An Irish Country Love Story (3 page)

 

2

A Cold Coming They Had of It

“Barry. Barry?” It was O'Reilly. “I couldn't find that kayaker but it doesn't matter now. Here. The tide's rising. Take Sue's things. Your brave girl will need dry clothes when she gets back.”

“Right, Fingal.” For a moment the two men watched Sue in silence, paddling like a professional and making good time crossing the hundred yards of choppy sea. Then O'Reilly thrust Sue's coat and scarf at him.

“I'm going to nip home,” O'Reilly said. “Get blankets, hot water bottles, hot sweet tea. The sooner we can start getting him warmed the better, and I'll send for the ambulance, but they'll probably not be here for at least thirty minutes. I'll drive the Rover onto the beach.”

He took off in a lumbering and remarkably, for a man his size, fast run, Arthur Guinness close behind. Barry, ignoring the rest of the little crowd watching from the shore, turned back to see that Sue had still a ways to go to the capsized dinghy.

He remembered the day two summers ago when he'd been sailing on
Glendun,
a heavy keelboat, and a fourteen-foot dinghy Sue was crewing had capsized nearby. He'd thought she could swim, but she'd sunk beneath the surface like a stone and he feared she'd been hit by the boom. Despite constantly being taught “never leave a boat for a man in the water,” Barry had dived over the side. He'd been able to grab Sue's long hair and, damn it, it sounded so melodramatic, but he had saved her from drowning. He hadn't started to shiver until he'd been back in
Glendun
's cockpit. Cold and delayed shock, he'd supposed, because he'd not stopped to think what he'd been doing and the adrenaline had kept him going. That same kind of instinct was driving Sue today, and he admired her for it and hoped that at least for a while the exertion and the stress hormones would help keep her warm.

She arrived beside the capsized dinghy, manouvering her craft to place its pointed stern near Andy.

He could make out a rope being passed. It looked as if Andy was trying to get it under his armpits. There was a flurry of foam. Barry could see thrashing in the water, Sue's higher-pitched voice calling something, but what, he could not tell.

“Dear God, she's going til turn turtle,” a man standing beside Barry said. It was Lenny Brown, Colin's father. He had his hand on Colin's shoulder. Murphy sat at the lad's feet, his front paws restlessly kneading the sand as if he wanted to be out there helping. Barry knew just how the dog felt.

The kayak assumed a frightening list to port and Barry gasped. All three of them, including the dog, leaned forward, willing the little craft upright. As best as he could tell, Sue had tied a rope around her waist and somehow to Andy. He had slipped off the keel of his boat and his weight must be pulling Sue down. Now she was paddling as hard as she could. Barry exhaled. He hadn't realised he'd been holding his breath. He and the little crowd moved to their left as the breeze pushed the kayak and, Barry hoped, the survivor along the coast. At least Andy's head was above water and the boat's list was less.

Lenny, who might have been cheering on his soccer team, was chanting, “Go on, you girl, yuh. Go on. Go on.”

Colin imitated his daddy with shrill cries of encouragement.

Ten yards from the shore the kayak shuddered to a halt. Had she hit a rock?

“Your man's grounded, I think,” Gerry said. “Look. He's trying til stand up.”

As Barry watched, Andy struggled to his feet then pitched forward on his outstretched hands. Barry could tell his friend's lips and ears were blue.

Sue untied the rope and stepped into mid-thigh-deep water. Barry felt the chill for her and shivered. Damn it, he thought, Andy's a big man. Fifteen stone at least. She'll not be able to support him by herself. “Here.” He started to hand her clothes to Lenny, who shook his head and said, “Not at all, sir. Stay you here. We'll need a fit doctor on shore, so we will. I'll go.” He dumped his coat and jacket, pulled off his shoes, and raced for the water. Lenny Brown was a big man, used to hefting big chunks of metal in his job as a shipbuilder. He'd probably be able to oxtercog Andy unassisted.

Now a young man with a wild head of long blond hair, warmly dressed, trotted past. “It's my kayak,” he called. “I'll see to it.” At least, Barry thought, that's one of the two abandoned craft looked after. He glanced out to sea.

Farther out, the capsized little dinghy drifted down the wind, helpless, alone, and, if she had a soul as Barry sometimes imagined boats did, as terrified as a winged mallard.

