An Irish Country Love Story (14 page)

She put its hood up and held his hand as they trudged the last few hundred yards to reach the grassy verge onto the tarmac of the Comber Road where the marquis waited and the foxhounds milled about. Only one car was in evidence, a Ford Cortina, with Donal Donnelly in front and Dapper Frew waiting behind the wheel.

“No luck, Fingal?” John MacNeill asked.

O'Reilly shook his head and drops of water sprayed from the soft brim of his paddy hat. “None. We thought we might have found him, but it was just a bad-tempered badger.” The wind had an edge. The sooner he and Kitty got home the better.

“Nor did anyone here,” the marquis said. “I've sent Myrna ahead to guide poor Lars home. He was more shaken up by his adventure than he'd admitted at lunch.”

“But he's all right?” O'Reilly asked.

“Nothing that a hot bath and a stiff brandy won't cure,” the marquis said. “Myrna's very good at looking after lame ducks. I think she's feeling contrite. She knows she shouldn't have brought a novice along and then taken off after that fox. Damn fool thing to do and I don't blame your brother one bit for objecting to fox hunting after what he's been through today.”

O'Reilly knew that Lars's objection was less because he'd had a scare and more based on his ideas of animal conservation, but he reckoned this was neither the time nor the place to prolong that discussion. He said, “I'm glad to hear that.” He looked around. “Have all the rest gone home already?”

“'Fraid so, and I mean home. The men were too tired, wet, and disappointed even to agree to popping into the Duck for a hot half.”

“I know how they feel,” Kitty said. “All that effort and no good news for the Houstons. And Jasper out in the elements for another night, if he's still—”

“Ah, now, Mrs. O'Reilly, never say die. And to quote Sir Winston, ‘Never, never, never give up.'” The marquis touched his crop to the peak of his hard hat in salute. “It's home for me and the hounds now. Don't forget about next week.” Then, followed by the pack, he cantered off into the sheeting rain.

 

11

Examine Well Your Blood

“January brings the snow—”

The voices of Flanders and Swann came from the radio in Barry's Volkswagen as he parked outside the Houstons' garden gate.

“—makes your feet and fingers glow.”

He switched off. The month might bring snow in comic verse, but here in County Down on the morning of Thursday the 19th there was none. Instead a northeaster was howling, rocking the car on its springs and driving rattling rain against the roof and windows as if a regiment of vindictive children armed with peashooters was firing a continuous barrage against the metal and glass. Across the road, tall trees bowed and thrashed, whirling their bare branches. Even the Houstons' neatly clipped evergreen privet hedge swayed and rustled. What a day, and this was only the first of seven home visits Barry had to make. More than usual, but the number always went up when the weather was foul and folks would rather be seen at home than brave the elements. All part of the job.

He grabbed his bag, turned up his raincoat collar, and forced the door to open against the blast. As soon as he was outside, a gust ripped his cap off and tossed it whirling over the trees. “Blue bloody…” he snapped, and thought, Careful, boy, you may admire Fingal Flahertie O'Reilly, but you don't have to ape everything he does or says. Barry didn't even wait to watch the duncher go, but hurried through the gate and along the path to ring the front doorbell and wait for the now-familiar routine of a voice, this time a woman's calling, “Hang on,” and barking dogs. Maggie would be herding their unruly mob, minus Jasper, of course, into the kitchen.

A trickle of water found its way past his collars and ran an icy finger down his back. Barry shuddered and muttered, “Get a move on, Maggie.”

“Come in, Doctor, dear,” she said as she opened the door.

Barry hurried inside.

“Boys-a-boys,” she said, closing it behind him, “no harm til you, but you look like a drowned rat.”

Barry ran a hand over his sodden hair, which was plastered to his head. “It's blowing a gale out there,” he said. As if, he thought, that wasn't pretty obvious.

“Get you out of that coat and I'll dry it by the kitchen range and bring you a towel. Go on on into the living room. Sonny's expecting you, so he is. We're both anxious to hear about his tests.”

“I have his results here.” Barry held up his bag before taking off his coat.

