An Irish Country Courtship

  “Jasus Murphy, Cissie.” A short, skinny woman in her early thirties stood in the doorway, arms akimbo. Her red hair was wrapped in a head scarf that was knotted at the front above her forehead. “Didn’t I tell you on Monday I’d meet you outside the post office today because it’s close to where we both live? And me standing there for the last fifteen minutes, both legs the same length, and a lazy wind just got up out there. It wouldn’t bother to go round you. It would go right through you, so it would.”

  “I think,” Barry said, “I’ll leave you ladies to decide on the dresses.” He started to climb the stairs to Alice’s flat. He couldn’t help overhear Aggie going on. “It’s not just that I got foundered out there, Cissie Sloan. My very close veins was acting up something chronic, so they were.”

  Cissie’s apologies were profuse. They should be. Aggie’s varicose veins did need attention. Barry’d made arrangements for her to be seen at the Royal.

  He stopped on the landing and as he knocked on the door to Alice Moloney’s flat, he heard Cissie ask, “And do you have them veins in your toes too?”

  42

  Come to Our Own Home and Rest

  “Hello, Doctor Laverty. Do come in.” Sonny Houston ushered Barry into the little hall of Alice Moloney’s flat. He was wearing a smart tweed jacket and had a yellow paisley cravat knotted at the throat of a crisp white shirt. “Miss Moloney’s tucked up in bed. Maggie’s making her a nice cup of tea.”

  Barry flinched. After a cup of Maggie’s stewed tea, Alice might feel an intense yearning for a return to hospital food.

  “Who’s a good boy then?” Billie Budgie screeched.

  “Houl’ your wheest, you wee bugger,” Maggie growled in a stage whisper. She stood in the tiny kitchen pouring boiling water into a teapot.

  Barry noticed snowdrops in the silk band of her felt trilby. “How are you, Maggie?” he asked.

  Her toothless grin split her leathery face. “All the better for seeing yourself, Doctor dear. You’re just in time for tea—once it’s stewed a bit more.”

  “Maybe later, Maggie. I really have to see Miss Moloney.” He put the thermos on the counter. “Mrs. Kincaid’s beef tea,” he said.

  Maggie looked at it, then at her teapot, and sniffed. “Miss Moloney’ll be glad to see you, sir. I think she’s been through the wars, but she’s on the mend now, so she is. I have her propped up on her pillows.”

  As Barry crossed the living room he noticed that the embroidered sampler of the Lord’s Prayer now hung straight and the table had been dusted. Maggie hadn’t only been looking after Alice’s pets. He knocked on the door frame.

  “Come in.” The voice was quavery.

  “Alice,” he said, “it’s good to see you home.”

  Alice Moloney sat, her back supported by pillows. She wore a pink bed jacket over her powder-blue nightie. Her salt-and-pepper hair had been neatly brushed and hung to her shoulders. Her complexion was losing its earthy look, but her cheeks were sunken. Beside her was her teddy bear. The spherical, tortoiseshell cat lay curled up beside Alice, purring loudly despite being sound asleep.

  “Thank you for coming, Doctor Laverty,” she said. “You needn’t have. Miss Brennan, the district nurse, has already been. I’ve no temperature and my pulse is normal. She’s looked at all my wounds and says they’re healing well.”

  “That’s very good,” Barry said. She’d have three wounds, one for the chest drain, one for the drain that the surgeon had inserted into the abdominal cavity, and of course, the main surgical incision. Any or all could have become infected, but that was unlikely now. The normality of pulse and temperature also made it unlikely she harboured any infection inside. “How are you feeling?” he asked.

  “Tired,” she said. “Weak, but I’ve no pain, and thank goodness, I’ll be able to sleep properly now I’m back in my own bed.”

  “Are you going to be able to manage on your own?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, thank you. Mr. and Mrs. Houston are being most kind.” She screwed up her face. “I think she’s making me another cup of tea.” Barry heard the concern; then Alice said, “My sister Ellen was most attentive when I was in the Royal and she’s coming today to stay, and Miss Brennan says she’ll call every day.” She sighed and stretched out a wasted hand to stroke the cat. “Everybody’s been so solicitous.”