Barry heard a car engine, a slamming door, and a bellowed, “Get to hell out of the way.” O'Reilly was roaring in his best quarterdeck voice. “Out of my bleeding way.”

A more blasphemous Moses and the Red Sea, Barry thought, turning to see the crowd break apart. O'Reilly had an armful of bath towels. The big old Rover was parked nearby on the sand, engine running to keep the car heater going at full blast.

O'Reilly handed Barry a towel. “Here,” he said, “you see to Sue. I'll look after the sailor. Sue'll just be a bit cold and wet, she's only been in the water a few minutes, but the other fellow may have hypothermia.”

Barry, whose own soaked feet were afire with pins and needles, understood that very well.

The crowd began to applaud and cheer. Barry turned back. Sue, her soaked jeans legs dark and dripping, was walking from the water's edge toward him. He started forward, wrapped her in her sheepskin coat, and said, “You stupid, headstrong woman. You could have been drowned.” His anger was like a flash of summer lightning, quickly gone, and replaced with relief that she was safe. “God, that was brave, and I love you for it, darling.” He cupped her cold face and kissed her.

She was shivering, still short of breath from her exertions, and said nothing. Just leaned into him and snuggled more deeply into the coat.

Barry heard O'Reilly calling to the crowd. “And you lot. Quit your rubbernecking. Let the dog see the rabbit. Give us a bit of privacy because I'm going to have to strip your man on the ground. Lenny, lay him down there.”

Barry was happy to let O'Reilly take charge of Andy. “Right,” Barry said to Sue, “let's get you out of those damp trousers. Lean on my shoulders.” He knelt, undid her waistband, and pulled the sodden pants down her slim, shapely legs. Goose pimples marred her otherwise smooth skin. “Pick up a hoof.”

She lifted one foot so he could take off her shoe and sock and get the pants leg over her foot. “Other one.” Now she was stripped below the waist, all but for a pair of lace-edged, peach nylon knickers. Still kneeling, Barry grabbed a pink terry bath towel and began towelling her left leg from ankle to groin. The higher he went the more aroused he felt himself becoming. He looked up at Sue and saw she was smiling and had one eyebrow raised. It took all of his professional training for Barry to stifle the erotic impulses, especially when she cupped her hands around his head and leaned into him, and concentrate on drying her other leg. “Right,” he said, straightening. “Right. Now wrap that towel round you like a sarong in an old Dorothy Lamour film and let's get you to the car.”

“Thank you, Barry. I—I do feel chilled.”

“But you're okay?” he said, trying, but failing, to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

“I'm fine, Barry. Really I am.”

O'Reilly was kneeling beside Andy, stripping off his oilskin jacket, and telling Lenny Brown, who was standing nearby, “Out of those soaked pants, Lenny Brown. Get yourself dry.” The oilskin jacket came off and O'Reilly started on Andy's sodden oiled-wool Arran sweater.

“Sure, Doc, it's only a wee bit of wet, and don't I just live round the corner? It's only a wee doddle.”

O'Reilly threw the sweater aside. “You nearly finished with Sue, Barry?”

“I am.”

“Can you hang on for a couple more minutes, Lenny?”

“Aye, certainly.”

“Good.” O'Reilly was unbuttoning Andy's wool shirt. “Sue, quick question before you go to the car,” O'Reilly said. “Did you notice anything unusual with Andy when you arrived beside him?”

She nodded. “He said his hands were useless so he couldn't hold on to the kayak, and he had trouble knotting a rope round him. I was scared for a minute I wasn't going to be able to help him after all, and I could see how much he was shivering.”

Loss of coordination and shivering, Barry managed to recall, were the two cardinal signs of moderate hypothermia. Not fatal, but not so good either. If it hadn't been for Sue … “You did very well, pet,” he said.

“Right,” said O'Reilly, chucking away the shirt and hauling a string vest over Andy's head. “Barry, you get his oilskin pants and whatever's underneath off. Lenny, help Miss Nolan to my car. The heater's on.”

As Barry was worrying at Andy's oilskins he heard Lenny say, “Take my arm, Miss Nolan, and come on. Colin, bring Murphy and we'll away on home. Your mammy'll have the fire on and I'll get warm there soon enough. Have some hot chokky.”

“Wheeker,” Colin said, clearly relishing the coming treat of a cup of hot chocolate.

“Thanks for your help, Lenny,” Barry said as the oilskins came free.

