An Irish Country Courtship

  For the first time since he had walked into the room he became aware of the details of his surroundings. A two-bar electric fire made it pleasantly warm. He noticed a pot of Dutch hyacinths on the small dressing table, their white blooms reflected in a mirror. But their usually powerful scent was no match for the smells of a delivery room. On each side of the bed were prints of famous Irish racehorses. He was pretty sure the one on the right was Himself, the great Arkle.

  He dropped the gloves into a metal basin. “Thanks, Miss Hagerty,” he said to the midwife, who was starting to tidy up. “The babies still all right?”

  “Both pretty small. I’d guess just over five pounds, so they are the right size for their age. We have the pair of them in the kitchen in their drawers near the range. You mustn’t let a wee one get chilled.”

  Barry knew all about cold syndrome, a potentially lethal condition brought about by not keeping newborns, particularly premature newborns, warm.

  “Doctor O’Reilly took a very good look at them both and he says they’re grand—but they need right now to be in incubators in forty percent oxygen.” She looked hard at Barry. “He’s below sorting that out with Royal Maternity.”

  Barry understood why. Premature babies were greatly at risk of developing RDS—respiratory distress syndrome—or hyaline membrane disease, as it was better known. Two years earlier, the condition had killed the premature son of Jackie Kennedy and her husband, American President Jack Kennedy.

  Hester’s pregnancy had been only three days more advanced than Jackie Kennedy’s, and if RDS wasn’t to claim two more victims, the only hope of prevention was to keep the twins in an oxygen-rich atmosphere until the risk period was over.

  Should he explain this to the drowsy Hester? He decided not to distress her—not yet. He untied his rubber apron. “I’ll nip down and see what Doctor O’Reilly’s up to.”

  “Go on … and … Doctor Laverty?” Miss Hagerty said.

  “Yes?”

  “You’ve a quare soft hand under a duck. I’ve seen specialists, so I have, not make such a good fist at delivering twins.”

  Barry felt himself blushing. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you very much.” And when he left to get washed, there was a spring in his step. For a moment he wondered, not for the first time since he’d come to Ballybucklebo, about a career in obstetrics.

  Jack Mills had suggested it too in the Club Bar back in January. And last night he’d said he thought Barry was going to run up the steps of the Royal Maternity. Barry’d thought Jack had not meant anything by it, but then Barry wondered about men in mediaeval times running to, and taking sanctuary in, the great cathedrals. For all Jack’s I’m-just-a-yokel-from-the-wilds-of-Cullybackey, underneath he was as sharp as paint. Had his old friend been more than hinting at Barry considering a career in obstetrics? It was worth thinking about.

  * * *

  Barry hardly noticed the twins sleeping before the kitchen range. His nose was filled with an astringent odour. His senior colleague, stripped to the waist, was bent over, while Freddy Patton rubbed something into O’Reilly’s back. Whatever Freddy was using, the smell of it would have gagged a maggot.

  “Fingal?” Barry asked.

  “I ricked it getting off the tractor,” O’Reilly growled.

  That would explain why he had seemed to be in pain while he supported Hester’s leg. Typical of the man to put the patient first.

  “Freddy’s rough as a badger’s arse, but he—ouch!—swears by this horse liniment.” O’Reilly screwed up his face.

  “I do so, so I do.” Freddy rubbed vigorously. “Your man Mr. Porter, the vet over in Conlig, give it me. I tell you it surely beats what I used to do if a horse injured a shoulder.” Freddy kneaded O’Reilly’s flank as if he were working with bread dough.

  “Jesus Murphy, Freddy,” O’Reilly roared. “You’re marmalizing me. Go easy.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot, you know. Mr. Porter was very particular, so he was. It’s to be rubbed in hard if it’s to do the horse a power of good.”

  O’Reilly stepped away. “It may have escaped your attention, Freddy Patton, but I am not a bloody equine. That’s enough.”

  “Don’t blame me, sir, then, if you don’t get the best of it.” Freddy sniffed and rubbed his hands together.

  Barry chuckled. This was the second time he’d seen his senior colleague on the receiving end of treatment and advice. The last time was when Kinky had sorted out O’Reilly’s bronchitis. And fair play to Freddy. Next to Kinky, he must be one of the very few folks in Ballybucklebo not overawed by Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly.

