An Irish Country Christmas (43 page)

She was still reminiscing. “We had summers in the hills, servants galore . . .”

Which might account for the way she had treated Helen and Mary.

She looked away into the middle distance, and Barry wondered if she was seeing the Mandan or scenting the mudflats of the Hugli River. As a boy he’d loved the works of Rudyard Kipling.

“I loved India. Have you ever seen an elephant?”

“Well, yes, there was one called Sarah in the Dublin Zoo in Phoenix Park. And I’ve seen them at the circus.”

She snorted. “Poor creatures. I meant a ceremonial animal splendidly caparisoned, with a howdah on its back and a mahout—that’s the driver—sitting just behind its head.”

“I’m afraid not. I’ve not been very far from Ireland.” Not even as far as Cambridge.

“You must travel, young man. Find out about other peoples. I thought the Hindus were fascinating.” She giggled. “You’ll probably think it’s silly, but I even learned a bit of yoga. I used to be able to sit in the lotus position.”

“I don’t see anything silly about it.”

“Thank you. There’s a lot the East could teach the West. I’ve read a lot of Vedic philosophy in their texts, the Upanishads . . .”

Barry was embarrassed, not by her confession, but by how badly, after two very short encounters, he had misjudged Alice Moloney.

“And I found the idea of not eating meat very appealing. Even to this day I can’t eat beef. Cows are sacred in India, you know. As I said, I’m not a big fan of green vegetables, but I do eat carrots and parsnips.”

“I see.” It was almost certainly the answer. How interesting, India. Vegetarianism. It certainly added up. Barry was tempted to call a halt there and then, but to do so would be to neglect his responsibility to her.

She could be losing blood either from heavy periods or, more ominously, from one of a number of disorders of the stomach and bowel—disorders that included cancer. He ploughed on. “Have you been having an upset tummy? Pain when you eat or after you eat? Have you
thrown up any blood?” All symptoms of gastritis or an ulcer in the stomach or duodenum.

“No.” She shook her head. “Nothing like that.”

“Have you noticed any pain in your lower belly, change in your bowel habits, diarrhea, any black motions, any red blood?” Black stools, called melaena, were a sign of stomach or bowel bleeding high in the system. Red blood would come from lower. Piles, diverticulitis, ulcerative colitis, Crohn’s disease, benign polyps, and more worryingly, cancer of the bowel could all produce those symptoms.

“I’ve no pains, and I don’t think there’s anything wrong with my motions. Mind you, I don’t look very often.”

“Not many people do, but I have to ask.” Her answers still didn’t rule out a condition that was painless, like an early cancer.

“I understand, Doctor. What else do you want to know?”

Barry swallowed, coughed, and then asked, “What about your periods?”

She shrugged. “They were never heavy, if that’s what you mean. They stopped about three years ago . . . good riddance to bad rubbish, if you ask me.” She leant forward and put a hand on Barry’s knee. “Now I have the hot flushes.”

Barry did not want to complicate matters at this visit, so he made a mental note to have a chat with her about using small doses of ethinyl oestradiol to control her flushes. At the moment, however, her anaemia took priority. He looked straight at her and said, “If you’ve had no trouble with your periods, and they’re not coming anymore, we can’t blame them for you losing blood. That leaves only two possible causes for your iron deficiency.”

“And what are they?”

“My best guess is that you’re not eating the right things.”

“I suppose.”

He didn’t want to worry her, yet he didn’t like to be dishonest. “You could have something in your bowel.”

She looked him straight in the eye. “Like cancer?”

It was something in her voice that made him ask, “You really do worry about cancer, don’t you, Alice?”

“I should. I have good reason to.”

Barry waited. She’d tell him if she wanted to.

“The word is that you’re in love, Doctor.”

He wanted to deny it, but he could already feel the heat in his face. And this interview seemed to be all about telling the truth. “I am.” Bloody rumour mill. He loved Ballybucklebo, but there were some disadvantages to living here.

