An Irish Country Courtship

  * * *

  It wasn’t far to Newtownards. Barry drove carefully along the narrow twisting roads. The car climbed hills, went down into shallow valleys, then climbed higher. In the morning sun, wisps of vapour, diaphanous as bees’ wings, drifted up from the dark earth of ploughed furrows. In a field, a single white Charolais bull plodded ponderously ahead, his dewlap swinging in time to his stride.

  The little Ulster fields on each side of the road were bounded by drystone walls, rusty barbed-wire fences, or hedges of hawthorn in early bud. Green pastures held flocks of ewes heavy with lambs, cows in calf. Spring would be here soon.

  But not for poor Sheilah Devine. Barry took a deep breath.

  According to its destination board, an approaching green Ulsterbus was bound for Portaferry at the tip of the Ards Peninsula. Barry stopped to give it right of way at the Six Road Ends. It didn’t seem like almost nine months since he’d stopped Donal Donnelly near here and asked directions to Ballybucklebo so he could have an interview with a Doctor O’Reilly. Barry’d not been sure of his career destination then, but he had been ready to give country general practice a try.

  In those short months he’d certainly had a fair sampling of the medical side of general practice, but he hadn’t been prepared for the village. Gradually he’d come to learn it wasn’t simply a collection of houses, shops, a pub, and a couple of churches. It was an entity, and as an animal was the whole of its parts, so too was the village a many faceted, living organism.

  To liken O’Reilly to its heart would be carrying the analogy too far, but Ballybucklebo, Barry knew, was a composite of the people. The marquis, the Browns, the Donnellys, the Auchinlecks, Father O’Toole, Cissie Sloan and her cousin Aggie Arbuthnot with six toes, Mister Robinson, the Presbyterian minister, Mrs. Redmond, the school principal, Sonny and Maggie—aye, and Bertie and Flo Bishop. It was a place where the bereaved Joseph Devine could say with confidence, “We’ve got very good neighbours.” That had brought a lump to his throat then. It did now.

  Barry moved slowly ahead, Ulster country roads not being conducive to fast driving, no matter what Fingal might think. They meandered gently toward their destinations, much like life in Ballybucklebo.

  A life he was now part of. He was accepted here as—what had Jack said?—“the local, highly respected GP.” Barry wasn’t so sure about the “highly,” but certainly there was respect. It was a place he could already think of as home. He’d miss it if he left.

  He crested a last hill, pulled over, and parked. Ahead and below lay Strangford Lough. Barry wanted to take a good look at one of his favourite views.

  The nearby town of Newtownards lay at the lough’s head, watched over by the multiturreted Scrabo Tower perched on an escarpment immediately to the west. Light aircraft, by the distance made tiny as dragonflies, were practicing takeoffs and landings on a small aerodrome.

  The tide was out, and broad mudflats glistened as beaten silver in a candle’s glow. Further out, the blue waters were studded with islands and low seaweed-covered reefs called pladdies. On the distant horizon, the Mourne Mountains loomed magenta against a blue sky.

  Strangford Lough took its name from the Viking invaders of the tenth century. Strangfjorthr, the turbulent fjord. The native Celts had called it Lough Cuan, the peaceful lough.

  Sheilah Devine had found her peace this morning, and the grieving Joseph must surely find his soon, as inevitably as the hawthorn buds Barry had seen earlier must burst, the ewes lamb, and cows drop their calves.

  It was a privilege to know the Devines, be trusted by Joseph, and to have been able to save him the inconvenience of delivering this certificate.

  Barry started his descent. He’d be glad to get this job done and head home to Ballybucklebo, a small haven in the Ulster he loved.

  34

  Earnest Advice from My Seniors

  O’Reilly gazed at a slice of uneaten black pudding on Barry’s plate. Kinky, he thought, might be working on slimming him, O’Reilly, down, but if the size of this Saturday’s Ulster fry she’d set in front of Barry was anything to go by, she had different plans entirely for the young man. O’Reilly reckoned when it came to her self-imposed mission of making sure Barry was well fed, Kinky took a line like those who force-fed geese to produce paté de foie gras.

  He lowered his Irish Times. “You going to eat that?”

  Barry shook his head.

