An Irish Country Christmas (42 page)

“Are youse not staying for the rehearsal, Doctor O’Reilly? It’s very good you know. Jeannie Kennedy’s a great Mary, and . . . What?” She turned because a voice from the stage had called her name.

O’Reilly leapt into the breach with the force of a storming party. “Sorry we have to run on, Cissie . . . Flo. We’re mightily impressed, aren’t we, Barry?”

“Absolutely.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” Flo said, perhaps a little huffily, Barry thought. “And I still think you’re wrong, sir. If we let ‘Scarlet Ribbons’ in this year, what’ll it be next year? ‘Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree,’ for God’s sake?” She blushed. “Sorry, Father.”

“No apology needed,” said Father O’Toole. “I don’t mind including the occasional secular song if it’s tastefully done, but there is a limit.”

Barry hid his grin. So, O’Reilly must have decided that in a theological tussle with Father O’Toole, discretion was the better part of valour. Cissie one, Flo nil, in the great carol debate.

O’Reilly looked at Barry, nodded toward the exit, and started to walk along the aisle. Barry followed. When he was halfway to the
door, the houselights were dimmed, and the stage lighting took over. Barry paused and turned.

He could see three children on the stage. A boy held a little girl by the hand. A second boy—Barry recognized Colin Brown—stood in the open doorway. So this must be Mary and Joseph. Barry recognized the little girl, Jeannie Kennedy. She’d had appendicitis in July. The boy was not someone he knew—not yet, anyway. Sooner or later he knew that like O’Reilly he’d meet everyone here.

The actors started saying their lines.

“Hello, Innkeeper.”

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Mary and Joseph. We’ve come to be taxed.”

Barry wondered, given the universal hatred of Ulster farmers for the Inland Revenue service, if that line might inadvertently cause a certain amount of muttering from the audience on the big night.

“Mary and Joseph?”

“Could we have a bed for the night? My wife’s having a baby, and she’s very tired.”

“Well, the inn’s full, but you can go into the stable.” Colin’s voice was calm and welcoming.

Barry chuckled. It wasn’t quite the line Colin had said he was to use. Perhaps Sue Nolan had done a bit of a rewrite. Colin had delivered it well, so he must have recovered from his disappointment over not playing Joseph. Oil must have been been poured on the troubled waters. Barry caught up with O’Reilly, and together they stepped out into the teeth of the gale.

“Jesus,” said O’Reilly, “it’s cold as a witch’s tit. I’d fancy a hot whiskey, and I know Arthur’d enjoy a Smithwicks. Will we pop into the Duck on the way home?”

“Why not?”

“Just one then,” said O’Reilly, “and in case you think I’ve forgotten, I haven’t. When we get home, I’ll phone Fitzpatrick. Arrange to see him.” He turned up the collar of his coat. “And in the spirit of the season, I
might
even soften toward him a bit if he agrees to lay off
picking on Kinky and recognizes how valuable Miss Hagerty can be. I’d not mind an apology from him either.”

“What if you don’t get what you want?”

O’Reilly’s face darkened. “In that case I might just use one of his own prescriptions on him.”

“Primrose root?” Barry chuckled.

“Not at all. Gunpowder.”

Barry, knowing firsthand how short O’Reilly’s fuse could be, felt a twinge of sympathy for Doctor Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick.

Make Thick My Blood

“Will you come with me please, Miss Moloney?” Barry turned and walked back to the surgery, assuming that his patient was following. He wasn’t looking forward to this consultation. When he’d first met her in August, Miss Moloney had struck him as acerbic and rude. She’d certainly terrorized her shop assistants, Helen Hewitt and Mary Dunleavy. And when he’d tried to suggest she might not be so ruthless with her girls, she had told him in no uncertain terms to mind his own business.

O’Reilly had once remarked that not all doctors and patients were perfect fits. He’d suggested that if Barry felt antipathy to anyone, it would be better for them both if he advised the customer to seek medical advice elsewhere. Perhaps he should consider that in this case. Of course, between Ballybucklebo and the Kinnegar, Miss Moloney’s choices were a bit limited.

