An Irish Country Love Story (5 page)

“Sleep well,” said O'Reilly.

“I will,” she said.

“Barry and I will cope tomorrow,” O'Reilly said. “All right by you, Barry?”

“Sure.”

“You have the day off, Nonie.”

“Thank you, Barry, Fingal,” she said, heading for the door.

The door closed behind her.

“Decent of you, that, Barry,” O'Reilly said.

“Och,” Barry said, “I've had lots of time off while Sue was here. Nonie's only just started with us. Let's give her a chance to settle in.”

“Agreed,” said O'Reilly. “Let's do just that.”

 

4

They That Are Sick

“You, my dear,” Kitty said as she poured O'Reilly a second cup of tea, “are becoming a regular gentleman of leisure. Here.” She handed him the cup and saucer, passing them across his plate, on which lay the wreckage of a pair of breakfast kippers.

“Thanks.” He spread his favourite Frank Cooper's Oxford marmalade on a slice of toast. “And it is pleasant to have more time off. Nonie's doing the Friday-morning surgery, Barry's out making a couple of home visits, and all I have to do is sit here in case of a real emergency. I can sup my tea and enjoy the company of the best-looking woman in Ulster until Barry comes back and then, if the lovely off-duty Sister O'Reilly would like, I'll take her to lunch at the Culloden.”

“Great idea, Fingal. I'd like that very much,” Kitty said. “So we have Nonie to thank for this more leisurely pace.”

“We do.”

“How is she working out?”

“Fine, I think. She doesn't have the even temperament of Jenny, but she's a first-rate physician. The customers seem to like her and she's a hard worker. I think she's fitting in well.”

“I'm glad to hear it.” Kitty sipped her own tea. She cleared her throat and said, “Look, after lunch could we nip down to Bangor? We really need to buy some new curtains for this room. They're getting threadbare.”

“Excuse me.” Kinky came in carrying an empty tray. “I'll just tidy up then get back to my kitchen, so, to see to the other doctors' lunches. I did not mean to eavesdrop, but I did hear you say, sir, that you would be taking Kitty out to lunch?” She began to clear the table.

“That I will,” said O'Reilly, and bit into his toast.

“More power to your wheel, sir. It does me good to see yourself having a bit more free time.” She started loading her tray.

“Thanks, Kinky.” O'Reilly frowned and turned to Kitty. “I don't see the need for new curtains. The old ones have stuck the pace bravely ever since I bought the practice.”

“Exactly,” said Kitty. “They'd not have been out of place … what year was this house built? I've always thought it looked Georgian.”

“Back in 1818.”

“I was right, and I'm sure they've been here since King George III ruled all of Ireland. They are positive antiques.”

“But I like these old curtains. I don't want to spend more money buying new ones.” History repeating itself, he thought as he took a healthy bite of toast and washed it down with tea. Of course he wanted Kitty to feel at home here and make it her own, but he saw no need for added expenditure. “Kinky, what do you think of them?”

Kinky abruptly stopped lifting a plate from the table and cast a speculative eye from O'Reilly to Kitty. “Well, sir—”

“Dear Fingal, don't put Kinky in an awkward position.”

“No, I'd like to know her opinion. Kinky is the soul of practicality. She'll know if the dining room needs new curtains. Kinky?”

“Well, sir, in truth, they do look a bit the worse for wear, so. And you know how her ladyship liked to climb them when she was a wee kitten. I hadn't really noticed until Doctor Stevenson said—”

“Doctor Stevenson, is it? That's why you're suddenly so eager to redecorate, Kitty—”

“Redecorate? Nonsense,” Kitty said, a steely look in her grey eyes. “I just think the dining room needs some new curtains. I'd got used to them too, but Doctor Stevenson mentioned them to me after the last time she was in here.”

“I see.” He could feel the tip of his nose turning cold and probably white. Nonie Stevenson was a member of his practice, a professional colleague, but she had no business meddling in the affairs of this house, and he'd tell her so the next time he saw her.

“I'll be running along, back to my kitchen,” said Kinky, quickly finishing loading up her tray and leaving without a backward glance.

“Thank you, Kinky,” Kitty called to the woman's retreating back.

Kitty, Nonie, and even Kinky seemed to be ganging up on him. Lord, he thought, preserve me from this monstrous regiment of women. Then he grinned. Don't be such an old bear, he told himself. In a minute he'd be growling “Bah, humbug” if he wasn't careful.

