An Irish Country Christmas (13 page)

It came as no surprise to note that both knees and both ankles were slightly swollen. That, taken in conjunction with the nature of the rash, pretty well nailed things down.

Sammy had a condition that often followed upper respiratory infection in children, Henoch-Schönlein purpura. In most cases it was self-limiting and cleared up without treatment, although it could take several weeks or even months before the signs and symptoms disappeared completely. Barry pulled up the lad’s pyjama bottoms. “You can roll over, Sammy.

“Now, young Sam, you’re going to have to stay in bed for a while.”

“No school?”

Barry shook his head. “Not until after the Christmas holidays.”

“Wheeker. Christmas Day’s seventeen days away, and school doesn’t start until after New Year. I’m going to get a brave long holiday, so I am.” Sammy’s smile was very wide, but it faded. “Does that mean I’m ferocious sick, like?”

Barry saw the concern in the little boy’s eyes. It was strange that during his training it had never occurred to him that children could worry as much as adults. He looked for simple words to explain to the boy what ailed him and realized that he’d have enough difficulty trying to explain it to an adult. Henoch-Schönlein purpura was an autoimmune disease, an ill-understood group of conditions like rheumatoid arthritis, dermatomyositis, and lupus erythematosus in which the body mysteriously began to attack itself.

Barry hoped he could get away with confidently expressed reassurance. “You’ll be fine,” he said. “Do you play soccer?”

“Aye. I do that. I’m a right-winger, so I am.”

“Well,” said Barry, “you’ll be out there scoring goals again in no time. Just like Stanley Matthews.” The Blackpool player was the most famous soccer player of his day. Barry wasn’t much of a sports fan,
but he did understand the power of the familiar when someone needed reassurance. Somehow his being able to trot out the player’s name would persuade Sammy that Barry was also an initiate into the soccer fans’ world and hence to be trusted.

“Wheeker,” Sammy said with a grin. “Just like Stan the man.”

“But you’ll have to do exactly what your mammy says for a while.”

The lad’s face fell.

It was going to be a boring few weeks for the child, and that could make things hard on his mother. And God knows, Eileen didn’t need any more grief than she already had. He hesitated but then decided to reinforce the message. “And if you don’t obey your mam, Sammy, maybe Santa won’t come.”

“Huh,” said Sammy, “it won’t make a wheen of difference this year anyhow.”

“Oh?”

“Nah. Mammy says poor oul’ Santa’s a bit short of the do-re-mi this year, so me and my brother and sister’ve to go easy on what we ask him for.”

Barry could understand why Santa might be a bit hard up. With the lad needing to stay in bed longer, Santa’s budget was going to be cut even closer to the bone if Eileen couldn’t go back to work. Barry had been proud of his ability to make a confident medical diagnosis of what ailed the lad, but now he wished O’Reilly was here. He would be bound to have a solution to Eileen’s financial woes.

Barry stood. “You listen to your mammy, Sam, like a good lad, and I’ll be back to see you in a day or so.”

He was rewarded with a big smile.

“And don’t you worry about Santa; I’m sure he’ll come.”

“Too true he will.” Barry was struck by the absolute confidence in the boy’s voice. “Me and Mary and Willy have a way to help him out.”

“Good for you.” Barry moved to the door. “I’ll see you in a day or two, Sammy.”

As Barry went downstairs, he heard the boy call, “Bye-bye, Doctor Laverty.”

“In here, Doctor.”

He heard Eileen’s voice coming from a room across the hall. She would be waiting for him in the front parlour. He went into her best room. It was carpeted. Eileen stood beside the mantelpiece. Two bamboo-framed armchairs faced a small grate. He noticed in one glance that the coal fire was set, but not lit, and one of Eileen’s nylons was laddered.

She must have seen where his gaze had gone. She blushed, looked down, and said, “Wouldn’t you know it, a new pair, right out of the package, so they were, and one of Sonny Houston’s dogs jumped on me in the village yesterday. Poor Sonny felt awful. Was halfway to insisting he buy me a new pair, but, well . . .” Barry could see the pride and resolve lift her chin a little higher. “Anyway, I’m sorry the fire’s not lit, Doctor, on such a cold day as this . . .”