She took his coat and gave it a violent shake. She hesitated then asked, “I don't suppose there's any word of Jasper? All kinds of folks have been phoning to say they'd keep an eye out, and they're sorry for our troubles. Jeannie Jingles's cousin Brian Weir works as a printer's apprentice up in Belfast and he made up some posters and they're everywhere. He come to the house two days ago and got a picture of Jasper. Nice young man. Said he lost a dog when he was a young lad and wanted to help. We was so sorry the search party didn't find ours.”

“I'm sorry too,” he said, “but we mustn't give up hope.” God help the creature, Barry thought, if he's still alive and out in that lot. I hope he's found somewhere dry.

“Poor ould thing,” she said. “It's all my fault. I shouldn't have let him out of the car, and when he bolted, I should have gone after him.”

Barry squeezed her arm. “Maggie, Jasper was bound and determined to get out of that car, you couldn't have stopped him. And we could barely see the noses on our faces that morning. There's no way you could have found Jasper. We'd have more likely lost you too, and then where would Sonny be?”

“You're right. I know you are, but I still feel bad. Mind you, I've heard of dogs missing for weeks and still turning up.”

“That's the spirit, Maggie. Now I'd better go and see my patient. Come back soon so I can explain to both of you what's going on.”

“I will,” she said. “I'll get you that towel and I'll get the kettle on too. I've a wheen of buttermilk scones. I had a half notion Doctor O'Reilly was trying to avoid my plum cake last time he was here so I've made something else.”

Barry sighed at the prospect. In his experience, Maggie's scones were only marginally less rock-like than her plum cake. He let himself into the lounge, where in the grate a welcoming coal fire burned, giving off a pleasing warmth as if to cock a snook at the sounds of the windowpanes rattling and the wind howling over the chimney pots. A polished brass coal scuttle reflected the light from a small chandelier.

Sonny, wearing a tartan dressing gown, was teed up in front of the hearth on a sofa that was flanked by two armchairs. General Montgomery was curled up asleep at his feet. Sonny's hair was neatly brushed and he managed a small smile. He was very pale. “Please forgive me for receiving you lying down, Doctor Laverty,” he said. “I'm still so weak.” He gasped.

And short of breath. “Perfectly all right, Sonny. I understand,” Barry said. “Have you noticed anything new since we were here last Friday?” He stood beside Sonny and took his pulse.

Sonny shook his head. “Only that now I understand a bit about what ails me I've been able to keep my temper under control. For that I am very grateful.” He motioned to an armchair. “Unless you need to examine me?”

Barry shook his head. “Your pulse is one hundred and I don't expect much else will have changed.” One hundred wasn't bad considering what Barry knew from the lab results. He took the armchair beside Sonny's head. “I have your results and I'll explain in more detail as soon as Maggie comes in, but they look promising.”

“Thank you, Doctor. That's one less concern, I hope.” Sonny looked at a framed photo of a group of dogs on a table beside the sofa. He sighed. “I worry about Jasper. Please thank Doctor O'Reilly for leading that search party. I've phoned Mister Bishop to thank him too.”

“I'm sorry they didn't find Jasper,” Barry said, knowing full well there was no point mouthing trite platitudes about “not giving up hope” to Sonny. “Some of my patients have told me in the last couple of days that they're looking for him round where they live and neighbour is asking neighbour to join in and do the same. I've even had a couple of calls from folks in Helen's Bay and Holywood asking how they could help, so I've told them to do the same thing. We'll soon have half of North Down keeping an eye out.”

Sonny sighed. “We do live in a wonderful place,” he said. “People still care.” He smiled.

“And we care about you, Doctor Laverty,” Maggie said as she came in and handed him a dry towel. “It's been in the hot press,” she said, “and that's over the hot water boiler so the towel's nice and warm, so it is.”

“Thank you, Maggie,” Barry said, accepting the towel and drying his face, neck, and hair.

Maggie laughed. “I thought that would happen,” she said. “Your mop looks like a hay rick after a windy day.”

Barry, conscious of a tuft that always refused to lie down, rubbed his hand over his crown to try to flatten his hair.