“Really, Fingal. Doctor Stevenson just mentioned in passing to Kinky and me what a charming old house it was and were the curtains original. It was a joke. There was no malice in it, but it made me think. And while I'm quite sure you do like them, they are going. And don't forget, I earn my own keep. I'll be happy to pay for the new ones.”

The front doorbell trilled. Unusual, he thought, taking a sip of his tea. Patients normally came to the waiting room door at the side of the house unless there was some crisis. “I'm very fond of those curtains,” he said. “I don't think they need to go at all. In fact I'm sure of it.”

He heard Kinky's voice and some other very familiar female tones.

Outside the window, flakes were dancing and whirling, clinging to the branches of the old yew trees in the churchyard across the road, lying on the windowsill, and sticking to the glass of the panes. “Would you look at that,” he said, pointing out through the window. As far as he was concerned, the subject of new curtains was closed. “First snow this winter.”

“Brrr, I hope it blows over soon.”

Kinky peeked into the dining room, looking from Kitty to O'Reilly. “Sorry to disturb you,” she said, “but I do have a very anxious Maggie Houston and one of their dogs in the hall, so. You've known Maggie forever and Doctor Stevenson does not. I think the poor woman needs to see a friendly face. Would you speak to her, sir? She'll tell me nothing.”

Through the years, Kinky had become a triage officer par excellence, and if she thought a patient should be seen at once O'Reilly knew better than to demur. “Bring her in here,” he said.

“I think I'll go and get a tape measure,” Kitty said, and made an obvious wink to Kinky, “and measure the windows here when Maggie's gone.”

Maggie MacCorkle, as she had been before she'd married Sonny Houston, had been one of the first patients O'Reilly had introduced to young Barry three years ago, when she had been complaining of headaches—two inches above the crown of her head. She was certainly eccentric, but the fact that she'd not confide her troubles to Kinky, when everyone usually did, boded ill, O'Reilly thought. He fished out his half-moon spectacles and perched them on his nose.

Kinky opened the door to the dining room. “Here's Maggie.” She ushered the woman into the room, followed by a large dog. The ungainly animal looked like a cross between a Labrador, a standard poodle, and something with long droopy ears.

“Morning, Maggie,” O'Reilly said. “Have a pew.” He pulled out a chair.

Maggie sat sideways. Wellington boots peeped out from under her voluminous black skirt, itself half-hidden under a heavy overcoat. A blue felt hat perched on her grey hair. The wilted flowers that she customarily wore in her hatband had been replaced by a sprig of holly with fresh red berries. Her usually bright ebony eyes were lifeless.

The dog flopped to the floor at her feet, regarded O'Reilly with doleful eyes, and began sweeping its tail back and forth and drooling onto the carpet.

“This here's Jasper,” Maggie said.

“Morning, Jasper,” O'Reilly said, and smiled. Rural practice had its moments. The dog wasn't the first animal to be brought to Number One Main Street. Not by a long chalk. Miss Moloney the dressmaker had sought his opinion on the health of her African grey parrot, and just before Christmas, Colin Brown had brought in his pet white mouse, Snowball, the little beast that had got loose at Kinky's wedding. He did not, however, think Maggie wanted an opinion about the dog. “And what can I do for you, Maggie?”

“Och, Doctor O'Reilly,” she said, and sniffed.

O'Reilly took a chair opposite and leaned forward. “What's the trouble?”

She sighed, placed a huge handbag on the dining room table, and said, “It's Sonny, so it is. He's not well.” A tear trickled down one wrinkled cheek.

He could tell this was an informal occasion. She was not wearing her dentures.

