“Right now I just want to be with you,” she said.
“Fine by me,” Barry said.
“Here.” She opened a gate in a hedge at the bottom of the yard, let Barry through, followed, and closed the gate. They walked round the edge of a field full of stubble from where last season’s corn had been reaped. Barry could imagine it three months from now with the long dark furrows and the scent of freshly turned earth filling the air.
“Thank you, Barry, for being here. You are a great comfort, you know.”
Barry shrugged. “I love you, and sometimes being a doctor comes in handy for those closest to you. I believe there’s a line in the wedding ceremony, to love and to cherish in sickness and in health. You’re heartsick right now.” He knew he didn’t have to explain any further.
She stopped and kissed him before they walked on.
Overhead the sky was studded with slowly drifting fluffy clouds that cast shadows over the low hills. A small flock of cawing rooks flapped past, heading toward a row of pollarded willows that Barry guessed marked a riverbank. The Nolans’ farm lay to the south of the Braid River. A blackbird in the hedge gave its low-pitched fluted warble, which changed to an alarm call of pook-pook-pook as the humans approached.
“And speaking of weddings, I know our plan had been for you to finish your term in France on the twenty-third of March when the schools break up the day before Good Friday, then wait until Easter’s over and get married on the twenty-eighth—”
“So we could have a ten-day honeymoon on Easter break before I’m back to work at MacNeill Elementary. But Dad has to get better first. I know.”
“Most patients are back at light work within three months,” Barry said, “and that takes us into May. How about we postpone the ceremony until your summer holidays in July?” He stepped over a clod the plough’s blade had dumped last year onto the pathway skirting the field. He stopped, faced her, and put a hand on each of her shoulders. “I don’t really need a wedding. As far as I’m concerned, after our night together in Marseille I feel completely married anyway and it will be ‘til death do us part,’ ceremony or no ceremony.”
She smiled. “You’re right, darling. We are man and wife, now and forever.” Her eyes shone. “I don’t need a minister to make it true, but it would kill Mum and Dad if we ‘lived in sin’ without the church’s blessing.” She kissed him. “When term starts again in Ballybucklebo and I’m back in my flat in Holywood, you can come and…” She grinned at him, cleared her throat and said, “visit me.” The implied promise was clear.
Barry took her in his arms. “I know,” he said, “and it will be wonderful.” Inside him his heart sang. He took her hand and they walked on, finally coming to the end of the field. “Over here,” Sue said, indicating a stile in a low dry stone wall.
Barry clambered over and gave Sue a hand. He turned and saw a horse at the far end of the field.
“Look, there’s Róisín. Rosebud. She’s what’s called an Irish Sport Horse. She’s tough but as gentle as a kitten.” Sue laughed and beckoned to the horse, who came cantering toward them, her mahogany coat glossy, her tail, mane, and ear edges shiny black.
The horse slowed her pace as she drew abreast, lowered her head, and nuzzled Sue. Barry looked into great liquid brown eyes and smelled the tangy, earthy scent of horse. Sue took something from her pocket and, keeping her hand flat, offered it to the horse, which rolled back her big lips and took the sugar lumps. Sue stroked the animal’s cheek. “Dad taught me to ride on Jessie’s mum, Kyran. She was black and her name means ‘small dark one,’” she said. She lowered her voice. “It didn’t matter how busy the farm was, even at harvest time, Dad always found time to give me a jumping lesson. I loved it. Still do. You know I’m a member of the North Down Pony Club. Michael tried it, but didn’t like it, and Dad never forced him. He’s a very understanding man, my father.”
Barry heard a daughter’s love in those words. “You’ll be riding with him again soon enough,” he said, and was pleased by her comforted smile. He wondered what kind of a father Barry Laverty might make when or if they started a family.
“Go on,” Sue said, slapping the animal’s rump, “off you trot, Róisín.”
The bay galloped to the far side of the field, kicked up her heels, and whinnied.
“Full of the joys of spring, that one,” Sue said with a little grin. “I remember her as a foal, all spindly legs and a big head. Young animals are darlings.”
