An Irish Country Wedding (31 page)

O’Reilly frowned. Was that all smokescreen? And yet where was any real evidence to link Bertie to McCluggage?

“Now,” said the marquis, “I suppose the fact that his actions will be recorded verbatim in the public report and that council elections are not too far away
—
” He let the thought hang.

O’Reilly inclined his head. “I knew Bertie would have an an
gle,” he said aloud, but thought to himself, I’m certain it’s more than simply playing for votes. Now, how can I get proof? O’Reilly finished his pint and nodded to the marquis’s glass. “One for the road, sir?”

“Just one, and I think we should join the others.”

They moved across to the table where the rest were finishing their drinks. “It’s all right, Father. Sit where you are,” O’Reilly said. “I can pour a pint and it’s still my shout. Anyone else?”

“I’m fine thanks, Fingal,” Mister Robinson said, nursing his half-pint shandy.

Both Fergus and Dermot held up nearly empty pint glasses. “Please, Doc,” they both said.

“Right, and a half-un, Father?”

“Please.”

O’Reilly fished out his pipe and fired it up on his way to the bar. The tobacco was burning splendidly by the time he had seen to the whiskies and had three pints of Guinness on the pour. He released a huge cloud of smoke, relishing the flavour of the Erinmore
flake tobacco. He’d smoked that brand ever since old Doctor
Micks had given young Fingal a tin for a Christmas present back in 1934 when he was a student.

O’Reilly turned the spigot’s tap and topped off the first pint, making sure the head was creamy smooth. Thinking of medical school brought the marquis’s news back to his mind with renewed pleasure. It was going to take all his willpower not to tell Helen until it was absolutely certain that she’d get the bursary.

He topped off the second pint then his own, found a tin tray, and carried the drinks over to the table. “Here we are,” he said, “help yourselves.”

He pulled up a chair and, pint in hand, sat. “
Sláinte
,” he said, and as the rest replied, drank deeply, quietly mulling over how to find out more about Bishop and McCluggage. If his and Barry’s surmises were right, he wanted to stop Bishop in his tracks right now, but anyone with the temerity to accuse the man without proof would be the recipient of a suit for slander. Even if it became common knowledge that the two men knew each other, tongues might wag, and public suspicions be raised, but it would be a nine-day wonder and soon forgotten.

Fingal O’Reilly smiled and drank. “Well,” he said to no one in particular, “it will make that road a damn sight safer.” He lowered more of his pint. But he doubted very much if that civic-minded goal had even crossed the councillor’s small and narrow mind.

33

Visit Us in Great Humility

Barry whistled off-key. Roger Miller’s “King of the Road” had topped the British pop charts four weeks ago. It was a catchy tune and its title suited what he was doing this Tuesday afternoon, driving round Ballybucklebo making follow-up home visits. He
remembered the first time Fingal had driven them both round
these bucolic byways familiarising Barry with the layout of the local roads so he could plan future visits with as little backtracking as possible.

It was a straightforward route today, up to the estate, back down to a street running parallel with the main Bangor to Belfast Road, and finally on to Station Road to see Colin Brown, who had been up at the Royal this morning having his plaster cast removed, six weeks after its application.

He parked outside a familiar council house, got out, and knocked on the door. A little girl with flaxen pigtails, cornflower blue eyes, and snot on her upper lip was pushing a doll’s pram
that had, he noticed, several spokes missing from one of its
wheels and a torn navy blue canopy. She paid no attention to Barry, but wagged an admonitory finger at the dolly inside and said with a lisp, “If youth’s not a good boy, Mammy will thpank your botty, tho she will.”

“Doctor Laverty.” Barry turned to see Aggie Arbuthnot standing in the doorway holding a paperback copy of
Philadelphia, Here I Come!
“How’s about ye, sir?”

“I’m fine, Aggie, but I thought I’d pop in. See how you’re getting on.”

“Come on in,” she said, and led the way into her parlour. “Cup of tea?”

“Better not. I’ve more calls to make, but thanks.”

“Well, sit you down anyroad.” She lowered herself in an overstuffed armchair and put the book on a table. “I was learning my lines and my blocking, so I was,” she said. She’d told him on his last visit that she was to act the character of Madge in Brian Friel’s new play. Here she was rehearsing her part and the moves, her blocking, she would have to make on stage.