Barry understood why. Stockings and coal cost money.

“I’m saving the fire up for the week before Christmas when the kiddies send their letters to Santa.”

Barry could vividly remember being a child and laboriously writing a letter of wishes to Santa to be burnt in the living room fire so the charred paper, with the words still readable, would be wafted up the flue and directly, at least according to his parents, to Santa’s workshop at the North Pole. Which reminded him, it was about time he dropped his folks a note. “I hear Saint Nick’s a bit hard up this year, Eileen,” he said.

“He is, but look, sir.” She lifted a tea caddy from the mantle and handed it to him. He noticed it bore a picture of the 1947 wedding of Princess Elizabeth to a lesser Greek prince, Philip. “Open it.”

To his surprise Barry found it full of ten-shilling notes.

“See,” she said with a shy pride, holding out her hand so he could return the caddy. “I’ve been putting away ten bob as often as I can from my wages so the kiddies won’t go short on Christmas Day. I’ve nearly fifteen pounds in there.”

“Good for you, Eileen.”

She used the back of her wrist to shove a few strands of hair off her forehead. “It’s not much between the three of them, but I will be able to get them some wee things. Just to unwrap on Christmas Day, like.”

Barry coughed. He felt a tightness in his throat. It was humbling to see how she was exerting herself for her family. Dear God, but he had to admire the woman. Putting some small savings away for little luxuries for her children, but neglecting her own needs. He glanced at the laddered stocking again. Unbidden, his hand went into his pants pocket looking for a pound note. Then he pictured the scene if he tried to give it to her. She’d stand ramrod stiff, scowl at him, and say haughtily, “The Lindsays don’t accept charity.” Damn it, just like the meanness of her State allowance, it was something he was powerless to do anything about. Still, he could explain to her what was wrong with her son, perhaps give her some small comfort. He smiled, hoping she would find that reassuring.

“About Sammy . . .”

“Yes, Doctor?”

“He’s got a condition that we often see after coughs and colds. It’s got a German name as long as your arm—”

“Och, sure, don’t you bother your head telling me it, Doctor. I’d only forget.”

“It’s a miracle I remember it myself sometimes. But never mind the name, Sammy’s going to be alright.”

“Thank God for that,” she said. “I’ve enough on my plate without a really sick one to nurse.” There was a tear at the corner of one eye. “He’s a very good wee lad, so he is.”

“He’ll be right as rain,” Barry said, “and there’re usually no lasting problems once the patient gets better.” He saw no reason to worry her that occasionally a child would bleed from the bowel or develop kidney failure. Such complications were extremely rare. “But if he complains of a sore tummy or if you notice any blood in his urine, call me at once.”

“I will, Doctor.”

“And Eileen?” His gaze held hers. “I mean
at once
.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I’ll pop in and see him in a day or two.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She replaced the caddy on the mantelpiece and turned back. Barry realized she wanted to ask him something else.
He could sense her worry and wondered if he’d not explained Sammy’s condition well enough.

Finally she asked, “How long is he likely to be in bed?”

She hadn’t wanted to ask. Most mothers in Ballybucklebo were able to stay home with their children. But Eileen would be worried sick about how she was to make her living and remain home with her sick son. It could be a month, even more, before the little fellow was recovered. He took a deep breath. “It can be a few weeks, Eileen.”

Barry heard her sharp intake of breath. “How long’s a few?’ ”

“Two or three maybe.” Barry knew he was being optimistic. “But it could be quicker.”

She must have seen through his prevarication. “Or more like six or seven?”

He couldn’t meet her eye. “It’s hard to say, Eileen, but it might be a while.”

She lifted the caddy from the mantel. Her cheeks were tear-streaked when she turned back to him, but she held herself erectly, and he heard the touch of pride in her voice when she said, “If I have to dip into the kiddies’ Christmas fund to make ends meet, I will.”