Barry wondered if Miss Moloney’s acidity and Doctor Fitzpatrick’s arrogance would make for a better match. Then he quickly dismissed the thought. He might not like the woman, but that was no reason to subject her to the dubious doctoring of Ronald Hercules Fitzpatrick. Like her or not, he would do his medical best for her.

“And how are you feeling today?” he asked, as he and Miss Moloney walked down the hall.

“I’m still very tired, Doctor,” she said. Her voice, normally sharp and harsh, was quavery. He noticed how pale she looked. “I’ve no energy. I’m just not at myself at all, and I get short of breath.”

He closed the door, waited for her to sit, then took O’Reilly’s swivel chair. Barry was comfortable trying to fill, it, at least figuratively; he knew he’d never have the physical bulk to fill it. He turned to the desk and picked up the laboratory report that had been delivered in yesterday’s post. “I have your results here.”

Miss Moloney shrugged. “I suppose you’d better tell me.” She was listless and seemed to be disinterested. She stared at the carpet. “I hope it’s nothing serious.”

Something in the tone of her voice when she said “serious” belied her apparent lack of interest. Miss Moloney was scared. Barry frowned. He’d like to be able to reassure her at once, but even though he’d scanned the laboratory values and knew his diagnosis of anaemia was correct, until he knew the underlying cause he was in no position to comfort her.

At least not if he were to be honest. But did he need to be brutally frank? He hadn’t been so at her first visit. It wouldn’t hurt to prolong the deception a little longer. Barry smiled at her. “You’re anaemic, Miss Moloney. Thin-blooded,” he said. “That’s why you’re not ‘at yourself.’ ” He leant forward. “The lab report shows nothing else wrong with your blood. It’s just anaemia, and that’s not very serious.”

“But . . . but there is something wrong . . . with my blood?” She sat hunched in the chair and would not meet his gaze.

Perhaps if he told her she didn’t have one of the lethal blood diseases, it would give her more reassurance. He smiled. “Yes, but it’s not anything nasty like leukaemia. That also thins the blood.”

“Leukaemia? Oh my heavens.” This time she looked at Barry intently, and as she did her lip trembled and a tear ran down her cheek.

Good God, what had he said? Think, man. Say something. “No, no, Miss Moloney. There is no question of leukaemia. You have simple anaemia. I promise,” he said, wishing he’d never mentioned the blood cancer.

Her fingers picked aimlessly at the fringe on the patterned wool shawl she wore over her grey coat. She sniffed, wiped her eyes with the back of one hand, and made an effort to sit straight. Then, hauling in a deep breath, she said quietly, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have got so upset.”

“It’s all right, Miss Moloney. It really is.” Barry looked as deeply as he could into her eyes. This was a very different woman from the termagant he’d met in August. He couldn’t help but feel sorry for her. He lifted the report from the desk. “Would you like me to explain all of this to you, Miss Moloney?” he asked, hoping she’d say no. She was in no state to understand terms like “mean corpuscular haemoglobin concentration,” “mean corpuscular volume,” or “mean corpuscular diameter.”

She shook her head. “I trust you, Doctor Laverty.”

“Thank you.” Barry felt warmed by her words.

“And,” she said, “Miss Moloney’s very formal. My name is Alice.”

“Alice. That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you,” she said with a little sigh, “but apart from my sister in Millisle, nobody uses it anymore.” She smiled at him. “I’d like you to, Doctor.”

“Of course . . . Alice.” And he thought if that wasn’t an indication of her accepting him, he didn’t know what would be. It pleased him. “Now”—he held the report so she could see—“I won’t explain everything because there are all kinds of numbers here, but really only two matter. That one, the haemoglobin, is 12.2. It should be 14.8, and that one of 39 is very low too. It’s called the haematocrit. It should be at least 42.”

She craned forward to see. “And what do they mean?”

“They mean, Alice, that your blood is too thin because you are short of iron. Because your blood is thin, you get short of breath because the blood carries the oxygen you breathe to all of the body.”

“I see,” she said with a little frown. “Interesting.”