“The ould goat refuses to see a doctor. Said he'd bar the door if one came til the house, so he did.” She snatched a short hiccup of a breath. “I don't know what to do. I'm at my wits' end, so I am. He doesn't even know I'm here. I took the bus. Said I was going shopping.” She rummaged in the bag, fished out a large linen hanky, and blew her nose with a ferocious honk. “This buck eejit,” she pointed at the dog, who made a strange
Aaaarghow,
“followed me til the stop and wouldn't go home. And see that there Sticky Maguire? Him that's the bus conductor with Ulsterbus? Says he til me, he says, when the bus pulled up at the stop, ‘No dogs allowed.' And just because your man's got a uniform and a peaked cap, he's standing there on the platform like a wee Hitler.” Maggie looked at her handbag. “Says me til him, ‘Away off and chase yourself, Sticky Maguire. You let me and Jasper here on or I'll—I'll…'” She pursed her lips then inhaled deeply. “I was so cross. I had til get here til see a doctor and I didn't want til miss the bus. And poor Sonny sick, so I took this,” she picked up her bag, “and I said, ‘See you, Sticky, let us on or, or I'll hit yiz with my handbag, so I will.'”

Fighting words, O'Reilly thought. She must be really worried about Sonny. “And?”

“Shooey Gamble and your man Fergus Finnegan, the jockey, was on the bus. The pair of them starts chanting, ‘Let her on, Let her on,' and soon everybody joined in.” She smoothed her skirt. “And here I am.” She replaced the bag on the table.

“And here you are,” said O'Reilly, who was well used to the solidarity shown by Ulster country folk when one of their own was threatened. “And you're going to tell me about Sonny.”

She swallowed. “He's not well and I'm dead afeared.”

“Don't be scared, Maggie. You've done the right thing, coming to us,” O'Reilly said. “Now, what do you think's wrong with him?” He immediately regretted his phrasing. Maggie Houston folded her arms across her chest and snapped, “If I knew that I'd be a doctor myself now, wouldn't I? Finding out's your job, so it is.”

O'Reilly smiled. He'd not made that elementary mistake with the literal-minded Ulster folks for years. “True. Let's put it this way. What seems to be troubling him?”

“It's hard to say.” She frowned. “You'd need for til ask him. But he won't see a doctor. Says he doesn't need one.”

Which, O'Reilly thought, could make things tricky. He hid a smile. Good history-taking was supposed to avoid asking leading questions, but so far he'd learned nothing of use beyond the well-known fact that Sonny Houston was a stubborn man. “Is he in pain?”

She shook her head.

O'Reilly waited. He guessed if Sonny had been bleeding, Maggie would have asked for a home visit at once or dialled 999 for emergency services, so that probably wasn't the cause.

She stared at the carpet.

“Maggie, I really want to help you, but you have to try to help me.” Just about what he'd said to Andy Jackson last Saturday.

“I don't know what ails him. He's just, just, och dear, he's just not at himself, so he's not.”

“Can you describe in what way?” O'Reilly knew the sixty-one-year-old Sonny suffered from arthritis of his hands and mild congestive heart failure that was usually controlled by low doses of digitalis and a hydrochlorothiazide diuretic.

“He gets awful tired, short of breath and…” She started to wring her hands.

Typical of heart failure, O'Reilly thought. Sounds pretty straightforward. Perhaps he needs an increase in dosage.

“I'm ashamed, so I am, til tell yiz the rest.” She stared at her boots.

“Come on, Maggie,” O'Reilly said, speaking softly, but feeling the rising impatience in his shoulders and neck. “You can do it.”

She sniffed, pursed her lips, and screwed up her eyes. “Except for til discipline his dogs,” she looked down accusingly at Jasper, now sound asleep and snoring gently, “Sonny Houston's never raised his voice in anger til a living soul. Except maybe that great glipe Bertie Bishop over the roof business.” She looked down at her hands, which were gripped tightly together in her lap, then looked O'Reilly in the eye. The words came out in a rush. “This morning I spilled milk when I was putting it on his cornflakes. He—He—” She shook her head. Silence.

O'Reilly leant forward, put a hand on her arm. “Come on, Maggie,” he said, “you can spit it out if you try.”

She inhaled, paused, and said, “He shouted at me. Called me a clumsy oaf. A stupid old woman. He was fit to be tied. Yelling at me. Spittle flying.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He put the fear of God intil me, so he did, and that's not the first time lately, neither. That's why I come here. He's not my old Sonny.”

O'Reilly sat back. “That doesn't sound like Sonny,” he said, while trying to recall what, if anything, he knew about the significance of sudden and completely out-of-character changes in behaviour. They sounded more like some psychiatric disorder. Whatever it was, it needed sorting out, and soon. “I know that's what's got you worried most, Maggie, and I can understand why, but I still need your help. Have you noticed anything else wrong? Anything at all.”