  “Never mind that.” O’Reilly started to put on his shirt. “It’s time you got back to the end of the lane, Fred.” He tucked in the tails and spoke to Barry. “I got on the phone to the Maternity ambulance dispatchers. They’ve got on the radio to the squad. They had come, but took one look at the flood and headed back. He’s told them to come back and park by our cars. Freddy’ll meet them and bring the paediatrician and one incubator on the tractor.”

  “One?”

  “Aye.” O’Reilly nodded at the babies. “The twins’re small enough for both to fit inside—at least until they get to the ambulance. Then they’ll get one each.”

  “What about Hester?”

  O’Reilly shrugged, winced, and thrust a hand into the small of his back. “Horse liniment. I might as well have rubbed it with vegetable marrow jam.” He blew out his cheeks. “Hester’ll have to stay at home, and between Miss Hagerty and us we’ll keep an eye to her. Did you explain to her about RDS?”

  Barry shook his head.

  “Fair enough. We’ll not yet for a while. Usually if it’s going to happen it’ll be in the first twenty-four hours. We’ll not cross our bridges until we come to them. Now,” said the shirted O’Reilly, “help me on with my jacket.”

  Barry eased the big man gently into his tweed coat as O’Reilly told him that Miss Hagerty knew to sort out the delivery bags and that Freddy would help her carry them to her car when she was finished here. “We’ll wait for the incubator, and once Freddy’s taken it and the babies to the ambulance and come back again for us, we’re for home. I’m not looking forward to being bounced on his tractor, and you’ll have to drive the Rover.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “I want a handful of aspirin, a huge Jameson, and my dinner.” He grimaced. “Dear God,” he said, “I’ve more knots in my back than a Chinese silk carpet. This is going to take a day or two to settle down. I’m afraid, Barry, you’re going to have to run the shop single-handed.” He clapped Barry’s shoulder. “And I’m absolutely confident you’ll do a great job.”

  Barry smiled. If he handled all the cases like the last one, he’d justify O’Reilly’s confidence. The question was, was running a GP’s shop here in Ballybucklebo the way he wanted to spend the rest of his life? A life without Patricia Spence.

  29

  In a Handbag?

  O’Reilly put down the Somerset Maugham classic Ashenden: Or the British Agent. It was almost forty years old and Fingal had read it many times. He grimaced and shifted, trying to make himself more comfortable in the armchair. Bloody back. Although it was on the mend, he wasn’t up to much yet, but O’Reilly reckoned that the medical matters of Ballybucklebo and the surrounding townlands were in good hands and had been for the last three days. Barry had had full surgeries, enough home visits to keep him occupied in the afternoons, and fortunately for him, not a single night call.

  He was out now visiting, of all places, the school. The principal had phoned to say some of the children had head rashes and perhaps it would save the doctors time if one of them came around and saw the kiddies en masse.

  O’Reilly heard the phone ring in the hall and Kinky’s tread as she went to answer it. If it were a patient calling, poor old Barry might have to go out again as soon as he came home. It wouldn’t be pleasant for him, driving on the narrow twisting roads after dark, and already the evening was drawing in
. O’Reilly guessed it was about four thirty. He glanced at his watch. It was four twenty-nine.

  Kitty would be here soon. He’d missed her. Since they’d dined at the Culloden Hotel on the evening after the pheasant shoot more than two weeks ago, he’d only spoken to her on the telephone twice. When she’d got back from Tallaght last week she’d been busy, and last weekend she’d gone to the painting workshop in Donegal, the one she’d put off to be with him last month.

  He’d phoned her on Monday to see when she’d be free, told her about his back, and taken the opportunity to explain why Alice Moloney was in no position to advise about Kinky’s handbag. Kitty said she’d find one in Anderson and McAuley’s or Robinson and Cleaver’s in Belfast.

  Poor Alice was recovering. When he’d spoken to Sir Donald this morning, O’Reilly had learnt that her temperature was normal, the tube in her stomach and her intravenous drip had been removed, and she was eating a light diet. Very promising.