  “I’ll pop in whenever I can,” Barry said, “and call us at once if you feel at all unwell.”

  “I will,” she said. “You and Doctor O’Reilly have been wonderful.”

  Barry was about to dismiss her thanks with a remark about it being their job. In truth, he still felt guilty that because he’d been so wrapped up feeling sorry for himself, he’d forgotten all about Alice Moloney since he’d seen her at the Bishops’ Boxing Day party. And she, in her turn, had not sought out medical attention at Number 1.

  She forestalled him. “I didn’t see much of the great man in the Royal.”

  “Sir Donald Cromie?”

  “Yes. He made ward rounds three times a week, but he left most of the work to his juniors.”

  Barry smiled. “It was ever thus, Alice. Consultants are very busy.” But O’Reilly splits the work fifty-fifty, Barry thought.

  “I do understand, and his young man, a Doctor Mills, was quite charming.”

  “I’ve known Jack Mills since we were schoolboys.”

  “He told me. He also said that you and Doctor O’Reilly saved my life. I believe him.”

  Barry felt the blush start. He knew he was turning beetroot red. Was he, as well as learning about country general practice, also picking up some of his senior colleague’s other traits, like an inability to accept praise without feeling uncomfortable?

  “I am very grateful to you both,” she said. “Because of you I’ll be able to live out my days here in Ballybucklebo knowing I’ve neighbours like the Houstons, and doctors like you and Doctor O’Reilly.”

  “Thank you, Alice,” Barry said. “Thank you very much. Sonny and Maggie are wonderful,” he said. But he wondered if her hope to have him as her doctor in the future was misplaced.

  “Away on out of that, Doctor dear. Sure isn’t it only what any Christian would do?” Maggie dumped a tray on Alice’s bedside table. “I’ve tea for the both of you and pieces of my plum cake.”

  Barry saw the pleading look in Alice’s eyes. “Maggie,” he said, “you have a heart of corn, but I’m going to have to disappoint you.”

  “Oh,” said Maggie, frowning.

  “Alice has been very sick, so she’s on what we doctors call a restricted diet. She’s not allowed sweet things like your wonderful plum cake.”

  “Not allowed? Doctor’s orders, like?” It seemed to mollify her.

  “And there’s a thing in tea called tannin.”

  “Tannin, is it? I heard tell it’s what they use to cure cowhides.”

  “It is,” Barry said. There’s enough in one cup of your tea to make rawhide tough as armour plating, he thought. “And tannin’s very bad for people who’ve just had operations.” He saw the look of gratitude in Alice’s eyes. “What is good for invalids is beef tea.”

  “And didn’t you bring a thermos of it, sir?” Maggie asked.

  “I did.”

  “I’ll get Miss Moloney a cup,” Maggie said. Her eyes narrowed and she fixed Barry with a steely glare. “Yourself’s not on a restricted diet, sir?”

  Barry swallowed. “No, I’m not, but I am in a rush.” By the look on her face, he was sure she was thinking, “liar.” “So no tea, but if you’ll wrap two of those slices of your plum cake while you’re getting Alice’s beef tea, I’ll take them with me. It’s the best plum cake in Ballybucklebo.” Forgive me, Kinky, he thought, as he watched Maggie pick up the tray and leave, but I’d not hurt Maggie Houston for the world.

  Alice smiled and said weakly, “I think that’s the second time you’ve saved my life, Doctor Laverty—”

  Their laughter was interrupted by the entrance of a middle-aged woman. She bo
re a distinct resemblance to Alice Moloney but, Barry guessed, was two or three years younger. Her features were sharp and her skin bore a slight yellow tinge.

  “Alice, my dear,” the newcomer said, “how are you?” She rapidly crossed the floor and planted a kiss on Alice Moloney’s forehead. “I brought you these,” she said and put a bunch of cut flowers on the bedside table.

  “Doctor Laverty,” Alice said, “I’d like you to meet my little sister, Ellen Moloney, from Millisle.”

  “How do you do, Miss Moloney?” Barry said. Ellen had retained her surname and so, Barry deduced, was not married. And if she was anything like Alice, she would be punctilious about correct manners. He’d not use her Christian name until granted permission.

