An Irish Country Doctor (26 page)

"Its correct name is torticollis," he said, and he watched her relax. That was interesting. Technical terms had confused Maureen Galvin, but in Mrs. Fotheringham's case it seemed that the old adage was true: bullshite did baffle brains. Perhaps torticollis had a better social cachet than a wry neck. "We'll soon put it right." He opened his bag and pulled out an aerosol canister of ethyl chloride. "This is pretty cold." He depressed the red button and a cloud of vapour hissed out onto the skin.

"Wheee." The major flinched as a thin rime of frost formed. "That is very cold."

"Sorry, but it makes the muscles relax." He stuffed the can back into his bag. "If it's no better in the morning or if it gets worse, give us a call."

The ormolu clock wheezed, clicked, and began to sound the third quarter of the Westminster chimes. Bing-bong, bing-bong . . . "I've another call to make." Not quite true but what the eye couldn't see, the heart wouldn't grieve over. "I'll see myself out." The fact that Mrs. Fotheringham called him Doctor Laverty when she said good-bye was not lost on Barry.

Barry drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. Rural Ulster at its pedestrian best. It was nearly seven and he was going to be late. He could only hope that Patricia would understand that not only was a doctor's time not always his own, but also that people did get stuck behind tractors on country roads. As the car crept along, Barry thought about the recent consultation. O'Reilly would approve of the way he'd handled it, particularly the use of ethyl chloride. No one had the faintest idea why it might work as an antispasmodic, but it certainly had "keep the upper hand" properties. The only thing that bothered him was a niggling worry that perhaps his examination had been a bit hurried. He hadn't made a full neurological evaluation, testing skin sensation and reflexes, but that would have taken at least half an hour and almost certainly would have shown absolutely nothing. Stiff necks could have sinister causes, but most were rare as hen's teeth, and as one of his teachers had been fond of remarking, "Any bird sitting on a telegraph pole is much more likely to be a sparrow than a canary."

And that bloody tractor up ahead was going at the speed of a badly damaged snail. His watch said seven. Blast. He saw the tractor's driver stick out his right arm, the right-turn signal. Barry braked. The tractor swerved right and then, as if having second thoughts, turned a good one hundred and twenty degrees and went into a field on the left-hand side of the road. At least the road ahead was clear.

He trod on the accelerator. Brunhilde's engine's clattering increased, spluttered, wheezed--and died. Damnation. He knew he could have written his entire knowledge of the working of the internal combustion engine on a postage stamp. He turned the key to be rewarded by a grinding of the starter motor--a grinding that steadily became fainter as the battery began to expire--and as he released the key, the silence was broken only by the grumbling of the nearby tractor.

Lips pursed, he climbed out.

The tractor, which moments before had turned into a field, was nosing back out onto the road. Perhaps, Barry thought, perhaps the driver might have some mechanical experience. "Hello," he yelled, gratified to see the Massey-Harris halt. "My engine's stopped." The driver, a middle-aged man with an acne-scarred face and hair like a haphazard hayrick, touched the peak of his flat cap, climbed down, and walked across the road. Barry recognized the man from his rolling gait, the result of a pair of spectacularly bowed legs. He'd come in last week for some linament for his sore knees.

"Sorry to bother you, Mr. O'Hara, but do you know anything about engines?"

"Aye."

"Could you take a look at mine?"

"Aye." He leant into the car, and Barry heard the click of a catch being released. O'Hara rolled to the front of the car and lifted the bonnet.

He sprang back. "Boys-a-dear." His eyes were wide, his mouth agape. He turned and stared along the road. "Boys-a-boys-a-boys, Doctor dear. Your engine's fallen out."

Despite his frustration Barry had to smile as he said gently, "The engine's in the back in a Volkswagen. Let me show you." He walked to the back of the car and lifted the louvred engine cover. O'Hara peered over his shoulder.

"There's a power of architecture about thon," he said. "I'll just give her a wee try." He moved to the driver's door and peered inside. "Excuse me, Doctor, but would you take a look at thon gauge?" Before Barry could reach the open door, he heard Mr. O'Hara say, "Engines go better if there's a wee taste of petrol in the tank." 