“They are.” He hesitated, then, “Sue,” he said, “perhaps this isn’t the right time to discuss this, but, you know, we’ve never actually talked about whether we’re going to have a family or not.”
She frowned. “Och, Barry. You must know I love kids. That’s why I’m a teacher. And you did that training in obstetrics. I just assumed we would. I thought it was one of the reasons people got married.” She touched his arm and looked into his eyes. “Barry?”
“I know you love kids and, well, I do too, but I sometimes wonder about this world we’re in right now. The Cold War getting hot. We came so close to World War Three during the Cuban Missile Crisis five years ago. Maybe it would be, I don’t know, selfish? Irresponsible? To start a family.” He realised it was the first time he’d ever acknowledged his niggling uncertainty.
Sue opened the gate they’d come to and let Barry through, joined him, and closed the gate.
They were now in a meadow bordering the Braid. Lime-green pussy-catkins hung from every branch of the row of willows. The river was in spate with brown rolling waves tumbling dead tree branches over the shallows and making a rushing noise.
“I had a wonderful childhood, you know, Barry. Dad didn’t go to war. He was here, growing food for people. But Mum’s told me how her friends were saying the same thing about having children in 1939 because there was going to be a war. I’m so glad my folks and yours paid no attention.”
“Me too,” he said. Life now without Sue Nolan would be unthinkable. “I know you’ll make a marvellous mother.”
“Even with poor Max as an example?” Sue laughed and pulled a catkin from a willow tree, rolling it between her fingers.
He laughed. “Even with Max.” The laugh died. “But I’m not sure what kind of father I’ll be. I was taught in medical school that we learn those skills very early in life from our own parents. I was five before I really met my dad. Mum kept telling me he’d got three weeks’ home leave when I was nearly three, but…” He shrugged. “And I didn’t have any brothers or sisters.”
“You, Barry Laverty, are going to be an amazing father. You’re kind and funny and wise.” Sue wrapped her arms around him and kissed his neck. “Our love will see us through. I truly believe that, Barry. Now, you were telling me about that wonderful bungalow that might suit us. I’d like to see it before I go back to France—I’ve still got six weeks to do over there. Do you think one of the bedrooms would make a good nursery?”
It was abundantly clear how Sue felt.
They’d come to the riverbank. He cast a fisherman’s eye on the water, not sure what to say next. Come May, with the river in its summer calm, there’d be big brown trout in a deep pool under those willows, waiting for insects to fall off the leaves. Would he someday come down to this river with a small child to watch a mayfly hatch on a soft evening, silent but for the gentle splash of rising fish sending concentric circles outward. He could feel the weight of the child in his arms, perhaps wriggling to be on the ground and saying, “Let me down, Daddy. I want to look at the fish.”
“This is a beautiful place, Sue,” he said.
“I know. I can see our children here, Barry. You’re standing on that bank with a fishing rod in your hand casting, and a little blond boy with a cowlick is right beside you. I’m a country girl, and I always will be,” she kissed him, “and that’s why I’ll be happy to be a country doctor’s wife and mother to his children.”
Barry swallowed, steeled himself, looked at the riverbank—and took a leap of faith. “And I w
ill be happy to be your husband and father to our children and, yes, there would be room for a nursery in the bungalow.”
“Oh, Barry, I’m so glad. Thank you,” she said, and kissed him. “I think we should have at least two kids.”
“I agree, but maybe not right away?”
“Heavens no. I’d have to give up my job, and if we do buy a house we’ll need my income for a while too.”
Barry nodded and felt a sense of relief. There was no hurry. They’d let the river of life flow on. Suddenly, having children with Sue felt like the most natural thing to do in the whole wide world.
“Thank you for coming for a walk and talking about … important things, Barry. It’s helped me to stop worrying about Dad, if only for a little while. And I’m glad you had the courage to say what you said about starting a family.”
“Good, and I’m glad,” he said.
“But I think we should head back home now. Mum may be back and she might like a little company.”
“I’m sure she will, Sue, and now we’ve had this chat we can set her mind at rest about the wedding.”