  “How do you do, Doctor?” she said. Her voice was Anglicised like her sister’s, reflecting their having grown up among the English colonists in India. Her yellow tinge almost certainly was the result of steady use of the antimalarial quinacrine. “I am very pleased to meet you.”

  Barry inclined his head.

  “I believe,” she said, “we owe a very great deal to you, Doctor O’Reilly, and the specialists at the Royal. A very great deal indeed.” She turned to her sister. “I’ve been worried sick about you, Alice. When I came to visit you in that hospital you looked so lost among all those tubes and wires, and that nurse’d not tell me anything about you.”

  Barry knew only too well how the best relatives could hope for were stock phrases: “She’s resting,” “She’s comfortable,” “Her condition is guarded.” He’d never understood why visitors seemed to be regarded as too feebleminded to be given proper explanations.

  Ellen sat on the bedside and took her sister’s thin hand and began to stroke it with her own. Her gaze was fixed on Alice Moloney’s eyes. “I don’t know what I’d have done if anything had happened to you, darling. I honestly don’t.” She bent and kissed Alice’s forehead. “You’re all I’ve got,” she said. “I’ve been so dreadfully worried about you.”

  Barry, who did not wish to intrude, stood silently.

  “It’s all right, Ellen.” Alice Moloney’s voice had lost its quavering tone.

  Barry understood. Since the death of their parents, Alice must have taken on the role of protector to her younger sister, and old habits die hard. Weak as she was, she was making the effort. “I’m on the mend. I’ll get a bit better every day, and I’ll have you here, dear, to look after me, won’t I?”

  “Indeed you will.” Ellen Moloney managed a little smile. “It will make a change from you looking after me when we were girls.”

  She turned to Barry. “And Alice is going to get better, isn’t she, Doctor?”

  He read the hope in her eyes. “She is, Miss Moloney. I promise.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Laverty, I’m so very grate—” Her voice cracked and he saw a single tear trickle down her cheek. She swallowed, took a deep breath, and squared her shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but it’s such a relief to know. I couldn’t bear—”

  “It really is all right.” Alice reached forward and hugged her sister. “It’s all right.”

  Barry Laverty, lump in throat, slipped quietly from the room and left the Moloney sisters together in their love, one for the other.

  He’d composed himself by the time he went into the living room, where Sonny was admiring the picture of Mahatma Gandhi.

  “Interesting chap,” Sonny said. “I met Gandhiji when he was in London in 1931 for talks. I had to admire such a skinny little fellow putting up with the English climate, and him in only his dhoti. You know, he told me something I’ve always remembered: The best way to find yourself is to lose yourself in the service of others.”

  Barry nodded. “I think he must have passed that thought on to Doctor O’Reilly. He believes much the same.”

  “We know that, Doctor Laverty.” Sonny looked Barry in the eye. “And we can see it in you too, young man.”

  Wanting to change the subject, Barry quickly asked, “And how did you meet Gandhi, Sonny?”

  “Through a Cambridge friend of mine who’d gone into the diplomatic service and was in the party from the Foreign Office squiring the Mahatma around.”

  “I see.” The mention of Cambridge irritated Barry, but did not cause the same violent ache as it would have done six weeks ago. “That’s Alice’s father in the picture,” he said.

  Maggie appeared from the kitchen carrying the laden tray. “I’ll be taking along her beef tea,” she said.

  “Give Alice and her sister a few minutes,” Barry said. “I think they need some privacy.”

  “I will, so I will.” Maggie set the tray on a table. “I’ve Mrs. Kincaid’s thermos and your plum cake here.” She gave them to Barry. Maggie grinned. “I put in an extra slice for Himself.”

  “Thanks, Maggie.” Barry accepted the package. “I’m sure Doctor O’Reilly will be delighted.” He headed for the staircase, then turned. “And thank you both for helping out here.”

  “Run away on with yourself, Doctor dear,” she said. “I’ve told you, it’s nothing.”

  “It was a pleasure,” Sonny said, “and remember what Gandhi said—so thank you for asking us. She’s going to let us take care of her pets for a while longer.”

  “And we’ll keep a wee eye to her too,” Maggie said.

  “That’s great,” he said, “and Maggie, remember about the restricted diet and the tannin.”

  “I will, Doctor, so I will, but you enjoy my cake now.”