  O’Reilly grinned and speared it with his fork just as Kinky came in to put a fresh pot of tea on the table.

  “Doctor O’Reilly.” Her chins quivered. Her eyes flashed. “Put that down, sir. This minute.”

  O’Reilly flinched. She was as protective as a mother hen of her chicks. He set the fork-impaled pudding on his plate. “Sorry, Kinky,” he said. And he thought that while he was at it, he might as well apologise for snarling at her yesterday and for growling at Barry. This business with Kitty wanting breathing space and going off to London was troubling, very troubling. “Ahem.”

  They both stared at him.

  “Thank you both for putting up with a cantankerous old man yesterday. I’m sorry that I was so bloody growly,” he said, noting the look of total surprise on Barry’s face. That fooled you, boy, O’Reilly thought. I know you can’t believe I’m willing to apologise for anything.

  “Doctor O’Reilly, sir,” Kinky said, “you are not an old man, and it is in all of us to get as cross as a wet hen once in a while. I know that a pain that goes on and on can make a body grumpy, so. I’ve heard you say it often enough about patients. You’ve had a bad back all week that’s not well mended yet.”

  “My back’s pretty much better,” O’Reilly said, “and it’s still no excuse for taking it out on other people.”

  Kinky smiled. “It does take a true gentleman to say sorry, so.”

  O’Reilly saw Barry nodding his agreement.

  “And a lady to remark on it,” O’Reilly said. “And a hungry man to eat this.” He grabbed the fork, popped the black pudding in his mouth, chewed mightily, and swallowed.

  “You are enough to make a body despair, Doctor O’Reilly, so,” Kinky said, but she was still smiling. “It’s soup for you at lunchtime.”

  Good old Kinky, he thought. She doesn’t argue often, but when she does, she likes to try to get the last word. This time he wasn’t going to let her. “As long as it’s one of yours—and not out of a can,” he said slyly.

  “Doctor O’Reilly.” Her look would have frozen a small pond. “As if I’d let such a thing in my kitchen, and well you know it.” Her face softened. “’Tis a terrible tease you can be, sir.”

  As Kinky turned to Barry, O’Reilly picked up his morning paper. “And will yourself be in at lunchtime?” she asked Barry.

  “No, Kinky. I’m going down to the Yacht Club in Bangor. I’ll get a bite there.”

  O’Reilly finished the story he was reading and set his newspaper aside. Kinky had left. Barry was spreading marmalade on a slice of toast.

  O’Reilly said, “The Yanks are sending bombers over North Vietnam, General Franco’s started a blockade of Gibraltar to try to force Britain to give it back to Spain, the bill banning tobacco advertising on television has been given royal assent, so it’s law now, and—mirabile dictu, wonderous things are spoken—Ringo Starr married a hairdresser on Thursday. I’ll sleep better tonight for the knowing of it.” He chuckled. “Her maiden name was Maureen Cox. I wonder if her married one will be Starr or Starkey?”

  “Fingal,” Barry said, “why on earth did you bother to remember the real name of the Beatles’ drummer?”

  “I’ve always had a pretty nonselective memory,” said O’Reilly. “But I like their music, and do you remember what I said to you last July about the new stuff?”

  Barry frowned. “Haven’t a clue.”

  “I said the other long-haired mob would do well too.”

  “The Rolling Stones with Mick Jagger? Jack Mills calls him Mick the Lips.” Barry smiled and his smile pleased O’Reilly.

/>   “Apt,” he said. “And their second L.P., The Rolling Stones No. 2, came out mid-January, and it’s been top of the album charts ever since. It’ll be there for a while.”

  Barry shook his head. “Fingal, sometimes you really are a suppository of trivia.”

  “That’s the kind of malapropism I’d expect from Donal Donnelly. I think you mean repository.” He added as an afterthought, “Malapropism. Thought to have originated in the play The Rivals, first staged in 1775—”

  “At Covent Garden and written by Richard Brinsley Sheridan, an Irishman,” Barry said and with a flourish took a bite of toast.

  Good. Barry hadn’t played their duelling quotations game since Boxing Day.

