grey-brown colour, which the textbooks described as looking like anchovy paste. To his knowledge, the only thing that fit that description was pus from an amoebic abscess.

  The thing had erupted into her lung. She was a very sick woman, but it was preferable to it having burst into the peritoneal cavity. That would have caused Alice agony and carried the risk of sudden death from whole-body sepsis. Not that lungs contaminated with pus were any picnic either.

  He carefully laid her flat and rearranged her clothes to cover her belly. O’Reilly stood, pulled off his raincoat to make a makeshift pillow, then knelt and slipped it under her head. “I think Doctor Laverty was right. You do have a liver abscess, and it’s burst through into your right lung.”

  She looked up, straight into his eyes. Her voice was little more than a whisper. “That’s … that’s very serious … isn’t it?”

  O’Reilly took a deep breath and held her hand. “It can be treated,” he said. “There were cases in the old days where letting the pus escape by way of the lungs actually cured the patient.”

  “I see.”

  “But it’s more likely the surgeon will want to operate on you tonight, then have you take medication. What’s important is to get you up to the Royal. The ambulance will be here soon. You’ll be admitted to the ward accepting emergencies tonight, and on Monday transferred to the care of your surgeon, Sir Donald Cromie.”

  She swallowed and nodded.

  “It’s lucky I was passing,” he said.

  Alice coughed and then made a grunting noise between her clenched teeth.

  O’Reilly heard knocking. He got up to open the door. “Come in, lads. Glad you’re here.”

  Two ambulance men entered carrying a pole-and-canvas stretcher.

  “This is Miss Moloney. Go easy with her. A liver abscess has burst into her right lung.”

  The leader turned to O’Reilly, grimaced, and mouthed, “Oh, shite.” He clearly understood the gravity of the situation. He turned to his mate. “Bobby, run you on back and bring a portable oxygen tank. I’ll get the stretcher lined up.”

  O’Reilly heard Alice call his name.

  “Yes, Alice?” He knelt so he could hear her.

  “Doctor O’Reilly?” She paused for breath. “My sister Ellen in Millisle …”

  “I’ll let her know.”

  Alice took three gasps, then said, “Her number’s under E in a little blue book beside the telephone.”

  “I’ll do it the minute I see you safely away.”

  He heard a snuffle and saw she was crying. “What’s the matter?”

  “Billie …” she coughed, “and Felix.”

  “Who?”

  “My budgie and my pussycat.”

  O’Reilly felt a lump in his throat. Other than her sister, her pets were her only family and her closest friends. Of course she’d be concerned about them. “Will you trust me to take care of them?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  Bobby knelt beside Alice. “I need for to put this on you, missus, so I do,” he said.

  O’Reilly moved back as the ambulance man adjusted a plastic oxygen mask over Alice’s face and turned on the flow.

  She pulled the mask aside.

  “No … no. Leave that there mask alone, dear,” Bobby said, replacing it.

  O’Reilly saw the pleading in her eyes. “I think she wants to tell me something.” He lifted the mask and bent his head.

  “Instructions for the animals are in the cupboard under the sink with cat food and birdseed.”

  “Don’t worry about them. I’ll make the arrangements, if you’ll let me have a key.” He hoped Sonny and Maggie Houston would help out.

  She coughed twice. “In my handbag, on the counter.”

  “I’ll see to it.”

  She let her head sink back onto his coat. The poor creature was exhausted but had refused to rest until she’d made sure that her loved ones would be taken care of. O’Reilly felt his throat tighten.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  He stood aside as the men lifted her onto the stretcher. “Gimme the oxygen bottle. I’ll carry it,” he said. The metal cylinder was cold. “Stay, Arthur.” O’Reilly walked beside the stretcher-bearers, through the gale and into the brightly lit interior of the ambulance. He waited until they’d made Alice comfortable on the shelf-bed. “Here.” He handed Bobby the oxygen and bent to her. “They’ll look after you well, Alice,” he said.

  She nodded.

  “What surgical wards are on emergency take-in tonight, Bobby?”

  “Eleven and twelve, sir.”

  “I’ll give them a ring, let them know about my patient.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  O’Reilly touched Alice’s shoulder. “You’re going to be fine,” he said, and he was gratified to see a small smile under the mask. “I’m going to get my coat, Arthur, and the key, and then lock up. Don’t worr
y about your sister, or Billie and Felix. I’ll see to it.”