Barry parked himself in another comfortable chair. “How are you?”

“Och, Doctor dear,” she said, “I’m bravely, so I am. No more pain in the oul’ hind leg.” She pulled up her skirt and turned her lower leg so Barry could see the calf. Apart from the old varicose veins, it looked healthy. “I was up at the Royal last week, you know. I’d more blood tests.”

“I do know,” Barry said. “I’d a letter from your specialist, Doctor Crozier, saying your prothrombin time is spot-on. Keep on taking the warfarin, and you’ve nothing to worry about. You’ve not noticed any bruises?” Warfarin interfered with the body’s clotting system and bruising was a sign of overdose.

“Not a bit,” she said. “I’m right as rain, so I am, but
—
” She shrugged and sighed. “Only, my ‘sick’ runs out July fifth. Then I’ll have to go on the burroo and they cut your benefits in half.” She sniffed. “I’ve still a bit of the severance doh-ray-mi, you know, but I’m not sure how I’ll get by when it runs out.”

Barry pursed his lips. Since he’d written that letter to her employer when first she’d come in with superficial thrombophlebitis he’d not done much to help her find a job, despite his protestations of good intent to O’Reilly. Aggie had been receiving state sickness insurance, but now her illness was better she was expected to go back to work or sign on for benefits at the Unemployment Bureau, or “burroo” as the locals called it, where the weekly payments were less. There was one option, but it was a slim one. “I could send a recommendation to the medical referee, see if we could get you more time on the ‘sick.’” The referee’s main function was to weed out malingerers who were abusing the system, but he could also grant extensions of benefits.

She shrank in her chair. Her eyes widened. “The Big Doctor?”

“Aggie, you know your ‘sick’ is finished soon anyway. I’d be asking for an extension, trying to get you a bit more cash. That’s all.”

She frowned. Seemed to be mulling it over.

Barry knew that patients hated having to see the physician employed by the Ministry of Health and Welfare to resolve questions
about who really was sick and who was well enough to return to work. This removed the onus for making such decisions from GPs, who stood to deal with a great deal of anger from patients they refused to certify as sick. For many, a trip to “the Big Doctor,” meant being cut off from benefits and was regarded with trepidation.

“If you say so, sir,” Aggie said, “but I’ll not count my chickens. I’m still looking for work, so I am.”

“I do understand,” Barry said and, remembering one of his father’s adages, “Never promise unless you know you can keep it,”
made no further unrealistic offers. “If the referee decides to see you,
you’ll get a letter and an appointment. He may even simply write and say your request has been approved,” he said. He rose. “Time I was off.”

“Thanks for coming,” she said, and picked up her book. She smiled at him. “Learning these here lines puts in the day, so it
does,” she said, and smiled. “Good afternoon, sir. I’ll be fine, so I
will.”

Fine? With no job and her money running out? Barry shook his head. As he drove to his next call he wondered if it might be worth going to see Mister Ivan McCluggage despite O’Reilly’s warning that Barry would almost certainly be told to “go and feel his head.” And if, as O’Reilly also suggested, McCluggage was in cahoots with Bertie Bishop? Not promising. Not promising at all. They were probably two of a kind. Mercenary and as hard-hearted as Pharaoh in his dealings with Moses.

*   *   *

Barry parked on a street of semi-detached houses behind the main road, got out, and knocked on the door. Overhead a flock of starlings darkened the azure sky as the birds, whistling and chirping, made their way to their roosts on the gantries of Harland and Wolff’s shipyards. From not far away, he could hear the burbling engine of the little diesel train rattling over the rails beside the Shore Road and see the faint blue cloud of its exhaust.

He turned. “Hello, Mairead,” he said when Mairead Shanks opened the door. “How are you today?” He was pleased to see that she was dressed, a good sign she was not feeling sorry for herself and slopping about in her dressing gown. It was two weeks since her surgery and she’d been discharged three days ago.

“Doctor Laverty, how nice,” she said. “Come on in. Come in.”

“Who is it, Mammy?” Barry recognised Angus’s high-pitched voice coming from the kitchen.

“It’s the doctor, so it is.”