* * *
Mrs. Nolan sat at the kitchen table drinking a cup of tea.
“You’re home, Mum. How’s Dad?” Sue asked.
“He’s awake, feeling better, and he was able to have a cup of tea. He remembers that you two were there today and sends his love. Sister says he’s still not out of the woods, but he’s on his way, they’ll let us know if his condition changes, but she’d appreciate it if we kept the visits to regular hours now. His rest is an important part of his recovery. Officially he’s ‘comfortable and improving.’”
Barry recognised the standard hospital euphemism taken from a list that included “critical,” “seriously ill, “condition guarded,” “improving,” and “much better.” The staff never divulged details. He was glad he could use his position, if necessary, to get more accurate information. “I think by ‘comfortable and improving’ they mean he’s over the worst part.”
Sue sent him a grateful smile.
“Thank you, Barry. That is a comfort,” Mrs. Nolan said, “and they told me he’ll probably be home by mid-March.”
“I’ll have to go back to France to finish my exchange, Mum, as soon as Dad’s a bit better, but I’ll be back the twenty-third or twenty-fourth of next month to help out here.”
“Good,” Mrs. Nolan said. She frowned. “And what about your wedding?”
“Barry and I have decided to postpone it until Dad’s back on his feet. We’ll pick a day in July.”
“I think that’s very wise and generous of you both. Thank you. And Dad will be pleased. Now sit down, you two. Tea?”
“Not for me, thanks,” Barry said as he sat at the table, but Sue went to the dresser, brought a cup, and poured for herself before sitting.
“We really don’t mind waiting to get married, Mum, until Dad’s really at himself again. I want him to give me away.”
“He would have been heartbroken to miss that,” Mrs. Nolan said.
“And,” said Sue, “I’ll be home from France for good soon. I can help out here in the Easter holidays, get down from Holywood for a few weekends during the summer term…”—her look told Barry that they would be the ones when he was on call—“and I’ll be able to help with the wedding preparations when I’m on my summer holidays.”
Mrs. Nolan smiled. “The pair of you have thought this through pretty well. Thank you, byes.” She sipped her tea. “I’ll call Reverend Wallace this evening. Explain about the change in plans. I’m sure he’ll understand. Thank goodness the invitations havnae gone out yet, hey.” She drank more tea and said, “It does make a lot of sense. Coping with your dad’s illness will be quite enough for us for a while.”
“But we’ll all be fine, Mum. You’ll see,” Sue said. “And we’ll keep the farm going too.” She glanced at her watch. “Now, Barry, what size shoe do you take?”
Barry frowned. What on earth had that to do with the price of corn? “Eight,” he said.
“That’s lucky. My brother takes eight and a half. They’ll fit you. It’ll soon be time to get the cows for their afternoon milking,” she said, “and I don’t think you’d want to go tramping through any sheugh in your good shoes.”
As Barry put on the loaned Wellies, he again had the same feeling he’d had at the river with Sue. That what he was doing was the most natural thing in the world.
30
I Ofen Looked Up at the Sky an’ Assed Meself the Question
Kitty looked east round the long crescent of golden sand lapped by the waters of Belfast Lough. Helen’s Bay Beach was deserted, even on this sunny Saturday, and they’d had the place to themselves while Arthur had a good long swim in the chill waters. Fingal took Kitty’s hand and they began to stroll back to the Rover.
“Hall Campbell brought us past here when we went mackerel fishing last year. Remember I showed you the old fort at Grey’s Point with its six-inch guns? The battery’s just behind where we’re standing.” He pointed in the opposite direction. “The first little peninsula that way is Wilson’s Point and away farther round is Ballymacormick. Bangor and Ballyholme lie between those two. I should have named them when we were walking toward them.”
“Fingal, sometimes people don’t always feel like blethering. I understand.”
They hadn’t spoken much as they’d strolled, hand in hand, along the quiet stretch of damp sand, Arthur running ahead and splashing into the lough, idly chasing the dunlin and ringed plovers that danced along the shoreline.
Now almost to the car, she turned to him. “Who was Helen?”