  “But I do mean suppository, not repository. With your wide experience of general practice, intimate knowledge of modern rock-and-roll groups, ability to quote practically the entire canon of English literature, fluent French, and apparently complete familiarity with the King James version of the Holy Bible, to say nothing of the Book of Common Prayer, the blarney pours out of you. There is only one word for what causes it. I chose it with extreme care. Sup-pository.”

  O’Reilly burst out laughing. “Nice one, Barry. Oh, nice one.”

  Barry made a small bow to accept the compliment.

  “I take it that if you’re willing to poke fun at me your own mood has taken a turn for the better?”

  “I’d a good night’s sleep last night, I’m pleased your back’s better, and to tell you the truth I’m glad you’re looking after the shop today. I could use the break. I’ll be seeing some friends.”

  “And I’ve been bored silly all week.” That wasn’t all that was bothering Fingal. He hesitated, trying to decide whether or not to confide in Barry.

  “I know what you mean,” Barry said. “Sitting round is no great shakes. The work does occupy your mind. Keeps it off other things.”

  “True,” O’Reilly said, guessing that Barry was ready to open up some more. “Losing Patricia hurt you sorely, Barry. I hope being busy has helped.” Come on, talk to me, he thought. Catharsis is good for the soul. Damn it all, after nearly nine months they were more than professional colleagues. And he, O’Reilly, had been thinking about Kitty going to London with a divorced brain surgeon who was something of a medical star. O’Reilly might talk to Barry about that.

  Barry stared at the tablecloth. “It has but it still hurts,” he said quietly. “A lot.”

  “And damn it, as strange as it may seem, I still miss Deidre after more than twenty years,” O’Reilly said. “It’s in the little things. She loved birds. Even now, every time I see a blue tit or hear a chaffinch …”

  Barry looked O’Reilly in the eye. “Patricia was an amateur ornithologist—like her dad.”

  “I understand.” O’Reilly saw how the young man was staring into the middle distance. “Is it paining you as badly as it did at first?”

  Barry shook his head. “At first I was numb; then it started to hurt like hell. Now? Not quite as much.”

  “Good. I know it’s early for you yet, but there will be another lass. Honestly.”

  “Perhaps,” Barry said. “I went to a dance with Jack last weekend. I saw a girl I’d met before. Very pretty, very accessible, but I simply didn’t feel a thing. Nothing. I don’t think I’ll be seeing her again.”

  O’Reilly wondered if Barry had trusted anybody else with that confession. “Ships that pass?” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “Sometimes vessels do meet again.” He knew his voice had a hint of sadness.

  Barry sat back. “Go on, Fingal,” he said quietly.

  That’s exactly what good doctors should do, sense when patients wanted to talk and let the sufferers know they’d be listened to, but O’Reilly didn’t think Barry had his doctor’s hat on. He was simply being a friend. “You know about Kitty and me?”

  “That you were together once? Yes.”

  “Once I got married I never expected to see her again. I probably wouldn’t have if you’d not run into her at the Royal last summer and told me she was asking about me.”

  “I’m glad I did. If you don’t mind me saying, the pair of you seem to be …” He frowned.

  O’Reilly understood that Barry wasn’t sure how far he might go.

  “Having a lot of fun together,” Barry said.

  Tactfully put. “We are,” O’Reilly said. “I’m very fond of Kitty O’Hallorhan.”

  “It shows, Fingal,” Barry said. “I’m surprised you’ve let me have this weekend off. I’d have thought that given she’s been away, you’d have wanted—”

  “To be with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I did.” But she didn’t. Go on, tell Barry. “I think Kitty’s assessing her future. I’ll not be seeing her for a couple of weeks. She’s going to be in London.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s doing a refresher course.”

  “Hardly a reason to be worried. You’ll see her when she comes back.”

  “I know. We have a dinner date, but … but I’m concerned that it could be our last.”

  Barry put his left thumb under his chin and stroked his upper lip with his index finger. “I’m hardly an expert, Fingal, but I can tell you what Jack Mills—”

  “Ulster’s answer to Casanova and Don Juan?”

  “He is experienced. Probably more than the pair of us put together. I can tell you what he told me last summer when Patricia decided her career was more important than falling in love.”

  “Go on.”

  “He told me to let the hare sit. Either she’d come back, or if she didn’t, I’d get the message.” His eyes clouded. “She did come back … for a while.”

  “And is there anything you could have done to keep her?”