Perhaps . . . perhaps . . . a germ of an idea began to take shape . . . the kind of thing O’Reilly would have come up with, but Barry didn’t want to hold out false hopes. “I know it’s going to be tricky for you to get to your work, Eileen.”

“Tricky?” Her voice was raw-edged. “Hard? It’s going to be bloody well impossible, Doctor.”

“I do understand, Eileen.”

“How could you, you a doctor and all? You’ll never be short a few bob.” Her eyes flashed for a split second, but then her shoulders slumped and she said, “I’m sorry, sir. I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that.”

Barry wanted to hug her and tell her he understood, but instead he said, “I may have a suggestion.” He saw her eyes widen.

“Honest? Honest?” There was hope in her voice.

“I . . . I’ll pop in tomorrow and let you know.”

“Will you, Doctor? That would be wonderful, so it would.”

“Now, Eileen, I’m not making any promises, but I’ll do what I can.”

“Me and the kiddies would be very grateful,” she said, “and I’m sorry I snapped at you, sir.”

“Don’t worry about it, Eileen. Now I have to get home, but I will come round tomorrow. I promise.” He rummaged in his bag and fished out a pad of Ministry forms, filled one out, and handed it to Eileen. “That’ll do you for six weeks if you need it.”

She flinched at the words “six weeks” but took a deep breath and said, “I’ll let you out.” She accompanied him to the door. “Cheerio, Doctor Laverty, and thanks.”

He bade her good night and hunched his shoulder to the gale for the walk back to Brunhilde. He glanced at his watch. It was time he went back to Number 1 Main Street and discussed with O’Reilly his bright idea for helping Eileen.

He was to phone Patricia at six. He had the irrational idea that often afflicts people waiting for something important to happen, that if they arrive early whatever they desire will happen sooner. He started to trot.

If nothing else, the knowledge he’d be talking to Patricia very soon made the evening seem less bitter.

A Mighty Maze! But Not Without a Plan

When Arthur Guinness came bounding out of his doghouse, eyes fixed on Barry’s trouser legs, Barry was too tired from his day and too eager to talk to Patricia to suffer much nonsense. He stood his ground.
“Sit, you!”
he yelled, and to his amazement the big dog did. Then Barry said, “Go home.”

Barry waited until the dog was back in his kennel before he crossed the backyard, wondering as he did why Arthur had been amenable to being ordered about. Was Barry gaining a bit more confidence, a bit more authority? He hoped so.

“Evening, Kinky,” he said, as he opened the kitchen door.

Mrs. Kincaid was standing at the counter with her back to him. She turned and handed him a small metal basin. “Would you look at that, sir?” Her voice was hushed, as if she had just witnessed a miracle.

He took the basin and turned it over. There was a jagged hole in the bottom, about one inch across. “It looks as if it’s been hit by a shell,” he said. “What happened?”

She pointed to a round, dark brown, fruit-studded Christmas pudding, one of a pair, that sat on a plate. Its shape was exactly that of the basin.

“I think something ate the bowl,” she said. Her eyes were wide. “Or else it was the little people.”

“I beg your pardon, Kinky?” Barry smiled. “
Ate
the bowl? Little people?”

“Do you see, Doctor Laverty, I always make this year’s Christmas
puddings the year before, keep them in basins in my pantry, and bring them out once a month to season them with a taste of brandy. Then a week or two before the big day, I get two out of their bowls and wrap them in greaseproof paper so they’re ready to boil on Christmas Day.”

“I see.” Of course, being absolutely ignorant of matters culinary, he didn’t understand a thing Kinky had said, but he thought it best to humour her in her distressed state.

“Well . . .,” she sighed, “when I got those two out, the bowl you have in your hands, sir, had that hole.” She made the sign to ward off the evil eye. “My cooking never hurt nobody, sir. Not ever, but something must have done it. Maybe the leprechauns. Maybe Old Nick himself.” There was a tiny tremble in her voice.

It would be useless to tell her not to worry. Only a rational explanation would calm her. Barry frowned and tried to remember some of his organic chemistry classes. Something about sugars in fruits and alcohol. “Kinky, you put fruit and brandy in your puddings, right?”