“Helen?”
“You’re a million miles away, aren’t you, love. Helen. Of Helen’s Bay.” She was studying him intently. She probably suspected he was worried about not hearing from the marquis about the lease, and although he was grateful for her concern, it irritated him that he was letting it show.
“The wife of one of the marquis’s progenitors. He wanted a village built here as a seaside resort back in the mid-1800s when sea bathing was becoming popular and the railway opened between Belfast and Bangor. Her son built a tower on the estate in her honour too. There’s a replica of it at Thiepval in France as a memorial to the Ulstermen who fell at the Somme in 1916.”
“And speaking of the marquis,” said Kitty gently, “you’re worried, aren’t you, that we haven’t heard from him since the council meeting?”
“I am. Bloody marquis,” O’Reilly mumbled. “I know we’re close friends, but John MacNeill is not in my good books at the moment. It’s three weeks since the lorry went through the dining room wall, five days since council made a decision in principle to expropriate our home. With a stay of execution while Mister Robinson and the marquis look for the original lease, I know, but that month will go by quickly.”
He held open the Rover’s door for her. “Hop in.”
“And you, you great lummox,” O’Reilly said as he grabbed a towel from the backseat and began towelling the big dog dry. “You should know better than to be chasing those shore birds. This is a protected area. What would your uncle Lars think?”
Arthur’s eyebrows peaked as if to say, “Ah, come on, boss, it was only a bit of craic.”
O’Reilly knew he sounded tetchy, he’d been growly all morning, but he was worried and had been getting progressively more so the last few days. He held the back door open and a sandy Arthur Guinness climbed in. O’Reilly shut the door.
He put the car in reverse and, staring over his shoulder, guided it along to where an open gate allowed him to back into a field. O’Reilly drove out through the gate and turned left, heading for the main road. “Damn, damn, damn,” he muttered under his breath, barely recognising he’d spoken. He turned right onto the main road where the traffic was much lighter than on a working day. “I’ve been cross as two sticks all morning. I’m sorry, Kitty.” He changed down and pulled out to pass a lorry, then tucked back into his own side of the road.
??
?And you didn’t sleep well last night. I heard you get up twice.” She patted his arm. “It’s not like the marquis to be inconsiderate. He knows how much this means to you—to us. Look out, Fingal. A cyclis—”
“I missed him,” O’Reilly said. “I always do.” In the rearview mirror he saw a man in a thick brown wool sweater and duncher wobble then straighten up. “No harm done. Keeps them on their toes.” He sighed. “I spoke to the reverend yesterday. He’s not had any luck so far, but he’s going back up to Church House on Fisherwick Place in Belfast next week to hunt about some more.”
“He’s doing his best for us,” Kitty said. “Gives us something to hope for.”
O’Reilly liked the way she said “us.” “At least I know what’s going on with the minister’s enquiries, but John MacNeill hasn’t phoned, and he promised he would, no matter what the news, good or bad.”
“And the uncertainty’s killing you?”
“It is. And I of all people should bloody well know better. It’s the same for every patient, every patient’s loved ones. The not knowing before a diagnosis is made and a plan of treatment outlined drives most people up the walls.” He glanced to his left, saw they were passing the ornate wrought-iron gates of Ballybucklebo House, and instinctively slowed down. “I’ve seen it happen for thirty-five years and now I’m letting the same get to me.”
“My guess is that there’s no news,” Kitty said, “and John knows how important this is and doesn’t want to disappoint you. He’s just like my father. Hates disappointing people. Why do you think the marquis sits on so many committees?” She laughed. “He’s probably got Thompson and Myrna and old Mister O’Hally digging through dusty old boxes right now and only wants to give you good news.”
O’Reilly sighed. “You’re probably right. What should I do? Just bide? Do a Mister Micawber and hope something turns up?”
“Welllll … You could.”
“Mmmmh.” His grunt was not one of acquiescence. “Why not take the bull by the horns?” he said. “I’ve been picking up the phone for the past couple of days, then putting it down. I don’t want him to think—” O’Reilly shook his head.