"No?"

"Aye. You're out."

"Damn. And I'm late."

O'Hara scratched his head. "I could give you a lift to Paddy Farrelly's garage."

"Would you?"

"Aye." He set off and Barry followed. His watch said ten past seven. Now he was going to be much later. He could only hope that Patricia would understand.

Love Comes as a Butterfly Tipped with Gold

Eight thirty. Barry's pants were stained with cow clap from the tractor's iron seat, his hands stank of petrol, and God only knew if his tie was askew. He rang the doorbell of Patricia's flat and waited, one hand clasped in the other. The door opened. "I'm sorry I'm late."

She laughed. "It's all right. Your Mrs. Kincaid phoned. Said you had to make an emergency visit and you'd asked her to let me know."

He silently blessed Kinky as he looked at Patricia. She'd let her hair down, and it fell like raven's wings, glossy and smooth to her shoulders. She wore a cool pink lipstick and the tiniest trace of eye shadow that accented her almond eyes. "Cat got your tongue?"

"No. I was just thinking. It's no wonder Mark Antony took a shine to Cleopatra. If she had eyes like yours." 

"Thank you, sir," she said lightly. Then she kissed his lips, a short chaste kiss like brother to sister, yet he closed his eyes and savoured the perfumed taste of her. "So did you save a life?" 

"A life? One life? I eradicated bubonic plague from the hinterland of Ballybucklebo, brought a moribund malingerer back from the brink, gave three pints of my own blood--"

"Stop it." She laughed. "I don't think you can ever be serious."

"Yes, I can."

"No, really," she said. "You are very late. It must have been an important case."

"Not exactly. Some hypochondriac with a stiff neck." Bloody Major Fotheringham, he thought. "It didn't take long to sort him out." 

"So what kept you?"

"My car ran out of petrol."

"No."

"Yes. I had to get a lift on a tractor. That's why . . ." He gestured at his dirty trousers. "Look, we'd better get moving. The kitchen at the club closes at nine."

"No need. I phoned them and cancelled. I've made us a bite." She took his hand and pulled him into the hall. What a girl. Beautiful, self-possessed, and well able to accept and adapt to changing circumstances. Not, he thought wryly, like his last one, who would fly into a tizzy if he were held up on the ward and threw her plans out of kilter.

"You really don't mind?"

"I like cooking. It's hardly your fault you had to do your job. People's jobs are important." She brought him into a small room. "And it's the first time I've heard of a fellow running out of petrol on his way to a date."

"I know. I usually arrange that for the drive home. On some dark, unfrequented byway."

"Well, you'll not be able to try that one on tonight." 

"Me? Try it on? Never." He reached for her but she moved away. He did not pursue her. He knew he had all the time in the world. He looked around the room.

Books were neatly stacked on shelves improvised from planks laid on piles of bricks. Many were engineering texts, but he also saw works of Steinbeck, Tolkien, and--what a strange title--The Feminine Mystique--by a Betty Friedan. He wondered if it was anything like a most peculiar book, The Second Sex, by that Frenchwoman de Beauvoir that he'd tried to read but had found too dense. A table was set for two, close to a window overlooking Belfast Lough. "Nice place you have here."

"Thank you."

She put a record on a gramophone. Barry listened as a soprano sang in what he guessed was Italian. The notes swelled, rose, and fell in cadences that touched something deep in him. "What's that? It's beautiful." And so was she, standing there, backlit by the light reflected from the lough's calm waters. Her pure-white silk shirt subtly emphasized the darkness of her eyes and hair, as the setting of a diamond ring complements the stone. 

"Mozart," she said. "It's '
Voi che sapete
' from The Marriage of Figaro. Do you like it?"

"It's amazing."

"I hope you like lasagne," she said.

"I had one once . . . but the wheels fell off." 

"What?"

He laughed. "I've never heard of it."

"Idiot." She chuckled. "It's Italian cooking." 