Barry took her hand and held it in his palm with the back of hers facing upward. It was chill to his touch. He pointed to her spoon-shaped nails. “That’s called koilonychia. It’s due to iron lack too.”

“I see.” She took her hand away. She cocked her head to one side. “And why would I be short of iron?”

Barry tried not to frown. This was the bit where his prevaricating about whether she was seriously ill would be put to the test. It pleased him that she was so willing to trust him. He didn’t want to lose that trust. He knew he had to be honest now. He took her hand again and
bent toward her. “I’m not sure.” He met her gaze with his and sensed she was strong enough to deal with uncertainty.

“Oh. Could it be serious?”

Don’t lie now, Barry, he told himself. “Yes, Miss Molo . . . I mean Alice . . . yes, it could, but ninety-nine times out of one hundred, it isn’t.”

“I see.” For the second time, she took her hand away and folded it into the other in her lap. “Thank you for being honest, Doctor Laverty. Not every doctor would have been. I know that.” Her lip trembled again.

He congratulated himself for judging her correctly. Some physician has hurt her, Barry thought, wondering if she too could be one of Fitzpatrick’s victims.

She sat stiffly. “I suppose you do know how to find out what’s wrong?”

“Of course.”

She pursed her lips. “Then let’s get on with it.”

“All right. It’s not hard. I need to ask you a few questions, examine you today, and perhaps arrange an X-ray.”

“What kind of questions?”

Barry put the form back on the desk. “You can be short of iron either because you’re not eating enough of it or you’re losing blood. My job is to find out which one it is.”

Her mouth opened in a silent “o.” She frowned, then nodded as if agreeing with herself. “I see. Ask away then.”

“Doctor O’Reilly told me he’d treated you for piles once.” Barry was pleased he had remembered that detail.

“About three years ago. Nasty things.” She curled her lip. “Itchy, very itchy, but Doctor O’Reilly gave me ointment and laxatives, and I’ve had no trouble since.”

“Good.” It sounded as if she had been afflicted with external haemorrhoids. Their apparent cure did not exclude the possibility of varicosity of the rectal vessels inside. He’d have a good look when he examined her. “You told me last time you were here that you are fifty-one.”

“Yes. I’ll be fifty-two in January.”

She might not be menopausal yet, might be having heavy periods. Barry was about to ask, but a tiny alarm was telling him to wait, to ask first about matters that would not embarrass her. Older countrywomen, he had learned, could be reticent about discussing “female” symptoms. “Do you like your grub?” She certainly was a skinny woman.

“I like it well enough. I’ve three square a day, but small portions. I’m not a big eater. I live on my own—well, me and my cat and budgerigar—so I’ve no one to cook for.” Barry could hear the resignation in her voice. Perhaps her loneliness explained why she had been so vicious with her staff of pretty, marriageable young girls. “Seeing it’s just me, I can eat what I please,” she continued. “I don’t like eggs or green vegetables,” she said. “I don’t eat red meat, but I like fish and chicken.”

“I see.” So, Barry thought, she didn’t eat enough of the three main dietary sources of iron, and what she did eat most likely provided insufficient iron. “And how long have you been using that diet?”

“Since I was a very young woman . . . in India.”

“India? I didn’t know you’d been there.” Miss Alice Moloney, owner of a tiny dress shop in Ballybucklebo, had been to India?

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Daddy took the whole family there in nineteen thirty-two. I was ninteen.”

This was intriguing. “And what did your father do there?”

“He was with the Indian civil service. In Calcutta. They kept him on after independence in nineteen forty-seven.” Her lips trembled again. “My sister and I had been born in Ballybucklebo, and she and I came back to Ireland after . . .”—her hand shook—“. . . after he was killed in the Hindu Moslem riots in nineteen forty-eight.”

Ulster is not the only place to be racked by religious strife, Barry thought.

She pursed her lips and forced a weak smile. “But it was a wonderful place for a girl to live. We had a huge bungalow, ponies, dances with the handsome young white subalterns in the Indian army . . .”

Barry for a moment wondered why she hadn’t married one. Perhaps she had been in love, but her young lieutenant had been posted
far away and they had drifted. It could happen. He gritted his teeth; he should know.