  Assuring her he would, Barry headed downstairs to where Sally was hanging a blue dress back on a rack.

  “Cissie took the red one?” Barry asked.

  “Aye,” said Sally, picking at her pimple. Her voice filled with wonder and dropped in volume. “Doctor Laverty?” she asked. “Did you know Mrs. Arbuthnot has six toes on each foot?”

  “I did, Sally,” he said.

  “Boys-a-dear, that’s ferocious, so it is.”

  Barry pulled the door shut behind him and headed for home.

  As he passed the Presbyterian Church, he could see in the graveyard under the ancient yews the freshly turned earth in the place where Sheilah Devine had been buried last week. She was among family and friends she had known for more than eighty years.

  She could be buried in worse places than Ballybucklebo, Barry thought. Much worse.

  43

  More Beautiful Than Thy First Love

  O’Reilly paced across the upstairs lounge, opened the curtains, then stared through the window and peered along the dimly lit Main Street. The road was empty. He pulled out his pipe, looked at it, shoved it in his pocket, strode back, and sat heavily in the armchair. In what seemed like an hour since he had last consulted it, the minute hand of his watch had advanced by three minutes and it was still only five minutes to seven.

  Would Kitty never get here?

  She’d said she thought they should take a break. Perhaps she’d been right. Since she’d left this house sixteen days ago to go on that refresher course he’d tried to put her out of his mind, but it hadn’t been easy. He kept being reminded by little things. The bottle of gin had been bought for Kitty. It sat forlorn and unused beside the Jameson on the sideboard. On a coffee table, her right glove awaited the return of its fellow. She’d dropped it in the hall and he’d not noticed it until after she’d left.

  Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly wanted Caitlin O’Hallorhan here, and he wanted her now. If nothing else, the break had given him time to think and to arrive at a conclusion.

  It had been a surprise when she’d phoned last week. She’d sounded in good form when he’d spoken to her in her hotel. The time they’d spent chatting about inconsequential matters had sped by. He’d have talked longer, but she’d said, “I’ve got to go, Fingal. I’ve tickets to see Ian McKellen playing Godfrey in A Scent of Flowers.”

  “I’ve read he’s very good … won some award,” O’Reilly said. “Enjoy yourself.” He hesitated, then asked, “Will I give you a call some other nigh
t?”

  “I’m not sure what my plans are,” she said. “You could always try.”

  “Fair enough. If I don’t, don’t worry. Would you like me to pick you up on Wednesday at Aldergrove?”

  “That would be great.” She gave him her flight number and arrival time.

  “Enjoy the play,” he said. “Night-night.” He’d not asked if she was going by herself.

  Over the following days, he’d decided not to phone. Taking a break was a two-way thing. He hoped she was missing him as much as he was missing her. He’d rather not know if she was out, and if she was, he tried to tell himself, why shouldn’t she have fun in the big city? And he’d wondered about John Roulston.

  O’Reilly hauled out his briar, struck a match, and got the pipe drawing well.

  Roulston had seemed to be a decent enough chap. He’d been helping Kitty with her suitcase on Wednesday when Fingal arrived to pick her up at Belfast’s Aldergrove Airport. Damn it, he’d been looking forward to having the very first moments with her to himself. He’d been harbouring a dream that, like a scene from a romantic B movie, she’d drop her case, run to his arms, and say breathlessly, “God, Fingal, I’ve missed you.”

  She’d not do that with a senior surgeon in tow.

  Roulston was a dapper man. Five-foot-ten, slim, good head of neatly trimmed dark hair, small scar under his right eye. He’d been wearing a camel-hair coat with black-velvet collar patches, had knife creases in his charcoal-grey slacks, and wore highly polished black shoes.

  O’Reilly glanced at the cuffs of the clean white shirt he’d put on for tonight. His gold cuff links shone. A neatly tied, half Windsor knot secured his Trinity College graduates’ tie. Like a nineteen-year-old putting on Old Spice after his second shave of the day, he wanted to look his very best. Kinky had sponged off his sports jacket and ironed his tweed pants. He’d never liked shoes and was more comfortable in his old, ankle-high, brown-leather boots, the likes of which any farmer might have worn. He knew he needed a haircut.