"Oh."

"Right. Italian music. Italian food and Italian wine." She handed him a corkscrew. "Open it, would you?" She indicated a bottle on the table. "Valpolicella."

"All we need now are a couple of strolling mandolin players to make this
la bella notte
." He knew his stage Italian accent was good after all his years of friendship with Jack Mills, the archmimic. 

"You speak Italian?"

"Not at all, but I've seen Lady and the Tramp." 

"Eejit." Her hair swung gently as she shook her head, and her laughter, deeper than the soprano's notes, filled the little room. "I read once that women should beware of men who make them laugh. I'll have to keep an eye on you, Barry Laverty." And I'll keep mine on you, Patricia, he thought, seeing the curve of her breast and the slimness of her waist and not noticing her limp, not noticing it at all, as she went, still chuckling, through a doorway that Barry guessed led to her kitchen.

"That," he said, laying his knife and fork on a tomato-smeared plate, "was great." He sipped the dark red wine, tasting Tuscan sunshine as the Ulster sun slipped beneath the sea's edge. "Great." 

"Glad you liked it." She lifted their plates. "I'll just be a minute. Sit where you are. These can soak in the sink." Barry, replete with lasagne and two--he looked at his glass--no, nearly three glasses of wine, stretched his legs in front of him. Although the evening could have turned out disastrously, everything in his own universe seemed to be unfolding as it should, apart from just the tiniest worry that perhaps he should have taken more time examining Major Fotheringham. What would Fingal say? "No use boiling your cabbage twice." He dismissed all thoughts of his patient when Patricia reappeared and bent over the gramophone. "This is my very favourite," she said. "Listen."

It was a duet. Two sopranos with voices like liquid silver and molten gold, now flowing together, now parting, always in harmony. "It's 'The Flower Duet,' '
Viens, Malika,
'from Lakme." He stood and crossed the floor to where she stood swaying, her eyes closed. He put his hands on her waist, and she leant against him, head on his chest. He lifted the hair from the nape of her neck and kissed her where only the finest down grew. He heard her breathing quicken as he turned her to face him, holding her close, feeling the softness of her. He kissed her slowly, deeply, and felt her teeth nibble at his lower lip. He folded her into his arms as the music embraced them softly, and the fading light dappled the walls of her room in watercolours painted with a fine brush. His hand found her breast, firm through the silk, and she whimpered, her breath warm as fresh buttermilk, sweet as new-mown clover. He fumbled with the top button. He felt her hand on his wrist as she moved away.

"Not yet, Barry. Please."

"Patricia--"

"Not yet. Don't spoil it." Her voice was low.

Barry swallowed. Hard. Her eyes were wide, soft as velvet, shining through a thin sheen of moisture.

"All right." Had he scared her? Had he been too fast? That's what Ulster girls called a fellow who made advances too quickly. Would she--please, no--would she ask him to leave? 

"I'm sorry, Barry. I want to, but. . ."

He made soft shushing noises. Stroked her hair.

"But not yet. Not tonight."

"I understand." The hell he did. So what if he wasn't very experienced with women? He'd known--he'd absolutely known that she wanted him as much as he wanted her. "It's all right." 

"Thank you." She took his hand and led him to a small sofa. "Sit beside me? Don't be angry."

He sat. "I'm not angry."

"Barry." She hesitated. "Barry, I think I could fall in love with you. I'm not sure I'm ready."

"Why not?"

"I want to be an engineer."

"I know that."

"I haven't time to fall in love."

"I have." He could tell by the set of her jaw that arguments would be futile. He knew by the racing of his pulse, the dampness in the palms of his hands, the way that his thoughts raced like an out-of-control sailboat in an overpowering wind, that he was in love, in love to the depths of his soul.

As the last sad notes of "The Flower Duet" fell with the dying of the light, he sat, holding her hand, lost for words. "You don't understand," she said. "It's not about sex. It's about me. I want to do a man's job in a man's world, so I have to work twice as hard. You know what it took for you to get through medical school."