“I was once.” The same dreamy look she’d had when she spoke of India flitted across her face. “He was a captain with Skinner’s Horse. It was a famous cavalry regiment.” The look faded, and her eyes glinted as she said, “His doctors lied to him.”

“I’m sorry.”

“They did. They told us he’d get better.” She took a very deep breath. “He died.”

“I am truly sorry, Alice.” What a trite thing to say.

“Do you know what he died of?”

Barry shook his head.

“Leukaemia.”

“My God.” No wonder she’d reacted the way she had done. And no wonder she was concerned about cancer. Thank the Lord he’d been honest, and he would be honest again right now.

“Alice, I can’t tell you that you don’t have cancer. Not until all the tests are done, and for starters I’ll need to examine you, feel your tummy for lumps, and do a rectal examination.”

She curled her lip. “I hate those, but I suppose it’s necessary.”

“I’m afraid it is.”

She rose, left her shawl and coat on the chair, and headed for the screened examining table. “We’d better get it over with.”

Barry examined her abdominally and rectally without finding anything. By the time he had stripped off his rubber glove, washed his hands, and written a prescription for ferrous sulphate, Alice Moloney was already dressed and standing by the chair. Barry also stood.

“Well, Doctor Laverty?”

Barry shook his head. “I can’t find anything, Alice.”

“You mentioned an X-ray?”

“A barium enema.”

“Should I have one?”

“Yes. I’ll arrange it. I’ll try to get it done before Christmas.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Have you a phone at the shop?”

“No. I have one upstairs. I live over the place.”

“Are you usually in at night?”

She made a wry face. “Where else would I be?”

Barry felt her loneliness, and now, having heard her story, he could understand its depth. He wondered what she had been like as a young woman in India. Probably just as vivacious and mischievous as Helen Hewitt was today. Perhaps everything that had happened in Calcutta accounted for Alice Moloney’s antipathy to young girls. He could hardly blame her if she had a bitter streak. He sighed and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’m beginning to understand. Thank you for telling me your story, Alice.”

“Thank you for listening, Doctor.”

“All right. I’ll have to phone the Royal, make an appointment for you.”

“Would you?” She put on her coat.

“Of course.”

“That’s very kind.” She flung her shawl around her shoulders.

“And here,” Barry said, handing her a prescription, “take one of these every day. They’re iron pills. They should have you right as rain in about two to three months.”

“If there’s nothing more serious,” she said, then shrugged. “But I suppose we’ll know that soon.”

“We will.” Barry opened the door for her. “I’ll be on the phone in a minute. It might take a while to make the arrangements, so you go home now and I will phone tonight.” He accompanied her into the hall.

He barely heard her thank-you because he was already dialing the number of the radiology department at the Royal Victoria Hospital. She was in luck. There’d been a cancellation for Thursday morning. If Barry could give his patient the pretest instructions and tell her to go to the department by ten a.m., Alice would have her test at eleven.
He’d get a report by Friday. He’d phone her tonight and tell her he’d pop in on Saturday to give her the results. The less time she had to worry, the better.

He was humming tunelessly to himself when he replaced the receiver. Strange, he thought, before Alice had sat down, he’d already decided he did not like the woman. Now, having heard her story, he thought he understood her a lot better, and he could feel a great deal of sympathy for her spinsterhood. Life hadn’t been easy on Alice Moloney. Not one bit.

Barry went into the dining room, where O’Reilly was in his usual place hiding behind the
Irish Times
. He put the newspaper down and greeted Barry. “I see there’s to be a free vote in the British House of Commons on the twenty-first.”

Barry took his customary seat. “What about?”

“To abolish the death penalty.”

“I’d be in favour of that,” Barry said.

“So would I,” said O’Reilly, “with one possible exception. And the law will still be in effect this afternoon.” He smiled at Barry to show he was only joking—at least Barry hoped Fingal was joking.

“I take it,” said Barry, helping himself to a freshly baked roll and spreading it with butter. “I take it you are referring to Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick.”