“Away off and chase yourself, Doctor, sir,” Lenny said. “You didn't think I'd just stand there both legs the same length with a fellah drowning. There's got to be some advantages to being as strong as an ox. I'm no learnèd man, but I can heft a fellow around, like. And, no harm til yiz, Miss Nolan's a very brave wee girl. What you done was dead on, miss, so it was. Dead on. I seen a man taking pictures. I'll bet youse there'll be a write-up in the
County Down Spectator
next week.”

“Thank you, Lenny,” she said, “but I hope it doesn't get in the papers. Especially with me only in my knickers.” She laughed, but as Barry started on the waistband of Andy's pants he could tell she was embarrassed.

“What? You don't want to be famous?” said Lenny with a laugh. “Come on, Miss. Let's get you til the motor.”

God, but Barry was proud of her. He ignored his own chilled feet and bent to his task.

As he worked towelling Andy's back and chest, O'Reilly asked, “Can you hear me?”

“I can.” The voice was quavery. “I'm f-f-f-f-foundered.”

“What day is it?”

“I don't give a d-d-d-damn. I just w-w-w-want to get warm.”

“Son,” O'Reilly said, “I'm a doctor. You're bloody nearly freezing to death. I'm trying to help you. Now. What—day—is—it?” As he spoke he was taking Andy's pulse.

“Saturday, January seventh, 1967.”

“And where are you?”

“On Ballybucklebo Beach. My dinghy cowped.”

“I'm glad you know that,” O'Reilly said. He stuck a thermometer under Andy's tongue.

Barry had hauled off Andy's sodden pants and Aertex long johns. And all the while Andy shivered. His wet skin was frigid and pale in contrast to the blue tinge to his fingers, lips, ears, and nose.

“Here.” O'Reilly gave Barry a towel. “He has a pulse rate of one hundred, a bit fast, his temperature's ninety-five degrees Fahrenheit; should be ninety-eight point four, of course. You can see he's shivering and has the blue of cyanosis at his extremities, but he knows where he is in time and space. The experts classify hypothermia into mild, moderate, and severe.” He spoke to Andy. “I'd say yours is moderate. And I've got what we need to give first aid for a moderate case in the car.”

Andy, modesty thrown to the winds, struggled to rise. He tottered on his feet.

O'Reilly wrapped a towel round the man's waist. “Help me, Barry, then nip back and bring his clothes and put them in the boot.”

“Right.”

Barry and O'Reilly supported Andy for the short walk and helped him into the backseat, which was covered with a heavy blanket. They bundled him in and O'Reilly got in with him.

Barry fetched the wet clothes, dumped them into the boot, got into the driver's side, and closed the door. The heat in the car was stifling. He bent to take off his wet shoes and socks and dry his own feet. When he had finished he sat up, relishing the hot air coming into the car.

Sue, looking quite recovered, was sitting with her legs crossed and hadn't noticed that the towel had ridden up to expose most of her thigh. Barry looked away, not in modesty but because if he didn't, he'd want to kiss her. And this was neither the time nor the place. O'Reilly in the back said, “Now you—”

“The name's Andy Jackson, sir.”

“All right, Andy, I want you to put one of these”—Barry saw O'Reilly rummaging in the seat well—“hot water bottles that my wife made up for you, under each of your armpits and wrap you in this eiderdown.” When he had finished, O'Reilly produced a thermos flask and a mug, and poured. “This is hot sugary tea. We'll get it into you. Two or three cups.”

“Thank you. Dear God, but these hotties are grand.”

Barry turned in the seat to see his eiderdown-draped friend sipping hot tea. Already his shivering was not so violent.

O'Reilly took the cap of the thermos, filled it, and handed it to Sue. “You have a drink too.”

“Thanks, Fingal.”

“You all right, lass?”

“I'm fine, Fingal.”

“Didn't strain anything? He's a big man and probably felt like a dead weight.”

“I'm fine, truly I am. I think I had a bit of help from the wind.”

“Huh,” said Barry. “Tea. I'd have thought a wee hot half would have been just the ticket.”

“It doesn't happen often, Doctor,” O'Reilly said, “but this time you'd've been dead wrong. It's the core body temperature that's important for keeping vital organs warm. Alcohol is a vasodilator; it diverts blood flow to the skin and that increases heat loss. While you'd feel warmer you'd be making yourself worse.”