“Is he going to send youse away like the last time?” Barry heard the concern in the little lad’s voice. “Me and Siobhan don’t want him to, so we don’t.”

“Not this time,” Mairead said. “He’s come for to make sure Mammy’s all right, isn’t that right, Doctor?”

“It is.”

“Come into the parlour then,” she said, and called, “You two run out and play now.”

Barry heard the slam of what must be the back door and followed her into the front room.

“They’re two great wee nippers, so they are,” she said. “Gerry and me was all tickled when we thought I was up the spout with number three
 
… but, och, it wasn’t to be. Not this time.”

“I’m sorry, Mairead,” Barry said, “but you’re feeling well now?”

“Och, aye. Bit tired. They give me a blood transfusion in the ambulance, and when I was getting discharged they said it would take a wee while for my body to make up the blood I’d lost so they prescribed me a wheen of iron pills for to take.” She sat on the sofa. “Sit down, Doctor. Take the weight off your feet.”

“In a minute,” Barry said. “Can I have a look at your wound?”

“Aye, certainly.” She lay up on the sofa and pulled up her skirt and petticoat.

Barry would have liked to have had a blanket or a rug to cover her now exposed suspenders and stockings, but there didn’t seem to be one handy, and anyway, checking her wound wouldn’t take long. He sat on the edge of the sofa beside her and said, “All right?” as he pulled down the tops of her knickers.

“Go you right ahead, sir.”

A dusky stubble of pubic hair was growing back from being shaved off preoperatively. The scar was obvious, a red line slightly curved down and running horizontally across the bottom of her belly an inch and a half above her pubic symphysis. Good. Her gynaecologist, Doctor Harley, had made the transverse Pfannenstiel incision now being used more frequently rather than the more traditional pubic-symphysis-to-belly-button vertical one. A teacher of Barry’s referred to it as “splitting the patient from stern to gudgeon,” a nautical expression indicating the entire length of a vessel. “Nice bikini incision,” he said, laying a hand over it. It was cool, and obviously Mairead was feeling no discomfort. He palpated her lower abdomen. Once again she did not complain. “You’re healing up well,” he said, pulling up her knickers and standing.

Mairead stood and let her skirt fall, adjusted it, and sat. “Thank you, sir,” she said, and inclined her head. “Can I ask you a wee question? And please sit yiz down.”

Barry sat in a rocking chair. “Fire away.”

She rummaged in her purse and handed him a thin sheet of aluminium foil regularly studded with little transparent plastic bubbles, each containing a tablet. “Them there’s called Conovid,” she said.

Barry recognised the oral contraceptive that had been introduced into the United Kingdom four years ago. “The Pill,” he said.

“Doctor Harley says he doesn’t want me getting pregnant for six months. Give my innards a chance to heal up.”

“That makes good sense,” Barry said. The hospital had sent him a copy of the operative report and he knew exactly what had been done. “Doctor Harley’s a great man for new techniques. I know because he taught me. He’s specially interested in helping women get pregnant when they are having trouble. Most gynaecologists would have taken out the damaged tube with the pregnancy in it. Then you’d only have had one tube left for you to try to get pregnant again.”

She nodded hard. “And me and Gerry want another wee one, so we do.”

“And I reckon you’ve been given the best possible chance, because Doctor Harley was able to save the damaged tube, so you still have two.” Barry did not tell her that statistically she now had a reduced chance of conceiving at all. And if she did, of women whose tube containing a first ectopic pregnancy had been conserved, fifteen percent of those next pregnancies would be another ectopic. Even so she would have been even less likely to suceed with only one tube. By not telling Mairead these statistics he was following the precepts of his teachers who believed that if the future for a patient was unclear, there was no need to worry them further with uncertainties. It was believed to be the kindest way. Perhaps, Barry thought, but I know if it was me I’d like to be told exactly what was going on; but then, I speak the language of medicine.

“So why can’t I try to get pregnant at once? I’m not getting any younger, you know, and there’s already a powerful gap between my two and the next one.”

Barry, humbled by her optimism, sought for the best words to explain. “Your tube, the one that was operated on, it’s not completely better yet. It’ll still be raw in places, and when an egg tries to get along it it might get stuck
—
”