  O’Reilly left the ambulance with Bobby’s “Night, Doc” in his ears. Inside the shop he found Alice’s key, made a note of Ellen Moloney’s phone number, put on his coat, called Arthur to heel, and left. He’d phone Ellen from his home.

  Head bowed to the wind, he marched in the direction of Number 1, Main Street. Pity, he thought, Barry hadn’t been here to see how astute his diagnosis had been. O’Reilly let himself into the house. He was very late for supper, but he knew Kinky would understand. He’d be dining alone tonight because Barry was up in Belfast—out, he hoped, having fun with his friend Jack Mills.

  Again he wished Barry had been the one to find Alice Moloney and make sure she was properly looked after. It would have been quite the object lesson for the lad in how, even though much of their work was routine, country GPs could be lifesavers.

  24

  A Faithful Friend Is the Medicine of Life

  “Still windy, begod,” said Jack Mills, peering past the red tassels of a Chinese lantern through the window of the Peacock Restaurant. The air was redolent of spices, and a strange discordant music came from a couple of loudspeakers. “That lass’s brolly out there’s not going to stick the pace much longer.”

  Barry looked up from a plate of lychees and saw a woman wearing a cream trench coat walking backward into the wind howling along Queen Street. She was wrestling with a green umbrella, and as he watched, it snapped inside out. He half rose. “I’ll go and—”

  “Eat up your pudding, Sir Galahad. Looks like her boyfriend’s arrived.”

  As Barry sat, a man helped the woman through the door. They were greeted by the same Chinese waitress, wearing a green cheongsam, who had served Barry and Patricia last summer.

  Tonight the server had finished taking Jack’s order by asking in her thick Belfast accent the identical question she’d posed back then: “And would youse like chips with that?” Jack had been chuckling as he’d politely refused.

  On Saturday afternoon, after he’d finished shopping, Barry had gone to Jack’s flat and suggested nipping over to the Club Bar for a couple and then going somewhere other than Smoky Joe’s for a bite. He wanted to eat here in central Belfast. They’d taken Jack’s Mini.

  It had been a good meal, but for Barry there were memories here. He’d made Patricia laugh when he’d told her that in China it was considered polite to burp after eating.

  “Enjoying those lychees?” Jack asked. “I find them a bit sweet.” He sipped his Tsingtao beer.

  “I like them.”

  “They’re good for you; Sir Donald told me,” Jack said. “Cure gastritis, inflammation of the glands”—he paused and looked at Barry—“and orchitis. So if you’ve got inflamed testicles, lad, you’re on the way to being fixed already.”

  Barry laughed so hard he choked on the lychee syrup. It took him several moments before he managed to say, “My goolies are perfectly fine, thank you. You’re an eejit, Mills.”

  “Indeed I’m just a culchie lad from back-of-beyond round Cullybackey, but it’s good to see you laugh, Laverty. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten how.”

  “Not quite.” Barry pushed the plate away. “I miss her like all bejesus, Jack, but maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Go on.” Jack leant forward.

  “She was smart, beautiful, bloody good cook, fun, sexy—”

  “She certainly was restful on the eye.”

  Barry looked at Jack and realised he meant no disrespect; indeed coming from him it was a compliment.

  “She was that,” he agreed. “I think my downfall was that I wanted her to be my mother too. Someone who’d stay home, darn my socks—”

  “Enjoy living in the country basking in the reflected glory of the local, highly respected GP?”

  “That’s right.” Her sixteen-day-old letter came to mind. She’d said he’d be a wonderful country GP.

  “From what I’ve seen of your ex, Barry, I think you were being a mite optimistic. That girl’s going places.” Jack sipped his green tea. “Don’t take this hard, Barry.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “She has a new fellah?”

  Barry glanced down and snapped, “Yes, damn it.”

  Jack said quietly, “She’ll not be coming back here when engineering school’s over. We both know that …”

  Barry, still looking down, nodded.

  “But this new man?” Jack shrugged and said dismissively, “I’ll not give him six months.”

  Barry looked up. “Six months?”

  Jack inclined his head. “Remember in the summer you told me she said her career was more important than a boyfriend?”

  “Aye.” He remembered well, and it had hurt then. “I persuaded myself it wasn’t true.”

  “Och, sure, don’t we all only ever hear what we want to?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Barry, I know I act the goat a lot, but I can be serious. I’ve learned a few things about girls in all my … experience.” He lingered on the word and rolled his eyes. “I dated someone like your Patricia. She was one of this new breed that I’m buggered if I understand. They’re on the lookout for something. They’re like … like …”

  Jack was obviously struggling to find the right words. Barry, remembering Patricia’s vehemence when she explained that her fight to get into Cambridge was on behalf of all women, said, “King Arthur’s knights searching for the Holy Grail?”