“Here,” Maggie said. “Here's a new comb, and don't be shy using it in front of other people…”

Barry was. Public personal grooming had been distinctly frowned upon at Campbell College when he was a boy, and old habits died hard.

“All the youngsters do ever since Kookie on
Seventy-Seven Sunset Strip
on the telly did it.” She sat in the other armchair.

“Thank you,” Barry said, and combed his hair. “Now.” He opened his bag and pulled out several pink sheets of paper. “I've got all your tests so I'll explain what they mean and what we'll do next.”

“We'd be grateful, Doctor,” Sonny said.

Barry read from the first form. “The lab measured your haemoglobin level. That's stuff in the red blood cells. Its job is to carry oxygen. Normally it's fourteen point eight grams per hundred millilitres. Yours is six.”

“Six?” Sonny whistled. “That's very low.”

Barry had wanted to make that point clearly so he'd used exact numbers, but the rest of the blood indices were difficult to explain in detail so he had determined to avoid using confusing figures and ratios. “It is, and so is your total red cell count. The technical term for red cells is corpuscles. Your body, and it's mostly the bone marrow that does it, isn't producing enough red cells.”

“I see.”

“And there's another thing. Immature red cells are much bigger than healthy mature ones. And each young one carries more haemoglobin than an older one. The pathologists have defined certain ratios about haemaglobin content and size of the immature and mature cells, and yours meet all the criteria for immaturity. It's like a factory that is short of raw materials and turning out half-finished products. Your bone marrow's trying to cope in the same way by releasing immature cells too soon.”

Sonny managed a weak smile. “Immature cells? And it's those cells, or rather the lack of mature ones, that are making me feel as old as Methuselah. I understand.”

Barry chuckled, admiring the man's resilience. “Do you know, Mister Houston,” Barry said, “when I first met you, you were living in your car and—I hope you'll forgive me—I thought you were—”

“Astray in the head?” Sonny chuckled. “So did everybody else except your senior colleague, Doctor O'Reilly. He is a very sage man.” Sonny became more serious. “Fact is I've never much worried about what other people think of me.”

“I think you are a very self-sufficient person who knows his own mind and has a very dry sense of humour.”

“Oh, he knows his own mind, all right,” said Maggie with a sharp cackle. “You might call it self-sufficiency. There's some might call it stubbornness. But I love the old eejit anyway.”

“Thank you, Maggie, dear, and thank you, Doctor. If you don't mind me saying, for a young man you are beginning to show a little of the sagacity of Doctor O'Reilly himself.”

Barry smiled. “Thank you.”

“So your ratios,” Sonny said, “have given you a diagnosis?”

“Not entirely,” Barry said. “The ratios allow us to make intelligent inferences about the nature of the anaemia and possible causes, but the lab people also spread blood on microscope slides and use special dyes, it's called making a smear, so they can actually examine the individual cells and identify them for exactly what they are.”

“I'd like to see one of those smears,” Sonny said. “The whole thing sounds a bit like my old trade of archaeology. You suspect something by inference then you dig down layer by layer until you find what you're looking for…” he smiled again, “or as is often the case, you don't find it.”

“In your situation I think we're getting close,” Barry said.

“You just let Doctor Laverty get you all better, you ould goat,” Maggie said, and the fondness in her voice was palpable. “Go on, Doctor, dear.”

“The report says that among the red cells are ones called normoblasts and others called megaloblasts. ‘Blast' means an early cell that's starting to develop and ‘megalo' means—”

“Of exaggerated size, like in
megalodon,
a giant prehistoric shark,” Sonny said. “And that's a big immature red cell. I understand, and please forgive me for interrupting.”

“And as far as I know there are only two possible causes.” He laughed. “Well, there is a third, but unless you are a miracle of science, Sonny Houston, I don't think it applies.”

“Anything's possible with Sonny,” she said. “What's the third cause, Doctor, dear?”

“Macrocytic—which is a fancy way of saying overly large-celled—anaemia due to … pregnancy.”

Maggie exploded into her cackly laughter and Sonny smiled. “I am not that self-sufficient, Doctor Laverty.”