  “I suppose I could’ve tried proposing, but I wasn’t ready.”

  Am I ready to propose? O’Reilly asked himself. Was that what Kitty was hinting?

  “I don’t think she’d have accepted anyway. She has her sights set on more important things. She wrote to me a few weeks ago, told me she’d made a mistake. Wasn’t suited for country life. Needed a wider horizon.”

  O’Reilly watched as Barry inhaled, held the breath, then let it escape slowly. Is Barry blaming himself? Fingal wondered. Those suffering a loss usually did. It had taken him years to accept that he could have done nothing to prevent his wife’s death. When he’d suggested Deidre leave Belfast in 1940, she’d flatly refused. He’d told her the city’s shipyards were building a lot of escort vessels and that it might make the city a target for Göring’s Luftwaffe. But she’d laughed it off. If he’d insisted, tried harder …

  Barry fiddled with a spoon. “I suppose I could have gone to Cambridge to be near her,” Barry said. “There’s a damn fine obstetrics and gynaecology unit at Addenbrooke’s Hospital.”

  And is that a hint you’re not altogether satisfied with general practice? O’Reilly wondered, but he said, “Och, Jasus, have you got a dose of the most pernicious disease in the world, if-only-I’d-itis?”

  “I like obstetrics, Fingal.”

  “So did I, Barry, but life interfered.”

  “I know. You told me, but you also said you were very happy as a GP.”

  “I still am,” O’Reilly said. He hesitated before asking, “It’s been nearly nine months since you joined me, Barry. Are you happy?” He waited.

  “Honestly?”

  “Christ, Barry, if you’ve to ask that—”

  “I’m sorry, Fingal, but you’ve just been telling me you’re worried about Kitty. You don’t need to be worrying about me too.”

  “And why not? Isn’t it my job? Worrying about Donal and Bertie Bishop, Julie’s photo contest, about the ringworm outbreak, Alice Moloney’s progress—she’s improving by the way—about the Patton twins?” He leant over and put a hand on Barry’s shoulder. “It’s all part and parcel of what being a country GP is all about, and for me it makes up for not making the great diagnostic breakthrough or cu
ring someone with an heroic operation.”

  “I understand. And you needn’t worry about the twins. I spoke to their paediatrician yesterday. They’re both off forty percent oxygen and thriving.”

  “That’s a relief. It’s one less concern.” He leant closer to Barry. “And I like how you didn’t want to worry me, but it’s been clear as the nose on your face for the last few weeks. You’re having second thoughts. And you are a damn fine midwife.”

  “Well—”

  “It’s all right. I think I know a way out for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll explain it all to you next week. Are you willing to wait ’til then?”

  “Of course, but—”

  O’Reilly put out a hand as if to stop Barry’s curiosity. “Next week. And you will go on working here until July?”

  “Of course. That’s what I agreed to when I started last summer. I’d not renege on you, Fingal.”

  “Good man. I shouldn’t have asked. I’ve always known I could trust your promises.”

  “Thank you for that.” Barry smiled.

  “Aye … well.” O’Reilly wanted to move on. “I need to make a phone call, and the fellah I have to talk to won’t be around at the weekend.”

  Barry rose, then walked to the window and back. “I haven’t the foggiest notion what all this is about, but thank you, Fingal. Thank you very much.”

  “Och, run away on off and chase yourself. No need for thanks.” And in truth there wasn’t. O’Reilly’d miss Barry very much if he moved on, but a volunteer was worth ten pressed men. Young Laverty would be no use as a partner if he wasn’t happy at his work.

  O’Reilly picked up his paper. “You told Kinky you were going down to the Yacht Club. Away you go. Have fun this weekend, and it’s my turn in the surgery on Monday.”

  35

  To Have a Friend Is to Be One

  Barry drove along Bangor’s familiar Seacliffe Road, heading for the Yacht Club, still wondering what O’Reilly had in mind that might help him reach a decision about his future. The old sweater he wore had the familiarity of an old friend. The trousers were ones Kinky had not been able to save, despite her best ministrations; the shirt’s collar was worn, soft against his neck. It felt good to be dressed in his oldest clothes. He was hoping to help out a crew with their spring refit, a job that usually entailed getting dirty. He was ready.