  He switched on a table lamp that Kinky had moved close to hand and picked up the book again. Interesting chap, Somerset Maugham. He’d been a doctor but gave it up to write. He lived on the French Riviera and would be ninety-one this year. O’Reilly particularly liked his short stories and this tale of Ashenden, the British secret agent. He wished that something would give him the man’s powers of deduction. O’Reilly was no closer to solving the riddle of Flo’s Fancy.

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  He looked up. He hadn’t heard Kinky coming in. “Yes, Kinky?”

  “That was my sister down in Cork phoning. You asked me on Saturday night to find out about a jockey, Eugene Power, from Newceston.”

  “I did, by God. I was thinking of Flo’s Fancy only a moment ago.”

  “Aye, so,” she said. “I phoned Fidelma that night. I’m sorry it’s taken so long, but she thought our brother Tiernan, who’s run the family farm since our da passed away, might know something. It seems Mr. Power’s a great road bowler like Tiernan.”

  “And?”

  “Tiernan was in Philadelphia visiting our big brother, Art. He’d been expected back this morning, but the flight into Shannon Airport was delayed and it’s quite the drive from there to Beal na Bláth.”

  O’Reilly grunted. “Rather him than me. The roads down in the Republic are even worse than those up here.”

  “True, sir, but he’s home now. Fidelma’s had a word with him, so.”

  O’Reilly quickly sat forward and immediately regretted it. “Arrrgh. Jesus Murphy.” His hand flew to his back. He gritted his teeth. “Sorry, Kinky.”

  “I’ve heard worse,” she said. “And I’m sorry for your back.” She moved behind his chair. “Now do you sit forward, sir.”

  He did and she fussed about rearranging his cushions. “Sit back.”

  He did. “Thanks, Kinky. That’s better.”

  She came round, stood in front of him, cocked her head to one side, and frowned. “I’d rest more contented if you’d see a proper doctor.”

  O’Reilly laughed. “You think I’m an improper one?”

  “I do not, but it does be well known that a physician who treats himself has nothing but an amadán for a patient, so.”

  O’Reilly would not let many people call him an idiot to his face. He simply said, “Kinky, I appreciate your concern, but it’s only a sprain. Time will heal it. More to the point, what did your brother say?”

  “Tiernan told Fidelma he knows Eugene. Says he’s mostly a sound man, but—”

  “But?”

  “Two years ago he was cautioned at Newmarket Racecourse in England for perhaps pulling a horse so a slower animal could win at very good odds. The Jockey Club couldn’t prove it—they’d have had his licence if they’d been able to—but they were mighty suspicious.”

  “Pulling a horse, by God?” A jockey who’d do it once would do it a second time. Now there was something he might be able to use. “Thank you, Kinky. Thank you very much.”

  “I hope it helps you, sir—and lets you help that eejit Donal Donnelly. He should stop acting the lig now he has that wee Julie to look after.”

  O’Reilly shook his head. Did anything of importance in Ballybucklebo slip past Kinky Kincaid? “I’m sure it will help, Kinky. I’m sure it will.” He heard the front doorbell. “I think that might be Kitty,” O’Reilly said. He studied Kinky’s face. It was expressionless.

  “Excuse me, sir,” she said. “I’ll go and see.”

  O’Reilly wondered if Kinky’s information about the jockey would be enough to confront Bertie Bishop and ask him just what the divil he was up to. Fergus Finnegan’s opinion would be welcome, and surely by now Donal must have been told something by Willie McArdle, the bookie. Patience, he told himself. Time will tell. O’Reilly heard women’s voices from below and a tread of the staircase creaking.

  “Come in, Kitty. Welcome back to Ulster and to this house,” he said, as she appeared in the doorway. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t get up.”

  “I will. How are you?” He heard the concern in her voice and relished having her worrying about him. “I’m sure you’re stiff and sore.”

  “I am.”

  “You poor old thing.”

  His smile belied his next words. “Less of the old thing.”

  She crossed the floor. Lord, but Kitty O’Hallorhan was one of the most graceful women he had ever known.