  “Exactly. And I think they’re willing to make sacrifices to gain whatever it is they’re after, but I’ll tell you what, Barry.”

  “What?”

  “They’re never going to be entirely happy with their careers, no matter how much they achieve—they’ll always want more.”

  Barry knew Jack was trying to make him feel better, but the prospect of Patricia being unhappy and dissatisfied, for whatever reason, made him ache inside. Because suddenly Jack’s words seemed right. She’d said she needed a wider horizon. And she did, but at the heels of the hunt, wherever she went, she’d still be looking for something—and probably never finding it.

  “You know what they told us in psychiatry class. People like Patricia—strivers, perfectionists—are like that because they’re never completely happy with themselves. They always have something to prove.”

  Barry had been in those same classes, but he had forgotten them until now. He knew his friend had a point. “So what you’re saying is, if she can’t be content with herself she’ll never be happy with another man either? That’s what they taught us.”

  Jack inclined his head. “That’s absolutely right,” he said, then sat back as if he knew he needed to give Barry time to mull things over.

  Barry remembered something else they’d been taught. He looked at his friend. Was Jack able to identify Patricia’s pattern because it took one to know one? Was his relentless pursuit of anything in a skirt a sign? Or his need to specialise and probably be a leader in his field? Or his intense desire to play rugby for his country? Were these all reflections of Jack’s inner doubts?

  Barry stared at the red-flocked wallpaper on the far wall. He put away his uncharitable thoughts about his best friend and tried to digest what Jack had said about Patricia.

  It was like the advice one of his teachers used to give to patients considering embarking upon the long, arduous, and almost certainly futile treatment of infertility. “I’ll try to help you, whatever you decide, but I’m afraid the truth is that you can take the grief now for a capital sum and refuse treatment, or you can have the therapy. If it doesn’t work, and it probably won’t, the years you are going to invest with disappointments every month because you’re not pregnant will be like grieving on an installment plan—and paying the interest as well when you could be moving on, trying to put the ache behind you.”

  Jack was trying to get Barry to see that he and Patricia had never had a future and that getting it over with quickly was less painful than a gradual drifting apart. Per
haps in the face of the inevitable it was the easier course. Barry looked at Jack. “So what do you suggest, Sigmund Freud?”

  Jack grinned, narrowed his eyes, and said gutturally, “Zere are more fish—”

  “In the sea. I know. But I don’t much feel like going fishing.”

  “Ach so, but ven you do start ze anglingk again?”

  “Your German accent needs work and you’re having hearing difficulty, Jack.”

  “Himmel, und Donner, und Blitzen.” His own voice reappeared. “You’re right about my accent but not about my hearing. You will go looking again. You’re a young healthy man. You’re hurting, but you will get better.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “I am. And when you decide to cast again, will you still want a fighting fish or are you going to set your bait for a gentler species?” He held his hands cupped in front of his chest. “One with a nice pair of pectoral fins”—Jack made sinuous movements with his hands—“and an alluring tail? One who’d be perfectly happy swimming in the pond rather than heading out into the deep oceans?”

  Barry managed to smile. “You really are an eejit, Mills. You know bloody well I’m not thinking about my future with girls, any girls, right now. I’ve one to get over. Remember?”

  “I do.” Jack leant back. “How long have we been friends?”

  “Since 1953.”

  “That gives me the right to say what I’m going to say next.”

  “You can always tell me what you like.”

  Jack leant forward and said seriously, “You’re a born-again romantic, Barry Laverty. You’ve never been able to have fun with girls. You always fall head over heels in love with ’em.”

  “I do not.”

  “Oh? Really?” Jack said. “Right after we went through puberty, boy, there was the chorister with the cute blonde bangs, and dimples. You never even spoke to her. Just sat and drooled every Sunday when the school sent us to church. Moped all week until you saw her again.”

  “Saint Mark’s at Dundela,” Barry said, remembering the crocodile of black-jacketed and pinstripe-trousered pupils winding down from his boarding school to the local church.

  “When her folks took her to England, you swore blind you’d never look at another girl.” Jack was counting on his fingers. “Then there was the one whose dad ran an ice-cream shop in Bangor. You took her out twice, lost your heart forever, until an older lad whisked her off. You declared that was definitely it.”