“None other,” said O’Reilly. “Pass the rolls.” He took three. “We’re seeing him at his surgery in the Kinnegar at two.”

I Do Like to Be Beside the Seaside

Barry got out of the Rover close to a low granite-block seawall. He heard water lapping at its base. The tide was in. Drying clumps of bladder wrack, their serrated fronds studded with air sacs that gave the seaweed its name, kept company with the flat broad leaves of kelp drying on the wall’s coping stones and on the gravel of the Kinnegar car park.

Boots crunched on the loose stones as O’Reilly walked around the car to join Barry. “Would you look at that?” O’Reilly was pointing to a leathery pouch with tendrils that spiraled from its corners and twined around a piece of kelp. “It’s the egg sac of a dogfish.”

“The locals call it a mermaid’s purse,” Barry said. “Yesterday’s gale chucked it in here with all the other debris.” He inhaled the salty scent, which he knew came not from the tide itself but from the beached seaweed already starting to decay.

He stared out to sea. The Lough was somnolent today, peacefully reflecting the blue of the arch of the sky. It was definitely the calm after the storm, but because they were on their way to beard Fitzpatrick, Barry wondered if it was also the calm
before
the storm.

He glanced back to where O’Reilly stood gazing out over the water. “Look at that ferry,” he said, “ ‘butting through the Channel in the mad March days.”

The boat was ploughing purposefully to Belfast along the dredged and buoyed fairway in mid-lough. It reminded him of a coal boat he’d seen one day making its way to Bangor Harbour. He’d taken
Patricia for a walk on the coastal path near Strickland’s Glen on one of their first dates, and the wind had torn the smoke from the collier’s stack to tatters and made Patricia’s ponytail merrily dance and swing.

“It’s John Masefield, by the way, and I do know it’s December, not March,” O’Reilly said. “I thought you’d be quicker off the mark to tell me.”

“The poem is ‘Cargoes,’ ” Barry said. He hadn’t been interested in playing Name that Quotation. Not today. “Sorry, Fingal. Seeing the boat made me think about something else.”

“Or someone else?” O’Reilly’s voice was soft.

Barry nodded. “Patricia’s going to try to get onto a ferry from England. At least I hope she is.”

“Never worry. She will. Kinky’s
never
wrong.” O’Reilly had a very confident look on his face. “She could teach your man in Rome a thing or two about infallibility.”

Barry had to smile. He felt somehow comforted. “Thanks, Fingal,” he said, and he promised himself he would try to stop worrying. Not wanting to talk further, he turned resolutely back to the sea, looked past the vessel and over to the far side where the Antrim Hills rose dark and purple. A line of white edged their crests like a thin layer of Kinky’s royal icing.

Close to the near shore a cormorant was perched on a black creosoted post that rose from its own mirrored reflection. The bird stretched its long snakelike neck and spread its wings wide to dry in the rays of the winter sun.

A screeching flock of terns, black skull-capped and swallow-tailed, milled around in the sky and, diving like members of a Stuka squadron, plummeted to the calm surface. So clean was each bird’s entry that Barry couldn’t hear any splashes.

“Stewing over it won’t bring her here any quicker.” O’Reilly’s voice was gentle. He had clearly understood Barry’s mood.

“I know, Fingal, and I wasn’t worrying . . . well, not much. Honestly. I was enjoying the Lough. It’s always been a special place to me. I grew up beside it. My folks’ house in Bangor was on a little
peninsula. I’d often go and sit on the shore when I wanted a bit of peace and quiet.”

O’Reilly stooped at Barry’s shoulder. He straightened up, holding a smooth pebble. He looked at Barry, then nodded. “I know what you mean. I think everybody has a special place, what Ernest Hemingway called a
quereñcia
.”

“A what?”

“Every bull in a bullfight will find a place in the bullring where he feels safe, secure. He’ll retreat to it when he can to escape from his tormentors. I don’t think there’s an English word that’s quite as effective as
quereñcia
.”