  “Fingal,” she said, bending to drop a kiss on his forehead, “you’re no spring chicken, but you’re wearing well. You’re still nearly as handsome as you were when I met you—”

  “Nearly?”

  “Your nose was straight then.”

  He remembered the bout when it had been broken.

  She bent over and gave his tummy a prod. “And there is a bit more of you than there used to be.”

  He laughed. “It’s just more of me for you to appreciate.” He pointed to the other armchair. “Have a pew.”

  She sat and crossed her legs. “New shoes?” he asked, admiring a pair of brown, stiletto-heeled pumps. “Very smart.”

  “Mmm,” she said. “I thought, seeing I was in Robinson and Cleaver’s, I might as well do a bit of shopping for myself as well as—” She lowered her voice as she handed him a paper shopping bag. “Have a look.”

  O’Reilly pulled out crumpled tissue paper. He could see a maroon suede handbag with a shiny gilt clasp. “Kitty,” he said, “for me? You shouldn’t have.”

  She burst out laughing. “Idiot.”

  Her laughter warmed him, even if it was the second time today he’d had his mental abilities questioned. “You know what Graham Greene said?” he asked.

  She was still laughing as she shook her head.

  “‘Beware of a man who makes you laugh.’ Or something like that.”

  Her laughter faded, to be replaced by a gentle smile. “And should I beware of you, Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly?”

  He smiled at her and said, “Begod, you should, Kitty O’Hallorhan, for if I could get out of this chair I’d give you a great big hug and a kiss.”

  “I’ll save you the trouble,” Kitty said, rising, but then she hesitated. “I hear Kinky coming.”

  “I’ll give you the money for the bag later,” he whispered.

  “Ahem,” said Kinky. “I do not wish to intrude, so, but I thought you might appreciate a cup of tea and some toasted, buttered barmbrack.”

  “Marvellous,” O’Reilly said. “Can you put the tray on the sideboard?”

  “I can.”

  When Kinky turned to put it down, O’Reilly stuffed the tissue paper back and handed the shopping bag to Kitty. As he did so, he inclined his head to Kinky.

  Kitty nodded at him. “Mrs. Kincaid?”

  Kinky turned.

  “It still bothers me that I upset you about not washing the pancake dishes. This is just a wee something to say I’m sorry.” Kitty handed her the bag.

  Kinky blushed. “I’m sorry too, Miss Kitty. It does be a long journey from County Cork. I was tired that day.
I should have held my tongue and not taken the hump, so.”

  “Open it, Kinky,” O’Reilly said. “Let’s see what it is.”

  She pulled out the handbag. Her eyes widened. “Och, Kitty, achara. It’s beautiful.”

  O’Reilly smiled. Kinky had called her Kitty not Miss, and for good measure had chucked in achara, Irish for “my dear.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Like it? And my old one just about ready for the knacker’s yard.” She took a deep breath, stood close to Kitty, and pecked her cheek. “I do love it, Miss Kitty. Thank you … thank you very much.”

  “I’m glad,” Kitty said.

  “And you can come and cook in my kitchen anytime you like, so.”

  “There you are, Kitty,” O’Reilly said. “You’ve been given the keys to the kingdom. That’s very gracious of you, Kinky.”

  She set her present on the sideboard beside the whiskey decanter. “And Miss Kitty,” she asked, “what do you take in your tea?”

  “Just a drop of milk, please,” Kitty said, sitting again. She accepted a cup of tea and a plate of barmbrack. “Thank you.”

  “And here is yours, sir.”

  O’Reilly thanked Kinky. She picked up her new bag and its wrappings. “I’ll be going along,” she said. “There’ll be braised shank of lamb for dinner with champ and roast parsnips. It’s time I was seeing to them.”

  She headed for the door, then turned and said to Kitty, “I’d take it as a favour, Miss Kitty, if when you come down you’d bring the tea tray.” Kinky’s chins wobbled as she laughed and then said, “As I recollect, your mother doesn’t work here.”

  O’Reilly was still laughing as Kinky left. He took a bite of the spicy speckled loaf, savoured it, and thought how delighted he was that any rift there might have been between Kitty and Kinky seemed to have been healed. He smiled at Kitty, and she puckered into a pretend kiss. He sent one back.